A/N - Posting without my Beta's read through, she'll skin me I'm sure, but being home for the summer restricts my internet use. Hopefully there aren't too many grievous errors. Also, hopefully I'll be writing more, sorry to anyone reading for the utter lag in updates. Enjoy :D

John's eyes fluttered beneath his lids as he pulled himself from a drug and exhaustion induced sleep. His body was sagging into the depths and comforts of a bed- one that felt greatly familiar. Inhaling deeply, John caught the scents of boot leather, gentle soap, and the slight tinge of gun cleaner- though these all had a slightly stale air about them. It's an air of disuse. 221 B, his old room. John's eyes snapped open.

He wasn't sure how he got here; he couldn't remember a single thing about leaving Afghanistan. The last John Watson could remember was passing out on the hard metal floor of a Chinook. Moving his arms out from under the comforter, John winced. His entire body ached. Odd, a shot to the leg shouldn't hurt all over. He was wearing a jumper and pair of jeans so he couldn't immediately see what was hurting him. Climbing out of bed, wincing in a breath, John limped heavily to the bathroom. Each step sent a jolt of tearing pain through his left leg.

Starting the water for a shower, John tried frantically to pull up memories of anything past limp-running to a Chinook. There were snatches of memories- being strapped down to a table, rather painful stitches, and music. Old music, upbeat, but he couldn't pull lyrics or more than a few notes from it. Most of the memories could be explained away by surgery for the gunshot.

Unzipping and popping the button to his trousers, John pulled them down carefully and froze when they hit the floor. His legs were covered in small, stitched up wounds while the major gunshot looked professionally stitched up but with non-military grade sutures. Perhaps it hadn't just been a bullet… Tenderly, he peeled the jumper and undershirt off of his torso and turned to look in the mirror. John froze again, his gray-hazel eyes wide and searching frantically across his reflected body.

His eyes traced the traditional Y autopsy cuts, the other little cuts over his torso, and as he tried to curl his fingers his right hand throbbed painfully. He opened his palm face up and tore his eyes from the mirror. There was a purpled and scabbing gash at the base of his thumb as well as a few other healed scars which made it hard to curl and move his hand. Looking back up, John felt his throat constricting in horror. He couldn't remember; he couldn't piece anything together. There were just flashes and snippets, pieces and sounds.

Staggering back from the mirror, John felt his left leg quiver in pain then he was sinking to the ground a little too quickly. He grasped for the edge of the tub, gripping it as his body hit the floor painfully. He sucked in breath after breath; a quickened heartbeat overlapping with each inhale, forcing past each exhale, and his head was spinning. John coughed out a breath when his lungs started to fight against him. The shaking of the cough made his ribs feel as if they were shattering.

John knew he needed to calm down but he wasn't sure he could. Then two words entered his mind: Psychosomatic autopsy. Yes, if he'd had a psychosomatic limp last time he'd buggered off to Afghanistan, why not this? Perhaps war was not good for him. Perhaps he should never have left.

"Perhaps I'm dead…"
John pushed off of the tub and used it to get to his feet. Ignoring the threads of fire spreading through his body he snatched his undershirt. Pulling that on over his head, he added trousers. He also managed to shut the water off. Habits couldn't be avoided even if he was dead. Stumbling into his room on a bum leg, John grabbed the cane he'd kept for- well he wasn't sure why, and made his way out of the room. On the off chance that Sherlock was home, John needed to talk to him. If the man could see him and could confirm both life, and life with a psychosomatic autopsy fear, then John could sit down and breathe once more.

Going down the stairs hurt, a lot. His drive to discover his actual state of living-not-dead forced him down them fairly quickly though. His eyes searched the place, the kitchen first, then the couch. There he was. The man looked more like a pouting prat than ever before. "Sherlock." The word was meant to be strong, final, and holding. It wasn't. John's voice was cracked and leaking from it was vulnerability.

