The second time it happens, it's somehow even more difficult.

Chapter 2

Screaming can be heard from upstairs, loud and incessant and John sounds absolutely petrified. Mrs Hudson is staying with her sister in Bedfordshire, so the screaming carries on, as no motherly old busybody bustles in to cease it. The screaming carries on.

Sherlock jerks his face up from its place on the kitchen table where lidded, almost tired eyes had been gazing at vials and beakers with glassy intent. He rises abruptly, sloshing hydrochloric acid over his right hand, and sits with his back straight, listening as the shouts fill him slowly with biting affection for the other man, an affection he now has no choice but to acknowledge, considering its insistence to crop up whenever he glances in John's direction. Quickly, he stands and makes to exit the kitchen, only stopping at the sink to wash away the burning acid because John is a doctor, and he seems to have enough on his plate at the moment without attempting to treat his bull-stubborn flatmate when he only has one layer of skin left on his bony hands. Looking down as he scrubs quickly, he notices with slight distaste that the liquid is searing patches out of the leather strap of his watch, fizzing slightly. As fond as he is of the watch, however, he does have the time on his mobile, and the watch itself is an intentionally expensive gift from Mycroft; he drops it into the beaker of hydrochloric acid as he almost runs from the kitchen, already eager to see what state it'll be in when he returns.

He vaults the stairs two at a time, and he could tell you accurately exactly what percentages of his brain are annoyed, panicked and apprehensive, but there's a man screaming like his skin's on fire in the room above, and so he deems this analysis irrelevant for the time being.

Opening the door to John's room he runs in and straight to the foot of the bed, too worried to pause in the doorway as he had eleven days ago. He applauds himself for his bravery in entering the room and his human intention to help his friend, but stalls and exhales shakily when he realises he has no idea what to do.

He's not going to touch John. He refuses to coo over him. Any other options evade him, and he fists his hands in his hair, hopeless. It shouldn't be so frustratingly, so achingly upsetting to see another person in this state, but it is, because for once there's a dilemma, a dilemma he has knowledge of, and he is powerless.

And John Watson put up with far too much from him without being left like that being added to the list.

Sherlock runs his fingers down his own cheekbones and hooks his hands round the back of his neck, staring at the wallpaper in front of him rather than the man slightly below it, writhing and yelling and sweating as if back in the sweltering heat of Afghanistan. He doesn't know how to help but knows he wants to, knows that if he doesn't he's a horrible person. A clear head is what's needed to devise a plan of action, a gentle and effective means of waking and calming John without overstepping any of the boundaries that keep him comfortable around the other man. Unfortunately, a clear head is difficult to establish when the person you care the most about in the material world is lying in front of you, semi-conscious and terrified, limbs jerking as if in seizure and throat hoarse with vocal pain.

Screams are difficult to ignore.

He's seen enough banal television, enough hideous soap operas to know that the designated societal protocol for scenarios such as this was heavy physical affection; a gentle hand on the face, whispered assurances that it was okay and that it was him (what good will it do him knowing it's me? That's not even comforting in the slightest) and that it was just a dream, shushing noises in an attempt to quiet the sufferer. The characters would envelop one another in a large hug once the sleeper was fully awake, and he or she would sob into the other's shoulder until their tears were depleted and they were sufficiently exhausted to fall asleep. The supporter, the comforting party, would look tortured as they were gripped onto tightly, and would stroke the others hair, kissing the top of their head if they were a parent or a potential romantic attachment.

Well, that wasn't going to happen.

Sherlock releases his throat from his grasp before the nails puncture the skin, suddenly realising that his grip on his own flesh had become painful. He sits gingerly on the edge of the bed by John's feet, and watches him lash out increasingly violently, kicking accidentally at Sherlock's slim hip. Somehow, the terrors he sees are even worse. Dimly aware that at least he's got the tortured facial expression down pat, he bites his lip. Sociopath is a veiled, ambiguous term, though it can be generally defined as a person with difficulty empathising with others and a limited understanding of emotion that results in this supposed lack of care. This, apparently, is the root of an inability to or desire not to conform to legal or societal norms. These tropes all hold true for Sherlock, in one way or another, but that doesn't mean that they are constant standards for every situation and person he'll ever come across. At the end of the day, 'sociopath' is more than just a synonym for 'cold-hearted bastard'. 'Sociopath' is just a term.

John's thrashing now, so violently that he's going to hurt himself in a minute, and that really won't do, so Sherlock accidentally forgets to analyse everything everywhere and just lunges, grabbing John's forearms and pinning them down to the bed either side of his head. His eyes fly open at the contact, and stares, eyes so wide and unseeing that even Sherlock is unnerved for a moment. He simply stares at John, because any of the cliché TV phrases he could employ are in equal parts untrue, hopelessly sappy and downright patronising. Whispering that it was all fine was a lie, was an insult to the fact that John was having the nightmare in the first place; if someone started leaning over him, repeatedly saying "Shh!" in the midst of a horrific night-time encounter, he'd probably spit in their face and scream that he'd be as fucking vocal as he liked, thankyouverymuch!

He refuses to patronise John.

And so he just stares, trying to keep a little of his usual intensity out of his gaze, softening the corners of his eyes even as his mouth tightens, uncomfortable. He doesn't know what he's doing. His hands are still strong on John's arms, holding him hard and heavy down onto the bed, the other man's chest rising and falling sharply as he tries to regain his breathing. It's unintentionally intimate, and Sherlock hates it. He doesn't like that he's touching John, doesn't like that it seems dominant when he's trying to soothe, doesn't like not knowing if it's going to work, if it's going to help. He's still half convinced that his mere presence is going to trigger a fresh round of screams. He's almost as petrified as John.

Painfully slowly, trembling violently on every exhale, John's breaths slow, his eyes first relaxing then focusing. Sherlock relaxes his grip, glancing away and then forcing himself to hold the older man's gaze. He carefully schools his expression to be as blank and comforting as possible, as he struggles not to cry out himself. John's eyes flicker over stress-mussed hair, twitching eyebrows, a long, elegant nose and bitten lips, before they lock onto grey-blue orbs, uncertain and intense all at once. The detective studies his expression as covertly as possible, fingers automatically light against the skin of the underside of forearms, without even considering the gesture. The detective almost hears something click into place behind John's eyes, and watches in apprehension as the soldier (not ex-soldier, soldier) is the one to make the deduction.

His face crumples in on itself, emotion taking him over even more harshly in the light of consciousness than in the false warmth and darkness of sleep.

"Sherlock," he chokes, before turning his face into the pillow and gripping the mattress, sobs shaking his suddenly small body.