A week passes.
John doesn't know how to approach the William Problem, but he convinces himself to let it be. Mycroft took note but hasn't mentionned it, only asking for Sherlock's precise actions as he ran across that field. Then he called Lestrade and left.
They haven't ventured out again, the media still trying to snap a photo by any means necessary. It's been two weeks now since they arrived at Baker Street, but John cannot help but feel like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He's not always sure how to be around Sherlock. Jack is still relatively shy, but Sherlock has forgotten all social skills around other decent human beings. He and Jack rely on each other so much it is almost as if they have become an extension of one another. If Jack is ever to attend school and meet new people, he will have to learn to live without his Pa in the same room as him for more than five minutes. The idea of even having a closed door between them is too painful.
Mycroft has been visiting on a daily basis, having taken some leave for the first time in his career. John was a little alarmed by the elder brother when they first met, but mostly pissed by his arrogance. He has taken to bickering with Sherlock, which seems to have been their norm before the kidnapping, and Sherlock seems less like an empty shell when with Mycroft. John is relieved. As worried as he is about Jack, he knows that at the age of five, the little boy will be able to adapt and one day will struggle to remember those stressful times of his childhood. It's a long way away, but Mike is sure it will come.
It's early morning when John wakes up with a gasp, the taste of Afghanistan and death in his tongue. He hasn't dreamt about that for a month and he had hoped, very stupidly, that the dreams wouldn't come back. He spends ten minutes hugging his knees, trying not to cry before he pulls back the covers and creeps down the stairs. A quick trip to the bathroom mirror confirms his suspicions that yes, he does indeed look like crap. Splashing his face with water, he hears someone knocking at the door and freezes, wondering who it could be. Mrs. Husdon answers and John feels guilty for letting her face the media and possible danger alone. But with the amount of security Mycroft has at his disposition, it's very unlikely.
The door is opened and John hears DI Lestrade's voice float up the stairs. He's friendly enough and Sherlock has classified him as a Not Idiot, along with Mike Stamford and his brother. John has yet to know if he's in any particular category.
The sound of footsteps making their way up the seventeen steps snaps John into action and he hurries to put the kettle on and gets back to the door before the detective can knock.
"I'm only here for a minute," he says once they've exchanged pleasantries. "I've still got work to do. Just wanted to tell you that I need to interview Sherlock again. Not now," he adds as John tenses, "this afternoon. The lawyers are putting on the pressure and we have new evidence. Evidence that says Sherlock hasn't told the entire story yet."
John blinks, surprised. That one time in the hopspital seemed bad enough. Right before Sherlock's Episode From Hell. They'd stopped because it had become too much for both the Holmes brothers. John pulls a face at the memory and Lestrade nods.
"Mycroft will be here but will leave if Sherlock asks him to. We'll need you and Dr. Stamford in on this conversation. Jack will need to be out of ear shot."
John grimaced. "That won't be easy. We barely pulled it off last time."
"I have an idea actually. Headphones. Spend some time today working out what music Jack likes and put it on your or Sherlock's phone. Two hours playlist max should do, just so he can lay on the couch but be unawares of what is said. Probably even better if Sherlock has his back to him. Whilst the investigation is still ongoing, it'll be better for everyone if we make this as easy as possible for them." He rubs his face with both hands. There's a tiredness that weighs on him and John regrets not having asked before.
"You alright, mate?"
Lestrade stops the rubbing motion but keeps his hands covering his face. "Sometimes," he says, voice gruff and thick with emotion, "sometimes there are cases so horrific that even as someone merely investigating, you can't help but look at everyone in the street and wonder who has people locked up in a basement." His hands slide away from his face and his red rimmed eyes bore into John's. "Sometimes, no matter what your involvement in the case, you know you're going to have nightmares for a very long time. This one will haunt me to my grave. And what I feel is nothing compared to what Sherlock is going through." He looks away and swallows. "Hell, you're having to live with it."
John feels like he's been complimented and punched in the face simultaneously. It's horrible and laughter builds up in his throat.
"Anyway, I'll see you later. I'll text you the time. Take care, John." He's gone before John can laugh at the horror of it all.
He hurries down the steps and sees him out. And stares at the door that's keeping him trapped in Sherlock's nightmares. The world is turning without him beyond that door. He doesn't care for it. Not if Sherlock and Jack can't feel it turn with him.
A noise behind him makes him glance up just in time to see a small figure disappear. A very small head appears and John pretends not to notice.
"I wonder," he says loudly, a small glance confirming that Jack is still spying on him, "I wonder if I can find something to eat? My poor stomach!" He makes a show of grabbing it.
