If anything in this chapter is confusing, call it out, please. I tried to make everything smooth but I tend to miss some things, so your input would be greatly appreciated.

The train station crowd was relatively smooth considering it was morning, and I was grateful. Early light was streaming across the platform, filling the air with a sweet breeze. There was rain in the forecast in Scotland, but it seemed damn near close to perfect here, and I was hoping it would last for the trip. Sholto had his bag pulled close to his side, and my own duffel was slung over my shoulder, borrowed briefly from you. We would only be out for one night; you'd hardly miss it.

Or us, for that matter. You had come back yesterday in the late afternoon, depleted of energy and eager to sleep. I explained to you about our trip and you had groggily agreed before slumping into our bedroom. By the time I had woken the next morning, you were gone again, so I left a note in case you accidentally deleted our conversation and headed out the door. That was the extent of our interaction, and I wasn't exactly hoping for anything more.

Our train was scheduled to be leaving at eight-thirty, sharp, and it was already eight-fifteen. I noticed that Sholto seemed a bit stiff, stiffer than normal, with his hands kneading over the handle of his bag. I glanced the other way and made an effort to step closer to him.

"You alright, Major?" I asked, watching for the train.

"Yes." He looked down at me. "Are you?"

"Yeah." I fidgeted. "Do trains bother you?"

"No. Trains are fine. Crowds, too."

"Oh, alright."

He turned to look down the track, and I took the opportunity to watch him.

"Is it noises, then?"

"Hm?"

"Loud noises, do they bother you."

"A bit, yes." He straightened. "And heat."

"Alright. Do you have a safe word?"

"A what?"

"Safe word. Code. If you're nervous, or if you're becoming upset, you say it, and I'll know what it means without you having to explain it or anyone else having to know. I don't know, I found it convenient. If anything happens, just say something like... Normandy. I'll understand Normandy."

"Normandy."

"Do you know what I mean or am I just rambling?"

He turned, a little smirk on his face. "You're a bit rambling."

I flushed. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright. Do you have one, a safe word?"

"Not exactly. I'll repeat your name."

"Hm?"

"It helps, sometimes."

We could hear the train's horn blaring in the distance, and soon it was upon us, roaring down the tracks. I covered my ears, continuing to watch Sholto as the brakes echoed throughout the station. He had his eyes closed, and his brows were a little furrowed, but besides those things he looked like he was still under control. The brakes released, and the train doors slid open, allowing the passengers to trickle out. I tightened the strap on my bag and waited until Sholto was ready to start moving.

There was a pleasant little table for two waiting for us in the first class coach. I had booked the tickets hoping that the first class would be a bit quieter than the other coaches, but as we entered in, there was still plenty of clamour. One older woman was arguing with a man who seemed to be her son, and the train attendants were politely trying to separate them as we brushed past. I put Sholto's bag in the compartment as he took his seat, then added my duffel and followed him myself.

"It's been years since I've been on a proper train," He remarked, settling into the seat.

"Yeah, me too." I nodded. "Did you ever ride them when you were a kid?"

"Once or twice."

"Very nice."

He nodded, then flinched at the sound of a metal tray sliding off one of the passenger tables. The fighting woman was beginning to shout at the attendant now, and as the security moved toward her, he knocked the platter. Sholto was facing the mess, so at least he saw it coming, but he still flexed his fingers in and out of fists. I felt a little cloud of guilt start to take shape over my head.

"I'm sorry, I was hoping first-class would be a bit more peaceful," I said, smiling to try to brighten him up. He just nodded.

"Don't worry."

"Well, I have plenty of meds if ever you need anything. I mean, I know PTSD isn't necessarily a panic disorder, but if you need something to numb you down, I have some spot-pills you can have. Just in case."

"I don't prefer using drugs to solve problems that are mental in nature," He said.

"Oh. Well, alright." I fidgeted. I was starting to fidget a lot, lately. "You're not on anything, then?"

"Medication, no. And it's of my own choice, not anyone else's. I'd like to keep it that way."

"Alright, no problem."

