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Chapter Text

"What were you doing to him?" John roared, reaching for Smith and holding him in place.

In the hospital bed Sherlock was gasping for air and the moment of silence that followed John's question told him more than whatever words the detective might have spoken.

Sherlock's hand was slackly hanging over the railing of the hospital bed, a quite unsettling and vulnerable posture that struck John's very core.

Also, Sherlock was struggling to get himself together, which was never a good sign.

This had been a close call.

When Sherlock was finally moving, it was obviously how bad he felt and in how much discomfort he was.

Holding Smith tight felt quite good, to have the upper hand, to do something physical after the rich man had humiliated them repeatedly – to the right person this time.

"He's in distress, I'm helping him."

John didn't believe any of it, to his relief the guard, who had entered with him, wasn't either.

"Restrain him now, do it," John shoved the bastard towards Lestrade's man and he took over.

"Sherlock, what was he doing to you?"

"Suffocating me, overdosing me."

Sherlock's eyes closed, he was panting, and the former army doctor recognised the uncoordinated arm movement as a sign of distress and struggle.

The detective was in a bad way. Smith had really just tried to suffocate him and John had been almost too late... on top of that, the beating his friend had received from his own hands had taken his toll.

Before, when he had left the cane as a parting gift he had been blind to the injuries he had really caused his friend, had somehow managed to ignore them in his anger.

But now he saw the full extend, Sherlock's face was littered with bruises and surely hurting. John hadn't held back. He was ashamed of his momentary lapse of self restraint now. Additionally Sherlock's drug habit had also done quite severe damage.

And all this... all this because Sherlock wanted this to safe him after Mary had told him to throw himself in the line of fire to rely on John rescuing him as a way of saving his best and only friend.

John felt guilty and caught out about his own personality.

Mary had understood so much.

"On what?" John asked.

"Saline."

"Saline?"

"Yes, Saline," Sherlock grunted, trying to sit up with a grimace.

John stepped closer to check the IV bag's label while he closed the line.

"What do you mean, saline?"

"Well, obviously I got Nurse Cornish to switch the bags. She's a big fan, you know. Loves my blog," Sherlock panted.

John's gaze found his and the look in Sherlock's eyes was so haunted and lost it shocked him even more, the eyes were surrounded by deep shadows.

He had blocked Sherlock's tries to help him the normal way, as Mary had predicted.

Sherlock being in this state, gasping for breath and almost suffocated was his fault.

He still felt his knuckles throbbing from when he had punished Sherlock before, in the morgue.

Sherlock, who hadn't even tried to fight back.

Who had uttered he was entitled because Sherlock had killed his wife.

And John had agreed with him.

It hurt that he had been so stupid.

His anger had blinded him.

He was a bloody idiot.

The fact that he had allowed his anger to harm the most important thing that was left to him, his best friend was unforgivable.

John felt the burning of tears but this was not the moment.

Right now he needed to make sure Sherlock was safe.

"You're OK?"

Sherlock's gaze went up to meet John's and with a cold rush of horror the doctor noticed the haemorrhaging in his left eye, the result of the beating he had given his best friend. He hadn't seen it before, Sherlock had been unconscious.

Sherlock was everything else than okay.

He was a wreck.

And he had just allowed to almost be killed trying to safe John.

Again.

How had John ever doubted Sherlock's loyalty and friendship?

It was borderline self harm - no definite self harm.

"No, no, of course I'm not OK.... Malnourished, double kidney failure, and frankly, I've been of my tits for weeks.... What kind of doctor are you?"

To John's alarm the detective was swaying in his half sitting position, it made John cringe internally, he needed to check him out, as soon as possible.

Sherlock groaned and leaned back.

This was not funny at all.

John wanted to make sure he was alright, but of course, the detective wanted to discuss what had just happened, wanted to point out he had been right.

Probably he needed the process to prevent having a breakdown.

As did John.

He welcomed the distraction from the important things because frankly, all he wanted right now was scream.

They did talk about the events with the perpetrator, as it was Sherlock's habit.

Slowly, Sherlock sank deeper into cushions, his face still a grimace of agony.

"You cock!" John finally cursed when he understood Sherlock had more than three devices in store.

"Utter, utter cock," he added when he realised he had been the one who had actually brought it in with the cane.

"Heard you the first time."

Together they revealed the recording device in the cane, cornering Smith by the revelation.

John observed Sherlock was trying to be his easy self but his friend's body told him a lot about his level of pain.

Sherlock was writhing in discomfort, clinging to the railing, one leg raised up against it, the sheets in disarray, the hospital gown, too.

He was also desperately trying to shift his position to get more comfortable, according to his expression it was not helping.

"I'm that predictable?" John asked, quite horrified about what Sherlock thought he'd do. Then it dawned on him that he had actually done it.

In hindsight it struck him as quite mean, to leave the cane as a parting gift.

"No. I'm just a cock."

John lowered his head, speechless for a moment, about his own horrible behaviour and the fact how accurately Sherlock had used it.

Had used him to bring them back together.

Had recklessly used his own body to safe him.

Had almost died.

"Get him out!" John barked at the police man, who dragged a slightly bewildered Smith into the hall.

There were two big urges John experienced, to get Sherlock out of this bloody kill zone immediately and to scream in frustration until he had no voice left.

Instead, he fetched his phone and dialled Mycroft.

"Lie down," he shoved his chin in Sherlock direction to make it clear who was addressed.

Sherlock rolled exhausted eyes but obeyed.

As soon as the older Holmes had picked up John started to speak, not bothering about any greetings.

"I need Sherlock out of here, now!... And make Lestrade hurry up."

A brief conversation followed in which Mycroft briefly assured him a private ambulance would pick them up, soon.

While he spoke to Mycroft John switched on the examination lights over the bed and started to unhooked Sherlock from everything but the pulse-ox.

He wanted all the equipment provided by this facility gone to make sure the wounded man was safe and sound.

As soon as he had rang off and his hands were free he placed a reassuring hand on Sherlock's right shoulder to soothe him. Now that they were alone, Sherlock's game face had disappeared and since he had strength left to mask whatever was going on something else could resurface. He looked a bit like a deer in the headlights.

"Relax. I'll have a look at that."

Then he leaned down over his friend and gently pried his eyelid open wide.

Sherlock in fact did relax under his hands, although the touch was probably not pleasant.

The detective had relied on John being there in time to safe him and John had almost failed.

The realisation made John's own pulse sped up and he felt hot and close to panic.

Was that it?

Had Sherlock lost faith while he was suffocating?

Had he believed that he was truly dying and no one was coming?

What if he had been there two minutes later?

What if a traffic light had slowed him down?

John closed his eyes and gulped down the desperation, his knees were weak and he briefly considered sitting down.

How could Sherlock be so bloody stupid?

Mary's words came back to him.

Go and pick a fight with a bad guy, put yourself in harm's way. If he thinks you need him I swear... he will be there.

The fact that Sherlock trusted Mary more than he valued his own life made John gulp once more – this time to keep the nausea in check.

As soon as John let go of his friend's eyelid, Sherlock allowed his eyes to close.

He looked so very damaged in that bed, with the stubble and the weight loss.

In a desperate urge, John rested his hand on Sherlock's forehead and slowly stroked his hair back until his hand came to rest on top of the other man's head.

To his surprise Sherlock relaxed even more under his hand, even slightly leaned into the touch.

"Don't go to sleep. Focus on my voice. I know it's hard, but let me check you out. Any trouble breathing?"

A minute shake of the head under his hand answered him.

Determined to take care of his friend John reached for the intercom and ordered equipment he needed to check Sherlock's trachea and larynx for damage.

"He didn't touch my throat, just blocked my mouth and nose," Sherlock argued.

"Did you lose consciousness?"

When Sherlock didn't answer John was sure he had actually blacked out for a moment, which unsettled him even more.

Of course, by the time the nurse brought the instruments on a trolley, Sherlock had drifted off - or pretended to have. John couldn't blame him for his retreat.

Nurse Cornish helped John to position Sherlock's head, held him steady while he examined his friend and made sure there was no swelling and nothing else that might impede with Sherlock's respiration.

The procedure was quite uncomfortable, John was aware, and more than once he found his hand on Sherlock's forehead or his thumb stroking him while he was doing his work.

The detective seemed fine – at least when it came to his respiratory tract.

The popped vessel in Sherlock's eye would bear witness for some time though to what had happened to him. It was the most visible of his injuries but certainly not the most severe. He'd need to have him checked out by an eyes specialist later.

Then he continued to free Sherlock of everything this hospital had provided, well almost everything, the foley would have to stay in place until they were somewhere else, but John made the nurse bring a fresh gown and started to remove the plaster that held the IV port in place.

When a few moments later a pair of paramedics entered with a trolley John was utterly relieved. He couldn't relax while Sherlock was in here, not until they were in an environment either Mycroft or John himself could control entirely.

"I'll remove the IV port. I want a new one in, just to be sure. Sorry, Sherlock," he addressed the man in the bed.

A few minutes later he had inserted a new one from the bag of the paramedics into his friend's other hand. They also changed the gown and put new monitor patches to his chest. 

When they lifted Sherlock over onto the stretcher John realised from Sherlock's not quite slack form that the detective was everything else than unconscious.

"We'll be out of here in a minute. It's all right now."

He gripped Sherlock's hands and squeezed them while the paramedics strapped him in.

"It's okay, mate. You'll be fine," John was again trying to comfort him, but briefly wondered who needed more soothing at the moment, him or Sherlock. Just that he didn't have a right to get any after what he had done to his best friend.

As if on cue Sherlock's distress resurfaced and he gulped desperately several times, which made John realise that his slackness before had only been masking his real state of mind.

Although his eyes remained closed John saw liquid in the slits of his eyes, just for a brief moment, then it was gone again.

The thought that Sherlock might have doubted John would come and had decided that then dying was a good alternative was popping up in his mind again.

Had he accepted that dying would be better than being despised by John?

The fact that he hadn't resisted the beating spoke volumes and made John very very ashamed of himself as well as overwhelmingly sad.

As soon as Sherlock was able to listen to him again John needed to make some things clear.

Like the fact that Sherlock did not kill his wife.

Or that he was sorry he hit him so hard.

The picture of Sherlock lying on the ground, trembling and in sore distress would stay with John for a very long time.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

When he turned he saw it was Mary's.

Her sad smile spoke volumes, too. Her expression said 'take care of him.'

This day had left John shaken. The case was way too close to home for his comfort.

He was a fool.

Mary squeezed his shoulder and he noted he was shivering from his own distress. He only hoped they would be alone and somewhere safe, soon, he wouldn't be able to keep his frustration in much longer.

Also, he would not leave his friend's bedside anytime soon.

And he'd make damn sure every medical thing going to Sherlock would have to pass his scrutiny.

When Greg entered John felt lightheaded with relief.

Chapter Text

Sherlock tried to wriggle into a more comfortable position.

One might think that the boot of a car this expensive should provide a bit more comfort.

Well, it could be worse.

In fact, he had seen many boots from the inside less comfortable than this one.

No, all of them, now that he thought about it.

Trying to remember something important - he knew it was there... plan or something - his thoughts wandered back to figure out how he had gotten into this situation.

Backtracing - always a good option.

His mind was sluggish, he must have blacked out.

Two men had tried to get him to the car and he had fought them.

He had moved so intensely they dropped him, he was sure the second time had been on purpose.

If he remembered right he had tried to punch one of them, before he understood the landlady had sent them to get him downstairs.

Right after she had cuffed him to the massive old stove she vanished down the stairs and he  sank down, fearing his plan had just gone to hell.

Yes, he had provoked her, had counted on her losing her patience, but somehow his thoroughly stoned mind had miscalculated her reaction.

He must have blacked out briefly, panic about the possibility of the plan failing sending him into a whirl of nasty vertigo while chained down in his own kitchen.

The next moment he latched out at the foreign hands that had no right to touch him.

The memories were an unpleasant mess, all in disarray.

At this time of day the estimated time the ride would last was almost forty minutes - He had estimated something, there must be a plan then.

There was a plan!

Another thing he hadn't anticipated was Mrs Hudson's driving style.

Of course she'd hurry, but her agitation was way higher than he had supposed. He had pictured doing this from the back seat of a cab.

He was aware she had a badass side that rarely saw the light of day, but if it did, things were usually close to hitting the fan.

Or something he wouldn't even want to think about...

Like the handcuffs.

She had moved and reacted way faster than he had deemed possible.

An aspect of her had snapped, had decided enough was enough.

To be honest he had assumed her motherly side would show and after a bit of a panic she'd made him follow her to get help.

Instead, she was all business and badass.

... And taking control. She meant what she said, he couldn't help but notice with a hint of pride and delight.

If there was any person he trusted right now to take over, it was her.

It surely wouldn't be pleasant but better than every alternative.

And he felt save with her.

Knew even with his befuddled brain she had his best interest at heart.

He probably deserved her anger.

The past nights had been a bad mixture of drug induced stupor and the worst sentiments of his life, which exponentiated each other into a mixture of barely manageable heights.

Some times during the past days he had scared himself.

Really truly been afraid to lose his mind.

When he slowly started to feel his body falter the sensations of approaching death left him with a spiky metal grey anxiety he had rarely experienced before. But he had never before tried to kill himself like this - slowly. He had overdosed, yes, but that was different.

Additionally he felt like shit about Mary's death, about her not being there any longer.

That must be grief, right?

The anger John had directed at him at their last meeting was still poisoning his though processes.

He hurt and it wouldn't go away any time soon.

It hurt much...

Being rejected by John... losing Mary and John both.

He deserved much more than just being shoved into a boot.

To tune out his loud complaining she had dialled up the volume of her sound system, which was currently vibrating right on top of him, not only the sheer volume made him nauseous but also the basses making his stomach itch.

Her driving style was probably - as the choice of music - meant as punishment.

Another thing he had not seen coming.

But she was a hell of a driver, Sherlock was not surprised by that fact, he had seen it before, in the oppressive summer heat, when he had first met her. He hadn't been in the boot back then, though.

Desperately, he braced his cuffed hands to the front wall of the boot to keep himself from helplessly rolling around.

She would throttle him if he threw up in there - she had warned him before loudly banging the lit shut.

Curling into a ball and trying to go with the movements of the speeding car seemed to be the better option.

But he was so dazed from the combination of his exhaustion, the lack of sleep and whatever else called distress present that he forgot about the plan and drifted off.

Then he could suddenly hear police sirens and a few hard turns later a helicopter.

He was missing something important!

Something he needed to remember.

This was important.

He was in a car.

The destination?

It was important, that much he remembered.

Then the classic music was dialled down a bit, over it he heard a loud voice speaking.

Mrs Hudson!

She was driving... and talking to someone.

