That night was an eye-opener in many ways. John had always mentally referred to the effects of K as Sherlock's Issues. (Even then he almost laughed at how K had wound up making him use capital letters anyway.) Somehow, despite the damage he'd seen inflicted upon Sherlock, he continued to believe it would all sort itself out. When he woke up that morning alone in Sherlock's bed, however, he knew that was no longer the case. Sherlock needed some form of professional help. He thought about this as he showered, got dressed, and went downstairs to make breakfast. The big problem was that Sherlock would never admit he needed professional help. Even if he was made to go see some sort of therapist, he would likely be as obnoxious as possible so the therapist would refuse to see him again, or sit silently and stare at whoever was there. Whenever he revealed something to John he'd retreat afterward. True to form, he was nowhere to be found in the flat now. And truthfully, John felt like he needed help as well. So, he picked up his mobile and dialed one number he had hoped never to dial again.

"Ella? This is John Watson. When is the soonest I can see you?"

Whether it was that she had a cancelation or that she was so alarmed at John willingly planning to see her he didn't know, but she could get him an appointment later that afternoon. Now he was sitting on the Tube trying to not think about the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. It's for Sherlock, he told himself. It doesn't matter what you think of it. Sherlock needs help. While that didn't make the feeling go away, it was enough to calm his nerves until he got to his stop.

When he walked into the familiar office, he saw it was unchanged from before. That strangely comforted him; it was nice to see that some things didn't change. "Dr. Watson?" his former therapist said as she came into the room. "What brings you here?" They walked into the other room, Ella giving him a look that clearly said: You're here for something serious. Get to the point.

Before he even could sit down, he said: "Is all the PTSD you treat a result of combat situations?"

"Why are you asking?" she responded without blinking.

"A friend." He sat down in the nearest chair.

"Now, most of the time when someone says that they mean themselves. But one thing I know about you is that you're honest. You might not answer, or you might give one-word answers, but you don't lie. So I'll assume you really mean a friend." She sat down across from him. "And yes, that's my area of treatment. What happened to your friend to make you think they have PTSD?"

"Sexual abuse." Only as he said it did he realize he'd never uttered the words in connection with Sherlock before. Even now their power seemed overwhelming. They echoed in the air without the ease of euphemism. Sexual abuse.

Ella didn't seem particularly surprised by what he'd said. "I can't say I've never treated a patient who's suffered from it, but it is certainly not my area of expertise. How did you find out about this?"

He almost said, "A case," before stopping and reminding himself that he wasn't going to reveal Sherlock's identity to anyone he saw. "He told me," he finally replied, truthfully.

"Why do you think he has PTSD, then?"

"Nightmares." Another word that echoed in the air.

"Other symptoms?" She was still relaxed, much calmer than him. John supposed she had to be.

"I saw him have a flashback. He was talking to me but didn't seem to know I was really there. I think he thought I was -" here John almost said K before realizing that she would have no idea who K was - "his abuser." He thought of something else. "Intimacy issues, too. He freezes at contact."

"You do understand that I can't treat your friend through you. He'd have to come in to see someone himself," she said evenly.

"He'd never see a therapist, though. He - he can't really talk about it even to me, and I'm his only friend." As he said this he hoped Ella didn't follow his life too closely now, or she'd know who he was talking about. "He's told me little bits but not really anything of substance."

"From what you're saying it sounds like he does indeed have some sort of trauma-related issue." She paused and looked him in the eye. "What have you learned from those 'little bits?' What happened and for how long?"

"It was a neighbor of his," John said slowly, not relishing the idea of revealing more. "She let him play in her garden and... Well, for the next ten years she'd..." He unsuccessfully choked back a sob.

"I ask because some professionals say that even one instance of sexual abuse in childhood is enough to require treatment while others say treatment is only needed for more prolonged abuse." She didn't seem to be afraid of the ominous-sounding phrase "sexual abuse" like he was. "But I think any professional would agree that ten years of abuse with corresponding PTSD needs to be treated."

"He won't talk. I'm not sure it's really a 'won't' though. He's too ashamed, more like."

"Not uncommon as a result of prolonged abuse. It's easier to accept that somehow one's badness makes those things happen rather than the more frightening truth that there's no reason for it. I assume the family situation was bad as well?" John couldn't make himself respond to that, so she continued on. "Predators know very well the children from the most neglectful or abusive families are the best targets."

"He..." John swallowed the lump in his throat. "He's said he'd choose her over anyone else. He'd live with her forever if he could. That he wished he was still a child so she'd still want him around." Until he actually said those words, he had no idea how much it had hurt to carry them around. Being the only one who knew something like that cut to the bone.

"You sound like you need someone to talk to almost as much as he does." She was still calm.

"I do," he said, because she was right and he didn't want to lie to her.