He's a terrible actor, but Jack is five and probably won't mind. "I know! I saw something yummy in the kitchen! I hope I get there before somebody else eats it!" Gluing his gaze to his feet, he heads back up the steps.
A small gasp and running feet can be heard. John smiles. He's never woken up before Sherlock and Jack before and Jack has never spied on him before. Sherlock must still be asleep. Good. God knows the man needed his sleep.
Entering the flat, John makes a show of closing the door and pretends to not unsubltly look around for a small five year old. Hopefully the mention of something special to eat will stop him from hiding for too long.
John walks into the kitchen and places his hands on his hips. He knows he must look like a twat to any sane person and refrains from laughing at himself and giving up the game. "Now where did I see that yummy?"
Throwing open cupboards, he tries to think of something when he sees Jack's cereals and pulls them out, grabbing the bowl of fruit off the counter and turns back to the table. And nearly has a heart attack when he realizes that he, the former soldier, has been snuck up on by a child.
Said child is small enough to stand at full height under the table and is now on tiptoe trying to peek over the top of it. John smiles. "Hello there! I found a yummy breakfast to eat! Would you like to share it with me?"
The eyes disappear and John stares at the top of Jack's head, waiting. Then the eyes reappear, assessing him. Then a small hand places a large silver object on the table before retreating and Jack runs to hide behing the sliding doors. He peers at John, eyes both curious and excited.
John puts down his breakfast and approaches the tinfoil made object. A sword, so perfectly scrunched together it could be described as beautiful. He glances at Jack and big brown eyes watch him. He picks up the handmade weapon, clearly meant for the finest of pirates.
"Did you make this?" he asks, voice full of awe and admiration. Jack nods, his hair falling around his face.
"It's Pa's." he whispers and John can barely hear him. "But you can borrow it." His entire head is visible as well as his right arm. He's holding his own smaller sword. "Play?" he asks, looking a little more confident.
John's heart swells, he feels like he's been included into something wonderful. "My stomach can wait." he declares and twirls his sword. Jack beams.
Twenty minutes later John has to admit defeat. He would have to ask Sherlock how he taught a five year old such intriquate techniques. When Jack was ready he would take him fencing. Kid was already an olymic champion compared to him and that was with a wod of tinfoil. To say the least, John's impressed. He wipes sweat off his brow. Jack is a picture of ease.
"Did your Pa teach you those swash buckling moves?" he laughs, trying to catch his breath.
Jack points his sword towards the ground and raises an eyebrow. John gulps as a perfect minature Mycroft minus the umbrella stares up at him whilst somehow looking down his nose at him. "Don't be an idiot, Doctor Watson. I perfected the art myself."
John's jaw drops. Then Jack giggles and then they're both rolling on the floor laughing. "That was bloody brilliant!" he laughs wiping tears from his face. "All those times you ran away from him and you were... analyzing him."
"Deducting." correct Jack giggling. "He smells like Lestrade."
John's laughter dies in his throat. "Wait. What?"
Jack frowns, his five year old face scrunching up to become the picture of adorableness. "They smell like each other and one time they were in the kitchen uncle Mycroft was smiling with both hands."
John blinks. He's somehow lost all control on this conversation. Jack flaps his hands agitatedly. "Uncle Mycroft doesn't smile with his face but with hands and his umbrella. And both hands were smiling because Lestrade was petting them and he was smiling too, but with his face."
"Petting?" sweaks John, not entirely sure he wants to know.
Jack frowns harder, frustrated. "Making circles with his thumbs and tapping fingers like for a dog." he blurts and sits back on his heels, daring him to argue with his 'deductions'
John sits up and smiles. "Don't tell anyone okay? Not until they're ready. It's not polite."
"What about Pa?
"If your Pa wants to know, I'm sure he'll deduce it himself. Now come on, all this deducing and swashbuckling piracy has made me hungry."
He tickles Jack as revenge for the amount of poking he has suffered for the past twenty minutes and Jack squeals, delighted. They end up rolling all over the floor, both laughing loudly and John eventually hears the sound of Sherlock heading towards them.
Jack runs to to his sword. "I will never surrender!" he cries and John has never seen him this happy. And then Jack stabs his shoulder and suddenly he can taste Afghanistan and there's screaming, Captain, we're dying please! Captain, you've been shot, stay with us, sir... Somebody? What's wrong? PA! HELP! John? JOHN! Jack, what happened, what did you...