"Mycroft! Get them off me. Do this for your brother. He's in bad way! You need to get them off me."

They were leaving the larger motorway.

With a very nauseating unpleasant rush his plan came back to him... and the fact that he had barely more than a few more minutes until...

Slowing down, entering a residential area.

He needed to do it right.

The panic that he might do it all wrong made him gasp for air.

Two minutes later the car's brakes started to screech and the car collided with something, not at high speed, while it slid sideways.

According to the sound... an party empty waste bin, medium size.

Good, his deductive powers had not all succumbed to his drug habit.

He could do this... he needed to do this.

A moment later he could hear John's voice and it sent sparks of agony through his already aching head.

John was here, close by.

He realised he was afraid of this confrontation, now that he needed to keep it together of all times to accomplish his task, set his plan in motion.

When the voices became more distant he assumed they had temporarily gone inside the house.

They'd be back soon.

He focussed on getting his erratic breathing under control and calm down enough to focus again.

Some long minutes later John and Mrs Hudson could be heard talking again, nearby.

When the lit was opened he was still trembling and still gasping, his mouth so dry he couldn't even swallow, his state of mind might add to what he was trying to accomplish he decided and stopped trying to fight it.

The curtain rises.

He was afraid.

The drugs were messing with his emotions.

Very inconvenient.

He was aware this would happen, therefore he should be able to ignore it.

He needed to do this right.

The sudden light hurt his eyes and he blinked into the bright sky.

Someone was in the centre of it and stared down at him.

Sherlock heart clenched when he it was John.

Chapter Text

John had just climbed out of the well, freed by his best friend and the first thing they had done was checking out if the other one was okay.

Sherlock had stopped the water going in after Eurus had told him how to do it and then ran to the hidden well to get him out, the key to the chains in his coat.

John was exhausted when Sherlock finally arrived and wasn't able to dive long enough to open the lock at first. It took John several tries until he managed to unchain himself.

The rope made it easier to breathe and gave him time to catch his breath. Once his ankle was freed he was glad for his military training, it enabled him to climb out of the pit only with the aid of a rope.

After a few speechless seconds filled with both their panting, Sherlock finally spoke.

"How long do I have to continue to keep it together?" Sherlock huffed.

"Depends. Is she secured?" John grinned stupidly, unable to do anything else and unsure if the question was a sarcastic remark or meant as a bit of desperate humour in a bad situation.

"She's in her room, I better get back there."

"You okay? Where's Mycroft?" was the next thing the doctor asked.

"Still in Sherrinford. My phone is gone but I am sure we can use her computers to call for help."

"What the hell happened? I kind of lost track when the water was so high I had to fight keeping my head above the water…"

Sherlock's face contorted, he shook his head violently in reaction to whatever was happening in his head. Then he forced himself to relax his features, it took a visible effort, even for untrained eye.

"Sherlock?"

"I… Can we not talk about drowning right now?"

"Err… OK, but you need to get a forensics team down there later."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut once more.

"Sherlock?"

"I… I need to take care of her. She can't be alone for long. We can't afford that she changes her mind and disappears."

"This was a call for help, right? I mean like she..."

"I am not entirely sure... I will try to talk to her about her motives. At this moment, I assume she wanted company and being allowed in. She never had friends and if I got it right she was jealous and angry at me for having one. So she removed the thing to make me alone again so I spent time with her," Sherlock explained while they headed back to the ruined family home. "But I am not good at interpreting emotions, especially not hers, they are a maze."

"Sherlock, you were a child. It was not your fault. What she did was wrong."

When the other man didn't react he added.

"For a very long time you didn't have friends and you didn't hurt others because they were your friends."

"Maybe I didn't dare to because I feared they'd be harmed, without even knowing why," Sherlock deadpanned, revealing something John hadn't expected he'd be able to share this easily.

"I better keep her company until she is secured," he added after a moment of silence.

To John it was obvious that Sherlock had to work hard to shake away an unnamed sentiment that he had shoved into the deepest cellar of his mind palace while being threatened by his sister. He was right, this still wasn't over, not until they all were safe back home and she was back in Sherrinford.

Some aspect of John feared that she might be gone when Sherlock returned to her room.

But saving John must have seemed more important to him.

Instead of starting to walk back to the house, though, Sherlock's gaze became unfocused and distant.

"Hey, hey, stay with me," John ordered, military like, although shivering extensively.

"The amount of lose ends about this case is alarming. The threads, hanging dangling in the air, some dropping with blood, some with liquids I can't identify, they are mocking me,"

Sherlock answered cryptically.

John wanted to make him explain that and reassure him he had done the right thing, but securing Eurus was top priority right now.

"I assume Mycroft was able to witness this. She probably made him watch, aware it would cause a great amount of distress. Therefore emergency services alarmed by him should be here in a few minutes."

While still breathing harshly, Sherlock slipped out of his coat, then shoved it into John's hands.

John just stared at it.

"What?"

"It's cold, you are wet. The coat is warm and dry."

"You want me to put it on."

"Of course I want you to put it on. Stay close."

They hurried back to the house and stopped at the foot of the stairs.

For now Sherlock needed John to be safe and make sure Eurus hadn't hidden any traps and wasn't leaving.

Would be like Moriarty and her to leave booby traps. After what his sister had plotted in Sherrinford he didn't doubt she had taken precautions. She would have wanted neither Sherlock nor John to escape from the premises before she made her point.

Better safe than sorry.

He stopped and frowned, wondering where he had caught that uncharacteristic trait.

"Sherlock?" John reached for his shoulder with one hand, a worried expression on his face.

"You're shaking. Can I please check you out?"

"No, I need to... go to her... Contact Mycroft," he pointed at the large screen and the headset.

Sherlock felt the tide of emotions was becoming harder and harder to fight while he climbed the stairs.

The darkened surroundings disappeared for a moment while he tried to keep it at bay.

Although unwilling, he needed to talk to her now, reassure her that she made the right decision, explain to her what no one ever had taken time to do.  

After a while John managed to establish a video call connection. It was all preset, since Eurus had used the equipment for her communication.

John talked to Mycroft; simultaneously he listened carefully to what was happening upstairs.

Later, he wandered through the floor level of the house.

The home seemed to have been left quiet untouched after the fire. Things were littered everywhere, everyday household things, parts of the roof, remains of furniture.

It was quite spooky to be in the house of Sherlock's childhood like this, seeing it so destroyed and cold.

Three hours later Eurus was on her way back to Sherrinford.

Lestrade had arrived and Sherlock had vanished into the house with a forensic specialist some time ago.

John had been checked out and given a superficial statement to one of Lestrade's men. Finished with that he went to search for Sherlock.

But all he found was Lestrade in front of the main entrance talking to someone he had never seen before.

"Greg. Where's Sherlock?"
"Haven't seen him in the past twenty minutes, thought he was with you."

"No... Is the building clear?"

"Yes, searched in depth from both, Scotland yard and MI6 specialists."

"Alright. You happen to know where Sherlock's room was?"

Greg's mouth opened, a look of alarm on his face.

"Not sure. There are two more children's rooms to the left, the top level. Roof is not safe, so be careful."

"Alright. Floor is stable?"

"Yes, though not in her room. Can't miss that one, forensics still in there."

John headed up the stairs.

Loud voices and people bustling around greeted him, which made the whole scene less spooky.

Briefly gazing into a room full of people, he captured the scene, nodded a greeting and then continued down the hall. It was a bit darker there since the emergency lights were not pointed in that direction.

Then he stood in front of a blackened door with a small sign at the eyelevel of a five year old that said 'lair', the word was almost unreadable.

John carefully pushed open the door and peeked inside.

The light from the hall shone onto the burned remains of a cot and a small desk next to it.

The ground was littered with damaged books, roof tiles and debris, parts of the roof were missing.

It took several moments until his eyes had adjusted to the dark and he glanced through the room in search for his best friend.

It wasn't really dark, the large lights the police had installed outside lit the room to a certain degree.

When he spotted Sherlock hidden behind the door his breath froze.

The other man was in the same position he had been after his meltdown in Sherrinford, sunken against a wall, his knees up, his arms resting on his knees. The only difference was that his head was hanging so low his face was completely hidden.

"Sherlock?"

There was no recognition of his presence.

Carefully, the doctor went down on his haunches, then placed a hand on Sherlock's upper back.

"You okay?"

To his shock John felt him tremble, those rhythmic little movements that happened when a person cried, just that Sherlock didn't make a sound at all. He was completely silent - not even breathing heavily.

Shit, very shallow fast breathing.

The doctor decided he needed to figure out what was happening, crying like this would be a first, shock might be another option, or an injury?

"Hey, breathe," John told him.

All muscles in Sherlock's body tensed and the shaking stopped by the sheer tension.

Then, very slowly Sherlock drew in a wet breath.

But he didn't exhale; instead, the trembling returned.

John had seen Sherlock cry, several times in fact, though not like this. Usually Sherlock's sorrow seemed to happen without him being aware.

Whenever he had cried in the past John had no doubt he was in severe distress, but somehow the tears were all that was visible on the outside.

Of course, Sherlock's voice was sometimes different in those moment, had even broken while standing on the roof of Bart's, but he seemed to ignore his body's reactions. He just went on with what he was doing, as if ignoring the fact that his eyes were leaking.

He had never cried and been a sobbing mess before, at least not in front of John.

And he wasn't now, at least not at first glance.

John had wondered in the past if his friend could even name the emotions or was aware of them that caused his body to cry, had wondered if he experienced them like he did.

Sherlock's emotions were intense, he had always known that, but they were also a source of confusion and not sensed by Sherlock like by the average person.

His friend was a bit disconnected from them and had trouble describing them. Normal words seemed not to fit, either because they felt completely different from his way to perceive things or because the words most people associated with them just didn't fit from Sherlock's point of view.

Also, they unsettled him sometimes.

It was as if Sherlock was aware of the more general things, like sorrow, frustration, and anxiety, sometimes even happiness, but not of the finer distinctions.

Although his frustration could be intense he seemed to be unable to distinguish between what he felt when he accidentally dropped his mug from when somebody yelled at him in anger.

John feared this was similar, it was without doubt very intense, but probably Sherlock was just stunned by the thing itself.

He was surely in severe distress about all that had happened, since John had problems sorting that out himself he couldn't blame the detective for his reaction.

A few hours ago Sherlock had once more made the decision to rather die himself than allowing his loved ones to get hurt.

To his own horror, John had no doubt he'd have the nerve to actually pull the trigger and the memory of the situation caused a desperate and anxious shiver to run down his spine.

Then a sudden insight hit him.

Mycroft had said he is the man he is because of what had happened in the past.

Could it be that Sherlock subconsciously remembered how it was to lose a friend and that whenever faced with the situation he chose that dying was less bad than going through that again?

The perception made bile rise in his throat and additionally he had to gulp down overwhelming emotions of his own.

Getting the tension out now that the situation was over was necessary from John's point of view. Therefore telling Sherlock to calm down would only led to pushing the raw things back down and being internalised, which might do harm later on, so John didn't.

"Come on, Sherlock, breathe," he said again when he registered Sherlock's breathing continued to stagger to long halts in between the shallow breaths.

"Hey?"

The other man's trembling became so intense John feared he was about to have a fit.

It worried him a lot and finally the doctor's fingers sneaked around his wrist.

The pulse was so fast it made him curse silently.

Tachycardia, way over a hundred.

On one hand Sherlock needed to get this out of his system - after the past hours he was overdue – but on the other John wasn't sure this was a healthy way to do it.

Sherlock had actually said it, hadn't he?

Asked for permission to mark this as over so he was no longer forced to keep everything in.

The last time when Sherlock had pointed out his distress - after being shot by Mary and before collapsing - came to John's mind.

He winced, he had failed to notice the severity that had made his friend actually voice his affliction.

He reminded himself that Sherlock did things way more intense than normal people, and considered which good outcome it might have to allow this form of venting to go on, supervised by a medical professional – him.

Then, after what must have been almost a minute Sherlock took a deep breath for a change, his airway sounded constricted, as if halfway blocked, not by the usual crying-induced mucus though.

Observing him closely, John frowned.

The other man's breathing continued to be alarmingly odd.

After three or four irresolute minutes John decided that he needed to make a diagnosis, collect more data. He needed to find out what was happening.

Crying or something else?

"Sherlock, I need you to answer me. Come on."

But the answer was only silence.

Chapter Text

"Sherlock, I need you to answer me. Come on."

When nothing happened John sat down next to his friend and wrapped his left arm around Sherlock's shoulders, slowly dragging him close. Physical contact might give him a few more clues. And physical support might have a positive effect.

With relief, John noted that he  wasn't shoved away, but even after a few moments of waiting, this didn't give the doctor much more intel about his friend's condition than he already had.

Sherlock had adopted the idea recently, had hugged him a few weeks ago.

Comforted him.

He was still a bit speechless about that.

From all that might happen as a reaction to being confronted with John's sudden tears, being hugged and soothed had been the least expected. John had been so utterly destroyed by his own confession to his invisible wife that he hadn't even managed to run and hide his distress, or maybe he had been just too tired to run any longer.

He had felt comforted by Sherlock's hug – something he had never expected to happen.

Sherlock had not only sensed his distress but had also actually embraced him physically.

Therefore Sherlock should understand the gesture, or at least allow it to happen and hopefully the soothing would kick in later.

It was a fact that the detective was soothed by his touch, though hugging was new.

What John hadn't expected was that the resistance he met when he dragged the other man close felt like a result of tensed up muscles.

Although Sherlock's body was quite stiff it actually sagged towards him following the pull, not limb, but it made the doctor wonder how much conscious will was present.

Alarmed by what seemed to be a lack of awareness, John carefully pushed his hand under Sherlock's chin, waiting to feel his breath, should be easier than trying to hear it.

Little strenuous huffs, shallow and...

It reminded him of shock.

Shit.

He gently cupped Sherlock's chin and tilted his head back.

The tenseness was once more the only thing that slowed down the movement. Sherlock wasn't actively resisting him, neither was he reacting to him.

Freeing the hand that had been wrapped around Sherlock's shoulder John slowly pushed his upper body back against the wall.

Sherlock's head followed the backwards moved, stiff but unaware.

When he saw his friend's face John froze in shock for a moment, it was a grimace of agony, the eyes were squeezed shut and his skin was covered in wetness caused by silent tears.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

The sitting position was impractical for monitoring what was happening, so John switched to kneeling next to Sherlock.

The doctor roughly stroked the other man's upper arm, trying to reconnect him to reality.

"Sherlock?"

There was no reaction at all.

That was the moment John decided this was not Sherlock crying – maybe it had been before, but this was more severe, this was more like losing it completely.

If Sherlock was aware of his surroundings, he would have reacted by now, but he wasn't and this was making all John's alarms shrill inside his head.

