Warning: this chapter was hard to write. My guess is that it will also be hard to read. Contains war violence. Poor John.

Work was long, but not tedious. John was relieved to find that his relationship with Simon was still comfortable, if a little hesitant when it came to bringing up what had happened. Simon asked him about his wrist (doing better and he could use it just fine, but thanks for asking) and John asked him about the rope burns (going away but now everyone thinks I have a kinky sex life, thanks John) (no problem, anytime).

The nurses twittered from around the corner, and John felt his ears go red, and he quickly excused himself to his next patient.

"I just can't seem to sleep, dear, and every time I try I just end up with the most horrible nightmares," an elderly woman sighed a few hours later. John could sympathize; his eyes were probably red and his shoulder was sore.

"Have you changed anything in your sleeping patterns?" he asked, and she shook her head, fiddling with her hands.

"My daughter says it's a sign of repressed anger, but I'm not angry at anything, really, dear, except maybe that horrid new painting my son-in-law hung over the mantle. It's all horrid bright greens and oranges, dear, simply terrible, and no real picture at all, you know, just swirls..." She was going to talk for the next year, John could tell, bless her.

"Is there anything new in the bedroom, Mrs. Hendleson?" he interrupted gently.

"Oh, no, though - actually - I did replace my alarm clock, the old one simply refused to work anymore," she said, blinking at him innocently.

John nodded. "Is it one of those new ones? Green blinky lights?"

The old woman tilted her head at him. "Yes, dear. I had my old one, you know, with the two bells on top, but my daughter said it was old-fashioned and when it broke she got me this one."

Thank heavens for John's ability to speak the language of old ladies. It was probably the knitting. "Try turning it toward the wall; it's hard for some people to sleep well with neon lighting in the room."

Mrs. Hendleson's eyes lit up. "Oh, I'm certain you're right, and I'm probably having all the angry dreams because the green lights remind me of that horrid painting, you're a dear, then. I'll just go turn it round."

John nodded and smiled. "Let me know if it doesn't help. Sometimes it's the little things."

"Oh, I know, like forgetting to take your socks off. One week I wore those new fashioned jim-jams instead of my old nighties and I didn't get a wink. Have a lovely day, Doctor," Mrs. Hendleson tutted as she left. John rubbed his eyes, wishing his problem was as easy to fix as turning his alarm clock to the wall.

Sherlock hadn't been wrong about sleeping on the couch; it did make his shoulder sore and he was quite a bit grumpier than normal. He came home muttering, particularly frustrated with a child who had seen fit to ignore the perfectly good tissue in his hand and instead sneeze all over John's jeans. He ignored the mess in his sitting room (he was getting used to having Sherlock's mess taking over his place) and headed straight to the shower, sighing with relief as the hot water hit the soreness in his back and shoulder, and towelled himself off into some fresh clothes. Much better.

The sitting room was once again full of books, and John stopped short in the doorway, one hand still towelling off the last of the damp in his hair. "Why is your library in my flat? I thought we were done with the book case."

"Looking up other coding methods, John. This is my personal collection," Sherlock said absently from where she sat on the floor, pen tapping at her cheek and curls everywhere. John walked past her, stepping over her legs (sprawled out halfway through the room) and turned on the kettle.

"Well you have to put them all away once you're done reading them, I want to at least be able to walk without tripping over them," John ordered, and he could hear Sherlock hum acknowledgement from the next room. He sighed, turning off the kettle. He was too tired for this, dammit.

"I'm going to bed," he announced as he stepped back over Sherlock, and got another low hum. He closed the door, throwing his clothes into a 'clean' pile on the floor, then changing quickly into a vest and a tattered pair of sweatpants.

"Put away your books," he shouted as he set his alarm, then tossed himself on the bed, trying to fall into a doze.

Daniel stared at him from across the dirt floor, where they both were sprawled, pretending to breathe, pretending they weren't already dead.

"They're going to kill me when they come in next," he whispered, and John felt his dead heart beat a bit faster.

"Make something up," he urged, and then coughed, feeling the pull in his shoulder and wincing, then shivering uncontrollably as his body rebelled against the dying. He was already dead, he didn't know what it was waiting for.