I looked down at my hands, then out of the window toward the station. Most of the passengers had already boarded, but there were still plenty of people milling around outside, checking their watches and chattering on mobile phones. I wasn't necessarily interested in them, but I watched one man in particular until I had memorized just how many squares were on his checkered tie in order to avoid Sholto's eyes for just a bit longer. I wasn't quite sure how to talk to him about his diagnosis, even though it was a conversation I had been wanting to have from the first day we spent in London. I was just too blocked up mentally to get the words from my head into my mouth.

Sholto let me have my privacy for a few moments, then broke the silence by ordering a tea from one of the attendants. "Do you want anything, John?"

"Oh, sure," I turned to the attendant. "A coffee would be nice. No sugars."

After the attendant left, Sholto spoke up. "I thought coffee aggravated panic."

"Not too much." I folded my hands over my stomach. "Caffeine can affect anxiety in large doses, but I don't drink coffee all too often."

"Oh, alright."

I nodded.

"You have a panic disorder, then."

"I was diagnosed with it, yes."

"Was that what you were diagnosed with out of Afghanistan?"

"No, actually, it wasn't. Out of Afghanistan they diagnosed me with PTSD because I showed PTSD-like symptoms. I'm not sure that diagnosis was necessarily accurate, though. More likely it was the panic disorder making its first appearance."

"You've had it since Afghanistan, then?"

"Eh. That's also debatable."

"How so?"

"For several years I didn't have many, or any, symptoms, so whether-or-not someone would consider that as 'recovery' is a matter of opinion. I was re-diagnosed a few months ago. Some personal things stirred it back up, but I've been trying to get back on my feet, and so far I'm getting better."

He nodded. The attendant returned with his tea and my coffee, setting the steaming cups down in front of us and filling my lungs with the bitter smell. I turned the handle toward me and thanked her; Sholto did the same, raising the cup carefully to his lips without responding.

"What about you, Major?" I asked. "If you don't mind telling me."

"I don't mind." He replied. "My diagnosis is PTSD. They tried to pin depression and anxiety disorder along with it, but they were dismissed as unfounded."

"Really?"

"I refused to answer any of their questions."

I chuckled, stirring my coffee. "Do you know what the difference is, then?"

"Between depression and post-traumatic stress?"

"Yes."

"One is similar to an emotional assault; akin to drowning or choking on various emotions, such as sadness, anger, or grief for various amounts of time. It can be short-term or long-term, but typically it's a period of emotional overstimulation that continues through days, weeks, even months, like waves. Post-traumatic stress doesn't come in waves, it comes in bolts. It's a bit more like a desert in respect to emotion. Feelings come in exploding funnels of anger, fear, sadness, or rage. It's instantaneous, and it leaves you reeling."

I watched him, the coffee growing cold in my hand.

"That was from a book."

"Oh." I tsked. "I should've assumed."

"Was I right?"

"A bit, yeah."

Sholto took another sip from his tea.

"Although, your definition of PTSD sounds a bit like a panic attack to me. Have you had panic attacks?"

"I wouldn't say I have." He answered. "You've already seen that I tense in response to noise, and I've have physicians tell me that it was a type of panic attack and that I should be medicated for it. But I consider panic attacks to be more severe, more debilitating. I become much more alert when I tense, so I don't consider it panic."

"What do you consider it, then?"

"I haven't decided. I've researched several books on mental stigmas and I've determined that the things I experience when I respond to noise are closer to hysteria than anything else. The definition is that a person physically reacts in an uncontrollable way in response to an extreme emotional response. The only difference in my case is that my physical responses, although uncontrollable by myself, are my immediate reflexes."

"So rather than shrieking or trembling like other hysteria patients, you just respond in the way your body was programmed to respond," I repeated.

"Without my instruction." He nodded.

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is."

"Have you been seeing anyone about it? Maybe you could find someone to help you reset your reflexes. A trick cyclist."

He shook his head. "I can manage it how it is. There's no need."

I pursed my lips. "One of the things that has really helped me stay grounded while I've been recovering is to have a stable group of friends. Friends from the surgery, friends from the Yard, Greg, Sherlock..." I paused, watching him. "Maybe that would help you, too. To have someone immediate."

Sholto glanced at me. "Are you volunteering?"

I laughed, setting my cup down. "No, I don't think that would be very convenient, considering work. And my fiancé."

He nodded, then, taking a sip, mentioned something else that almost made me fall over. "I had been afraid he would look like me."