For about three more minutes the doctor continued to monitor his friend, but his condition remained unchanged. 

Now and then Sherlock's mouth opened wide as if he was screaming silently. Also, sometimes his eyes opened for a brief moment, but his gaze was unfocussed and unseeing.

The sight was heart-wrenching and John felt his own distress rise about facing this much anguish. He kept his fingers at Sherlock's pulse point.

It was as if Sherlock's body was caught in a panic attack while his mind was absent.

One of Mycroft's men had handed the duo burner phones and electric torches right after they had arrived on the scene and now John used his one to call Greg for help.

"Can you come up and bring an emergency bag and some oxygen... Don't bring in strangers, he's not himself."

"On my way," the DI answered and less than two minutes later a single person entered, carrying a source of dim warm light, a bundle of fabrics, a paramedic backpack and a small portable oxygen canister with a wrapped mask dangling from the controller.

Greg handed over a warm patted fleece jacket to John, who took it gratefully. He was still quite wet and the blanket was restricting his movements.

While taking in the situation Greg knelt down on Sherlock's other side, putting down the old fashioned lamp.

The alarmed look on his face spoke volumes. The DI didn't even try to address him but spoke to John in a low voice.

"How long has he been like this?"

"I don't know. I came in here - five minutes ago - sat down with him and he didn't really react. Have you seen him like this before?"

"No. Want me to call Mycroft?"

Before doing anything else this was probably what they should do.

John nodded and closed the zipper of the jacket.

It felt so good to be a bit warmer.

As soon as Greg had the older Holmes on the line and informed him about the problem, John took over and explained in detail what symptoms his friend showed.

Meanwhile Greg vanished again.

"Have you seen him like this before?" he finished his report.

"You should know there are two variations of Sherlock crying, doctor. One is kind of an overflow he doesn't bother to hold back, it's when there are tears but nothing else. He usually ignores it or maybe isn't even aware, I don't know."

"Right. I know. Been there. Seen that."

"The other is when things get so bad they get out of hand, we both know there are a few things that are devastating to him. This happens when he is so overwhelmed and in distress that he can't fight what his body does. It's a response to horribly intense emotions or a large amount of things he can't process. This is when he can't speak, when things get so much he just retreats into his mind and lets his body... vent, for a lack of a better word."

"I've never seen him like this. It's like... kind of a zombie mode."

"The pop culture reference is adequate. Nowadays he usually makes sure he hides before it gets this severe. Most of the times he can't really remember an episode like this afterwards, at least that was what he told us in his childhood. There are few memories from my life that are as difficult as those of him being in this condition. It was a very long time ago, though..." Mycroft took a deep breath.

"I told you he was traumatised by... what happened to his best friend," the older Holmes continued, "He was like this, for days after the incident. He recovered slowly; those episodes came and went for months. He had... unlearned to fall into this state by second grade, or that's what we thought. In hindsight I know there must have been a few but he managed to hide them well, most of them."

"Mycroft, one does not 'unlearn' things like that! This is... dissociation or something... he has retreated somewhere unable to handle the overwhelming agony..."

John untangled the oxygen mask while talking.

"Quite right, doctor."

Greg came back in, carrying two blankets, three heat packs and other supplies.

"Err, he's sitting up, do you think it's safe to make him lie down?"

"Try it, if he fights you with teeth and claws it's not the right thing to do."

John rolled his eyes, that much he knew himself.

"Can you give us a moment, I think we should try it. I don't like his breathing, it's getting worse. Greg, a hand?"

Together, they gently lifted Sherlock away from the wall and placed him on two of the blankets Greg had stretched on the floor.

"Recovery position," John ordered while he picked up the phone again.

"The silence is... eerie," Greg muttered while he positioned the detective and placed the mask on his face.

Sherlock didn't react to any of it.

His face continued to contort in agony and the steady stream of tears hadn't slowed down. At the moment his body was just a shell, devoid of active thought.

"I'm back," John said into the phone.

"Excuse my lack of the proper term before, I was eleven by the time I observed this and didn't know the right words. Connecting the events with current knowledge is difficult due to the emotional baggage," Mycroft explained.

That admission made John blow out air through his mouth, Mycroft was rarely emotional but what he had seen in the past two days still astounded him.

The British government was letting him in or was he just out of venom?

"Early eighties..." John mumbled. "Well, trauma diagnosis and therapy was in its early stages then. There wasn't much knowledge about how to deal with psychologically traumatised children properly..."

"Oh, according to the specialists there was very good treatment available, but... Well, it did more harm than good. Do under no circumstances administer any kind of psychotropic drugs. It will make it far worse... and only use sedation in case of a life-threatening situation."

"Err, shit. When was the last time he was in a state like this?"

"I am not sure—"

"I don't believe you. Tell me!"

Mycroft hesitated.

"About an hour after Mary was shot."

John closed his eyes, fighting his own agitation about that piece of news, of course Mycroft was reluctant to share that detail with him. He would be either.

"In the days after Victor died..." Mycroft changed topics immediately, "Those fits... We found him like this, unresponsive and devastated, in distress. Sometimes it lasted for hours."

"What did you do?"

"Our parents were desperate. Sometimes intense sensations dragged him out of it, but it couldn't be reproduced. Most of the time... it was just waiting. Mummy talked to him, held him, sometimes that helped, but often he fought comforting touches... Sometimes he threw tantrums, not letting anyone near and hurting himself by hitting things. Once my parents had to restrain him because he banged his head against a bedpost."

John closed his eyes again in empathy, the picture of a five year old Sherlock so desperate and hurt would for sure haunt him in the future.

"It was then, when they tried to forcefully keep him from hurting himself that we found out pressure kind of calmed him down."

"Yes?" John perked up his ears, realising Mycroft was not just informing him about the past but handing him things to try.

"He also repeatedly crawled under a heavy heap of clothes and fabrics my mother had in a messy pile for repairs. She realised it must have something to do how the weight feels."

"Oh."

Deep pressure was a thing used in several kinds of therapy these days, John was aware of that.

By instinct the child Sherlock must have realised what it did for him.

"Well, holding him tight might help, but since he is rather large nowadays it's not really an option. If he fights you in earnest don't do it."

"Really? Are you suggesting I hug him tightly?"

"Yes... no... Not necessarily. In fact pressure without human contact might be preferable."

John was stricken by all those horrible information for a long moment... and by the fact that Mycroft suggested to hug his brother.

After this mess of a day John shouldn't be surprised by anything Holmesian any longer, should he?

"I'm afraid what you see there in front of you right now is not the Sherlock you know, it's the traumatised child," Mycroft continued. He sounded very tired. "Try what you think might work, but be aware that most of what my parents and the child therapists tried didn't work. He was betrayed and tortured by someone very close to him - his own sister - and it made him lose trust in everyone."

"I understand," John said, his chest constricted with sorrow about the impact this had on his best friend.

"Regrettably, even before the event with Victor our sister experimented on Sherlock. Well, on everybody, but he was the smallest and most vulnerable, which made him an easy target. Every childhood consists of those experiments, learning the rules and about life, but she was different, her learning had no boundaries. It was quite often even vicious, but I doubt she understands the concept of being mean to this day. There is just... it's the absence of right and wrong. No one could make her understand the concept, it seemed," Mycroft paused.

When John was starting to wonder if the connection had broken up, he continued.

"One day she hurt Sherlock so much he cried and screamed all night, unable to even tell us what she had done. The mental scars she left on him by the time she was taken away were profound. Don't underestimate this."

John looked at his friend's face again, the constant flow of tears in a contorted face, his body fighting to breathe in between the intense fits of distress.

"Yes, well," Mycroft answered, "At some point he understood that making noises and react to her 'experiments' only boosted her efforts, so he kept his suffering quiet and hidden. She also used it against him in the past, was happy to make him cry."

"Oh, God," John huffed.

"Listen, you are probably the only person who can connect with him on an emotional level, doctor. Obviously, he trusts you more than anyone. Take care of him while I take care of our sister. I was told Sherlock talked her out of it. I don't know how he managed to show her affection after what she did."

"He did what he always does, Mycroft, not matter what the cost to him, he gives everything to safe what is dear to him."

"Right, thank you. Good luck, Dr Watson," with that term of respect the British government hung up.

"No miracle solution to get him out of this?" Greg asked.

A bit desperate, John shook his head.

"But there might be something a bit unconventional we could try."

Fact was that Sherlock needed a secure environment to come out of this.

Would it be better to ship him back to Baker--? John's thoughts froze.

The flat was in ruins and as blackened as this house. Though Sherlock's bedroom was not affected, the kitchen and the living room were uninhabitable.

The logical place left to go was John's flat, but it was probably not the best choice, the negative associations it still carried for them both were everything else than good.

After the explosion, they had stayed over at Mycroft's, where they had also made plans to infiltrate Sherrinford.

To his surprise, John had found out Sherlock had a fully equipped bedroom there which he even regarded as his own space – as did Mycroft.

The town house was probably the best choice to go.

Once more the doctor leaned over the detective, examining him again.

This was beyond venting and John doubted it had a healing effect any longer. It must be very straining. Sooner or later Sherlock's body might just give in to exhaustion and either switch him off or make him sleep.

"I'll be back in a few, yell if you need me," Greg said and vanished again.

John stroked Sherlock's head and patted his cheek to give it another try to arouse him.

"Sherlock, I need you to come out of this. Can you do that?"

Nothing.

Time for more desperate measures, then.

He tried several other ways of sensual stimulus, but to no effect, not even the rougher ones caused a reaction.

"You know, when I was on my first tour there was a young soldier in my unit who shared a really weird story with us one evening. Maybe I should tell you about it."

John remembered Sherlock had once talked him out of a panic attack by simply talking him into the ground about a case he solved years ago.

So, the doctor talked.

But half an hour later there still was no change in Sherlock's breathing and tenseness.

When Greg peeked in again John was desperate enough to try anything. He asked Lestrade to find some sort of a soft container and fill it with sand or whatever there was.

A bit later Greg came back carrying a large heavy duty zipper bag made of clear plastic, the kind they normally used for filing large evidence.  It was filled with sand and small pebbles and Lestrade picked up a blanket and wrapped it into a thin soft but heavy makeshift weighted blanket.

He handed it over and John hesitated to use it at first, it was quite heavy, but they didn't have many options left. Sedation was off the table even as a last resort.

They rolled the consultant onto his back and placed the improvised weighted device over his chest.

For a moment John was afraid it might impair his breathing further but they had to try.

With held breaths they monitored his vitals and checked the pulse-ox repeatedly the doctor had attached to his friend some time ago.

To their amazement Sherlock's breathing slowly became deeper and a few minutes later his features started to relax a bit.

"Shit, it's working," Greg whispered.

So John continued to talk and gradually, over the next twenty minutes, Sherlock relaxed more and more, his tears ran dry and the trembling lessened.

After the first signs of normal movement John removed the mask and the pulse ox in order to not spook him. Greg had retreated back to the hallway to give them space.

Finally, Sherlock's eyelids fluttered and a few moments later he blinked up at John.

John smiled down at his friend, out of pure relief.
"Hey."

Sherlock looked unbelievably exhausted and disoriented, his still a bit  clouded gaze went up and down John several times and then scampered around the ceiling for a few moments.

At first John failed to say something, because whatever came to his mind he immediately shoved away as not good, like how he was, or that he liked Sherlock's room to be labelled 'lair', or if he was ready to return to London.

"Glad you're back with me, mate," he finally managed, aware it wasn't a good choice, either.

As if to get rid of something Sherlock shook his head repeatedly and in complete silence, then tried to sit up.

"Easy," John helped him.

Sherlock breathed through his open mouth, his nose completely clogged. He looked lost, maybe even frightened, and overall quite overwhelmed.

Which made John ask something he'd have preferred to evade for a bit longer, but he needed to assess Sherlock's state of mind to decide how to proceed.

"Do you know where you are?"

Sherlock didn't meet his eyes and it took almost twenty seconds until he took breath to answer, but then closed his mouth again.

Another few seconds later he nodded.

The doctor in John was aware this was actually not what he needed to know. His own exhaustion was getting to him, his concentration was faltering and his body had started to feel numb and leaden a while ago.

"Are you aware of what brought us here?" he corrected himself.

The silence that followed was so long John was about to panic due to the fact that Sherlock seemed not remember what had happened, until he himself remembered that the question was misleading and in his current state Sherlock was probably even more prone to understand things literally than usual.

He had to admit he didn't know how he had gotten to Musgrave Hall either.

John saw the question did unsettle Sherlock because he tried to remember and couldn't. They had been tranquilised and unconscious while being carted over to the former family home.

"Sorry. What I meant is: do you remember what happened and why we are here?"

It took Sherlock again a moment to process the question and his dull gaze remained on the ground, but he finally nodded.

Before John could think he followed his impulse and dragged the other man's shoulder against his own chest, half-hugging him sideways.

Sherlock was still trembling, obviously trying to sort out what had happened. But he was allowing John's touch; they just sat there and breathed for quite a while.

"Talk," was the first hoarse word Sherlock spoke about five silent minutes later.

And John did.

Another half hour later, when they were both leaning shoulder to shoulder against the wall, wrapped in blankets and reflecting the question whether to kip at Mycroft's or to get a hotel room near Musgrave Hall, Greg stepped in.

"There's a helicopter ready to bring you home."

John looked up at him in astonishment.

"Courtesy of Mycroft Holmes. I mean you could go by car, but..."

Sherlock almost fell over in his hurry to get to his feet. Greg and John barely managed to keep him from taking a nosedive.

As soon as Sherlock had found his balance, he fought their supporting hands, but John didn't let go of his arm though.

On their way down the hall towards the stairs, Sherlock's knees gave in twice.

He was weak as a kitten.

Finally Greg and John had enough and pulled his arms over their shoulders. They supported most of his weight on the way down the stairs, by then he didn't even try to fight them any longer.

After they had lifted the consultant into the backseat of the helicopter John had to buckle him in. Sherlock's hands were shaking from exhaustion by that time, his eyelids drooped repeatedly. But he was conscious and reacting to questions and John was so relieved about that fact that he almost forgot how icky it felt to be damp to the bone.

The helicopter's skids left the ground and John was still busy adjusting his headset and buckling himself in.

Suddenly, he felt a heavy weight against his side and grunted in surprise.

When he turned, he found his friend had sagged against him and was dead to the world, the headset unused in his lab.

John folded Sherlock arms up, shifted him into a position that would allow him to rest without getting a cramp or straining a muscle.

Sherlock slept leaning against John for the rest of the flight.

Chapter Text

It was a Saturday and Sherlock had been home for about four nights when it was John's turn to babysit him overnight. He had decided to stay over with Rosie and Mrs Hudson had promised to take over in case Sherlock was not up to handle them both.

