ANGSTY CHAPTER WARNING. Well, angst at the very basic level that I can do angst, but angst nonetheless. You can also play a game whilst reading- try and find as many subtly *cough* placed Radiohead references as you can. Ready? On your marks, get set… GO!

John Watson met Adam Doherty whilst serving in Afghanistan. And, no, before you ask, they weren't the best of friends, they weren't kindred spirits- in fact, Adam annoyed the hell out of John, and the feeling was mutual. From the moment John had been introduced to his Marine counterpart, who he'd been assured was "essential" for Anglo-American relations; he'd known they wouldn't get on. He was loud, he was brash, he was insensitive- everything that John wasn't. Softly spoken, unfailingly polite John Watson felt alienated by the presence of the man. Every part of them contrasted, causing friction that wasn't advisable in a war zone.

The reality of it was, they were a little afraid of each other.

John was frightened of the man who didn't seem to think before he acted. He was terrified of Adam's impulsiveness and his extroverted personality. So very American, he'd think to himself privately, and then scold his own xenophobia.

Adam was frightened of the man who had to think every action through. He was terrified that John had to constantly convince himself that he was doing the right thing, and in that time lives could be lost. So very British, he'd think to himself privately, and then scold his own xenophobia.

The reality of it was, they envied each other for it.

John wished he could be the kind of man to take control. He wished he could believe that others were capable of their jobs- for he had trust issues long before Afghanistan- he wished he could be so confident with other people. He longed to be that kind of man.

Adam wished he could care as much as John. He wished he could treat all with the kindness that John did- for Adam treated people as possessions long before Afghanistan- he wished he could love as much as him. He longed to be that kind of man.

Together, they would have made the perfect person.

Of course, they were very similar people in many ways, but one downside to this was that their stubborn personalities would never allow them to admit this. So their potential for friendship was ignored, and the two passed their days by throwing passive aggressive insults at each other- Adam's venomous, John's biting. And this was fine, and it worked, and everything meshed together in one well oiled machine that ran perfectly.

Except there was a bomb at the centre of this machine that threatened to ruin everything.

Adam Doherty never meant to save John Watson's life- it certainly wasn't part of his morning routine. It had been done accidentally, without him even knowing until it had ended.

John was technically a superior officer, having joined a year and a half earlier and having advanced further in his career. Adam should have listened to his superior officer and not gone out on his own to save the life of a friend. But he didn't, so he did, and so John had to get him back.

John had trekked through the harsh, rocky ground, following the tracks of his colleague. Eventually he had found him, having passed out from lack of food and heat-stroke. John had nursed him back to health quickly then spent the rest of the return journey lecturing him on the dangers of going anywhere on his own, and how he should never disobey a direct order.

John informed Adam that they were going to be picked up by the car that they'd been supposed to be on, on the way back from an important mission. They waited at the agreed checkpoint in stony silence, both carefully ignoring each other. They saw the car approach from a distance.

These events were why they had not been in the car that day. This is why they were not in the car which hit the roadside bomb nearby.

When John told his therapist about it, the first thing he had described was the sound. Everything seemed to happen at once- the explosion, the screams, the wind rushing past him and blowing him backwards. Then there was a sharp ringing noise that chimed in his ears. John did what he always did when he was stressed, and diagnosed the situation to death. The doctor part of John told him that it was probably caused by the blast. He could feel his raised heartbeat pound inside his head, which the doctor part of him knew was caused by the shock of the situation. He knew that his pupils would probably be dilated too, and that he was most likely to be shaking.

John and Sherlock had at least one thing in common- when they were in trouble, they analysed.

The next thing John heard was, well, nothing at all. The absence of sound. It reminded him faintly of how you felt when you were plunged underwater suddenly. It occurred to him that his movements were quite like when you tried to run underwater too- suddenly slow and almost impossible. It was somewhere between a firework and a hurricane- dazzlingly entrancing and horrifically destructive.