"Nice to see you've come to your senses and gotten yourself home. Isn't it proper conduct for a person to let their flatmate know they weren't still gallivanting off at war?" Sherlock's voice was definitely strong- he was throwing a strop, John realized.

"I don't even know how I got back here, Sherlock. I was hoping you could tell me that." John limped over to stand in front of the couch, looking down at him. Sherlock looked a mite thinner than before John had left. There were dark circles under his eyes and John could actually call his eyes gray. He didn't like it one bit.

Sherlock eyed the cane in his hand and frowned. Sitting up he tilted his head skyward enough to look John in the eyes. "Really now? Are you going to come home from every war with that bloody thing?" Sherlock proceeded to kick the cane out from John's hand.

Two things happened and one of them made John laugh. The other made him cringe. First, John felt his whole body tumbling for the ground again and he winced at the upcoming pain that would crash through his body. Secondly, it turned from a groan to a laugh when he saw the surprise on Sherlock's face. Never had John seen the man look so…so- defeated. Yes, that's what it was. Sherlock had been very wrong about the newest limp and the shock of it was painted on his face in a big 'O'.

"John? John!" Sherlock leapt from the couch and stalked around John, to get behind him. "Stop laughing and get up." Sherlock thrust his arms under John's armpits and hauled him upwards. For a man who looked to weigh maybe 130 pounds, he had incredible strength.

John went feet-wards as his hand scrambled to locate his fallen cane. He planted the thing firmly before Sherlock got a chance to let go of him and wrapped an arm around himself. His body was aching from too much action after an apparently not-so-nice encounter with a scalpel. "Sherlock, where have I been?" John asked turning his eyes over his shoulder to look at the man.

"That's a dull question, Afghanistan obvious-" Sherlock stopped and moved around John again. "You smell like a basement. And sterile medical cleaner…"

John nodded slowly, waiting with held breath for Sherlock to make some sort of guess at where he had been. When the man fell into silent contemplation, John turned around to face the man and let out his held breath. "Look," he said setting his cane to rest against his hip. His fingers went to the edge of his shirt and he pulled it up under his chin as carefully as he could.

Sherlock gasped, hands twitching until they were stuffed into the pockets of his pants. His eyes were traveling over the Y cut and rested low on John's belly. There was something there, in that look he was giving John; something more than repulsion.

"So?" John leaned his head forward slightly, chewing his bottom lip as he watched Sherlock.

"So…someone had a go with you." Sherlock moved forward, slowly pulling one hand out from his pockets, long fingers inching towards John's skin.

John held still, watching Sherlock's face. By all rights, John should be freaking out royally, but there was something about watching Sherlock that put most of John's fears off slightly to the side. He watched shifts of emotions, a stern concentration, and a pout of lips. When Sherlock's fingers finally touched down and brushed along the incision and stitch up of the medical cut, John shivered. Sherlock's fingers moved pensively over John's skin; John could do nothing more than hold as still as possible and just feel. Something was trying to push through in his mind, some memory of what had happened. He could see a flash of metal, could hear music, but couldn't really paint the whole image. "Sherlock," he whispered.

"Professional. Precise. No tearing, perhaps you weren't awake."

"I have a memory of seeing it…"

"Drugs then. Maybe. It's about three weeks old, by the healing." Sherlock stepped closer then crouched down, getting his eyes nearer to the cut.

John inhaled deeply, lilting his head upwards and closing his eyes. Sherlock was too close, his breath too warm. Even with the pain pulsing through John's body he was still able to feel a warm sensual stirring in himself. He gripped the cane until his knuckles were white then risked a glance down.

Sherlock brushed his fingers off of the Y cut and over John's belly. "You toned up while you were away." It was offhanded, but Sherlock's eyes took a watery, shifty shade back to their grayness. "Little cuts, angry. The edges are a bit torn. Not enough to suggest a serrated blade- scalpel most likely. Still professional, nothing too deep and not near anything vital." His eyes and fingers moved as if one, taking in every little detail of John's body. When he got to a cut on John's hip he tugged at the waist-line minutely and pulled back. "There's more."