The flat was quiet when he entered, Rosie babbling happy in his arm.

He put down her overnight bag and looked around in search for Molly.

It was silent, except for the distant London street sounds from the main road, so John hoped Sherlock might have managed to sleep.

During the past days withdrawal had made the detective moody and restless, attacking anybody who didn't take cover fast enough.

John really hoped he hadn't made Molly cry again.

The living room and the kitchen were empty.

John sat his daughter down in her high chair at the kitchen table. She started to clumsily reach for a toy that was still there. John handed it to her, hoping she'd be busy for a moment and keep quiet. After he tossed his jacket over another chair he silently went down the hall to Sherlock's room.

What he found there made him stifle a giggle.

Sherlock was in a prone position and fast asleep on the bed, his hair a mess, his stubble even worse than the day before and he was still wearing his dressing gown and socks. One of his arms was dangling from the bed and his hand was clutching his pillow which was half in the air and half on the ground.

The really surprising thing though was that Molly was on the other half of the queen size bed, also fully dressed in a cotton leisure suit. She was lying on her side, also facing the door and a book half covered by her shoulder made John wonder if she had fallen asleep while reading, the fact that she wasn't covered underlined that theory.

John stepped a bit closer and contemplated both sleeping person's appearances.

Sherlock's pale face appeared blotched and his eyes swollen. Molly's eyes featured the worst version of dark rings under them he had ever seen on her.

He must have had a rough night, both of them must have.

As silent as possible John left the room and closed the door.

Rosie was awake and happy and he decided to keep her busy doing something useful.

He packed her up and they went grocery shopping.

Two hours later John returned with a not happy any longer baby gnawing hungrily hat her sleeve. The doctor wasn't a fan of pacifiers but since Mary had died it was often the only thing that calmed the child that missed her mother desperately.

He left her with Mrs Hudson while he headed upstairs to prepare a bottle.

Carefully not to wake anyone he peeked into the kitchen – and found Sherlock at the kitchen table, sipping from a mug with his puffy eyes closed. He really didn't look good.

"Hey, morning," John greeted him although it was 13:15.

"Hmmm," Sherlock answered, working his eyes open.

"Rough night?"

Sherlock didn't dignify it with an answer, so it must have been a lot worse than expected.

After John had poured bottled water into the kettle and switched it on he stepped over to his friend.

"What are you doing up when you are still this exhausted?"

John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, close to his neck.

"Circulation problems," the detective mumbled.

"You're feeling sick?"

"There's a burning quicksilver pressure on my head, accompanied by a maddening cold burning moving from my temples down my spine to my calves," Sherlock's voice was hoarse and it was barely more than a whisper.

It hadn't been easy to make Sherlock talk about how he felt, especially not in the beginning. But in the past days he finally did as asked, aware they would cart him back to hospital if he didn't cooperate to their satisfaction.

He was still mostly allowing only John to see his issues and more reluctant to share anything with Molly or Mrs Hudson.

Describing sensations via forms and colours was not new; Sherlock had always done that, sometimes to John's bewilderment because he couldn't relate to it. But after the drug use it had become even more frequent. Sherlock argued it was called synaesthesia and that it was nothing the drugs had done, just that he currently didn't have the energy to try to translate his perception into normal-mind compatible words.

After listening to what exactly his friend was phrasing John found he could actually try to connect sensations he knew to it, although usually his hit ratio was under 1 of 4.

Nevertheless, Mary and John had agreed in the past that that most of Sherlock's descriptions were so accurate and focussed on subtle details no normal person was even able to feel. It had been an interesting thing to catalogue them, mostly Mary's doing. It was one reason why John was getting better at understanding what his former flatmate was referring to.

The doctor tried to imagine the sensations Sherlock had just pictured. Then he moved his hand to cover his nape.

Sherlock closed his eyes again, relaxing a bit.

The skin under his hand was cold and clammy to John's touch and he could feel Sherlock's shallow breath.

"Poured in an unhealthy amount of sugar into whatever you are drinking?"

"'course," Sherlock mumbled.

"Good. Drink up and go back to bed."

To his luck John found clean bottles and sterilised teats in the big pot still on the cold stove. Molly must have done it the night before.

While he prepared the formula the pathologist appeared in the hallway, her eyes bloodshot and her steps slow.

John gave her a smile and she smiled back, too tired to be insecure about the fact that she had just come out of Sherlock's bedroom.

"Where's Rosie?"

"Downstairs with Mrs H."

Sherlock stood up and vanished into the bathroom.

"Coffee?" John offered her.

"Yeah, thanks."

"Rough night, then?"

"Bit, yes. All the normal withdrawal symptoms and on top of it a bout of... something... maybe anxiety. He tried to hide from me. Later he had some really disturbing nightmares and ended up quite distressed. He was agitated."

"About what?"

"He didn't tell me, was quite closed lipped after that."

"Alright. You look exhausted. Go home, get some rest. You know he is grateful you are here, do you?"

"Remind me later, maybe I'll believe you then," she raised her hand before he had time to object, "I know it's the withdrawal making him difficult. I am just tired. Sorry."

.

That evening Sherlock actually went to bed early without being forced to, he also left the door to his room open without John reminding him to do it.

After he had put Rosie to bed John checked on him.

By then Sherlock was half asleep and ignoring John checking his pulse, temperature and BP as it was routine.

Because John feared there might be something in the wind, he settled into the kitchen with his book and a mug of tea; well aware Sherlock would be able to bunk if he really wanted to. He checked on Sherlock regularly when it all seemed too quiet.

But his friend just slept.

.

It was two hours later that John almost dropped his book when he heard a muffled but clearly panicked shriek from Sherlock's room.

It took him less than five seconds to reach his friends bedside.

The bedside lamp was still on, Sherlock rarely switched off the lights these days.

Within moments he catalogued the other man's appearance.

Face pale and sweaty, breathing fast, mumbling in his sleep.

Obviously another nightmare then.

To his horror, John even spotted tear tracks in his friend's face. Sherlock's hands twitched every few seconds, as if he was trying to fight whatever he was caught in.

Before he had time to decide how to bring Sherlock out of his dream, the other man raised his voice.

But still, the words were so fast and huffed it took John a long moment to actually understand them.

"Mary, don' do this... Please Mary, you can't leave John... No..."

John sucked in a breath in surprise.

"Please Mary... Please don't die..."

Horrified, John made a step back, appalled by his own intense emotions Sherlock's words caused.

The initial impulse was still a whiff of anger, but it was gone within a second.

What followed was a well known anguish. To be drawn back into a situation that visited him every time he managed to fall asleep, too.

He pressed a hand over his mouth to keep inside whatever this did to him in.

Although Mrs Hudson had hinted at it, he had - up to now - not granted Sherlock the right to feel grief for the loss of Mary.

It kind of struck him now, that not only had he lost a wife, but Sherlock had lost a dear friend.

They had really connected, Mary and Sherlock.

"Mary, fight. You can't go... He needs you... please..."

Sherlock's whimpering was so terrified and raw it caused hot tears run to run down John's face immediately, bringing his own grief to the surface.

Obviously, the detective was dreaming about Mary's death, was begging her to stay alive.

John tried to gulp but his chest seemed to cramp up, the heaviness in his heart overwhelming him.

"Stay with us... Don't die, don't die... don't... just don't..."

"Oh god," John huffed into his hand, making another step back. His back collided with the doorframe, which was lucky because it kind of supported him.

Being grief stricken because of his own loss was bad enough, but the desperate pleading of his friend made him fight for breath.

This made him an unwitting participant in Sherlock's misery, a factor he hadn't taken time to consider.

The shock hit him hard and unexpected.

Sherlock had spent weeks in his flat, aware of John's suffering, trying to contact him, trying to help him, to be there, maybe even to comfort him, but John had denied him.

Hadn't even spent a single thought on how Sherlock might feel, that the other man had not just lost a good friend but also John as a result. And no one had been there to comfort him, besides the drugs...

Burdened by the knowledge what Mary had told him via video message had to be done to safe John had probably added to Sherlock's desperation.

Once more Sherlock whimpered in his sleep and the sound was so heartbreaking that combined with the realisations that had just hit him, it made John slid down the wall, trying desperately not to break into loud sobs.

"Mary, I'm so sorry... I'm so sorry, please don't die... I'm so sorry."

John needed almost a minute until he was able to catch his breath enough to speak.

He cleared his throat.

"Sherlock, wake up."

"Oh, God, Mary... Don't..."

"Come on, I need you to wake up," John's voice broke and he panted.

This had caught him off guard.

Of course Sherlock would grief, would know what it would do to John. The intensity of his sorrow combined with his own was overwhelming.

"Sherlock, wake up!"

He managed to get back to his feet and stumbled over to the bed.

Desperately he started to shake his friend, aware that his touch was a bit too rough.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, his own face wet with tears.

The detective jerked awake, sucking in air in shock and surprise.

Disoriented he recoiled from the touch that assaulted him.

"Sorry," John stammered, snatching away his hands.

For a moment they just stared at each other, frozen and stunned from what had just happened.

Once more John pressed his hand over his mouth and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"What happened?" Sherlock tried to get his breathing under control. His gaze scampered through the room in panic, searching for the reason of the tears he spotted in John's face.

"You had a nightmare," John answered after a few seconds of silence.

"I remember, now. Thank you for waking me."

Sherlock lowered his gaze, as if ashamed, then sank back into the bedding, shivering from the stress.

When John reached out and touched his shoulder in a desperate try to comfort them both but Sherlock flinched, moving away a bit further.

New tears welled up when John realised the beating Sherlock had received from his hands in the morgue had probably left him with quite a few invisible scars - and he was the one and only responsible for doing this to his best friend.

The fact that Sherlock still hadn't forgiven himself for not preventing Mary's death was a burden John had never intended to load on his friend's shoulder but he had nevertheless, out of grief and anger.

"I am sorry Sherlock. It was not your fault, don't blame yourself for her... death."

It still hurt to say it and John's voice broke once more.

But he had to fix this.

"John, get out," Sherlock chocked, not in an aggressive way, or angry. He sounded devastated and at the end of the rope.

"Sherlock, I am sorry, please. Forgive me for..."

"Go away, now," this time Sherlock sounded a bit impatient, he was still frozen on the bed.

 "Boys?"

Mrs Hudson entered Sherlock's room in a dark violet waffle robe.

No doubts she had heard the last sentences.

John rubbed his wet face with his hand.

He desperately wanted Sherlock to understand how sorry he was and how bitterly he regretted beating him... and that he wasn't blaming Sherlock.

"John?" the landlady asked while she rounded the bed to get to the side the detective was on.

None of the men managed to get out a word, both of them caught in their own distress.

"John?" she repeated and the doctor managed to unbury his face from his left hand.

She picked up something from the ground and it took John a moment to realise it was a bucket, he frowned.

"Sherlock, dear, are you gonna be sick?"

The prone man suddenly turned to his side and leaned over the wall-side of the bed. If she hadn't been fast and shoved the bucket under his head, he would have vomited on the ground.

Sherlock retched for what felt like ages and the noises made John finally get out of his stupor.

He fetched a bottle of water and a glass from the kitchen.

When he returned Mrs Hudson was supporting Sherlock's weight by bracing his shoulder, keeping him from rolling off the bed.

The ribs John had broken when he had battered him must be causing his friend a lot of pain.

That fact brought new tears to John's face, he escaped to the kitchen again to fetch the prescription pain killers to hospital had provided.

The main reason things were like they were right now were his fault.

The state Sherlock was in was due to his unfair behaviour, due to him shoving Sherlock away, hurting him by blaming him... and by assaulting him.

By the time the doctor returned to the bedroom, Sherlock was trembling hard and gasping for breath in between bouts of dry heaving.

Overall it was over fast, the detective hadn't eaten much, but it was causing without doubt a lot of pain in his bruised chest and stomach.

John changed places with Mrs Hudson.

The glass in his hand was shaking when he held it out filled with water.

"Rinse and spit," he suggested.

Slowly straightening himself, Sherlock lifted his head and reached out with an equally shivering hand.

John handed over the glass and wrapped his own hand around Sherlock's, they were both unable to securely hold it on their own. This way they managed to not let it fall.

Sherlock allowed the touch, and their gazes met for a long moment.

It was an exchange of forgiveness and understanding they shared without words.

John understood his friend had not tried to throw him out, but to just stop being seen overwhelmed by his sorrow and distress.

Sherlock knew and understood that John was very sorry for how he had behaved.

They saw each other's pain and grief mirrored in the other's eyes.

When John felt tears forming again Sherlock tried to bring the glass and both their hands to his mouth so he could take a sip and they had something else to concentrate on than their combined misery.

The detective's face was coated in sweat and tears; he did as told, rinsed his mouth and spit the water out.

In order to empty the bucket Mrs Hudson left.

The doctor filled the glass again, but this time spiked it with the pain killer drops, Sherlock was following his movements tiredly.

"Lean back," John suggested.

Sherlock was leaning on his elbow on the edge of the bed, still hanging half over it. But his trembling arm would give out sooner or later.

When nothing happened John helped him turn around.

"You can't because it hurts too much?"

Sherlock's silence was answer enough.

Carefully, John supported his weight and helped him to get back into a supine position.

Sherlock grunted and clenched his jaw.

When John held out the glass again, he took it without resistance and drank, this time his hands were much steadier. The options of good pain management were limited because of Sherlock's kidney problems and his drug use alike. This would fail to make him comfortable but was better than nothing.

Tomorrow, John decided, he'd also get some non habit-forming sleep aids for his friend, or maybe for them both.

Mrs Hudson returned the bucket to its former place in the corner.

This must have happened more than once before according to how she was handling this.

"John, go to bed, they need you rested tomorrow," the landlady suggested and sat down next to Sherlock on the door-side of the bed.

"Sure?" he directed a questioning look at them both and received nods.

With a silent sight he placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and let it rest there for a moment before he headed to the door.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock whispered after him and John gave him a sad smile before he headed up to his room.

How often had the landlady done this since Mary had died?

He was grateful to know Sherlock had not been completely on his own with this but doubted his friend had allowed her to comfort him more than absolutely necessary, unaware how to do it on one hand and not granting himself comfort on the other.

Mrs Hudson had told John she was not what Sherlock needed when she had arrived at his therapist's house in her shiny red car, hadn't she? Had told him it was him Sherlock needed.

It was nothing new but he was unable to find sleep and his restlessness was affecting Rosie, she woke around six and even after he fed her she didn't go back to sleep.

After listening to her complaining grunts for half an hour he took her out of the crib and rested her on his stomach, covered them both with his duvet.

"I miss her, too..."

His voice broke again and now he allowed the tears to flow freely.

He cried silently while Rosie somehow managed to start to relax due to the warmth and the human contact.