He told himself it was a dream. That he wasn't there and the moment would pass. It wasn't happening, and the moment would pass, and if he could wait for a little while he'd be gone. The blazing cacophony of silence hit him like a wave, whilst hideous images of fire and smoke and metal floated past him in the abyss of the aftermath, and John felt like he was drowning.

The truth is he was. From that moment, John had been drowning in his own guilt and anger and despair, not knowing whether fate had been kind to him or whether he should have died. Somewhere, deep in his heart, he knew that better men than him had been killed. It made him ache to contemplate.

He'd been told he was lucky. Lucky? They didn't know the meaning of the word.

And all the fury, all the intensity of the blast seemed to fade into nothingness, and it was like he was behind a sheet of glass. It was like watching a report on the news- saddening, harrowing, but never personal, never to do with him. Except that it was- those were his friends, his colleagues, they burned and became pure in the flames that engulfed them. But John could not connect to them, because he had been taught to be British and stern and to control his emotions like a real man. He couldn't let himself remember the faces of the men he had watched die in a fraction of a second, because that was improper and he was a man, damn it. In that moment, he envied Adam's grief more than anything, because at least he could grieve at all.

John often thought there was something wrong with him, a part of him was aware that he was emotionally defective, and he never thought he'd meet anyone who would appreciate how difficult it was for him to just trust someone. He didn't know the truth anymore.

Until he met the man who saved him from drowning. He took the water from his lungs and little by little he made it into something sweet and beautiful and oh, so good. He made the world glow.

12:45pm

"So Adam Doherty was stationed in Afghanistan with you?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes," John said quietly. "He was one of my men."

Sherlock was shocked to see something raw in John's eyes. Something frightening. "You think it's him?"

"Potentially. Moriarty-" John's voice cracked. "Moriarty mentioned something about my past. To me."

"You mean he's been ringing you?" said Lestrade, suddenly concerned. "To say what?"

"Just to ask me questions."

"About?"

"Me."

"Did he say anything to torment you?"

"I'm not a child, Greg!" John snapped. "I can look after myself."

The room went suddenly still. "Well," Lestrade said as a way of reconciling them. "That's fine then."

Sherlock was unused to playing the peacemaker. "We need to meet with this man. Can you arrange that?"

"Sure, but we haven't spoken in a good five years."

1:30pm

Everything links back to John.

The thought echoed inside Sherlock's mind, reverberating off the walls of his brain and becoming so incoherent it just became a loud, low hum. So Moriarty had been calling John. What had he been saying? Did he taunt John like he taunted Sherlock?

"I've got more information on Doherty," said Lestrade, passing him a sheet of paper. "He runs a Christian charity for returning soldiers called Just in Central London."

"As in 'Just War'?"

"Yeah, I assume so."

"From what John tells me, he used to be a bit of a creep. Do you think he's changed?"

"I think it's possible to be a good person and a bastard."

Sherlock frowned. "How do you figure?"

Lestrade laughed. "It's easy if you know how to look."

3:30pm

The building was small but cheery- sunshine yellow paint adorned the walls, and comfortable chairs were inside for the waiting visitors. Sherlock and Lestrade sat down whilst John paced, biting the edge of his nail as he so often did when he was nervous.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"Alright?"

"Fine."

They sat in silence until a giant of a man came out to greet them. He was at least 6'4, towering above even Sherlock as he smiled happily at them. "Hi, John, glad you could come." His accent was rich and thick, and Sherlock recognised it as from the south of America. "Come into my office."

They followed him to another room, this time a powdery blue, and sat down. "It's good to see you again, Adam."

"Likewise." The atmosphere was friendly, but with a hidden edge to it. Nothing angry, nothing tense, just… cold. "Can I ask what this is about?"

John gave him a small smile. "I'm afraid it's not a social call. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade, and my friend Sherlock Holmes. They're investigating a potential crime that they think you could be involved in."