"I'm not dropping trousers here in the open, thank you very much."

"Shall I shut the blinds?"

"Sherlock!"

"Bedroom then?"

"I'm simply not taking my trousers off for you."

"Oh, bad timing dears? I found this on the stoop Sherlock. It's- well I think it's written to John, but it includes your name." Mrs. Hudson held up a disc in a clear case. It had thick black lettering across the case.

Sherlock pushed up off of the floor and swept over to Mrs. Hudson. He snatched the disk, holding it up to read and frowned.

"What's it? Let me see." John pushed his cane into the ground and moved across the room towards Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. He held out his hand expectantly, patiently. The right one. It was quivering. John's eyes were on his hand now, watching it tremble, and only realized Sherlock was letting him have the disc when it touched his fingertips. He caught Sherlock's eyes, blinked a few times then pulled the disc to him. Looking down he read out loud, "John, don't worry, Sherlock will know the next step of the game. –J.M."

John's head snapped up to look at Sherlock and he jawed wordlessly for a few moments. He briefly heard Mrs. Hudson shutting the door to their flat, her soft footsteps padding away.

"Let me see it, John." Sherlock held out his hand again and took the disc, heading for his computer.

"Are you putting that in? What if it's…I don't know, a virus or something?" John caned his way back over to the couch where Sherlock was sitting. The laptop was flipped open and Sherlock was popping open the disc drive.

"It's a DVD John." Sherlock stuck it in and pushed the drive closed.

"So why on your computer? Why not the DVD player?"

"There's no camera on the wall behind us for Mycroft to see to what we're watching." Sherlock clicked the 'play' button when his DVD programme popped up.

It opened on a little breakfast nook with Jim Moriarty sitting in front of the camera. "Hello Sherlock! I do hope this gets to you before you deduce everything about John's whereabouts the last month." Moriarty grinned widely, shifting closer in the chair, and folding his hands before him. "There are a few things John would like to say to you, Sherlock. A few things John wants to show you. And John, if your memory is gone, it's just a side effect of the new drug I have. Terrible that it wasn't completely developed before I used it on you. In any case, hope you're watching, too! It would just be sad if I was the only one to remember our time together."

The camera clicked off and John looked over at Sherlock. "What is he on about?"

Sherlock pointed at the screen, at John strapped down on a table and Moriarty wielding a surgical needle.

Sitting on the couch, John felt his chest clench as he heard the miserable music that had been trying to break through his subconscious since he'd woken up. His eyes were glued to the computer screen as memories started to slowly re-piece themselves back together. He didn't really notice that his left hand had reached out next to him and settled on Sherlock's leg, squeezing it looking for comfort. He barely noticed the warmth of Sherlock's hand lying atop his, thumb running carefully back and forth over his knuckles.

The time was cut, showing only bits of what Moriarty did, only the very emotional bits of what John spewed. When the camera went dark again after John had said, "I won't ask you", John himself was shaking. His teeth were tightly grinding together and his fingers were now laced between Sherlock's.

Sherlock watched John's reaction to the disc from the corner of his eye. He could keep track of what was happening to both John on the camera and John here on the couch next to him. The petty anger he'd felt at finding John home without a word about it was replaced with something else. He wasn't sure what to call it, anger perhaps, but not directed at John. It was strong and it had him shifting closer to his flatmate. Sherlock had been the one to switch John's hand from his leg to his own hand as Sherlock's leg was starting to go numb.

A new scene started on the tape- John was back at the single chain looped to his neck, kneeling down, his whole body shaking.

"I don't remember this. The rest of it, I do. Clearly, but this-" John sounded distressed and Sherlock couldn't blame him.

