AN: Hello. So I have to give two pieces of news, one is that, once again, I am going away for the whole week next week, because my dear sister has, just today gone to Germany with the Navy (Cadets) , so I'll miss her a lot obvs.

And the other thing is, I'm possibly thinking of stopping this at thirty chapters, so tell me if you think that's a terrible idea or not.

So, enjoy this chapter, prompted by fantasybean who is epical.

Lily

I honestly thought it might have stopped.

It hadn't happened in just so long.

My bloody therapist had said I was making wonderful breakthroughs as well.

Bastard boyfriend that I have managed to get acquainted with.

We'd just gotten to the crime scene and Sherlock was doing his typical, I am so clever everybody just get out of my way routine that we'd all come to know and despise. Normally, at times like that I could extremely cheerfully have killed him. In fact I would have handed the suspect a gun. But not today.

I had already been feeling out of sorts that day, the tiniest little thing was making me jump. Sherlock had dropped the butter knife on the plastic counter and I had almost shot him.

I had kind of had an inkling of what might happen, which is why I had tried to resist going on the case, but it was not to be. Sherlock plied me with promises of a clean bathroom for a whole week and Greg told me that he really needed a medical presence around that wasn't Anderson. Because Anderson had just been dumped by Donovan who had now started up a relationship with a uniform sergeant (Unmarried, unattached, completely unlike anyone Donovan had ever dated before) as a result she'd started doing her hair and smiling. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Anderson was wandering round unshaven and singing Bing Crosby's 'The thrill is gone' under his breath in hushed tones.

Anyway, shortly after we arrived on the scene, I was knelt by the side of a young man's body, who had been suffocated and pushed under his boyfriend's bed, when Lestrade knocked a glass statue off a shelf.

Now, what I remember is entirely different to what happened. I remember screeching metal and screams and blood spattered across my vision. I remember thinking Oh God, it's happening again.

And then suddenly it came into perfect clarity. I wasn't in London anymore, I was back in Afghan. The smell of hot sand and hot blood and hot skin assaulting my nose. Blood on my hands, on my clothes on face, unable to stop the bleeding...

And then suddenly, unintelligible crackles through my headset, screaming an increasingly desperate voice Mayday! Mayday! Delta six niner two Alpha Mayday! A series of fire orders shouted stutteringly down a microphone and then everything stopping, to be replaced by my own heartbeat. And the smell of the desert.

I remember feeling somebody's hands on me, obviously the enemy, so I struggled and screamed. I remember the slow motion tearing of my own skin, and the screeching pain it left behind. Watching my friends, people who hadn't even been there, Lestrade, Molly, Donovan, my friends spinning and falling as the bullets hit them. Horrific injuries... groans and screams of pain... and in the middle, me. Quite unable to help.

Now dear reader, I need you to know that my experience in Afghanistan was nothing like this, nothing like this at all. But that is the evil of PTSD.

It preys on your fears, on your paranoia and on your memories. All of this mixed together gives you a fireball of emotion and you my friend, you are just going to have to sit there and go along with the ride. Because nothing, nothing stops an attack once it takes hold of you.

So that was my perception of events. I came too about twenty minutes later to see Lestrade standing over me, Sherlock holding me and speaking to me quietly, wearing the most fear I have ever seen written across his face and Donovan crying softly in the corner. The first feeling was relief. And after that, shame.

No-one likes an attack, it makes you feel weak and stupid. Even worse, if there are people around you who don't understand the condition, it's very common to see fear in their eyes and that makes you feel like a monster.

Luckily this was not the case in this scenario. Sherlock and Lestrade are well aware, and have experienced the condition many times and Donovan immediately rushed over and gave me a hug.

Unluckily, I tend to be rather sensitive about touch for about an hour after an attack, so I flinched and gave her a look of abject panic. But it was a nice thing to do in any case.

'Oh God, I'm so sorry...' I mumbled

'Not your fault, I should have known.' Said Sherlock, looking angry, whether at Lestrade or at himself I couldn't say.

'But I...'

'Look at me John.' He said sharply. After a little while I complied, hanging my head in shame 'None of that was your fault. Both Lestrade and I are fully aware of your condition, it was Lestrade who broke the glass and startled you, which wasn't your fault and it was me who... who forced you to come to a crime scene. I knew you'd been jumpy all day, I knew the signs and I knew it would destroy you if you were to have an attack in front of your friends. It's my fault. And I'm so, so sorry.' By the end he sounded positively miserable.

I gingerly touched his shoulder and gave a weak smile 'It's fine Sherlock, just... just listen to me when I say I don't want to go on a case or something, yeah?'

'Yes, alright. I'm sorry.'

'I already said it's fine. Now can we please stop talking about it and go home?'

He looked up in surprise 'Yes of course.' He stood up abruptly then gave me a hand to stagger upright 'Lestrade the woman you are looking for is 5'6" with long red hair and blue eyes, she's a glamour model who made unwelcome advances on the young man and when he rejected her she strangled him with a shoelace. The boyfriend is entirely innocent except of lying to his family and not saying he was gay. I believe you'll find the young lady at Walton Studios in the east end; they do a lot of picture shoots for the Sun and suchlike. There was pink nail polish in his hair at bottom, you stupid man. Oh and, next time, check people's pockets.' He said scathingly as he drew a ripped poster from his pocket and threw it to Lestrade, on it was a picture of a young woman wearing nothing but red leather boots with tomorrow 8 o'clock x scrawled flamboyantly across it.

Slightly shocked by his harsh treatment of Lestrade, I stumbled after him as he marched onto the main road in search of a cab. Naturally, he found one immediately (smooth git) and as soon as we were sat down, he pulled my head back onto his shoulder and said 'Sleep.'

I snuggled into his coat, suddenly desperately tired and mumbled 'Thank you for helping me.'

I didn't think he'd heard, but just I began to drift off, he leaned down and kissed me on the top of the head, saying 'Piece of cake.'

AN: Hehehe... well. I tried my best. Same principle I will be applying to my GCSE results. Anyway, let me know what you think about stopping at thirty, I just thought... I dunno the quality has gone down I suppose. Anyways, I am perfectly ahppy to continue if you so decide. Review and tell me though. And gimme prompts.