It's in their third week of living together again that Sherlock and John have their first proper case. With everything that had been going on, John had been lax with keeping the blog up to date, typing up only very brief summaries of their cases that were more for his and Sherlock's reference than for public consumption. But now that Baker Street was back up and running it seemed that news had quickly spread.

Given the increase in interest in their work, John had decided to take only a part time GP role with a local clinic, with his morning shift allowing plenty of time in the afternoons and evenings for case work and spending time with his daughter. He'd hired a carer for Rosie – thoroughly investigated and vetted by Sherlock, of course – with Molly and Mrs Hudson insisting that they were also happy to look after her should the need arise.

To John's immense relief, the living situation was working out remarkably well. In many ways, it felt like he had never left, with he and Sherlock easily slipping back into their routines (or lack thereof, in Sherlock's case), their tea and takeaway, sometimes talking about cases, other times nothing in particular, sometimes enjoying comfortable silence in the evenings as John watched crap telly or read and Sherlock sat very still thinking then furiously tapped away at his phone or laptop. But then, on the other hand, there was Rosie. Whilst John had never seen Sherlock be anything less than charming and patient with his daughter, and trusted him with her implicitly, he had to admit he'd been nervous about the combination of Sherlock and a baby under the same roof.

But it seemed that his worry was all for naught, because Sherlock so far continued to be nothing short of besotted with the youngest Watson. Her behaviours and cognitive development, the way she absorbed new information and knowledge, seemed to have enraptured him. More than once, John had overheard Sherlock utter "fascinating" under his breath as Sherlock and Rosie played a game or as he showed her something new.

It helped that Sherlock could retreat to his basement flat if he needed peace and quiet, or an answer that only a gruesome experiment could solve. John was relieved that Rosie had been sleeping solidly through the night after several months of being unsettled and without a proper routine. Unfortunately the same couldn't be said for John and his persistent nightmares, but he was grateful that at least in his sleep deprived state he was able to settle Rosie without too much trouble into her cot in the room they shared upstairs, keeping a baby monitor close at hand in the lounge room.

To his amusement, he had found that Sherlock was also attentive to the monitor and had once come out of the shower in his robe to find Sherlock in his room, patting Rosie's back to soothe her back to sleep. Sherlock had stiffened slightly when he'd sensed John at the doorway, as though it had suddenly occurred to him that this might be overstepping a boundary, and John had reassured him with a smile that he didn't mind in the slightest and was very thankful. What John hadn't said is that it had been like a seeping beam of light in the darkness for him to feel some of the weight lifted from his shoulders as he adjusted to this new life in which he had his support network, a village to help raise his child.

Presently though, John bursts through the door of 221 Baker Street, swiftly pulling off his light jacket and resolutely not looking at Sherlock. The interrogation of their key suspect had not gone well. In fact, despite John's warnings, Sherlock had gone in guns blazing in his usual manner. The suspect, of course, did not react well, instead choosing to flee then attack like a rat when he was cornered. Sherlock had underestimated him, as he was sometimes inclined to do, and quick as lightning the suspect had pulled a switch blade knife as Sherlock had dived at him. Sherlock had hit the ground roughly, clutching at the wound on his shoulder with a hiss of pain as the perpetrator scuttled away into the night. John had run to him, doctor and solider mode fully engaged, and for one or two heart stopping moments John had thought it was much more serious than it actually was.

Now back at the safety of the flat, his emotions are a pendulum swinging from concerned but relieved to fuming and frustrated, and he tries desperately to get his emotions under control before heading upstairs where Mrs Hudson has been looking after Rosie. He isn't quite sure why he's so angry but suspects that it's borne out of fear. After all he and Sherlock have been through, the thought of anything serious happening to his best friend completely terrifies him. And the thought of losing him, again…

He pushes the paralysing thoughts aside and climbs the stairs, his foot fall perhaps a little heavier than it should be.

"Ah, back so soon, loves?" Mrs Hudson's voice rings out cheerfully as John enters the flat.

"Yeah, well, it didn't exactly go as planned," John says shortly, shooting a glare at Sherlock as he comes into the room.

"Oh gosh, Sherlock, look at you! What have you done to yourself?" Mrs Hudson frets, rushing over to him to get a better look at the wound on his shoulder.

"I'm alright, Mrs Hudson, it's only superficial, no need to fuss," Sherlock replies impatiently, waving her away gently.

Mrs Hudson backs off slightly but tsk tsks, wringing her hands together tightly.

"You boys, I do worry about you so. It's a good thing you have such a wonderful doctor on hand to look after you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes meet John's eyes briefly.

"Yes it is," he agrees quietly, and John feels his frustration simmer down minutely.

John turns to Mrs Hudson, forcing a smile onto his face.

"Thank you again for looking after Rosie on such short notice."

"It's no trouble, dear. I put her to bed about an hour ago so she should sleep right through now."