Normally Sherlock liked creative criminals; they kept him on his toes, always thinking, always calculating. This though, made Sherlock's chest hurt. It was that same hurt that he had felt when the restless of John being gone had crept in. He resisted putting the heel of his palm to it and rubbing like he had so often in John's absence. Mycroft had gotten angry about the bruise he'd made.

"The drugs." Sherlock looked fully at John, watching his face tense as he watched some unfamiliar torture. Minutes passed and Sherlock was no longer putting much of his attention to the computer screen. He had the DVD, he could watch it later, when John was asleep. Right now he needed to measure how John was reacting, because this was instant, not recorded for him, and Sherlock would need to see each line, crease and shadow pass over John's face to determine what to do next.

"Kill me," the John on the computer screen said. His voice was burbling, throat obviously coated in his own blood. "Kill me, I deserve it…f-for leaving…him."

Sherlock shut the lid of the laptop with a quick snap and tightened his hand with John's. "You're an idiot for saying that."

John turned, mouth agape and fishing for words. His eyebrows knotted together and he said slowly, "Don't be like that, most people are."

Staring blankly for one second, Sherlock let out a burst of laughter. He tugged John's hand as he quieted down and placed a hand on John's face, running a thumb over his jaw line. "Yes, but you were normally more than idiot. You still surprise me."

"Why's that?" John was leaning into Sherlock's hand, the one on his face, and his off-hazel eyes, lazy color that they were, started to droop heavily.

Sherlock realized John was enjoying the touch. It surprised him, a little. Letting his hand remain there he smiled. "You're unpredictable. You should be having a break down, a right good strop about this, and yet here you are, sitting on the couch spouting quotes from me like nothing happened. You're not normal."

"Oh, and I suppose you're the expert on 'normal'?" John smiled, pulled his eyes back open, and sighed lightly.

"Certainly not; that would be boring." Sherlock got to his feet, snatched up the computer and tucked it to his chest. "I need to watch this again, get down some details. I'll get Mrs. Hudson to make you some tea and I'll be out in a while, all right?"

John's eyes suddenly became very alive, the color brightening and looking not so lazy any longer. "You're leaving me, out here? Alone?"

"Mrs. Hudson will be-"

"But Sherlock, I-"

"You don't want to watch this again-"

"I'll shut my eyes."

"The sound?"

"Use headphones."

"What's gotten into you, John?" Sherlock looked down at him as he sat on the edge of the couch, left hand having snatched up at the edge of Sherlock's button-down.

John looked up at him wordlessly, mouth pursed tightly. He swallowed, looked down at his lap, and let his hand fall away. "You're right, I'm being ridiculous. It's nothing, and don't send Mrs. Hudson up, I can make tea."

Sherlock stood in the limbo of moving away from John to watch the disc and staying to offer whatever sort of comfort a high functioning sociopath could offer another man. He cringed slightly thinking about the awkwardness of the latter situation. He took a few steps away from his flatmate and headed for the kitchen. "Fine, I'll make tea then." Sherlock moved to the stove and lifted the empty teapot. Filling it with water and turning the stove on, he placed the pot on the stovetop and turned back around, arms folded tightly across his chest. Silver eyes traveled up and down John and Sherlock felt the pain in his chest abating quickly as he took in the image of John lounging tiredly on the couch. He was resting with his back against the arm rest, face towards Sherlock in the kitchen. His legs were stretched long down the couch, arms lying lightly across his lap, and his lazy-gray-hazel eyes were staring into Sherlock's.

Closeness to others normally bothered Sherlock, but standing there, connected in some odd way through a caress of looks, he didn't feel any bad feelings in the least. There was some level of comfort in knowing that John was back, that his musky male scent would permeate back through the flat, and his heavy steps would fill the quiet space that Sherlock left between Violin sessions.

"I didn't know you actually knew how to make tea." John smiled at him, crookedly.

Sherlock 'tsshed' at him and frowned. "Of course I do. I had to fend for myself before you came along, John." Sherlock looked away, at the kettle for something to focus on. "And when you left."

