Sherlock peered at John during the entire length of the car ride to Mycroft's estate. The army doctor was sweating fighting to control his rapid breathing. Sherlock had his suspicions of what was happening to his friend, and he didn't like the idea of it being reailty. He knew it was more scarring than the reoccuring nightmares John used to have. It was like living in one, reliving the pain of years past.

"John." He said louder than usual, needing his friend's attention. Despite his efforts the man still had his eyes pryed to the views of winding roads outside of the window. He was starting to shake, and his fists clenched in retaliation. Sherlock glanced outside the window and let out a slight breath of relief as he realized the were plundering down the long gravel driveway.

The sleek black vehicle pulled away as soon as the two flatmates stepped out of it. Sherlock grabbed John's arm and pulled him along to the study where he knew Mycroft would be waiting. He could feel the sweat through John's light jumper and he tried to keep a straight face, hide his panic.

"MYCROFT!" the detective yelled from the foyer. Given John's condition, there wouldn't be time to visit his dear brother just yet. "Mycroft!" he tried again, his attempts futile. "John, follow me." he briskly walked down the marble hallways and turned left. Ah, there it was. They stepped into the rarely used elevator and went up to the third floor and stepped out to tread across plush expensive rugs. Of course Mycroft Holmes would have the need to be surround by plush things as the man was quite plush himself. He snickered and continued to lead John to the guest room.

Once they arrived John gasped at the luxerious space. There was a king size bed with a extravagant wooden canopy, with heavy maroon comforters and pillows draped lazily about it. The floor it self was covered in a soft carpet, that matched the fine olive green color on the walls greatly. There were two modern looking, yet old couches seated by a large fireplace, and a ceiling high window looked out at the acre of lavish land supporting the exaggerated estate.

John tried to make his way to what seemed like the bathroom as he was a wreck. Not only was he overly warm, sweaty, and shaky, but he was also nausious. He heard a faint ringing in his ears along with deafening roars that he thought he left behind. He collapsed to the floor, loling on his back.

"Sher..." was all he managed to say before he was taken over by memory. He should've seen it coming, but he had been too dumb to notice the panic attack that overwhelmed him now. He wasn't laying on soft carpet anymore, but on harsh, dirty terrain that dug into his back. He heard voices he hadn't heard in years, and he tried his hardest to drown them out.

Their cries filled his ears as he came to. His head throbbed, and he huffed at the fact that he'd hit his head on a rather sharp rock.

"Captain!"

"Man DOWN!" Man down? Oh, he was down. He was being restrained as he was apparently fighting to get up, to get away from this crowded situation. He fought to wriggle free and there it was. His eyes stung and he clenched his teeth. His shoulder was on fire. His shoulder was on fire and some bloody idiot was trying to find the damned bullet and dig it out.

"Stop! Get off! You'll only make it WORSE!" he screamed, shoving the man off of him. The soldier had been untrained as a medic, and with shaky hands he had tried to get the metal shell out of the Captain's new wound. More blood leaked from the new jagged cuts and he swore as he grabbed bandages. Damn them all.

Sherlock was making his way to the little pantry when he heard the blogger thump on the ground behind him. His eyes were wide, and they wore a glassy look to them.

"Sherl..." he heard the man sputter before falling silent.

"John! John, I'm right here!" he dropped to his knees besides his friend and put his hands on his shoulders to hold him down. He was thrashing unbelievably hard and Sherlock was being exposed to the strength of John Watson once, again. It was all he could do to not try and shake John awake. Sherlock knew this would pass, but at the moment he hated seeing his friend go through this. Not only was it probably realistically painful for John, but Sherlock also knew his friend would hate seeimng so weak. It was a trait they both shared, fear of being portrayed as weak. Simple. Delicate. Anything opposing to what they really were. "John!" he shouted again. He hoped this fiasco would end soon.

He whimpered a bit as the new hole that tore through his muscle. Soon enough he heard a familiar voice calling out to him. 'John! John!'. His brow furrowed as he tried to think why Sherlock would be here.