"You do understand that when he says that he's not expressing a desire for the sex. If his family was emotionally neglectful and he had no other friends, that relationship is literally the most significant he's ever had. He has to imagine that it was based on some real love instead of this woman's sexual appetite. Otherwise that relationship is meaningless."

"He thinks it's about the sex. He's told me that he orgasmed when they were having sex."

Before John could say any more, she interrupted him. "Don't call it 'having sex.' That trivializes it. 'When she was abusing him sexually' is more accurate."

She was right, and he knew it. He nodded to show he understood, and continues. "Anyway, he's also told me that he masturbates thinking of her abusing him. I don't know if this was in the past or not, but recently he's had wet dreams about her, including the nightmare with the flashback I saw. He's thrown out piles of bedsheets from it. Once he even slashed them up with a knife."

"It's still not about the sex. The sexual thoughts and desires he does have are through the distorted lens she's given him. The fact that their relationship is such an important thing to him makes him think that."

"I know that."

"You just can't convince him of it, can you?"

"No. I try to explain it but he just looks at me and keeps repeating the same things." John swallowed down the new lump in his throat. He hoped he wouldn't start crying. While he was sure Ella had probably dealt with crying patients before, it still seemed worse than even the time he'd cried in front of Sherlock.

"He's not reasoning. It's impossible to reason someone out of something you didn't reason yourself into. Also, if he makes himself accept that this wasn't a relationship in any real way, he has to accept he wasn't loved. Would you want to realize something like that?"

"No." He hadn't always had the best relationship with his parents (he and his mother had once gotten into a screaming fight over a lamp in his room and the next day had both admitted that it was a silly row), but he'd known that they cared. When his mother had a heart attack shortly after he was first deployed, he'd dropped everything to race home. John knew he was lucky to have sat with her for her last few hours; lots of other people weren't that fortunate. He'd cried off and on for days when his father died of cancer shortly before he'd left for university. The few times he'd met with Harry since he'd come back from Afghanistan they'd both been able to fondly reminisce about their childhood. True, it had always ended with a shouting match, but he was sure that she had felt loved as well.

Ella stood and walked over to her desk. She took a piece of paper and a pen and scribbled something on it. She turned and presented John with it. "Here are the names and numbers of a few therapists I know that deal with the aftermath of childhood abuse. Even if your friend won't talk to them, you can find someone to talk to. For his sake, I've only listed male therapists."

"Thank you," John said as he took the paper, folded it, and put it into his pocket. "You've been a great help."

He was almost out the door before she spoke again. "One more thing. Even if your flatmate won't talk to a therapist, at least be willing to listen to him if he ever tries to talk to you about the abuse. Breaking the silence is usually the hardest part." He flushed - of course she'd known he was talking about Sherlock the whole time - but nodded in understanding before leaving.

He half-hoped Sherlock wouldn't be there when he got back, and half-hoped he would. Delaying talking to him wouldn't solve anything, but he wasn't sure if he was up for it. This all vanished in a puff of smoke as he walked in the door and found Sherlock sitting on the sofa. He had wrapped himself in that blue dressing gown of his, the sides enveloping his body as tightly as possible, and Hamish sat next to him. When John shut the door, he turned his head and said, "You're home."

"Yes, I am," John replied, and left it at that.

"Where have you been?" Sherlock sounded like he was just trying to fill the empty air.

"Talking to Ella."

"I thought you weren't seeing her anymore?"

"Circumstances."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You were talking to her about me."

"I didn't mention who it was, but yes." He didn't bother to mention she'd figured it out anyway; this was hard enough on Sherlock. "I wanted to see what I could do to help you. And - it hurts hearing all this from you. I needed to talk to someone about it."

"Are you going back?" He looked frenzied; his hair was tousled and his eyes were wild.

"Not to her, no. She did give me a few names if I wanted to talk to someone else." John paused before adding: "I'm not going to make you go see anyone. I know you wouldn't talk anyway. This is just for me."

Sherlock's whole body sags, releasing tension John hadn't even noticed he had. He wraps an arm around Hamish and looks away from John. "Last night. It was good of you."

"Nightmares are always easier when someone else is around. In hospital, right after I was shot, they didn't seem so bad because I was never alone. It was harder when I was back in London." John had always been grateful that Sherlock didn't question him endlessly about his time in battle. Before he'd left there'd always been people who wanted to hear gruesome medical stories, so he'd heard the questions before, but it didn't make it easier. Strangely enough, Sherlock's silence on the subject made it easier to talk about it with him.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to do it again?"

That was not something John had been expecting to hear. "If you want me to, I will."

"Do you want to do it?" Sherlock still didn't face him.

"I'm fine with it either way. What do you want?"

"It'd be fine. Okay. Yes." Each word sounded like they had been spoken with difficulty.

"That settles it, then." Knowing Sherlock was uncomfortable with the intimacy of the moment, he changed the subject. "I'm going to start supper soon. Tea before then?"