After a time her eyes finally closed again.

It was strange, sometimes she was unsettled by little disturbances in John's mood and other times she was overall indifferent about real distress.

Must be a self-preservation thing, John decided, and some time later her fast little breaths lulled him into a doze.

Chapter Text

Eurus had just finished explaining to Sherlock what he had done to himself and Molly and made it clear they were expected to go into the next room by opening the door.

With a heavy heart John started to follow Mycroft, but out of the corner of his eye he saw that Sherlock had put the gun down and was not following them.

Eurus mercifully had switched off the transmission although none of them had doubts that they were observed constantly.

When John stopped and looked back, curious about what the detective was doing, he found Sherlock was putting the lid on the coffin. The action was a bit unsettling and made him stop.

As if Sherlock was burying something symbolically.

His friendship to Molly?

Well aware what damage he had just done? Putting it to rest, accepting the closure?

"Sherlock?" John asked, wondering if he was interpreting the gesture right.

Sherlock dragged his hand over the wooden cover behind him.

"No. No!"

Then – to John's horror – Sherlock started to pummel the hard object with his fists.

The loud crashing noises mixed with Sherlock repeatedly screaming, "No!"

For a long moment John couldn't believe his eyes, his friend seemed to have gone berserk.

The violence and destruction executed by his friend was kind of out of character. For a moment he wondered if he had been poisoned somehow, given something that caused irrational aggressive behaviour.

Aghast, John stood in the door for a moment, trying to grasp what was actually happening.

"What's going on?" he asked no one in particular.

He had seen Sherlock shoot walls in frustration, but this, this was new.

The detective seemed out of himself, being in the act of completely losing it, which - right now - was definitely a bad thing. For all the times he had kept his head in really dangerous situation, he was doing this now?

It was a kind of an eruption, an explosion of surprising suddenness and strength.

"Sherlock?"

But it was as if his friend couldn't even hear him.

"Hey!" he yelled to make himself heard.

"Dr Watson, I fear he is unable to hear you. Please refrain from panicking. From your reaction I conclude that you have never witnessed it before, but be assured, this has occurred in the past."

"What the hell is happening?"

"Please come over here," he demanded and as soon as John was close to him, he continued in a low voice, "I'm afraid, he's having a meltdown. Which basically means he is overwhelmed by something."

"Elaborate."

"I am not sure it is in my brother's best interest to bare an aspect of his issues he really despises."

"Mycroft, you are well aware that I am the only person he would tell this and if this affects him and he needs a security net, then it's probably gonna be me anyway... or you and me, so I need to know – now!"

"Lower your voice, please. It's making it worse. He's probably hypersensitive to sensory input," Mycroft hesitated for another moment and John saw he was really not fond of the idea to do this, but understanding Sherlock would probably allow this information to be passed to him.

"Very well. He once described events like this as if everything is terminating itself. His very existence about to self-destruct... Like a doomsday scenario enfolding in his reality and he can't stop it... Dark feelings completely encapsulate his very being...immobilise him and his world. That's how he tried to explain this when he was younger."

Mycroft watched his sibling reduce the wooden structure to splinters for a moment, then dragged John through the doorway into the other room, trying to give Sherlock a bit more privacy.

"Obviously, he can't really sense you at the moment. He is overwhelmed by irrepressible frustration, or maybe anger – I am not sure he could name it, but he named it 'stress' once - maybe also by sensory input. And all this has pushed him over the edge."

"He is a control freak of all things!" John interrupted the explanation.

"Quite so. Which might actually is one of the reasons for the... problem. This is a built-up. He lost the last bit of control he had. Being manipulated, commanded, and at another person's mercy added up until it was too much. He thought he did it right, but... there is no 'right' way to do this, it's designed to make him fail."

John exhaled loudly, it kind of made sense.

"I assume the situation we are in added to an already existing mount up tension – maybe it's even mounting up since the moment his drug habit resurfaced and all that happened afterwards... So, now - finally - it is all too much, therefore the explosive release."

John winced, "You mean this is accumulated frustration from the past weeks?"

"Normally, people with these issues tend to explode a bit sooner. The delay made it difficult to find out the reasons when he was a child. He suffers from a remarkable amount of self control."

"Suffers? Most people would thing that was a good thing."

"Not if it results in things getting piled up to an amount that is a risk to his health."

Mycroft's posture was tense and his crossed armed signalled he was not happy to talk about this at all. The doctor wondered if he was talking in such a very low voice to try to prevent being overheard, not by Sherlock but by the microphones.

"He is probably already devastated and will be quite ashamed about this episode later, not because of the thing itself but also because he can't stop it and because others saw it. If there is one thing that embarrasses my brother, it's this."

John stared at his friend, who continued to throw one of the trestles against the bulletproof windows.

"From what I was told, it is a very unpleasant experience and he can't control it, not once it has started... He himself once described the physical experience as an 'obnoxious electrical sensation of energy and pressure' that he desperately needs to escape. Needless to say it's impossible... and that is shortcutting his mind... Intense tingling and palpitations add to the problem, they rise to an overwhelming intensity. If you want to help, leave him alone."

"I... This is hard. Are you sure?"

"I am. He will come out of it on his own within approximately fifteen minutes. Recovery may take another fifteen, then he'll be back with us."

"What? No! What if he hurts himself?"

"Chances are high he already has, but there is no chance in trying to restrain him. He is too strong and too agitated and unless you want to knock him out there is not really anything you could do. It's an outward display of internal anguish. Interfering will just worsen and lengthen this."

Sherlock continued to beat the coffin into pieces with a force that made John frown. The man rarely used brute force on anything... and he also never lost control.

John was overall a bit surprised Mycroft had let himself get carried away with such an amount of  lengthy private revelations, but he assumed the older Holmes just needed something else to focus on than his own distress about what had happened before.

John was still surprised that Mycroft had actually thrown up. The past weeks had kind of changed his perception of the oldest Holmes' son profoundly.  

"Mmm. What he needs right now is silence, a minimum of sensory input to be precise... and the space to come down from this in his own time. Usually a darkened room and his favourite tea help him come down. But at the moment, there is not much we can do. The light and the sound of the bulbs are probably bugging him, as well as the smell and the unfamiliarity of the location. It's all adding up. But we have nowhere to go; we are incarcerated in one of the top high security facility of the country."

"It makes him quite vulnerable. She's watching," John added.

"Yes. But I fear he is temporarily blind to such things. His ability the sense danger is – for the moment – disabled. Besides, she has seen this before, on more than one occasion. He suffered from those as a child, mostly triggered by sensory overloads... Although the frequency lessened when he grew older, but it came back in his early uni years it."

In the other room Sherlock screamed it utter distress.

"A-A-A-A-A-A-A-Argh!"

John closed his eyes in frustration.

After almost twenty minutes of what seemed to be blind rage Sherlock was finally done with freaking out.

Panting and spent he leaned against one of the walls, surrounded by the slivers and rubble he had created from the cheap burial case.

When the detective slid down the smooth surface a moment later, and faltered into a trembling heap, John was ready to come to his aid.

Mycroft had kept his distance in the past minutes, but now he stepped closer and wrapped his long fingers around John's upper arm, keeping him from joining his sibling.

"Wait until he comes out of it on his own," he whispered.

"How do I know?" John hissed back.

"I could tell you, if you don't mind."

John threw the older Holmes a sceptic and annoyed look.

Another ten minutes later Sherlock finally sat up and lifted his knees, rested his elbows on top of them, but his head was hanging low and all he did was obviously trying to get his breathing under control.

It took another six minutes until he tilted his head back so that the upper back of his skull came to rest against the wall, his eyes were staring blindly upwards.

Mycroft nodded at John, who then slowly approached his friend, trying to make his steps as silent as possible.

"Mate, can you hear me?" John spoke in a whisper, worry tainting his tone.

Sherlock nodded, but didn't meet John's gaze.

When John reached out to check him over, Mycroft stepped in.

"Don't touch him, you might actually start it all over again. He's just starting to come out of it," Mycroft explained in a barely audible voice.

"Alright. I just want to to be sure he's okay," John continued to whisper.

"He's not, I think we can all agree to that."

Without looking up Sherlock held out his left wrist and John understood it was an offering.

"Don't be gentle," Mycroft demanded, he also sounded tired.

John threw him a puzzled look, of course his first impulse was to be gentle, it was the right course of action for most patients. He was well aware that Sherlock despised gentle or subtle touches even more than touches in general.

Nevertheless, he was careful, just in a firm way, giving his touch the amount of pressure he knew was what Sherlock considered okay.

But his friend flinched anyway.

"Sorry."

"S'alright."

The doctor counted, the pulse was strong and fast... and slowing down.

"Can you look at me?"

It was more of a rhetorical question, patients normally understood it as an request to do so.

To John's surprise Sherlock shook his head, his gaze fixed on a point on the ground in front of him.

"Don't ask..." the older Holmes started.

And it was finally when Sherlock was back enough to register his brother's tutelage. He was grateful on one hand that Mycroft had done some explaining, but this was way more than necessary from his point of view. He had hated it when he had been treated like a child when he actually was one, now that he was grown up he hated it even more.

"Shut up, Mycroft," he hissed, "Wikipedia-esque is getting old."

The doctor grinned while he catalogued Sherlock's body's reactions, and right now he seemed quite shaky.

"John's way to do things is actually refreshingly different from our family's deadlocked ways to handle things," Sherlock huffed in a dead voice. "The lack of trying things different is what got us stuck in the first place. Understand that he can do things just because he is him... and because he does it different."

To John's great relieve this remark showed he was back with them – or at least back in control.

Mycroft did shut up, with his arms still crossed he started walking up and down the other room.

Sherlock gulped and was making a visible effort to calm himself down. The fingertips of his thumbs and forefingers were tapping each other simultaneously.

John realised with amazement that his posture and his movements of both halves of his body could almost be described as bilateral symmetry. His feet had the same distance to his buttocks on both sides, the positions of his hands, the angles of his fingers and joints were absolutely the same on both extremities.

When Sherlock realised John was staring at his hands he moved them to ruffle his hair, but they still moved in absolute sync.

It was extraordinary. The only thing not in sync was the visible trembling of those slender hands.

"What can I do?" John asked.

"Nothing."

"Alright."

Slowly, John stood up and fetched the weapon from the floor.

When he returned to his friend, Sherlock's forearms had found their way back to resting on his knees and his head was hanging low again.

John cleared his throat.

"I know this is difficult, and I know you're being tortured, but you have got to keep it together," he commanded gently.

"This isn't torture, this is vivisection," Sherlock's voice was hoarse and he was still breathing heavily, "We're experiencing science from the perspective of lab rats."

His head moved back to lean on the wall again.

For the first time in the past half hour his senses seemed to be directed outward again – and also for the first time he looked up at John.

Mycroft had stopped by the open door again and was staring at them both.

Then Sherlock's head minutely moved out of his own central axis when he turned it slightly towards the left.

"Soldiers?"

"Soldiers," John agreed and when he reached out to help his friend up he was very relieved that Sherlock accepted his hand and allowed him to help him up.

Chapter Text

4x02 – The mortuary

Fuming, John left the mortuary and a bleeding Sherlock behind, stormed down the hall.

He heard shouts behind him, assumed the personnel had just reached the understanding that he shouldn't be allowed to leave.

But he was through the door and out of sight before anyone could follow him.

He didn't plan to bolt; he just needed to get away from Sherlock, out of his mind with rage, not really able of reasonable thinking. He was running on instinct and a level of anger that some small aspect of him was quite surprised about.

John had been angry before in his life, several times even really angry.

But like this?

Only three or four times maybe, and in every situation the receiving end had really deserved it.

Never before he had never been this angry at Sherlock, though.

The fury was so intense it made him feel nauseous.

He hurried up the stairs.

"Shit, John, I can't believe you just did that," he heard someone screaming behind him. In his agitation, he needed a moment to understand it was a voice, trying to make itself heard over the noise of his feet on the concrete steps.

... And another moment to realise it was Mary.

He didn't stop.

She was dead.

She wasn't there.

Because Sherlock had killed her!

Bloody Sherlock Holmes!

So he ignored the ghost of his wife.

"I can't believe you just fucking left him there with that monster – alone in the same room! What the hell is wrong with you?"

He heard her steps behind him, following him - and hated his mind for doing this to him, couldn't he have one moment of peace from this nightmare!

He felt the need to punch something else... a wall... anything, but he didn't stop, he just ran.

"Go and get Molly," she demanded.

When he continued up the stairs as if she wasn't there she suddenly appeared in front of him, blocking his way.

"Now!" she screamed with a level of anger he had never seen on her before.

It was such a surprise he stopped dead in his tracks.

Both their anger seemed to be crackling in the air between them.

Sure, she was a person who could stand up in a fight, but this was new. She was equally angry at him as he was at Sherlock.

"You almost just beat you best friend to death - although he already has life threatening issues. Or did you fail to notice what Molly said?"

"He killed you!" John screamed and shoved past her, continued running up the thankfully empty staircase.

"No he didn't! Have you gone off the roof, or what?"

He was still boiling with an irritating mixture of anger and panic, her remark making it not better.

"He could be dying!"

"I don't care!" John spat.

"Yes, you do!"

But John didn't stop again to argue with her.

"John. Watson! Believe me, there are many many things in life you could do wrong I would forgive you, but not this! If you let him to get harmed I will never ever forgive you. He loves you... and he loves me and he'd never have done anything to get me in harm's way - in contrast to me I might add."

John just ran.

"What if it had been the other way round?" Mary continued, following him, "If he had died because he jumped in front of me? Would you have beaten me into a pulp and left my in a puddle of my own blood? Because that's what you just did to him. I swear to you, if you kill him after I died protecting him..."

Something boiled over again.

"That's different!" John stopped dead in his tracks again.

"No, it isn't... Why?"

"Because I am married to you!"

Some aspect of John was regretting to have beaten Sherlock, but he deserved it still.

"Did you even see him? Did you look at him? Well, see but not observe, indeed."

"Are you here to gloat?"

"No. I'm here to tell you that this is shit, John Watson! Did you realise he didn't fight you? He allowed you to abuse him. He didn't even try to stop you. He even fuelled your anger. He hurt himself this way."

"Bullshit."

"Did you even realise he was crying?"

"He was in pain. I wanted him to hurt, too. Feel the same pain that I feel because you are gone!"

To his utter surprise she slapped him.

There had never been any kind of physical or violent conflict in their relationship before.

"You don't need to, you know. What you just denied to see was his honest pain and desperation, his self-hate for letting me die. He knows very well how you feel, he's not a machine. He probably did this to galvanise you, just that you are too angry to open your eyes."

John sagged down to sit on the stairs.

Was she right?

No way.

"I am not blind, I am numb," he buried his face in his hands. "I can't do this anymore."

