Two days after speaking with Mycroft, Sherlock decided he needed to talk to John. He hadn't slept since they'd spoken with his brother, and he found that lack of sleep made the auditory hallucinations worse (and the auditory hallucinations made sleep nearly impossible). He was sick of Moriarty's taunts and John's disappointment; his head felt full, as if all of his thoughts were competing for space.

Walking into the kitchen wearing his blue dressing gown, Sherlock said, "If you're not busy, I can explain to you what's been going on since I've gotten home. However, I'd prefer you promise not to look at me like a kicked dog, and I'd also prefer if you refrained from acting as a doctor immediately."

John looked up from where he sat at the kitchen table. Nudging a beaker of God-knew-what aside, he nodded. "Of course. I'm your friend first. No snarky remarks about you being mad, even, because I already know you are."

He made himself smile at John's last remark. "Thank you." Fidgeting with the mug of coffee John had made for him, Sherlock sat down opposite the other. "I've had difficulty adjusting. It's been months, and it still doesn't feel like it's over."

"Like you're still gone?"

"Sort of; I just don't feel like being home is permanent. I just feel as if I'm ready to run at any moment if needed. Everyone I don't know is a potential threat. That's the way things were when I was gone, because there were people who were part of Moriarty's web after me, and by extension, after you all." He paused for a few moments before giving a little shake of his head. "Rationality isn't at the forefront of my mind, it seems, and I hate that," he said. Sherlock drummed his fingers against the tabletop.

Licking his lips, John said, "That must be hard for you." His voice was calm, level.

Sherlock stopped drumming his fingers, instead tapping Morse code. S O S. "I've been having auditory hallucinations." He kept his gaze fixed on the table. "I don't believe it's schizophrenia. It's only been two voices, ones of people I've known or know now." He dared a quick look up at John.

John looked at Sherlock, lips pursed before giving a little sigh. He had to resist the urge to give his medical opinion. PTSD, he suspected. He also resisted the urge to tap something back in reply. "How long has that been going on? And, you don't need to look embarrassed, Sherlock. Without going into it too much, I've seen lots of soldiers have similar experiences."

He wasn't sure if that made him feel better or worse. "I wasn't a soldier, though."

"Maybe you weren't enlisted, but you did a hell of a good job protecting people." John looked away for a few seconds before looking at Sherlock. "I never thanked you for that. As much as it was fucking hell, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and me, we're all still alive. So, thank you."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't want you to thank me."

"Too bad."

He gave a small huff, though Sherlock grinned. "Stubborn git."

John grinned, though it faded a bit. "So, next time it happens, what do you want me to do, if anything? What could you do that could help?"

"I don't know. Nothing I've tried has helped. Not that I even know what I've tried." Sherlock cleared his throat, saying, "Next time it happens, I'll tell you."

Their conversation ebbed and flowed, the two poking fun at one another every now and again to lighten the mood. He told him that he'd been hearing the two voices for a year and a few months. Sherlock explained in minimal detail things that had occurred while he was away, things that had left him scarred. John cringed whilst Sherlock explained being trapped in Serbia for two months before Mycroft came to bring him home. When finally Sherlock stopped speaking, he was grateful for John's calm demeanour.

John stood, walking over to Sherlock and giving his shoulder a small squeeze. "Thanks for telling me. You're not really crazy. You know that. You just went through a lot, and we'll figure things out."

Without thought, Sherlock turned to grasp onto the other's hand when he turned to walk away. Sherlock's face burned, and he held onto John's hand for a moment or two before saying, "Thank you, John."

Looking at their intertwined hands, John smiled. "Of course. I owe you as much." Hand still in Sherlock's, John tugged him upright. "How about you try sleeping in your own room rather than on the sofa tonight."

"I'd rather not. If someone were to come in and I were in my room..." Sherlock trailed off with a shrug, hand dropping from John's. "I'd feel safer on the sofa."

"No, you'd feel safer about me on the sofa."

Sherlock didn't object, because John was right. On the sofa, he could keep people safe. He'd hear someone come in, and could protect Mrs Hudson before anyone came into her flat, and, of course, John, too. Not that John needed protecting, but Sherlock felt as if it was his job. It had been his job for two years.

John tapped his foot for a second or two. "What if we slept in the same room?"

Sherlock stared back at John, doing his best to pretend it was a perfectly normal suggestion. "I suppose that might help for the night."

And so, an hour later, Sherlock was curled up next to John in his room. His heart was beating at approximately 83 beats per minute, which was a high resting heart rate, Sherlock knew, and, sentimental thoughts swirled around his mind.

I hate you, John whispered in his mind.

Sherlock didn't bother waking John, even though he'd promised to tell him the next time it happened. Besides, John didn't hate him. John was right here. Sherlock closed his eyes, the sound of John's breathing soothing him. He wasn't alone. The person he cared for most was lying beside him.

He recalled smoking in a motel in Paris over a year ago, peering out at the city's lights. The City of Love. What rubbish. Sherlock had extinguished the cigarette, deciding then that, if he were to survive and make it home, he'd tell John how he felt about him, because certainly it couldn't be so hard as that moment had been.

Sherlock had the same thought in Serbia. If he made it out alive, he'd tell him.

He hadn't told him. Something had gotten in the way every time. And now? What was in his way? Sherlock hated thinking about it all. He refused to lose his friendship with John over this.

It was problematic. A better problematic than the hallucinations, but still problematic.

Sherlock fell asleep, and for the first time in months, dreamed not of gunshots, running, or falling, but of John.