I stared at him a moment, processing what he had just said and trying to make it sound like anything except what I thought he said. It was horrifyingly embarrassing at first, but when he met my eyes I burst into a smile, answered directly by his own. I was so caught off-guard that laughing seemed to be the only appropriate response, and I tried not to knock the table as my chest bubbled up. He took another drink from his tea, and I picked up my coffee, its taste and a grin still lingering underneath my tongue.

"Well, now that the elephant is out of the room," I breathed.

"I'm sorry, it was bothering me." He replied.

"What, that Sherlock might've looked like you?"

"No, the elephant." He said. "Sherlock looks absolutely nothing like me. Isn't like me much at all, in fact."

"He really isn't."

"I barely even recognized that he was who I thought he was when we first met."

"That happens more often than you may think, actually."

He nodded. "I thought he'd be taller."

I laughed again, careful not to spill my coffee in my lap. "I'm relieved that it isn't awkward. I was afraid it would be awkward."

"So was I."

"Sherlock hasn't said anything distasteful, has he?" I asked, stirring. "He was being a bit nosy before you arrived, and I was afraid he'd be off-handed if I wasn't around to keep him in line."

"No, he hasn't said anything about that. I assumed he knew, though. I couldn't imagine you keeping it a secret from him with me living in the upstairs bedroom."

"I've told him a bit, but not all."

"What did you tell him?"

"The truth." I answered. "We were under a lot of pressure, out in the field, dealing with all kinds of difficult things and situations. I needed companionship, and you needed a way to burn stress. We had both helped each other, and we both gained something from it. Nothing about it was typical or ordinary for a relationship back home, so I was hesitant to call it that, but for the most part I told him what it was."

He watched me carefully. "So you didn't tell him anything."

I pursed my lips. "Well... See, Sherlock's a genius, but he's a bit naive when it comes to certain things."

"Hm."

"I only skirted over certain details to keep him from embarrassing you too fully," I continued. "I wanted to make sure not to give him ammunition."

Sholto shuffled his head. "I could understand that."

"But apart from anything else, James," I added, "I'm just glad you're back."

He responded with a little smile. The train whistled and began its slow ascent.

The sun rose against the sky, its beautiful hues in striking contrast to the spring-green fields and hills. The coach was quiet and calm, the clack of the rails beneath us just a gentle rain. Sholto was reading a newspaper spread across the table while I watched the moving landscape, my legs folded beneath me and my coffee nestled in my hand. I let my mind wander comfortably, enjoying the silence and the serenity of the place. I had never seen England look so beautiful, but the early springtime seemed to be the perfect time for a train ride. I would be sad when this lovely tour was done.

Our conversation had trickled off just a few minutes ago, but we were in a comfortable quiet, both of us exhausted for subjects and both of us alright with that. Sholto was leaned back against his chair, his face much smoother than it had been when we had boarded. I tried not to look too long, though. I felt myself getting a little too transfixed on him, and I knew it wasn't healthy. I was close to glowing after accomplishing two of my major conversational goals within the morning. But as nostalgic as I was feeling, I couldn't forget that things were not the same.

The angry woman behind us remained angry, even if she was a quieter angry. She grumbled every so often at her son and at her attendants, complaining at the taste of the coffee and the consistency of the pudding, finally giving up and retiring into her e-reader. However, as the train hit a bump, the poor man across from her spilt his coffee onto the passenger table, getting it onto himself and also a few drops onto the screen of her reader.

She nearly blew him away. The whole coach was put off be her yelling and shrieking, screaming at her son, screaming at the attendant, crying and waving her reader in the air. She spat insults and called down curses so offensive that even I turned to glance at her. Security made a reappearance, guiding the woman into a separate part of the car to have a discussion with her while the son cleaned himself and soaked up the remaining coffee. He had said nothing in response to his mother's intensity, and after depositing the napkins into the trash, returned to his seat and watched the window.

I shook my head and turned back to the table, drumming my fingers and glancing up at Sholto to see if he had caught the display, too. He was still watching the young man past me, his eyes sad and glazed, passing from the man onto the hills. He looked like he was wrestling, but I wasn't sure with what, and I didn't know what to do for him, so I did what I thought was best. I let him be.

Maybe you're right, maybe this is all that I can be. But what if it's review, and it wasn't me?

Next update Thursday.