"You will not lose it now, John! Get off your ass and get Molly. He needs medical attention. And either you take care of him or you go and get someone he trusts!"

"I can't."

"Then get Molly, for God's sake! Before security finds you and arrests you. Get up!" the last sentence was more an angry scream than just an order.

He dragged himself to his feet.

Two minutes later he banged against the doors of the waiting ambulance.

A surprised Molly opened the door, smart phone in hand, trying to clandestinely wipe her eyes.

"Where's Sherlock?"

"Inside, in the mortuary. He needs help, Molly. Go and help him."

"What happened?"

Her gaze wandered up and down his dishevelled form while she exited the vehicle.

"Take your bag and... he needs medical attention."

"What?... What happened?"

"I happened..."

"What does that mean?"

"Shut up and go!"

She flinched but fetched her bag.

With one last and a bit resentful glance at him she hurried towards the building.

Exhausted by the day's events John sat down in the open door and fetched his own phone.

It was time to call Lestrade.

When he dialled he spotted that his knuckles were bloody.

For a long moment he stared at the back of his hands.

Sherlock's blood.

He had shed Sherlock's blood.

And that was when it really hit him what he had just done.

He buried his face in his hands.

When Molly stormed down the foyer she fought tears once more. Her knees felt still weak from the revelation about Sherlock's health. His state had shocked her and she was struggling hard with the realisation that he really might not survive this.

He had been half dead already an hour ago, had his state worsened this fast?

But if he was in critical condition John wouldn't have wasted time to come out and get her, this insight made her relax a tiny bit.

The hallways were eerie silent but when she hastened down the corridor that led to the mortuary she heard loud arguing. She ran towards the entrance door and when she pushed it open all she saw was a group of people, surrounding something on the ground, some people were kneeling, some standing.

More persons were in the back of the room, watching the event.

It took her a moment to realise it was mostly medical personnel, trying to take care of someone on the ground, but something was wrong.

"Go away!"

Sherlock's voice.

Oh god.

He was really and in fact in need of medical attention?

The people seemed not really interested in Sherlock's opinion and were trying to touch him anyway.

She carefully shoved through the cluster of people.

When she spotted his collapsed form on the ground she was close to panic.

He was half on his side, half on his stomach, his head buried in his arms.

Was he trying to hide or shutting the world out?

It was quite out of character.

She had never seen him do something like this before.

But she had rarely seen him under the influence, too.

She needed to do something; he looked like a wounded animal, desperate to be left alone, cornered.

"Just go away," he moaned.

His voice was neither loud nor angry, it was a pitiful whimper that broke her heart.

She caught her lips between her teeth to keep in a horrified sound.

It was her turn to be proactive and protect the detective.

She took breath.

"Step back, I'm his doctor," she almost yelled.

Several faces turned towards her, and some people stepped back.

Wow.

She hurried into the gap, put the bag on the ground and knelt down, more people backed off, obviously glad they were no longer responsible, completely ignoring the fact that Molly was the intruder here.

"He's dangerous!"

"He threatened Mr Culverton with a scalpel," voices warned.

"Well, then you better keep your distance," she grouched, surprised her displayed aggression was working so well.

It was not really real, but not entirely fake either.

How could they assume Sherlock would do anything like this?

"You're his doctor? He acted as if he was insane," a woman with a crutch said.

Had he?

Had the drugs made him delusional?

But he never lost control, except to create a tactical advantage.

"He's on drugs, isn't he?"

Real temper started to rise in her chest, her heart was beating way to fast. But the only thing she was angry about was the fact that she didn't know what was really going on here.

This situation screamed provoked or staged, only that something had gone wrong.

She hated being clueless.

And she hated their dreadful comments.
Not getting anything right, like Sherlock always said.

"Sherlock, it's me. I'm gonna touch you," she warned, but didn't wait for a reaction before wrapping her hand around his left arm and dragging it out from where it was halfway hidden under his shoulder, as if he had tried to prevent from being touched.

"Hey? Talk to me, please?" she addressed him in a smooth voice.

He didn't fight her.

To be precise he didn't react in any way.

But she was sure it was only because it was her. He didn't like strangers up close, especially not touching him.

On the few occasions she had taken care of his needs in a medical way – before John and after the Fall – it was her exclusive right to be the one who was granted to touch him.

She was sure he was aware it was her, otherwise he'd have fought it.

Slowly, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist.

His pulse was racing like mad and difficult to spot.

"Hey. It's okay," she whispered while she leaned closer.

Behind her, a woman sucked in breath in surprise. Molly peeled back Sherlock's coat, exposing his neck and shoving her fingers in to feel the pulse in his neck.

Her fingers met wetness and only now she spotted several small puddles of blood on the floor under Sherlock's head.

Horrified she pulled her hand back, but her fingers weren't red as expected... and it wasn't saliva either.

"Did he hurt you?" someone asked.

Not understanding for a moment she watched his back and found it was trembling... or heaving?

Oh god.

Oh god!

Her panic began to rise again.

Was he crying?

Never before had she seen Sherlock lose it.

Couldn't be.

Was he?

For a long moment she just stared at the back of his head.

Unable to think.

This was horrible.

She didn't dare to touch him for what felt like a very long time but could have only been seconds, afraid he might be in overwhelming agony.

Was his pain this bad?

"Of course he didn't hurt me. What happened to him? Why is he bleeding?"

"Dr Watson disarmed him and punched him," an arrogant sounding voice came from the back of the room. She didn't look up.

Also, she didn't believe the man, it was probably Culverton, Sherlock had briefly told her about his suspicions about the man during their ride.

"He was threatening me with a knife."

Now she had enough.

"Everyone who is not here to help with the medical emergency: OUT," she ordered; now real temper was flaring.

The same tone she had used to address Sherlock with earlier, telling him he was about to kill himself.

Several people, including Culverton and the woman with the crutch left the room, only a nurse in a blue uniform, an emergency doctor, and three other people who might also be pathologists, remained.

"Sherlock? Is it true? Did John do this?" she tried to get an answer from him again.

He didn't speak, just continued to tremble.

"Hey?"

She gently touched his shoulder, "Did you hurt your back?"

Sure he could hear her, she explained, "I need to know if we have to be careful because there might be injuries to your neck or spine."

"No," he pressed out, it was barely hearable.

She relaxed a bit.

He was responsive, understanding her and responding. But she was far from just trusting his word on this. Sherlock had switched off his pain reception before.

"Go get a gurney," she addressed the personnel in the disposable plastic lab coat, they hurried off.

Good, less people to stress Sherlock out.

"Where are you hurt?" she tried to check how aware of his injuries he was.

"Ribs... at least two fractured... Brow probably needs some stitches," Sherlock diagnosed.

"Well, thank you Dr Holmes, may I see for myself?"

Inaptly he tried to roll to his side, keeping his face turned away as much as possible.

"I need you to allow me to put you on your back," she suggested.

When he gave an unnerved grunt she knew he had understood and wasn't thrilled but as she knew him he wouldn't fight them now that she was here.

She signalled the other persons in the room to help her, who hesitated.

"I need your help now," she spat, once more badly surprised about her rudeness, but she didn't have time to care for them.

They were reluctant to help, but after three minutes of careful manhandling and several held back whimpers from Sherlock the detective was finally on his back. But she couldn't see his face, he had turned his head so he was facing the wall, and he was also hiding his face under his right bent arm, maybe to hide his pain or to shield his eyes from the bright neon light.

It was a sign of how bad he really was, that he allowed this, allowed them to move him.

If he had been in any way able to stand up or leave, Molly was sure he would have done it. This underlined in a horrifying way how overwhelmed and ailing he was.

He was obviously on the end of his tether; Molly hadn't even thought it was possible that he'd be this vulnerable and passive – especially with strangers in the room with her.

She leaned over him and gently shoved a hand under his arm to lift it away, then had to wipe away his greasy hair to finally be able to see his face.

She gasped.

Sherlock's face was quite bloody and he was bleeding from nose, mouth and his left eyebrow.

"Oh god... We need to bring him to A&E, there is an ambulance outside," she ordered, not caring the slightest bit any longer that she wasn't the one in command.

A moment later she remembered that this was actually a real hospital, and in contrast to Barts it actually had an A&E.

"No... Want to stay... here," Sherlock huffed, his voice slurred and thin.

He suddenly paler even further, started shaking even harder.

Maybe it was the better choice, her friend seemed to be going into shock.

"Alright. Want me to get John?"

"No," this time Sherlock's voice broke and he hid his face again.

"Okay... ehh..."

She opened the emergency bag.

With uttermost care and as gentle as she could she started to examine him, then remembered that he despised gentle touches and started to touch him more deftly.

"When did you last... take... something?"

"After arrived... here..."

"What? You actually took something in here before you met the kids?" she was indignant at the fact.

He didn't answer and tried to hide his face again, but she caught his arm and held it.

"What did you take?"

No answer.

"Sherlock, what?"

"Pocket," he moaned and stopped resisting.

She fetched a small piece of paper and an odd looking vial from his coat pocket.

"Get me some meds to counteract this," she stood up and stepped over to the other doctor. The man took the list she handed over and read it.

"We'll get it once we arrive at the A&E," he answered, obviously hesitating to follow her orders.

"For God's sake, go check with Barts. Dr Molly Hooper, St Bartholomew's Hospital London," she handed him her ID-nametag, too.

"Why isn't anything happening? Where's security? Why isn't an emergency team already down here?"

"I am part of the team, others are on their way."

"Unbelievable," Molly huffed.

Was it Culverton's doing that they were all so slow? Sherlock had said he had a lot of influence here, it was partially his hospital, right?

To her relief, the doctor vanished after reading the list and giving back her ID.

Of course they needed to check if she really was who she claimed to be, everything else would have been extremely unprofessional, the request should have come the moment she interfered, and when she had stepped in Sherlock should have been tended to already.

Unbelievable.

She returned to Sherlock's side and knelt down next to his head, to shield him from the remaining two person's view, give him a bit of privacy.

He turned his head towards her knees, away from the light and her gaze.

When she palpated his skull she saw his eyelids flutter and close.

"No, Sherlock, stay with me."

He groaned.

"Did you fall? Did you hit your head?... Come on, answer me!"

"No... Maybe... in some way, yes... Punched... Three... times," Sherlock pressed out without opening his eyes.

Who? John?

But right now it didn't matter, all that mattered was to take care of Sherlock.

"Where else?"

"Kicked... me."

Now she actually saw a tear run down Sherlock's right temple.

Oh God...

The only reason Sherlock would actually cry was that it had indeed been John.

Frozen, she stared at another drop of liquid that pooled in his lacrimal caruncular, than spilled over the bridge of his nose and ran down his cheek.

Carefully, she stroked his hairline.

A few moments later it fell to the ground, it stunned her.

"Help's on the way, relax."

To her surprise his features suddenly relaxed completely and his head rolled forward.

"For God's sake! Sherlock!"

She gently moved his skull so he faced the ceiling, fetched a light and checked his pupil's reaction.

He was completely out.

But to her relief there was no sign of a concussion.

She unbuttoned his shirt and tugged it out of his waistband.

Bruises were already forming on his abdomen.

He gasped. The kicks had been quite hard, then.

Kicks, plural, at least three zones of impact.

"Oh, God, Sherlock..." she whined in a low voice.

No wonder he had lost consciousness.

He must be in quite some pain and the mental distress on top of that...

She could understand he hadn't really tried to stay conscious, had given in to the pull of painless oblivion.

Also, he was probably very well aware what would follow next, the painful process of undressing, a hospital gown, needles, IVs, x-rays, ultra-sounds, catheters, kidney function tests, and so on, not to mention the drugs she was planning to give him.

It wouldn't be a walk in the park.

If what she had diagnosed earlier was right, there was a whole barrage of tests necessary to confirm or disconfirm the details and she would make sure all of them were done.

Unsurprisingly, checking out was probably the best option from his point of view, from hers it was cause for even more worry.

She struggled with the idea that John might have kicked a man already on the ground. No matter how angry John was, she just couldn't imagine he'd ever do something like that.

But she didn't have a reason to not believe Sherlock.

Well, maybe he had hallucinated it was John when it was someone else, just because of his overwhelming self-loathing.

John had uttered he blamed Sherlock in Molly's presence on several occasions and she had tried to argue with him, careful but insistent.

If there was one thing that surely would destroy Sherlock and probably would even kill him, it was the loss of John Watson.

She assumed the self-harming behaviour and the drugs of the past weeks were the result of John blaming him and shoving him away.

This had to stop.

Monitoring his vitals she hoped they would hurry with that gurney.

"It's alright, Sherlock. I'm here to help. Just hang in there."

She stroked his greasy hair and wiped away another of her own tears.

Chapter Text

The first thing John registered was that he felt like shit.

He hurt all over.

Slowly - not to agitate anything and cause more pain - he lifted his head, which he regretted immediately, the pain worsened profoundly.

He was in a more or less prone position and hurt in so many places he couldn't even really pinpoint it.

To assess the situation he closed his eyes again and tried to relax for a moment.

Only then the obnoxious ringing in his ears registered, his eyesight was blurry and he blinked forcefully to get rid of the disturbance.

There was pavement right in front of his eyes.

What the hell was he doing on the pavement?

Sherlock?

When a pair of shoes appeared in his limited line of sight he immediately switched from stunned to emergency soldier mode. It was more a reflex than conscious thought when he  rolled onto his side and tried to get some distance between the person and himself to find out what was happening.

He hissed in pain, clenched his jaw and cursed.

The next moment he realised he was in front of 221B and there were flames leaking out of the windows.

Little pieces of smouldering paper in different shapes and sizes were raining down like in slow motion.

This brought his memory was back.

A granade, mounted on a drone.

Explosion.

Where was Sherlock?

He carefully pushed himself into a roughly sitting position, biting his teeth against the pain, but a pair of hands tried to hold him in place.

They weren't Sherlock's, he knew without looking at the stranger's face, so he shoved them away.

It took him only a moment to spot his best friend once he had turned the other way; Sherlock's crumpled form was only a few feet away.

The doctor was on his feet stumbling towards his friend even before he had checked the rest of the street for what was happening.

Not really clever, he scolded himself, whoever did this could still be nearby.

He tried to take a look around, but his vision was too blurry and as soon as his gaze left the ground the vertigo doubled. So it was no use anyway

He stumbled, his left foot not ready to carry his weight, and landed on his knee. The impact was quite hard and a slicing pain went up his thigh. He ignored it.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, but it took almost two seconds until he realised that he couldn't hear his own voice. It was not just that there was an obnoxious ringing in his ears, but he also couldn't hear.

When a wave of vertigo forced him to brace his fall – this time with his hands - he cursed.

There was glass and debris everywhere.