He heard shifting on the couch and marked each sound as a particular movement; John was sitting up a little higher, defensively, and placing his arms around himself. "Sherlock, I'm sorry about that. I wasn't, er, thinking straight at that point. I know I shouldn't have left but at the time, I uh, well I didn't know what else to do."

Turning back around to look at John, Sherlock was about to yell about the stupidity of running off and picking up a gun to shoot your problems away but the look of John, so small and pained on the couch punched at the spot in his chest again. Raising his hand he dug the heel of his palm into his chest and rubbed again, feeling a slight thrum of pain from the remnants of a bruise. "I know," was all he remarked before the kettle went off. Turning on his heel, Sherlock lifted the teapot and poured boiling water into two large teacups. When the tea was finished steeping, he brought both cups into the sitting room and placed one down where John was reclining.

"Thank you." John's voice was barely a mumble as he was obviously caught up in thought.

Sherlock twisted his lips in thought as he settled uncomfortably onto the couch. "Do you want to talk about it?" Sherlock really didn't want this to happen as he wouldn't know what to say. He could mutter something along the lines of, 'I'm sorry you were tortured as a way to get to me' but he wasn't sure that would actually be beneficial to either of them.

John looked at Sherlock, the cup of tea, then to his own shaking hand. "Not particularly." Ever the steadfast soldier.

Sherlock watched him sit up, take the teacup into his hands and sip from it. He closed his eyes for a beat then set it back down and swallowed the warm liquid. Sherlock watched him ease back into the couch and they sat in silence, the computer whirring softly in protest to being snapped shut suddenly and the empty CD case sitting like a taunt between laptop and teacup.

The problem with the passage of days of time is that Sherlock gets bored, and very quickly when there isn't a case to work on. Sure, he had his papers to write, his experiments to notate, but with John back there should have been a little more. Now, John mostly stayed quiet, studying this bit of medical journal, or checking on the healing of that wound of his. Sherlock had to fill his time with the violin much more often. He even wrote out a few pages of a concerto he was in the middle of. Granted he'd waded up and thrown two of them away as rubbish nearly as quickly as finishing them, but he'd done them none-the-less. And after a week had passed with no upswing in John, Sherlock decided he needed to study something much more personal, much more John.

John stood at the stove, one hand clenching his cane tightly. His knuckles were white from the strain. The other hand rested on a teapot. Sherlock stood back observing. John planted his cane firmly and put his weight to that side. Lifting the teapot off of the hot stove, he moved it above the teacups. Sherlock noted that his movements were still militarily exact, just slower considering the injuries. The he heard the dripping of water into cups, two evenly, and watched John set the teapot back down. He seemed unaware of having an observer.

Sherlock smiled watching the familiar routine with unfamiliar elements laced within. When John turned around with a cup of tea, Sherlock remained standing- just watching. He noted the tightening of John's arm as the man caned across the room towards him. Sherlock didn't reach out for the cup that he was offered, but instead, continued to watch. He watched John hold the cup out, the tag of the tea bag hanging down one side. Then Sherlock's eyes flicked to John's mouth marking it as it turned down in a slight frown. Silver eyes moved up to John's eyes, flicking from Sherlock to the tea cup and back.

Finally Sherlock reached out and took the cup between his hands and pulled it towards himself. He turned away in flurry of his robe, perching on his couch. He set his tea next to the computer before flicking the screen up with a pop and started typing away. A password, then Science of Deduction and he was entering a new post. It was on movement. On a change in movement. Sherlock realized as soon as he started typing that every image in his head is of John before and after. Mainly after. He realized his post is on John Watson.

He paused briefly; glancing towards his subject he takes in John's slow advance over the threshold and into the main room. Turning his attentions to the computer once more, Sherlock continues with a thickly studious expression. By the time he finished, his tea was cold, barely touched. John was seated comfortably in his chair, cane resting on the side of his bad leg. The paper was folded neatly so he could read each article easily. His tea cup was empty next to him.

