The fragile balance lasts for less than a week after Sally has visited John, and when she thinks back at it later she can pinpoint the moment that everything falls into place.
She is sitting on Anderson's sofa, her legs draped over his lap and a glass of wine in her hand when he touches her ankle gently.
"You seem distracted" he observes, studying her face, "Is everything okay?"
She sighs heavily and turns to face him.
"I'm concerned about John Watson" she says, and it feels like a weight off her shoulders to have said the words. The last expectation she has of her lover's reaction is for his lips to curve up in a smile.
"So is Holmes" he says, "Isn't it a wonderful relief?"
Her world fractures and splinters in the moment that it takes her to process his words, and she stares dumbly at him for a moment.
"Did he send you here to mock me?"
"How can you help me when you can't see what's right under your nose?"
"What do you mean?" she breathes, her chest feeling tight. Anderson doesn't notice; his attention has turned back to the tv and his tone is distracted when he replies.
"Well, he needed to be taught a lesson, didn't he? And what better way to get to someone like him than their pet?"
She recoils, her skin crawling with horror as she stares at him.
"What did you do?"
"I didn't touch him" says Anderson, with a touch of pride. "I'd never do that. Called in a favour instead, friend of a friend."
Sally takes a deep, steadying breath and stands up.
"I have to go home" she says, her voice wavering, "I'll see you tomorrow".
Now she has his attention – he looks suddenly wary.
"Look, Sally, it's nothing that bad. Just making a point to that freak, that's all."
"Yeah, no, I understand" she says, "It's fine. I just have a headache and ought to get an early night…"
He smiles and kisses her forehead, tells her he hopes she feels better soon and that he'll see her tomorrow, and she walks home in a daze.
Her boyfriend, lover, partner, whatever you want to call him…has hired someone else to attack a man who has done them no harm. He works for the police, he works to try and stop people's lives being destroyed.
She has to stop to take some deep breaths and fight the rising nausea she feels from his admission, and the sense of panic, and when she finally staggers in through her door all she can do is collapse into her bed and finally let the tears fall.
The second Sherlock sees her the next morning, he knows something is wrong, and wastes no time in beginning to explain to everyone how poorly rested she looks and the redness of her eyes, before John catches his arm.
"Don't" he says softly, and his kindness only makes her feel worse as their eyes meet. The message is clear – keep quiet. Except she's not sure she can do that.
Sherlock looks between them, his eyes narrowing, but doesn't say anything and not for the first time Sally wonders exactly what arrangement the two men have that enables them to coexist so peacefully.
When Sherlock sweeps off, his mind on something else already, John catches her eye again with a more sympathetic look this time, and she tries a smile which flickers and dies on her lips. He doesn't even try to hide the pallor of his face and the grim set of his mouth, and her stomach clenches at what she knows has happened now. The world spins and blurs around her as John catches hold of her arm and pulls her into an empty office, kicking the door shut behind them.
"For goodness' sake, can't you pretend that everything's okay?" he asks sharply, and immediately subsides, looking chastened. "No, sorry, that was awful."
"It's okay" she says with difficulty, propping herself up against the desk. "I mean, I'm sorry. I didn't…"
"It's fine" he replies shortly, but tempers it with a smile, "Look, Sally, are you alright? It must have been…"
"A shock?" she asks drily, "Yeah, a bit. John, I really want to report him."
"NO" he says sharply, and heads prick up on the other side of the door. "No" he says again, more softly, his face pale, "I don't want anyone to know"
She is stricken momentarily speechless by the sheer selfishness, and he knows it by the set of his jaw and tensing of his shoulders.
"You have to tell someone. You can't carry on like this."
There is a faint sheen of sweat on his brow and Sally knows she should stop but the words keep coming.
"You're a mess. You're not sleeping, you're not eating. You're a zombie and eventually all the pain is going to come out and there will be nobody apart from a highly functioning sociopath to look after you. How does that feel, John? Does that feel 'fine'?"
He sways on the spot for a second and with a curse she springs forward, pushing him down into a chair and resting his head between his knees.
"It's fine" he parrots, clearly not even noticing the irony, his voice muffled by his jeans. Sally wants to offer him some kind of comfort but she can feel the stiffness of his back when she stands too close, and backs away a few steps.
"Do you need some water?" she asks hopelessly, and he shakes his head.
"Just give me a second"
She stands in silence, utterly impotent, and is relieved when he finally straightens up, still looking pale and clammy but infinitely more stable.