He lifted his hand and it was bloody, parts of one of their mugs and shards of glass were embedded in his flesh.

A hand wrapped around his arm, trying to move him away, but he fought it, yelled to be left alone, or so he thought - still no hearing.

Panic fuelled his forward movements.

He needed to take care of Sherlock, make sure he was alive and that he wasn't bleeding to death.

When he reached the detective, he shoved away flinders with his foot so he could kneel down behind him.

Leaning over Sherlock's back, he grabbed the nearest wrist, but there was debris sticking to his left, so he wiped it at his trousers, then tried again to check his pulse.

For a horrible second he felt nothing, but then he found it.

Fast and not as strong as it should be, but there.

"Sherlock?"

They had been hit in their backs by the blast; damage was likely to be there, although the impact on the ground might have been even worse.

Carefully, he padded Sherlock down, checking his backside for major bleedings. There was blood and the back of his trousers and the suit jacket were a mess.

One of the detectives calves had a quite large nasty burn on it, the doctor could see it through a gaping hole in the trousers leg, but nothing life threatening.

Sherlock was bleeding from multiple small cuts on his back, but also nothing that needed more than a few stitches.

The spine felt more or less okay from the outside, so he more crawled than walked around the other man to check his front side and his face.

Finally, he could see his friend's face and it was completely lax, he was definitely unconscious.

"Sherlock?"

It was odd to speak without hearing it, it was also probably no use because Sherlock might suffer from the same problem.

John's first instinct was to try to rouse him, but then, with an irrational rush of sarcasm, he thought that as long as he was out he wouldn't move and do more damage to his transport.

The doctor lifted the dark blue suit jacket away as far as possible, Sherlock was on his side, curled up. John didn't dare to move him, afraid of spinal injuries.

He reached out to check Sherlock's pupils but his hands were so dirty and bloody he refrained from doing so. He'd only make things worse, and right now there was nothing he could do about a concussion anyway.

He needed equipment, so he searched his pocket for his phone to call an ambulance.

Once more hands tried to make him do something, but without even looking up, he shoved them away. They were not important.

His medical bag was upstairs.

He found his mobile, but the display was broken and it didn't react when he touched the buttons.

"Call an ambulance," for the first time he looked at the person next to him and realised the stranger was already was speaking into his phone.

A moment later another unpleasant adrenaline rush hit him when he remembered that Mrs Hudson and Mycroft had also been at 221b. His next priority should be to check them out, too, but he didn't want to leave Sherlock alone.

Once more he raised his gaze to assess the situation, to try to spot Eurus or anyone that might look suspicious.

There were actually about five people, running around. His vision was still not right and he had problems focussing on anything.

One person was injured and sitting in between the debris under Speedy's damaged awning.

Two others were banging on 221b's front door, trying to get in.

Smoke was curling out of the broken windows above, heavy large clouds of black smoke.

Several of their things were littered on the ground around them, severely blackened.

Their home was burning.

He almost chocked on his own panicked breath and then realised there were two persons behind him, both on the phone, trying to evaluate both his and Sherlock's state.

Probably talking to a 999 operator.

Shit, shit, shit!

"Watch him, make sure he's okay. And no matter what, do not move him!" he yelled into the direction of one of the persons, then tried to get up.

The stranger behind him stood up with him, grabbing his arm once more, stabilising him.

With a grunt, John realised he would have fallen over without that support, the vertigo was getting to him.

His keys should be in his pocket.

He fumbled for them awkwardly while stumbling towards the front door.

When the hand clung to him, he ordered, "Let go! I'm a doctor. Make sure he's okay. There are two more people in there. I have a key."

The man flinched, John still couldn't hear anything and he had probably screamed in his agitation.

It had happened before, he had lived through the effects of a stun grenade once as well as been close to explosions and other loud war noises that had affected his hearing.

The people trying to open the door suddenly backed away and he wondered if the stranger had told them to assist him.

His hands hurt and there was blood oozing out of multiple small wounds, and he still hadn't managed to get the keychain out.

Somebody tried to get their hands in his pocket and when John saw the blurred outline of a long-haired woman touching him, every alarm started to howl in his head.

Was it her?

Not sure he'd recognise her in his state - she was a pro changing her appearances – he backed away.

"Stand back," he told her, according to the panting he was doing he might have yelled at her, agitated and in his hurry to check out the others.

He didn't care.

She backed off and it took John a painstakingly long time until he finally had the key in the lock and turned it.

Before he had time to give Sherlock a last gaze before letting him out of sight, John was grabbed tightly.

Droning sounds in his ears.

It took him a moment to realise he was staring into Sherlock's dirty face when he was turned around not too gently.

Sherlock was yelling at him - according to his expression - but all John heard was the high pitched ringing combined with dull droning sounds that must be speech.

In a hurry, Sherlock's hands ghosted over his shoulders and he was given a once over.

He granted Sherlock five seconds to do so, aware how he would react if the situation was reversed.

While doing so he himself eyed Sherlock carefully, to see how he was simultaneously. Sherlock shouldn't be running around, there could be internal damage he was making worse by moving.

The doctor rolled his eyes internally when he realised the same was true for him and it would be of no use to try to make Sherlock keep still.

"I can't hear you," he repeated twice, trying to make Sherlock understand, who seemed distressed about not getting answers to whatever he was asking.

The detective nodded while he hastily finished checking out his friend.

Then, Sherlock shoved him through the door and kicked it shut behind them, leaving the other people outside.

He dragged John on, who staggered with him, using the wall for support.

The painful droning rose and John assumed his friend was calling out for Mrs Hudson and his brother.

A moment later they found the landlady on top of the first flight of stairs. She was leaning over something.

When Sherlock hurried past her and knelt down, too, John assumed they had just found Mycroft.

Wildly gesturing Sherlock made her sit down on the top steps and signalled John to come up and take a look at his brother while he himself checked out Mrs Hudson.

John stumbled up the stairs, supported by his hands on the steps.

Smoke curled around the ceiling, and when John reached the landing and looked up to see if the fire was any danger to them, he saw the Arabic lamp had been shattered to pieces, as well as the stairwell window.

Smoke filled the upstairs flat and there were several smaller seats of fire, but he saw no large flames coming their way.

"Get her out," he yelled towards Sherlock while he started to carefully assessed Mycroft's condition.

The older Holmes was lying on the landing, one leg on the first step upwards. He was on his front, and both one arm were under his torso. If he had hit the wall head first this could have caused major injuries, but there were no head wounds visible.

The pulse was quick and his breathing shallow.

Once more John was afraid of spinal injuries. He checked for broken bones but found none, but he might have dislocated his shoulder.

While he was still trying to examine the older Holmes he found it was getting harder to breathe and he was coughing.

It was odd how not hearing was putting a damper on all the other sensations.

They needed to act soon or smoke inhalation might become another problem.

Suddenly someone was next to him and out of his watering eyes he saw Sherlock's from next to him. To his surprise he started to slip his hands into Mycroft's pockets, searching for something.

"Careful!" John warned while he still counted Mycroft's pulse and breathing.

The detective seemed to have found what he was looking for - a mobile phone - and moments later was typing a text message, the light of the screen illuminating the dark stairway that was filling with more smoke by the minute.

To John's surprise Sherlock held out the phone so he could read the screen:

To: Anthea

Message: Mycroft injured, assistance needed, possible severe security leak, attack on 221b, keep things under wraps. SH

John nodded.

Sherlock pressed send and shoved the phone in his own pocket, then passed them and climbed the stair further up.

"Shit, Sherlock! Don't go in there!"

But Sherlock ignored him, his hearing was probably as bad as John's. The other man vanished through the door into the kitchen, which was intact, and closed it behind him.

"Stubborn idiot!" John cursed.

He was a bit at a loss about what to do other than observe the situation and be ready to take action should things get worse.

Carefully, he palpated Mycroft's spine and ribs, as he had done with his brother only minutes earlier.

When he looked up again he spotted Sherlock passing the open door of the living room with a fire extinguisher and directing its white blaze at the sofa, then passing again and putting out other small fires.

On one hand it was a bad idea to run around in a burning room like this, on the other it was the most he could do to make sure Mycroft was as safe as possible.

The doctor knelt down again and continued to monitor the older Holmes brother; Sherlock seemed fine, though he had learned not to trust this appearance.

The next moment he was hit by wave of dizziness that made him lean sideways against the wall, but at least his hearing was coming back, he could hear sirens from outside.

Shit, the front door was closed.

He didn't have the energy to walk all the way down there to open it for them anyway.

But surely emergency services wouldn't hesitate to kick it in.

When he counted Mycroft's breathing once more he found it had slowed down.

Not good.

Also he felt more and more dazed by the minute.

Also not good.

When suddenly a hand wrapped around his upper arm, he realised he had been drifting towards unconsciousness.

Shit.

He lifted heavy eyelids and stared into a face covered by an odd looking... gas mask?

It took him quite a moment to realise it was actually Sherlock.

"John?"

The voice sounded like a muffled whisper but he was relieved to notice that his hearing was coming back.

With an impatient movement Sherlock pulled the gas mask off his face.

"How is he?"

The younger Holmes brother sounded hoarse and John could feel him shaking from the hand that was still wrapped around his arm. Sherlock looked as if he was not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Vitals stable for the moment, but he needs help soon," the doctor answered loudly, forming the words exaggerated with his lips to make it easier for Sherlock to read them.

Sherlock mouthed "What?" and John was finally sure his hearing wasn't any better than his own.

John shook his head and made a wobbly movement with his hand, which was supposed to mean, not good but also not too bad at the moment.

The detective nodded, but in his eyes, John saw sheer panic and how much it took Sherlock to actually hold it in check.

Then he remembered what Mycroft had told them before, about the fire.

He winced and hoped Sherlock didn't remember the fire that had burned down their childhood home... and also that this wouldn't jog his memories.

"You okay?" the doctor asked his friend and returned the grip, wrapping his own hand around the other man's biceps.

Sherlock gave another distressed nod while he still held on to John's arm.

For several seconds John mused about the question who was clinging to whom, when suddenly his vision started to cloud and it took him a moment to realise it was not the smoke that was causing it.

The pain in his back and his hands was getting a bit too much to ignore and he felt very tired all of a sudden.

Then the grip around his arm tightened and he was pushed downwards, away from Mycroft's crumpled form.

He had no time to complain because mere seconds later darkness swallowed him.

Chapter Text

Someone rubbed his sternum, it was painful.

"Dr Watson, can you hear me?"

Someone groaned and it wasn't him.

He immediately remembered the events that had taken place and he jerked his eyes open.

Sherlock?

Mrs Hudson?

Hands held him down.

Mycroft?

There was an oxygen mask on his face.

"Calm down, don't move. You are injured. Can you tell me where you hurt?"

John stared up into the face of a woman who was definitely not clad in the usual NHS ambulance crew uniform though her outfit clearly indicated she was a doctor.

He turned his head and his gaze wandered through the room.

It took him a moment to realise they were in Mrs Hudson living room.

Mrs Hudson?

He tried to turn his head.

"No! I said don't move! Look at me. Tell me where the pain is!" the woman urged.

John blinked.

He had no time for this.

Careful not to compound anything, he sat up.

He would have yelled at any patient who would have done this, but he was a doctor, he was well aware of the risk and the pain and there was none whatsoever of the latter anywhere near his spine.

Yes, there was pain in his head and his back, but nothing too serious.

He'd move carefully.

"Dr Watson! Don't move, I said!"

Hands were on him, but neither restraining him nor trying to make him lie back down.

Anxiously, his gaze went through the room in search for the others.

The landlady was standing in the door to her bedroom, dishevelled and dirty, but looking okay so far, she seemed to be the only one still on her feet.

The room was filled with so much medical equipment it looked more like the average resus than a living room any longer.

Sherlock was in the landlady's cosy armchair she used for watching TV or napping.

The consultant was struggling silently against the hands trying to touch him. His movements indicated he wasn't fully conscious, also, he'd probably be yelling and up if he was, too.

"All right, let's do this," someone ordered.

There were also quite a lot of people, and near the doorway to main hallway was a trolley. John couldn't see who was on it, because the person was surrounded by at least four other medics.

It took him a moment to realise the only person he hadn't seen yet was Mycroft, process of elimination...

"Anaesthetic's in."

"Tube."

John heard the distinctive heavy click of a laryngoscope folded out and locked down.

He winced, aware that it meant the older Holmes' condition was alarming enough that they had decided to take over control of his breathing.

Sherlock must have realised the same because a moment later he was up and had drastically changed the atmosphere of the room.

Yelling at the people to not touch him, he was asking about Mycroft's condition.

John saw a tall blonde woman trying to ignore him while advancing the blue tube - that was used for guiding the endotracheal tube - down Mycroft's throat. The last thing she and Mycroft needed right now was being disturbed by a panicking Sherlock, or being physically shoved while trying to intubate, it would certainly hurt Mycroft further.

Paramedics started to try to get the distressed detective back into the seat and to control the situation, but Sherlock was trying to get rid of them forcefully.

"Probable head injury, he's aggressive and combative," a man stated loudly.

"I am not!" Sherlock yelled back, his voice slightly slurred.

This was when John decided enough was enough.

He stood up, wincing in pain, and moved towards his friend.

When hands tried to reach for him, another loud female voice stopped them.

"Don't! He's the only one who can handle him."

For a moment, John was aware that he knew that voice but couldn't place it.

He reached for Sherlock and gripped both his upper arms.

"Hey! Calm down!"

The moment he tightened his grip the cuts in his palms attacked him with biting agony and he cursed silently.

But he was glad to find Sherlock had frozen and was now standing in front of him staring down.

John saw it took Sherlock actually several seconds to understand what was happening.

His eyes were wild with confusion and panic.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock croaked.

"They need to treat him, let them handle this. There's nothing you can do but let them do their work."

Sherlock swayed.

"Oi! Look at me."

Sherlock didn't, his gaze wildly went back and forth.

"Did somebody assess him?" John asked no one in particular.

"Refused to cooperate," one of the medics said.

"Sounds like him. He was not well before, but able to kill the flames. Might have inhaled smoke trying to extinguish the fires. How is his back?" John asked.

"We don't know. He was on his feet when we arrived, agitated because you and his brother were out cold. Refused to let us take a look at him, threatening us even... Stated he was fine. Arranged our efforts until..."

"... until I arrived and made him sit down at least."

John lifted his head and saw Anthea, finally recognising the voice.

"We tried to asses him again then, but ..."

"Right. I need some gloves," as soon as someone handed him a pair he carefully slipped them on.

It hurt and the insides of his hands were a bit of a mess, bloody and dirty. Moving the fingers even slightly or touching anything caused quite a lot of pain.

The doctor then returned his attention to his friend, "Sherlock, I need you to sit down."