"Mrs Hudson, you're a saint," John replies gratefully, pulling her into a half hug and dropping a kiss on her cheek.

"Oh it's my pleasure, John, she's never a bother," she says, dismissing his praise with a slight blush and a wave of her hands.

John's head whips around as Sherlock moves to sneak past them to his bedroom.

"Nuh uh, get back here, Sherlock, I'm not done with you," he says sternly, and Sherlock has the good sense to stop in his tracks and return silently to the living room.

He leans back against his desk with his arms folded petulantly, and now that his blazer and coat are off, John observes that his dark shirt is ripped and stained but there's not a large amount of blood. He notes that Sherlock looks a bit drained, but not visibly in a great deal of pain. There's a loaded pause and Mrs Hudson promptly gathers her crotchet work from the arm of John's chair. John lips quirk into a half smile when he notices that she's working on another tiny jacket for Rosie, mint green this time.

"Well, I'd best be getting back downstairs, loves, so I'll leave you to it. Goodnight you two."

They echo their goodnights as Mrs Hudson leaves the flat, closing the door behind her.

"Shirt off please," John says as he turns to Sherlock, his voice slipping easily into doctor mode with just the faintest threat of military command.

"But, John," Sherlock complains, "It's barely more than a scratch, I really think you're over-"

"Now, Sherlock," John barks, then immediately regrets the harshness of his tone as he registers that Sherlock looks slightly taken aback.

He takes a long breath and sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Sorry. Just…let me take a look at it? Please?"

Sherlock surveys him evenly over steepled fingers, apparently deciding whether or not to argue or to comply with John's request.

"Fine," he bites out finally, starting to unbutton his shirt reluctantly.

He undoes it most of the way and shrugs out of it, leaving his shoulders exposed but his back largely covered, and sits on the arm of his leather chair silently as John examines him.

"Well, you're right, it's fairly superficial and it won't need stitches. But I'll need to clean it up and bandage it."

John retreats to the bathroom, rifles through the cabinet for his medical supplies, and returns to stand in front of his patient. Sherlock makes a tiny noise in his throat as John applies some antiseptic liquid that stings but John is pleased that he's otherwise remarkably well behaved. He gently presses his fingers into the flesh around the wound, checking for swelling and making sure there's been no muscle injury.

"There's going to be a fair bit of bruising to this area, so you'll need to take it easy for a few days," John instructs, using his professional voice again.

Sherlock nods, and John moves to examine the back of his shoulder, carefully testing the tenderness there too. He feels more than sees Sherlock stiffen and go perfectly still.

"Is it sore there?" he asks.

"No, it's fine," Sherlock replies quickly, trying without much success to adjust the shirt and cover more of his back.

But now John has seen something that makes his heart lurch uncomfortably in his chest.

"Sherlock, what's all this?"

Sherlock remains frozen and seems to be holding his breath. He clears his throat quickly before speaking.

"It's nothing," he replies quietly, and John has the distinct impression that he's trying hard to keep his voice even.

"These scars, they're-"

John cuts himself off as the light catches Sherlock's back in a certain way, revealing the full extent of the scarring, and has to stop himself from letting out a gasp. There's a plethora of scarring that seems to span the full length of Sherlock's back, some scars deeper than others, some longer, some too perfectly round or symmetrical to be random. The scars look patterned, deliberate, and it takes John a moment to recognise them for what they are. Then the realisation sinks in, slowly and horribly. A wave of nausea sweeps over John and he closes his eyes against it.

"Serbia?" John asks, hoping beyond hope that he's wrong.

Sherlock pauses a moment before answering.

"Serbia," he confirms softly.

John's stomach lurches again as he thinks of the horrific treatment Sherlock must have suffered through.

"How long were you-"

"Six weeks."

"Six weeks. Six weeks?"

John struggles to keep his voice steady and hates himself when he hears the unmistakable tremor within it. He inhales, holds his breath, exhales.

"Why so long?"

John doesn't verbalise it but what he really wants to ask is "why did it take Mycroft so long?". He feels anger lick at his sides again, but for a completely different reason to earlier that night. Sherlock, of course, doesn't miss his underlying meaning.

"Because that's how long it took Mycroft to locate me, infiltrate their ranks, get to me and help me escape. He did the best he could."

His tone is calm but John can hear the concealed warning, a sign that his tolerance of the topic is wearing thin.

John decides not to push it. The night has been hard enough for both of them and he had never expected this. He draws his hand lightly over the scarred skin again in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. He's sure it's clumsy and he isn't even sure why he's doing it. He just doesn't know what else to do as thoughts invade his head and consume him.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that," John says, his voice rough and barely above a whisper.

"Thank you."

Sherlock pauses, apparently allowing himself a moment as John's palm remains flat against the space between his shoulder blades.

"I never meant for you to know about this."

His voice is stronger now and he's pulling away, pulling the ruined shirt around himself, hiding the evidence of his past. Though Sherlock doesn't appear overtly upset, John's heart aches at the gesture.