Adam blinked incredulously. "I can assure you that I've done nothing wrong."

"They know that. They think you could be a victim."

"Oh! Of what, identify theft? Vandalism? Because it's about damn time someone did something about that graffiti outside, it's ridicu-"

"No," John interrupted. "A potential murder."

Instead of the shock and surprise Sherlock had been sure he would see, Doherty sighed. "Right. By who?"

"We can't really specify," said Lestrade. "But we need to protect you from now until 12 o'clock tonight. Is that ok?"

"Well, yes, that's fine by me."

Lestrade paused. "I'll be honest Mr Doherty, I had expected a more dramatic reaction from you than this."

Adam sighed again. "To be honest, I've been waiting for something like this to happen."

"Waiting?" said Lestrade, a little shocked. "But why?"

"You ever heard the expression 'Somewhere there's a bullet with your name on it'? Well, that's what I've been waiting for."

There was a tense silence. "You're waiting for something terrible to happen?"

Adam reached for a book off the shelf, and as his shirt rode up his arms, Sherlock noticed the evidence of burns on his arms.

"Religion saved me, you know. It gave me a sense of purpose- I couldn't let more men come home from war scarred. In America, they hero worship soldiers like they're gods amongst men. I realise now that God wouldn't want this. There's a quote that I think sums it up- 'And though I have the gift of prophecy and understand all mysteries and all knowledge -"

"And though I have all faith so that I could remove mountains and have not love, I am nothing'." Sherlock interrupted, frozen in his seat.

Doherty smiled. "That's right. I became more than just a medal when I found God." His fingernails scraped the desk. "But even in my best moments I lose the will to keep on fighting."

6:30pm

Sherlock had left Lestrade to organist protection for Adam Doherty, and left to walk around the premises. The place was- well, he was sure there was a popular word that John often used to describe things that were bigger on the inside. Something to do with science fiction, but he had little time for such trivial notions. There were offices and game rooms and private rooms and therapy rooms, all tucked into one little space. It was in a therapy room that he found John.

He was sitting in the dark, knees tucked up to his chest and staring out of an open window.

"John?"

He did not turn around. "Come in."

Sherlock sat beside him on the sofa. Something gleamed in John's clenched fist. "What's that?"

John unclenched his hand. Sherlock could just about make out the outline of the small tin soldier. He'd been holding it so hard that it had imprinted on his palm.

"John, maybe we should go home."

"You know, I've just been sitting here, talking to myself. I feel like I'm going mad, Sherlock."

"You're not mad." Sherlock said softly.

"There has to be something responsible. Someone must have made that happen- and it kills me to even think about letting them go. But I must."

Sherlock didn't know what to say, so simply placed a hand on John's shoulder.

"I feel so wrong, Sherlock. Defective."

The door opened, and a chink of light temporarily dazzled his senses. It was only in the half light that he saw the glistening tears on John's face.

Lestrade looked suddenly shocked then awkward. "Um, we're taking Adam to a safe house. I thought you might want to say bye, John."

John nodded, and Sherlock followed him out onto the corridor. Adam stood smiling at him.

"Goodbye, John."

"Bye, Adam. See you again?"

"Of course."

John and Adam shared a lonely, solitary look at each other before John left. Sherlock was about to follow him when Adam called him back. "Can I have a word- Sherlock, was it?"

"Of course." Adam took him aside.

"Do you believe in God, Sherlock?"

Sherlock gave him a half smile. "Believe, yes. Trust, no."

Adam laughed. "Well there's one I haven't heard before. At least you're honest. Do you believe in John, Sherlock?"

Sherlock froze only momentarily. "More than you know."

"Then look after him. We don't like each other, that hasn't changed, but- after that car blew up, after I tried to save my friends from burning I- I saw why John's way of thinking works. But he doesn't know that."

"Tell me how to help him. Please."

