CHAPTER 22. DROWNING

Sherlock put the beaker of bleach down on the edge of the table, he could hear John's bed creak and muffled gasps of a man gulping down air as if he'd just been rescued from drowning. Except he hadn't, he was still drowning and the consulting detective had no idea how to save his friend.

Then came John's staggered steps to the bathroom upstairs across from the doctor's room, and the sound of coughing echoed down the stairs, even from behind that closed door. So the nightmare this time had been bad enough to make the ex army Doctor sick.

Sherlock had made the mistake of asking John about the things that haunt him in his sleep. Only to see his friend completely close him out, Sherlock wasn't very tactful when it came to social cues but by John's body language and quick generic answer "It's nothing. I'm fine. Sorry if I kept you up." which dripped with an unspoken 'This conversation is over.' he decided against asking again.

Still after the Hope case or rather as some referred to it so "tastefully" as the Killer Cabbie case. Sherlock assumed that John's night terrors if at all associated with that predicament would have finally ebbed. Unfortunately, it had been two weeks and almost every night it was the same. John really needed his sleep and Sherlock hated the interruption to his own concentration.

Yes, that was the reason behind his sudden exasperation and interest with John's nightly going ons. Not the fact that hearing his friend's muffled cries or sobs in the middle of the night were unsettling. This was not at all the reason, Sherlock didn't have those kinds of sentimental feelings or emotions. Still-

"Tea?" John yawned passing Sherlock who had been sitting staring off blankly, so lost in thought he hadn't heard John descend the steps. Turning to his friend who started to fill the kettle with water, his hands shaking enough to cause him to nearly drop the two mugs he pulled down from the cupboard.

"Oh, yes thank you." Sherlock turned back to his experiment trying to ignore his friend's unsteady movements.

What new monsters chased his friend now? What could be the scenes that painted the good Doctor's nightmares? The consulting Detective ignored the mug of hot tea set by unsteady hands heavily upon the end of the kitchen table. Some of the liquid splashing out over the edge of the brown mug, then John shuffled to his usual chair near the fire place. Yes, shuffled, because that damn mystery limp always announced itself on nights like these, in his friends movement. This frustrated the detective for reasons he couldn't comprehend. Why should this bother him, it wasn't his problem or his concern and John defiantly didn't wish any attention drawn to his predicament.

John's unsteady hands placed his favorite RAMC mug steaming and soon to be forgotten on the cluttered table, the Doctor said nothing more. So without hesitation Sherlock began to go through the motions of their usual almost nightly routine, something that only acted as a plaster for the wound not as a cure.

"John?"

"Hmm?" a tired reply.

"Thumbs aren't at all special."

"Really? I do believe certain primates would disagree." Followed by another heavy sigh.

"No, John. I mean the rate of decay, they decay just as quickly as toes."

"Oh. That's nice." Sherlock knew John had stopped listening, he continued anyway returning to his experiment, describing the process of decay and why he was using bleach to pour over thumbs and toes in separate containers of their own.

Sherlock wasn't aware of the exact moment that his flatmate had nodded off but he knew after several hours of silence that the emotionally troubled Doctor had fallen back to sleep in his chair, tea still untouched.

The dark haired detective found the hated shock blanket that Lestrade thought would be a funny gift to him after the Jeff Hope case. It seemed fitting here, John wasn't in shock but he did suffer mentally from something close to it.

An idea of new experiment then came to Sherlock's great mind. The thumbs and toes forgotten he moved to grab John's laptop from the couch, his own was out of reach in his room besides John wouldn't mind. If he had minded he'd use a more difficult password than "Buymilk" well it was better than last weeks; "autisticsociopathtof221b" oh John what does go on in that funny brain of yours.

After a few minutes of searching different sites Sherlock started to read through several articles on PTSD. Night terrors high on the list of symptoms, but Sherlock already knew John had PTSD it was no secret, what the consulting detective wanted to know was how to help his friend. As an experiment, a social experiment really, to alleviate boredom. That was the reason behind it, nothing more to it than that.

Sherlock remembered something about John, during UNI his friend's nightmares usually kept him awake during a challenging week of finals, or the young pre-med John had troubled sleep after returning from summer holidays spent back home. Sherlock who hated spending his summer or any time back home, decided to start taking summer courses. John happily followed suit and supplemented with a summer Job working at the campus library. Which Sherlock found advantageous, because John always let him stay as late as he wanted while he closed up.

It was an easy fix back then, to just not go home.

Then there was the time before uni, where Sherlock had the same troubled thoughts over his friend. John even then as children, always seemed so calm in appearance and easy going. But under it all there was more to him, things that he appeared to brush off easily during his waking hours, only bubbled up and threatened to drown him in his sleep. Once again Sherlock felt a bit at a disadvantage, he had no one to confide in, to ask what is normally suggested comfort in these situations.

He could ask Mycroft, but knowing his older brother he'd tell Sherlock to mind his own business. Or worse, Mycroft would think John was a danger to his younger brother and have him thrown in some institution where they'd drug the ex army soldier until he was a drooling mess. A younger Sherlock had experienced that first hand, and would never wish it on his worst enemy.

He could ask Lestrade, but the thought of sharing any kind of weakness of John's with anyone no matter how close or trusted a colleague, made Sherlock uneasy. John wouldn't appreciate others knowing his situation. Still someone needed to help, it was clear that therapist John was going to was completely useless and maybe she should consider another line of work or a position as a children's councilor in one of the state schools. That seemed more up to her aptitude.

Sighing heavily the dark haired man, placed his hands in the usual steepled position, he needed to think.

The memories he thought he had long deleted from his mind palace, started to spill out from the room that was John's. Sherlock had entered into deep thought, moving through the halls of his mind. He located John's door, and upon opening it he found a mess of information. And in the middle of it stood a young blond boy in a brown hoodie and a black eye.

"John you've managed to make a mess of things in here. I like to keep it organized. You make it impossible." Sherlock huffed moving to pick up the heavy books, loose papers and photographs. The emotions in this room were always so strong, especially after he'd left it unattended and locked for years. Again he thought he could delete this place, but in reality he could never delete anything that pertained to John. The blond boy didn't say anything to Sherlock's irritation; instead he went to plop down in a chair similar to the one in the flat. In fact this room was a lot like the flat, and as soon as he straightened up a bit it would look cleaner than the flat. It smelled of tea and a fire burned warm in the fireplace. Sherlock had been in to sort the place out more and more recently. But no matter how organized he left it, whenever he returned it seemed cluttered once more. And some of the emotions where painful to sort through, he couldn't name them all, and the eyes of the young boy watched him curiously.

Before, when Sherlock had visited John's room, it was the uni version of John there holding his heavy backpack and an easy grin. This John would be replaced by the soldier, the one Sherlock had always pictured his friend to be, that was the last image of John that he locked away in a room he thought he deleted.

He hadn't said anything to the idea of Private John Watson. Sherlock had been hurt and furious, so no light shown through the window of the room at the time. This room that had been more like the dorm they shared. Private Watson only stood at attention looking forward when Sherlock had slammed the door locking him in. Now a picture of Captain Watson sat on the wall near a book shelf labeled childhood. The years clearly labeled on the spine of each book.

The consulting detective needed to find something in this mess that could help him in aiding his friend, he glared across the room at the hated cane leaning against a small end table with a steaming cup of forgotten tea. A rolled up green sleeping bag sat under the unpolished wooden end table. Sherlock neared it, seeing a discarded book of Treasure Island sitting open straddling the rolled up sleeping bag as if someone was saving their place and would return for the book soon.