The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 2

Warning: Contains violence

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and favourited this story. I hoep it doesn't disappoint. I must admit to a little trepidation, I'm going into some dark territory here. Please let me know what you think.

OK, peeps, this is where things start to get a little less snuggly...

He had fallen asleep on the sofa after John had crept off to bed. He was not given to sleeping but the mild concussion resulting from the blast, from which John was clearly suffering more, seemed to be making it hard to keep his eyes open. He was in the middle of a dream of being curled up on a cloud, resting in rather alarmingly pink-tinged heavenly bliss, when the screaming started. Instinct propelled him from flat on his back to upright and running before he was really awake. He was half way up the stairs before he was fully conscious, before he heard Mrs Hudson rush out of her flat below.

'Sherlock? John? What's going on?' There was a horrible fear in her voice.

'Go back to bed, Mrs H!' He shouted back, taking the last few steps two at a time. 'Everything is fine.'

But everything wasn't fine. John wasn't fine. Sherlock sure as hell wasn't fine. He was terrified. Terrified of what he was going to find behind the door on the attic landing.

'John? John?' He shouted at the wood panel, rattling the doorknob.

The screaming went on, punctuated by vicious snarls and hisses that spoke to Sherlock's hind brain, that part of him that traced its genetic inheritance not from Nobel Laureates and Cambridge Fellows but from neurotic gibbons and, further back, from small, furry creatures with lots and lots of predators.

'John, it's me, Sherlock! I'm coming in!'

His stomach was churning. Please don't make me do this, John, he thought. I really, really don't want you to make me do this. But the horrifying animal noises didn't let up. He had no choice. He twisted the handle and pushed.

The thin curtains did little to block out the nauseating orange glow of the street lamp outside. The shadows were indigo, and amongst them, in the corner, hunched a figure that Sherlock barely recognised. It heard him enter, and turned. Sherlock saw the slick of sweat highlighted on its forehead, and the way it shook. He saw the hideous gimlet glint in its eye. He knew this was not John. Not his John. This was something else, something that had remained buried, deep. This was the thing that the Army had made when they took the doctor's brain apart and remade him at Sandhurst and Aldershot. This was something feral, a creature of pure survival.

It launched itself at Sherlock with a roar, and he went down like a blade of grass. Strong fists tightened around his throat. Not knowing what else to do, he bent his knee and aimed a good shot at the gonads. But the beast that was definitely not John seemed impervious. The thumbs pressed down on his windpipe. He could feel the cartilage creaking. Any minute now, he thought. He knew John well enough to know that there was not much else he could do to overpower the man whose knee was now firmly planted in the centre of his chest. He had advanced training in hand-to-hand combat, after all, never mind all that direct battlefield experience. John never said much about his time in the army, but Mycroft had been helpful in obtaining copies of his records for Sherlock to peruse. It had been sobering reading. Now Sherlock was getting the benefit of his personal contribution to the national defence budget. He would have been more impressed if he hadn't been in the process of being throttled by the recipient of the training he had paid for with his taxes. There was only one chance left. If he could just manage to use his voice. It was a last hope, but-

'John?' He came out as a half-strangled gasp. 'John?'

'John? It's me. It's Sherlock.'

'John?' Black spots beginning to smother his vision. Pain in his throat. No air. No air. 'John? Please? Please?'

'Please?' Barely a whisper now.

'John?'

It was like being hit by lightning. A jolt through the body of the man on top of him. A jolt that threw John back across the room, slamming into the chest of drawers, scrambling backwards against it, kicking and clawing to get away, eyes wide with horror.

For a moment, Sherlock was too stunned, too starved of oxygen to move. He grabbed at his throat, and tried to get up, his head spinning. Then he saw John's eyes, John's face. He sat up, reaching out, moving towards him.

'No!' the doctor screamed. 'Don't come near me! Don't!'

But Sherlock wasn't afraid any more. He could see the man he knew back behind those dilated eyes. No matter how terrified he was, this was John, his own John.

He held his hand out, a gentle invitation. 'It's okay, John. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you-' His voice came out hoarse, broken.

'I nearly killed you!' John screeched.

'No, no, you would never have killed me, John. I know you. You couldn't hurt me. Not me.' Making what was left of his voice as gentle, as coaxing as he could. The room spinning less now, manageable. He inched closer. John cringed away.

'It's alright, John. I'm here. I won't let them hurt you. You're safe now. I won't let them hurt you ever again.'

'There was…there was…'

'Tell me. It's okay. You can tell me.'

'An Afghan. Trying to kill me.'

'Yes, John. He's gone now. And I'm here. And I won't let him hurt you ever again.'

It was the blast, he realised, looking at those stricken eyes. It must have reignited all his memories. A full-blown flash-back.

Something happened inside Sherlock's chest, as if his heart was twisting, being wrung out like a wet flannel. The pain was indescribable. Am I having a heart attack, he wondered. No, concentrate. This is John. This is important.

The man was huddling against the bottom drawer now, whimpering. Sherlock inched closer, arm still outstretched.

'John? It's okay now, my love, it's over.'

He had no idea where the word came from, but it seemed to have an immediate effect, as if a switch had been flipped inside the doctor's head. He threw himself at Sherlock again, and the detective had to use every ounce of strength left in his battered frame not to flinch away. But this was different. John's face crashed into his belly, arms flung around his waist, and he lay there, hanging on like a drowning man, sobbing hysterically.

'Help me! For God's sake, help me!'

Sherlock grasped his shoulders and pulled him in, wrapping his arms around the shuddering body, and rocking backwards and forwards for no other reason than that it felt right. Safe. They were both afraid. There was no one else. They needed each other. And between them, Sherlock felt certain they could work it out.

Tomorrow, John faces up to the consequences of his relapse...