"Can't think of anything else," Daniel murmured, his eyes showing the exhaustion that came from having your blood colour the dirt they lay on.

"Would help if we knew what they wanted to know," John murmured, and Daniel chuckled, then made a noise not unlike a dog in pain. John closed his eyes when he heard it, trying to will away the sound of dying. He could hear Daniel's harsh breathing start again a moment later.

"I hope it's quick," Daniel muttered. "I'm sick of being here. I'm looking forward to a good steak."

"Is there steak in heaven?" John asked, feeling his lips crack and bleed as they tried to form a smile.

Daniel shrugged, or did the best he could with a broken collarbone and dislocated shoulder. "If there isn't, I'm requesting a transfer to hell. I'm certain they kill plenty of cows there."

"Damnit, Danny," John murmured, feeling the dust move next to his mouth as he spoke, feeling everything for a moment and wishing he didn't, the sand ingrained in his eyelids and the grease in his fingerprints, the sweat that crusted his clothing, the burning bullet that still sat lodged closed to his heart, but not close enough to put him out of his misery.

Rough voices came closer, and John felt his body clench, then was treated to the blissful numbness that came from being in too much pain to comprehend as his chest muscles tried to clench around a foreign object. Pashto was spoken quickly, and then door opened, dark skin touching the tanned leather of the soldiers as they were roughly handled toward simple wooden chairs, and John was soon tied facing Daniel, both not caring about the bonds as they were the only things keeping the two fighters from slumping to the cool dirt of the floor again.

"What do you know?" a man said in English, and Danny - poor Danny, Danny who had been in the army to pay for school, was going to be a scientist someday, was going to discover the cure for cancer and honour his dead mum, good Danny;

Danny said, "Nothing."

And a strange Afghan sword was set to his throat. The man turned to John, licking his lips as he asked, "What do you know?"

And John's dead heart broke as he looked Danny in the eyes, and murmured, "Nothing."

The sword split skin.

John woke up screaming, cold sweat settling on his skin, heart pounding in his chest and his left hand throbbing.

He curled up, shivering now, up against the headboard, and wondered why his hand hurt so badly. A quiet knock on the door and his eyes flew to it, his hand automatically reaching for his gun - but it wasn't in the side-table drawer anymore. He let out something like a sob, and the door creaked open.

"Tea," Sherlock said shortly, and he took a moment to process the information, then nodded. She seemed to take that as permission to come closer, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking his hand gently, putting the cup in it so he wouldn't miss it in the dark. "Paracetamol," she explained what she placed in his other hand. "For your hand. You were thrashing a bit; hit it on the headboard."

John shuddered again, then nodded and took the pill quickly, washing it down with a quick gulp of the tea, then leaning his head back on the headboard, taking a deep breath. Sherlock just sat in the silence for a moment, then got up to leave.

"Why do you bother?" John asked suddenly, wondering what a genius detective - a pretty woman with a life ahead of her - seemed to see in helping a screwed-up military doctor. Ex-military doctor, with PTSD.

Sherlock just smiled in the light of the doorway, her eyes crinkling in the way that told John it was a real smile, and left, leaving the door open so the notes of her cello could spill into the room a moment later. John sighed, still feeling his pulse in his neck and wrists, and leaned back with his tea. A couple sips later and he got up with a sigh, grabbing his duvet and leaving his pride on the bed as he stepped out of the room to curl up on the couch.

"Your shoulder's already hurting you," Sherlock warned, and he realized she was reading while playing, letting her bow hand flick out in-between measures to turn the pages. He curled himself up on the couch with his tea.

"You're playing songs I like. They're from my playlist. It's hardly surprising I'd want to hear them," John retorted as he took another sip of his tea. The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up quickly, so fast John would have missed it if he'd blinked.

A couple blinks later and he'd fallen asleep again, breathing softly.

The next morning he swum his hazy way awake, looking around, to see that sometime in the night Sherlock had moved not only her books, but the bookshelves into the room, and they were lining the wall across from him. But the floor was clean.

Also when he went to make tea, he found his gun in the bottom drawer of the fridge.