John gasps, suddenly realizing that he had deprived himself of oxygen. He immediately puts into practice his PET sessions he had with his therapist and wishes he'd practiced the EMDR more. Opening his eyes, he finds himself nose to nose with Sherlock who stares at him like he's never seen him before. He hears crying and although Sherlock is visibly trembling, there are no tears. It's high pitched and small. Jack.
He waits until he has his breathing under control to properly assess the situation. Sherlock's hands are fluttering like he doesn't know what to do. He looks so young and terrified that John finds the inner strength to slowly sit up, mindful of his shoulder. The door flies open and Mrs. Hudson comes flying in wielding a frying pan. Even Jack stops crying at the sight.
"Well? Where's the intruder? I'll deal with him! Nobody attacks my boys and..."
"We're fine, Mrs. Hudson." John eyes her weapon of choice wearily. "I was playing with Jack and I injured myself. It's not a problem. But thank you for, uh, rescuing us."
She eyes him critically and he remembers that she had Sherlock get her husband executed. "Well, dear, it's not polite to wake up the neighbourhood like that. Now, what did you do to yourself?" She potters over and tuts. "Now sit down and I'll make tea. Just this once mind. Not your housekeeper."
John's hand spasms and he grits his teeth. Sherlock's accelerated breathing frightens him more. "Is Jack okay?" he gasps, looking at the small boy he had been tickling just moments ago. Jack stares at him from behind Sherlock's armchair. "It's alright, Jack, it was an accident. It's okay, little pirate, you've got a good aim, that's all." He turns to Sherlock. "Your son will be excellent at fencing. When he's ready to meet new people you should definitely get him some more lessons. Bloody brilliant your son is."
Some of the tension leaves Sherlock's face. "What happened?" his gaze lingers on John's shoulder.
"Nothing, it's fine." His fingers betray him and jerk. He hopes the right leg won't go next. He doesn't have a cane anymore. "Come here, Jack. It wasn't your fault, everything's okay."
Jack eventually tiptoes over, his brown eyes refilling with tears. "It's okay, Jack, I promise. Do you remember that I was injured when I was a soldier? Well you got me with that sword right where I was shot and I had a flashback. Just like when you get scared and hear noises you don't know that make you think of monsters. Well, it's the same with my injury."
"Did I hurt it?"
"Not really, it's all in my head. When you hit it my brain told me I was being shot, but then I remembered my breathing techniques so I feel better."
John recalls standing behind a hospital bed, watching a small boy sleep and Sherlock sat in front of a mirror with his back to him. His full nudity revealed horrific injuries and abuse and John had wanted him to know he's not alone. "Would you like to see?"
Sherlock sits up, eyes curious, nervousness and excitement dancing across his face. Jack wipes his tears and crawls closer. John swallows. "Right."
He's still in his pyjamas; they all are. Grabbing the hem of his T-Shirt, he braces himself and pulls it off.
Somebody takes off his T-Shirt and I see what I hurt. It's weird and red, some of it white and silver. There's a lot of lines and in the middle is a small hole. That's where I must have poked him. It must have been very painful. The Somebody is very brave. Pa stops breathing and reaches out slowly to put his hand on it. Pa always makes me better, he can make John better too. I should make him his own sword. Soldiers need proper weapons to fight.
Pa pulls him onto a hug. "I'm glad you were sent home. Otherwise, no one would have saved Jack. Thank you for saving my son. Thank you for saving me."
Mrs. Hudson makes The Tea, then she sees somebody's shoulder. She tuts and wipes her eyes and says 'not your housekeeper!' and then she starts dusting and turns on the hoover, but it's loud and scary, so I run away. Pa tells her to rest her bad hip and John sits in his chair. He tells Pa the detective man Lestrade is coming and that I have to have music so I won't have to be away from Pa. I like this plan.
The somebody is still in pain and says that on his phone he has some relaxing music to listen to calm down. Pa leaves but comes straight back and goes to our room instead and returns with his violin.
Pa looks very scared. "Will this be okay?"
John sits up. He looks very surprised. "Yes! God, yes! If you want to, please do! Perhaps we can record some for Jack to listen to later."
Pa smiles. "Yes. Good. But I... It's been a while..."
" Of course! Take your time. Lestrade hasn't texted yet, so we've got time. I'll start recording on my phone, just in case."
Pa puts the violin and takes the same position like he did in Room when I thought he was pretending. He stops and looks at Somebody."
" You were doing breathing techniques. I know you learnt as a patient, but could you..."
"Yes." John smiles. "And Jack too."
I'm not sure I understand. But then Pa moves the stick he calls a bow and I hear a real violin for the first time, not on TV. It's amazing. The Somebody beams.