But, the nightmares continued and night after long night, John would find himself holding onto a terrified Sherlock, whose shirt would be soaked right through with sweat, tears running down his face. After awhile, Sherlock would calm down and the two would drift back into a restless sleep, their hands gripped tightly in each other's.
It was the morning after a particularly difficult night. John sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper with bleary eyes. He drank from his mug, hoping that the black coffee would help him wake up just a bit. He really didn't know how much longer he could go on like this. They were both averaging 4 hours of sleep a night and John's arms and chest were covered in bruises, scratches, and scrapes from Sherlock thrashing around.
John had just gotten to the sports section when Sherlock came shuffling into the room, his normal gracefulness marred by lack of sleep.
"Good morning, Sherlock," he said, "the pot of coffee's still warm and I made some toast for you."
Sherlock turned his head as he reached into the cabinet, a small but grateful smile on his face. "Thank you, John, I'll just take this into the study then." He filled his mug with coffee and took the buttered toast and slipped quietly into the hallway. John could hear the soft click of the door as it shut.
He sighed. Sherlock had been becoming more distant ever since that rainy night a few weeks ago. John had tried everything to help Sherlock, he avoided him, became overbearing, tried to distract him with games and cases, but nothing seemed to help. Sherlock would realize what John was trying to do about halfway through and give that same small, sad smile and get up and walk into his study to work on whatever it was he had in there. It was driving him mad. He hated feeling useless and so out of his league. He knew Sherlock needed professional help, but he also knew that Sherlock would vehemently refuse to even consider it.
"You're the only doctor I need, John," he would say, a flash of defiance apparent in his ice blue eyes.
Except that John was the kind of doctor that could suture wounds closed and give medications for infections. He couldn't heal this kind of trauma. He could only watch as it destroyed them both, as it tossed and turned them at night and hid behind the façade that everything was just fine during the day. As he sat there, the urge to just do something grew and grew until he couldn't stand it anymore. He got up and went over to the door of the study, hesitating only a moment before knocking.
"It's me, Sherlock," he said, pressing his ear to the door.
"Who else would it be," Sherlock drawled back.
A pause.
"What do you need?" Sherlock asked.
John could hear the shuffling of papers and the clip of scissors.
"Can I come in and talk with you?"
"No."
John sighed as loud as he could, setting his forehead against the door.
"Right, well, I'm coming in anyway," he said. He grabbed the doorknob and wiggled it to the left and right. He had to learn every doorknob in 221B, Sherlock had a habit of locking himself in rooms. The lock clicked and the door swung open.
Sherlock sat at his solid oak desk, quickly shuffling papers and a large book into the drawer. He looked at John reproachfully.
"I told you I didn't want to speak with you, John," he said, crossing his arms like a petulant child.
"I know, Sherlock, but I want to speak with you. So I'm going to talk and you can listen or not, I just need to get this off my chest." John said quickly, walking over to Sherlock and taking his smooth hands between his rough ones. Sherlock looked up at him, a surprised look on his face.
"Sherlock, we're drowning, absolutely drowning in all of this. You're not sleeping, plagued by screaming nightmares of what that bastard did to you. I'm not sleeping and I feel myself losing you more and more every day. You don't even answer Lestrade's calls anymore, you haven't taken a case since Hunter's," John paused, a lump suddenly forming in his throat, tears threatening to spill out of his eyes.
"I can't lose you, Sherlock, not again. I can't…I can't live without you. Please, you have to see someone. I can't help you like you need. Please, Sherlock, I'm begging you."
The tears spilled over, making long, wet tracks down John's cheeks. He began to cry in earnest, the pent up frustrations and heartache finally making its way out after two long weeks of just trying to keep everything together.
"Why do you do this to me, John," Sherlock said quietly.
An angry flame sparked within John. What HE did to Sherlock? He didn't do anything to Sherlock except love him and follow him and support him through every damn crazy case and escapade. He whipped his head up to look at Sherlock, but immediately the flame died as soon as he saw him.
He was crying, the pain written on his face unmistakable. The ice blue irises stuck out in his red and irritated eyes, the dark shadows underneath them darker than John had ever seen.
All he wanted to do was hug him and hold him and tell him everything would be alright. But that would stop the conversation, and John didn't want that.
"What did I do, Sherlock?" John said, wiping away the tears on Sherlock's pale face with his thumb.
"You make me feel so much, John, I feel everything now. The emotions I thought I had long erased or found a way to cope with have all been flooding back. And I…I don't know what to do, John," he broke down further, his cries piercing right through John.
John crouched down and grabbed Sherlock, pulling him to him. They both wept into each other's arms, the walls built increasingly over the last few weeks tumbling down.
"I don't know how to deal with this, John. I feel as though my heart is going to burst with sadness and despair and all the pain inflicted on me. And then I see you and hear your voice and feel you holding me at night and in that moment everything is alright and all I can feel is how much I love you, how you are everything to me. But then you go to work or to the shops and the bad feelings come flooding back and I can't…I can't handle it on my own, John."
"It's alright, Sherlock, it's alright. You just need some help is all. Just a little bit of help. We'll find someone who specializes in this stuff, and then it'll get better," he said, stroking the dark mop of curls lying on his shoulder.
The crying slowed down to a sniffle and John could feel his love's breaths evening out. Sherlock picked his head up off of John's shoulder and sighed.
"I just want to be the brilliant Sherlock Holmes again, helping the bumbling Scotland Yard solve mindless cases and composing and just, God, here I am blathering again." He stood up, his hands running through his hair, making it stand straight up. "The impedance of these emotions on my…our…lives, is too great to overcome."
John got up and went over to Sherlock. He was shaking like a leaf. "Calm down, Sherlock, we'll get through this, just like everything else we've done. This is what love is, Sherlock, pulling each other up and dusting each other off and setting them right side up again. I'm not going anywhere, and we will overcome this, Sherlock, I promise you."
Sherlock nodded, a small sniffle escaping him. "Call Mycroft, I'm sure he's already got someone lined up."
He turned to go but stopped mid step. "Oh, I almost forgot." He went over to the desk and took out the large book he had put in there earlier.
"Here," he said, handing it to John.
"What is it?" John turned it over in his hands, but the blank, bound black leather covers gave no hints.
"Us." Sherlock said, kissing John on the forehead and swiftly turning and walking out the door.
John gave a small laugh. Mysterious as always. He went over to the desk chair and sat down, placing the book on the desk and opening it.
A smile lit across John's face when he saw the first page.
"Oh, Sherlock," John said, his smile getting even bigger.