Sherlock liked the familiarity because he could think again. The clutter that invaded his brain during periods of 'boring' wasn't so loud. Sherlock's thoughts were clearly laid out in his mind. He could go from observation to conclusion without being muddled by steps in between once more. He knows this was because of John and he felt like he owed the man something. Something in return for the clearness he presents to Sherlock. He knows John depends on his mobility, on the ability to do things. He knows if John remains in this state he is in- broken- that John will go mad. As John is, even in Sherlock's presence, he will find life lacking. He needs to come with Sherlock; to go to cases, to complete something in life. Merely sitting tea sipping isn't satisfying enough. Sherlock knows tea sipping is reserved for a celebration of a victory. It's a pleasure at end of long day. A slight reward for job well done. Tea sipping isn't time consuming. It's a settling of the nerves just as Sherlock's drugs and violin playing are not things to be done just get done, but done with reason, a purpose.

Sherlock felt the need to return this ability to John. He may not have been able to stop Moriarty but he could possibly erase the remnants of the experience from John's brain. Sherlock could create new associations for the sensations John felt under the tending of Moriarty. First, Sherlock had to prove that John had post-traumatic associations with things such as the dark, or blades, or music.

Getting to his feet, Sherlock closed the blinds. He could hear the paper fold as John turned to watch what Sherlock was doing. He didn't look at John as he continued across the room and put his hand on the light switch. At this time of night he knew it would be quite dark. Putting his eyes on John now, who was planted quite fixedly in his chair, Sherlock flicked the light switch plunging them both into darkness. The first thing Sherlock heard was rough ruffling of paper as John threw it away from him. He heard the clack of a cane being planted firmly on the ground. John's erratic breathing spiked. Sherlock thought perhaps he could even hear John's heart thud desperately, aching to get out, to get away. Then John spoke and Sherlock paused, sucking in a breath, holding it till he was sure he could hear each of John's syllables.

"Sherlock please pu-put the light back on. Sherlock the light." Sherlock turned it on as John requested; turning his eyes on the man, Sherlock studied his body language. John's good leg was tense and the muscles in his shoulders were constricting from the tight grip he had on the armchair. He looked ready to spring, to fly, to escape.

Sherlock wondered how many other sensations, how many associations, and experiences will be linked with Moriarty. He couldn't just jump into this. He couldn't just tie John down and force him to succumb to the change of association. Sherlock had to carefully study the DVD of John's torture and see what each association he could be. Then Sherlock needed to find a substitution for each traumatic effect and cleverly, subtly talk John into allowing Sherlock to experiment on him. He knew that John hardly said no, that getting him to say yes would be, in a way, easy. But he also knew after Moriarty, John would be much more wary. So Sherlock mumbled an apology, snatched his laptop and the DVD that had been next to it since John returned. He dashed to his room shutting himself away from John, away from emotional stimulus. Sherlock needed to contemplate, deduce, and plan if he wanted this to work. He had to do this perfectly.

And so he sat for days, at his computer watching the recording…writing… scribbling- typing, listening. Planning. John only tried to interrupt two or three times. He managed to get a plate of food and a water bottle in the second day. He mumbled about the smell Sherlock will have clinging to him after too many days. Sherlock knows he wouldn't let Sherlock stay much longer than the three days he'd already taken up with only one plate of food and one water bottle keeping him company. Three days is all he needed- he knew what he would do, what he had to ask, and he sort of knew how he'd go about it.

While Sherlock was good at manipulating most people, John Watson was always a little unpredictable especially with the current events of his life. Sherlock was starting to wonder if he could manipulate him. John had been getting better at catching Sherlock in plots or figuring out what he was thinking. John was a rare man. John was a broken man. Sherlock wanted his John back. What point was there of John being home if it wasn't actually John Watson.