"Fine?"
His eyes meet hers with an appreciative grin and he nods, one hand on the doorframe.
"Fine."
It will make sense to John later that the stress of his conversations with Anderson and Donovan is what triggers it...
Sherlock is downstairs, absently plucking at the E string of his violin and considering that it really could use tuning when he hears a stifled moan from upstairs. He puts down the violin and moves silently towards the staircase, listening closely.
There is the sound of John moving in his sleep and then another moan. For a second Sherlock considers the possibility that he is having an erotic dream, and forces his attention away, until the screaming starts.
He has heard screams before, thousands of them. Screams of pain, of terror, of anger. Aimed at him, quite often. He has never heard John make a noise in discomfort though, and it feels like someone has thrown an ice-cold bucket of water over him.
The screams are piercing and ragged, John barely stopping for breath between. He can hear Mrs Hudson moving around downstairs and stops, frozen, unsure of what to do.
"Sherlock?"
Mrs Hudson's footsteps clatter up, warring with the sound of John's screams, and he moves to the door.
"It's all under control Mrs Hudson. Try to go back to sleep."
He doesn't know that it is, but the last thing he wants if John is being attacked (which he suspects is not the case – he is strong and silent under even the most gruesome of situations) is for her to be standing around in harm's way. He can tell from the hesitant note in her step that she's not happy, but she is leaving, and he springs up the stairs, two at a time, until he reaches John's door.
He pushes it open and stops dead at what he sees, knowing the image will be etched onto his brain for years. John is lying flat, his back arched off the bed, mouth open in a torn scream, fingers clenched and tangled in the sheets, sweat dripping down his brow.
Now he is closer, Sherlock can make out muttering inbetween the screams, though not the exact words, can see the twitch of John's face as he thrashes hopelessly on the bed.
"John" he breathes, his voice cracking in the middle, and the other man doesn't respond apart from to groan and bite his lip hard enough to draw blood.
The sight of red liquid bubbling up on his friend's lip is enough to galvinise Sherlock into action and he moves forward, slowly, hands in front of him.
"John, come on. It's time to wake up now. You're just dreaming."
John's thrashing seems to subside slightly, although his head still shakes from side to side in clear distress.
"No, please, stop" he mumbles, and Sherlock reaches out cautiously to touch his wrist.
"It's a dream, John, wake up."
John's entire body trembles as he inhales, and Sherlock braces himself for another scream, but thankfully he relaxes as he exhales, his limbs going loose under Sherlock's grip as his eyes slide open, unfocussed and glassy.
Sherlock sees what's about to happen and leaps backwards as John lunges forward, fists swinging, stumbling as his feet hit the floorboards at the end of the bed. The few seconds allow John to calm down and when Sherlock looks up the older man has covered his mouth with his hands, pressed up against the headboard, eyes wide with horror.
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I thought you were…"
He doesn't finish the sentence, his hands trembling in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with his military service or adrenaline, and a worm of an idea creeps into Sherlock's brain but he quashes it quickly. John is fine, he didn't think Sherlock was going to hurt him. Nobody hurts John, apart from that patient at the clinic weeks ago, but that was nothing...
John is still shaking, despite the sweat rolling down his forehead, and Sherlock moved forward, resting his hand on John's shoulder. Almost despite himself, John's head tilts down, trapping Sherlock's hand there, and he lets out a shuddery little sigh.
"What happened?" he asks, and Sherlock sinks down to perch on the side of the bed. John's hands are cold and still trembling, and he catches one of them, rubbing circles over the skin to try and improve the circulation.
"I don't know" he admits, "I heard screaming and came upstairs. It looked like you were having some kind of fit or attack."
John angles his head towards Sherlock, looking at him curiously.
"Did I frighten you?"
"Yes" says Sherlock curtly, not sure who is more surprised by the admission. There are a few moments of silence, and he feels acutely aware that he is still holding John's hand, although surprisingly it is not as unpleasant as he has always perceived human contact to be.
They don't say anything else that night. John doesn't ask Sherlock to leave, and Sherlock doesn't ask what it was that he saw in his dreams that leaves his eyes glazed and his breath hesitant for the rest of the night.
They sit on the bed, side by side and hand in hand, both lost in their own thoughts until the morning comes.
AN -sorry this took so long! Work is crazy at the moment and I've hit a bit of a block with uploading :(