"It's difficult," said Adam quietly. "He has to help himself. You just have to listen to him, to try to understand. Trying is enough." He looked out the window at the shadow of his former colleague. "You lose hope, that's the worst thing. You lose your faith in humanity, in God, in trying to save yourself. I used to think about hurting myself, killing myself, but after a while even that seems pointless. Your memories become the only thing you love, and you'll never let anyone close enough to hurt you again."

"So what can I do?"

"He needs something bigger than himself to believe in. Prove yourself. Be the man he can believe in."

8:00pm

The cab journey home had been in stony silence. They hadn't said a word to each other since they'd left, and before John had a chance to lock himself in his room, Sherlock pulled him back.

"John?"

"What?" he said blankly.

"Give it to me."

"Give what to you?"

"That little soldier. The tin one that Moriarty gave you."

John's fist clenched around something in his hand. "Why?"

"Because you're tormenting yourself with it, that's why!" Sherlock yelled unexpectedly. "Jesus, John! Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"I don't know why, Sherlock! Why does anyone do anything?" John's eyes were suddenly angry, fury emanating from him.

"I'm trying to understand you, why won't you let me help you?"

"Because you won't understand! You can't!"

"What, because I'm a sociopath?" Sherlock spat. "Because at least I'm not in denial about who I am John!"

The look of hatred in John's eyes was expected. The hand around his throat was not. Gasping for air, Sherlock tugged at John's hand, trying to pull him off.

"John!"

John, whilst physically smaller than Sherlock, was far stronger, and kept him pinned to the wall behind him.

"I am not in denial Sherlock," John growled, emphasising every word. "Take it back."

"Fine!" he choked out. "Just… Just!"

"What?"

"I can't breathe John!"

Realisation seemed to dawn. John released him. Sherlock stumbled to the floor, panting heavily. Getting steadily to his feet, he stared at John in horrified awe.

"Sherlock," John said slowly. "I- I didn't mean- I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he said, still fighting for breath. "Just warn me the next time you're going to do that."

John paused, then gave a nervous laugh. So did Sherlock. Was this normal? Getting pinned to the wall by your emotionally repressed flatmate who you happen to think is sex personified? Sherlock shook his head. Since when did he think like that?

He felt his phone buzz in his pocket. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock," It was Lestrade. His voice was shaking. "Come quickly."

9:00pm

They were outside Lestrade's house. It was a nice place- not huge, but large and very nice. It was a shame they weren't visiting on nicer circumstances.

Sherlock and John stepped into the living room. Several police officers were standing by the doors, whilst Sally sat next to Lestrade on a sofa. He had his head in his hands.

"Sally," Sherlock asked abruptly. "What happened?"

"Greg's son, Daniel," she said, shock clearly audible in her voice. "It's his birthday. He came home from school today, and- someone had put something in his bag."

Sherlock's heart stopped the briefest of moments. "What?"

"Someone had put a present in his bag. A toy, of some kind. Expensive."

John coughed. "And you think it was from Moriarty?"

"Well, it came with a card saying 'Love from Jim', so we assume so."

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. His eyes were vacant, fixated on something he couldn't see.

"Greg," he said quietly. "Are you ok?"

"Don't be ridiculous Sherlock."

"Sorry, stupid question. Have you secured the safety of your children?"

"I'm sending them to my sister's in Dorset."

"Good."

Lestrade stood up. "Why is he doing this?"

Sherlock hesitated. "To prove he can destroy the closest things to us."

Lestrade picked up a picture of his children. John patted him on the back. Sherlock simply stared at John's back and wondered if that's what Moriarty was doing this to him too.

P.S- The roadside bomb incident is based on something that happened to my great-grandfather in WWI, just FYI. And John pinning Sherlock the wall came from my friend Ashleigh deciding it would be fun to grab my neck and hurl me against a wall this morning. Honestly, she's my friend. Honestly. I feel for Sherlock, it's very painful.