"Sherlock! Get down!" He called as the last thing he wanted was Sherlock to actually die. Something shakes him, hard, but no one's around. Suddenly he is nowhere, and he's beeen suffocated. He can't breath...can't...breath...

Sherlock shook him harder than before, seeing as John was finally starting to hear him. How ridicioulous for John to imagine Sherlock up on the battle field with him. Careful to avoid the blogger's scarred shoulder he jostled him, needing for him to wake.

John gasped and blinked furiously, his heart pounding. He wasn't in Afghanistan, he was at Mycroft's mansion with Sherlock. He closed his eyes to stop his eyes from watering, and noticed strong hands pinning him down.

"Sherlock."

"John. Are you back with me?" the detective questioned carefully.

"Yes. Please stop holding me down."

"Oh, right, yes. Sorry. Have you had panic attacks before?"

"Only a couple. This one was a hell of a lot worse than the others though." He sat up and rubbed his shoulder, trying to relieve the burning sensation. Even though he knew he hadn't been shot all over again, he was still internally relieved to see no blood, no split skin.

"John, please come sit down. I'll make tea." Sherlock pulled him to the couch and went to prepare the warm, soothing drink.

John mumbled, "Thanks." and sat on the comfortable sofa. He blinked again, trying to hold back actual tears, and felt his cheeks redden. How embarrassing, to make Sherlock witness something like that, and how incredibly stupid at how he was still trying not to wince in pain. Pathetic.

"Here. Drink it, but not too fast. Well, I guess you'd have more sense than normal people given you're a skilled doctor, yes?" Sherlock rambled, taking slight sips of his tea as well. John wouldn't make eye contact with Sherlock, and he stared at him for a moment before sliding a bit closer to his friend. "John. I do hope you know you shouldn't feel bad about this right? I'd like to think you still consider me a close friend, and that you don't have to hide around me." He didn't add that John wouldn't be able to hide anyways, but kept his gaze fixed on the doctor.

"Yeah, I guess. It's just all of this...I don't know. My shoulder is really hurting and I hate seeming so idiotic." He sighed a shuddery breath before taking another drink of the hot tea.

"Not to worry, John. You are far from idiotic, and it is okay to feel pain. It doesn't make you 'wimpy' as you say. Anyways, we have important matters to attend to. I do believe we should go find Mycroft. We'll stay here for a while first though. You need it." Sherlock stated before walking over to the strong wood desk and opening the spare laptop. He would give John his privacy as he did his work. He was just relieved that the attack was over.

John gathered himself from the couch and went to the bathroom to rinse his face. His temperature was starting to lower along with his heart rate and he eventually calmed down before alerting Sherlock that he was ready.

The two friends walked side by side out of the spacious room toward the office Mycroft practically lived in. Two flatmates, always together through thick and thin.

'Good. That's the way I like it.' Sebastian thought as he watched the feed from the camera before it zipped away into darkness. He didn't care that the battery had died on his watching instrument. It was all he needed to see to get him back in the thrill of his plan. To him, it wasn't fair John got his mate back, and he didn't. The stronger they were together the easier it'd be to tear apart the other due to the opposite's apparent danger. He laughed as he contemplated capturing John or Sherlock first. They both knew how to fight well, and he admired that, lusted for it., a good fight. In the end though, it'd be a fight for life as one of them would be drained of it when he was done, possibly after a torture session. Yes, he was so sick after losing his partner in Crime. Sick with hatred, regret, and fury. Sick with bloodlust and sorrow, sick with madness and creation. He loved it, embraced it, just as Moriarty had. He chuckled again and went to pack his things for the long days ahead.

Okay, so I know it's not the greatest. And I know it's taken me forever to update. I am so sorry, I reallllly am! I hope you'll still take the time to enjoy this, and I'll promise to try and get better at updating! Comments and all types of support are loved! - C