"But why? Maybe I could have…helped…somehow," he says weakly, knowing it's a stupid thing to say.

"I'm fine, John. Really. It's in the past."

There's so much John wants to say, so many questions he wants to ask. His head is still spinning and he feels somewhere between crying and retching. But he knows he has no right – this isn't about him. With considerable effort he simply nods, not wanting to push Sherlock further.

"I'm going to take a shower," says Sherlock, moving in the direction of the bathroom, and John nods again.

"Try not to get that dressing wet," John replies. "I'll redo it tomorrow though."

"Thank you," Sherlock says again.

Then he disappears behind the closed door.

Not long after, John lies in his bed in a half-hearted attempt to get to sleep. He knows it's futile – his mind is claustrophobic from too many questions, and an overwhelming sense of guilt is pressing upon him from all sides. Suddenly his attacks on Sherlock in the past seem a thousand times worse, and a strong part of him keeps insisting that he's no different to the monsters who did this to Sherlock. He's sickened when he remembers how he tackled Sherlock to the ground when he had first reappeared in John's life…when the wounds would still have been fresh and hurting him. You didn't know, you wouldn't have done it if you'd known a small part of his mind interrupts, but he dismisses it with disgust, not wanting to allow himself to feel even marginally better about this. The crushing weight is back upon him with a vengeance and suddenly he's exhausted. Finally, with excruciating slowness, John falls into a shallow, restless slumber.

He awakens panicked, the crushing feeling heavier upon his chest than ever, making him feel like he can't breathe. He hears himself cry out – an awful, inhuman kind of sound – and suddenly Sherlock is before him, hands on John's shoulders and concern evident on his face even through John's panic. John forces himself to suck some air into his burning lungs.

"Sherlock, you're alive," he chokes out, the shadows of the nightmare still invading the edge of his peripheral.

"Yes, I'm alive, John, I'm here. It's okay, it was just a nightmare."

Sherlock's steady, calm voice and comforting presence so close to him brings John down just enough to remember what had been haunting his unconscious mind. The vision of the nightmare, so real, still swims before his eyes. A flash of Sherlock's lifeless face and blood pouring from his head after his fall from the rooftop. Sherlock bound and tortured. The former is a familiar reoccurrence in his nightmares but the latter is a new one. John runs a shaky hand over his face, and when he speaks his voice is so breathless and strained that he barely recognises it as his own.

"I was there with you and I didn't help you, I just watched as they…"

He trails off, unable to complete the horrific thought.

"God, I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

He knows he's not apologising for what he did in the nightmare but isn't sure if the apology is again for what he'd done to Sherlock or for bringing up what had happened in Serbia, or maybe for both. John lets out an involuntary sound that is somewhere between a sigh and a sob, and Sherlock's grip on his arms tightens compassionately. He finds himself grasping at Sherlock's arms around his own. The other man is wearing his blue silk dressing gown over his sleep shirt and pants, and the warmth coming from his skin through the thin fabric is remarkably reassuring.

"It's okay, John, it's okay, it's not real," Sherlock murmurs soothingly, drawing John in closer now.

John says nothing, allowing himself to be comforted as he gets his breathing under control, but he knows that part of the nightmare is not only very real but that they've lived it. They stay like that a few moments longer without the need to speak, and it feels strange but uplifting to have Sherlock's unmistakable scent – familiar and pleasant, the smell of home – all around him.

"Thank you," John says shakily, "How did you know-"

"I heard you through the baby monitor downstairs," Sherlock replies almost apologetically, with a slight quirk of his lips.

John huffs out a small laugh, looking over to Rosie in her cot on the other side of the room and relieved to find that she's still sleeping soundly. The fact that she's such a deep sleeper in another small mercy in his life.

"I think I'm okay now," John finally musters the strength to say.

Sherlock seems to take this as his cue to leave and goes to stand up, but John catches his arm.

"Please don't go."

The words are out of his mouth before he's even had a chance to register them. He curses internally at his neediness, at putting Sherlock in such a position when even the most everyday social encounters can be baffling to him. But Sherlock appears unfazed by the request and he's already moving back towards the bed, towards John.

"Of course I'll stay, if that's what you need."

John turns and pulls back the covers on the other side of the bed and Sherlock climbs in gracefully then lies on his back, tilting his head towards John's so they're facing each other in the darkness.

"People would definitely talk if they heard about this," John can't help but say.

Sherlock's deep chuckle seems to reverberate through John's chest and he joins in, feeling some of the tightness melt away. Their laughter fades but John can sense their mutual smiles through the inky blackness of the room.

"Get some sleep," Sherlock murmurs, "You'll need your strength for that bundle of raw chaotic energy you'll be chasing around after tomorrow."

John huffs out another short laugh at Sherlock's reference to his now very mobile daughter, but he's so exhausted that it doesn't long for sleep to claim him once more.