Sherlock absently shook his head and tried to move towards the trolley that held his brother.

"Stop it, right now!" John barked.

When Sherlock flinched he immediately regretted his harsh tone, afraid it might trigger bad memories of the things that had happened in the mortuary.

But the eyes that lifted to meet his were - this time - full of trust, pain not sorrow.

It made John's heart quite heavy, he didn't deserve this kind of trust after the damage he had done to his best friend.

"Sorry," John hurried to say, now in a very different tone, "Calm down... Hang on."

The former army surgeon then addressed the medical staff, well aware that due to medical issues they might get separated and he needed them to know some things about his friend.

"For the record. This is Sherlock Holmes in a great amount of pain, propelled by worries and... Shit."

At that moment Sherlock finally failed to hold himself up.

John reached for him to hold him upright and steady, but the pain it caused made him gasp.

Luckily two other people were ready to keep the consultant from falling because John wouldn't have been able to do so any longer.

Although Sherlock wasn't out, he hung limply in their holds.

"Get him on the sofa."

"Dr Watson, I strongly recommend that you sit down, too."

"I'm fine."

The medic who had just reported Sherlock's earlier behaviour huffed sarcastically, his nametag said 'Harold'.

"Don't put him on his back, there's glass and cuts and..."

They followed John's advice and sat the younger Holmes brother down, who immediately leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. This way John could have a glimpse down his back.

The dark blue suit jacket Sherlock had worn earlier that day was gone and Blood was seeping into the pale blue shirt on several places. The fabric was a mess with brown and red smears, cuts and small tears.

He was shaking badly and John feared he'd fall over sooner or later.

"Alright, I need to have a look at your back and see if there are broken bones, please," John rested his fingertips on Sherlock's shoulder.

"How's Mycroft?" Sherlock slurred.

"IV port?" John addressed Harold who then started to collect equipment from his bag.

"Dr Watson, you really should let us treat you, too," the woman from before said.

John looked up at her and read her nametag.

She was the emergency doctor - or one of them.

"Maria. Stop bugging me. There is no chance in hell you'll be able to treat him like this. He's running on fumes and on a kind of autopilot, not in his right mind, due to the pain and the stress. There's no arguing with him like this, at least not from a stranger. So I fear I have to do this before I can have a break. I assure you, I am fine for the moment. I'm probably in a better condition than he is and good luck with trying to convince him of anything on your own."

"Listen to him," Anthea added.

"In case I pass out, get Mrs Hudson to yell at him. It should suffice."

Anthea managed a huffed and stifled laugh.

Without a warning Harold came back and tried to grab Sherlock's hand to put a pulse ox on, he obviously thought his patient was back to reason, but instead, the touch unsettled him even more.

The detective flinched violently when touched and shoved the man away, then tried to get up again.

"Blimey!"

Three pairs of hands reached for Sherlock, who was too decrepit to get far but failed to recognise that.

John grabbed him hard, pinning him in place with his least injured hand.

"Sherlock! Stop it!" he hissed.

His friend froze once more, a frown on his face that signalled John: intense pain and seriously agitated by the whole situation.

"Give me that IV start kit. Keep him from leaning back... Mate, you will allow them to touch you. I am here, but I need their help. I am in quite some pain and..."

The last sentence caught Sherlock's attention immediately.

Bingo.

The detective visibly struggled to focus on John, but wasn't really successful.

John used the moment and reached for the kit, then started to clean the back of Sherlock's hand with the prepared alcohol swab.

Moving his hands was a struggle, and he had to clench his teeth to keep going. Gripping his wounded friend tight had made it considerably worse.

Anthea and Harold helped to keep Sherlock in an upright sitting position; although he weakly tried to minimise the points of contact.

"Keep still. Might sting a bit," John warned and shoved the needle surrounded by the tiny tube into the vein.

As soon as the cannula was in the correct position he pulled the needle out and secured the IV port with the provided plaster.

"John?" Sherlock sounded lost and quite vulnerable.

"I'm here. Tell me what hurts," John asked his friend the same thing he had been asked only minutes ago.

Adrenaline was a wonderful thing.

At the moment John felt little of his earlier pains but was well aware it was only a matter of time before he himself would need further attention. He felt dizzy and slightly nauseous.

"Dr Watson?"

Another young female paramedic stood behind him, holding a chair by its backrest. John nodded gratefully and she placed it behind him, so he could sit in front of his best friend.

"Sherlock? Where do you hurt?"

Of course the other man didn't answer. But John was aware that due to all the stress, the adrenaline and Sherlock's sensory procession issues he was maybe in fact unable to do so.

"Alright. How bad is the pain?" he attached the pulse ox to Sherlock's finger that Harold offered him.

Sherlock was shaking so much by now that John was afraid the tiny apparatus would fly off within moments.

His friend was in shock.

"Bad," Sherlock huffed and that answer sent a jolt of anxiety through John.

If Sherlock admitted this he must be really bad.

"How... how's Mycroft?" he stammered.

"Maria, can you try to get an update?" John asked the other doctor.

She bustled off; Sherlock's gaze clinging to her back in deep concentration to hear what would be said.

"Ketamine, now," John hissed in Harold's direction.

"She'll tell us in a minute," he assured his friend, "I need you to try to tell me how you feel. Come on, concentrate. I don't want them to categorise you comatose because you don't bother to answer any questions. Would distort their assessment and treatment, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock was silent for several long seconds but John saw he was trying to find words.

He drew breath, but then closed his mouth again.

"Hey, focus!" John nudged his forearm with the back of his index finger.

"Maybe he's confused because of the knock to the head?" Harold suggested.

"No. More likely he's overwhelmed by the sensory input and the pain... and the worry, probably. He senses things different. You really need to read his file before he is given any meds or treatment at the hospital, make sure, alright?" John addressed the paramedic, who had a syringe ready by now and nodded.

"Noted. But why?"

"He's had bad reactions to meds in the past and he reacts out of the norm to certain things... also there are drug issues and he recently suffered from... kidney failure... Just read the damn file."

"We did. And we've treated him before," Maria said coming back.

John took the syringe and decided against warning Sherlock what he was about to be given, he'd only freak out even more.

With unfocussed eyes Sherlock looked up at her and to John's relief she started to explain what was happing to his brother.

Because of the head injury they wanted to make sure Mycroft's airways remained clear and therefore had intubated him as a precaution. They also preferred to be safe than sorry in case he stopped breathing. The possibility of smoke inhalation was adding to the issues.

She explained things in detail, probably aware that she was used as a distraction.

Although Sherlock flinched slightly when John connected the needleless syringe with the injection port and slowly pushed the painkiller into his bloodstream, overall he was preoccupied by listening to Maria.

The sedating effect the drug had – in addition to the painkilling effect - was what had made John chose it in the first place.

Ketamine was not a really good option with Sherlock's drug issues and health problems after the recent relapse, but he was through withdrawal and this was the least bad option they had at hand at the moment.

Sherlock's hazy focus remained on Maria.

"So, no reason to really worry, yet. It's more of a precaution," she finished with a smile, "We will take good care of him."

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Your status?"

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Bit shaken, few cuts, fair amount of bruises. Stained ankle probably... Overall fine," he assured him, aware that they'd have a second uproar at hand soon if Sherlock believed he was in severe danger.

"I need to take care of security," Sherlock mumbled.

"No. No, you don't," John argued, "Anthea is taking care of that. You need to tell me how you landed on the pavement, though."

"Fell feet first, can't remember anything else," Sherlock huffed.

"Yeah, me neither. Alright."

"Shouldn't we make him lie down?" Harold asked.

"No," John didn't bother to explain.

Mycroft's PA stepped in, "It's alright. This crew has Mycroft's full trust. They are aware of the possible security breach and what that means. The operation is kept under wraps and we'll bring you to a high security medical facility. No one will know your true identity once you arrive there. The medical files were adjusted to the secrecy level, there are cover names. Also, you won't be separated as long as there is no medical need."

John rolled his eyes.

In one room with the Holmes brothers, great.

On the other hand, this order was probably somewhere in Mycroft's file, posted years ago, proceedings for this kind of emergencies.

It kind of made sense on one hand, on the other, it completely didn't.

Sherlock nodded, obviously the instructions were not new to him, he was probably the one who had been involved in writing them.

Also, the relative calm of the paramedics taking care of his brother made it clear things were not as bad as they could be.

"Mate, can you look at me, please?" John asked. "Pen light," he added in Harold's direction.

Sherlock didn't really bother to follow the doctor's instructions, and then - to John's utter surprise - his friend started humming.

It was the song Eurus had sung, transmitted by the drone... the one Mycroft had said she had answered the questions about Redbeard's whereabouts with.

"Hey? Look at me?"

No reaction.

Sherlock seemed lost in his thoughts or had gone off to his mind palace.

Shit. This couldn't be good.

The mind palace and sedatives didn't mix well, they had made that experience before.

John hoped the psychological trauma wouldn't start to resurface now.

This very moment would be the worst time for Sherlock to find his repressed memories, it also wouldn't go well with the ketamine.

"Sherlock? Look at me!" John's tone was sharper now, it was an order.

Very slowly, the younger Holmes lifted red rimmed eyes and then his head started wobbling in slow motion.

But now there was no panic in his eyes, only sadness, exhaustion, and genuine worry.

The calming effects of the medication was starting to do their work.

Luckily Sherlock was not the type that started babbling or behaving odd if drugged. The downside was it was hard to notice his state immediately or if the drug was starting to work.

Without haste, John put the pen down and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's nape, ready to steady him, but inwardly cursing about the pain the touch caused him.

"What did you give me?" Sherlock slurred his words a bit.

"You're gonna be alright, mate."

"Ehh," Sherlock moaned weakly, "For god's sake..."

His voice had thinned and was barely a whisper.

John stood up, guiding his friend down so he'd lie on his side. Maria and Harold stepped in to help him.

Sherlock blinked furiously.

"There you go, relax," John soothed, leaning over him, a calming hand on the side of his head.

For a few moments Sherlock's face contorted as if the pain was getting worse, but then his features relaxed when he was pulled under.

"Sit back down, doctor," Maria urged.

While slowly sitting down again, John silently counted to twelve.

"Okay. Get off his shirt and trousers. Assess his back... and there's a nasty burn on the back of his calf. He needs fluids, start on warm saline."

Exhaustion was trying to get to John, too. It started to affect him more and more.

"Please note in the file that just this morning - about an hour ago - he was confronted with the recount of traumatic childhood memories that also involved a fire in his childhood home. He has repressed the memories until now and he might develop issues related to that. He has problems with the after effects of sedation and should probably be given midazolam to soften the impact of the ketamine... to prevent nightmares and anxiety. Also, make sure I'm around to keep him from panicking and monitor his emergence closely. He'll be a handful. Respect his sensory issues. It's in the file how to do that," John informed Maria, she seemed to be the more experienced one.

"Dr Watson, can I have a look now? It will take a moment until Sherlock is freed of the clothes."

"God. Not how I imagined the day to go," John tried to joke.

"Yeah, I tend to cause that men lose their clothes," she bantered. It was the typical medical humour in stressful situations.

She shone the light into his eyes again, when she tried to fit him with another oximeter probe she hesitated.

"In how much pain are your hands?"

He looked down and saw that - in contrast to what he was used as a medical man - the gloves were thoroughly bloodstained from the insides. It looked quite odd.

He also discovered there were several small cuts in the gloves.

No wonder it was hurting this much, there must still be shards of glass embedded in his hands that had damaged the gloves.

"Oh," Harold made next to them and immediately both doctors turned towards him.

The paramedic had bared his patient's back and paled a bit. John remembered that Sherlock's back was already covered in scars.

From this perspective John couldn't see his friends back but was sure it was quite a mess. John hadn't had the chance to inspect the marks often in the past, Sherlock was oddly shy or ashamed or whatever about them. He actively hid them from John, that much the doctor was sure.

"Yes, he's been tortured," Maria stated, before the medic could ask. "I was with the team that took care of him on the flight back."

John frowned and looked up at her.

"You were?"

She nodded grimly and he decided to ask some more questions later.

Out of the corner of John's eyes he saw Harold use pincers to remove some shards of glass from Sherlock's back to prevent more injuries during transport.

Meanwhile Maria cut off his nitrile gloves and gently pressed a large bundle of iodine soaked gauze into both his palms, then taped them down.

"Any pain in your back or spine?"

"Still none."

"But you feel like shit, don't you?"

He nodded.

A second trolley was wheeled in.

"Oh, Jesus," John blinked, his vision had suddenly started to blur and the new wave of vertigo hit him hard.

"Mycroft's ready to go," Anthea added from the other side of the room, her professional smile was absent and her complexion was pale, she looked quite grim.

"Sharp scratch," Maria warned before she shoved the catheter into John's forearm.

"Ready to go in four minutes," Harold announced while he wrapped medical cling foil around Sherlock's burned calves to minimise fluid loss.

With a terrified inhale, John realised he was wrapping both calves and on one side even the thigh, had John missed the second injury?

Was it really this bad, that it needed the foil?

Only about a minute later - Maria had injected John with some light painkiller - she was arguing with him about walking to the ambulance on his own steam.

Meanwhile Sherlock was slid from the sofa to the gurney and strapped in, cervical collar around his neck. He was surrounded by medical equipment.

"Come on, don't delay the ambulance," John slowly stood up and spotted Mycroft's PA standing halfway in between the ambulance and the backdoor, on a spot from which she was able to see all three of them, at least partially.

She must be a competent agent, otherwise Mycroft wouldn't employ her, but now her alert posture and intense gaze made John realise she not only worried about her boss but also she was suddenly burdened with all the responsibility. She was surely capable to do it, John had seen her in action before - under difficult circumstances, but he was a bit reluctant to load her with another burden, himself.

That and probably he had the same issues Sherlock had, he couldn't hand over control of his best friend's care to strangers.

It was even more difficult to do that than to endure his aches.

Maria reached under his arm to support him and they stumbled after the trolley that carried his best friend. She had given up arguing that him breaking another bone from a fall due to stubbornness would delay the transport further.

They exited through the kitchen back entrance and John realised he felt quite bad as he staggered towards the waiting ambulance. His mind wandered back to the last time he had followed Sherlock being moved on a trolley.

He barely had time to realise he had started to pant when suddenly he was shoved backwards into something soft right behind him.

"Alright, this is enough, you won't make it," Maria informed him, no nonsense.

He leaned back into what must be a carry chair and tried to stay awake.

The thing tilted backwards with him and caused additional vertigo.

Hands were on him and he realised they were strapping him in, even also fitting him in a collar.

So fucking tired.

"John, come on, relax. Being all tensed up will make your pain worse," Maria coaxed.

John desperately tried to decide if he trusted Anthea to have the situation under control and make sure they were out of reach of Eurus' doings.

Then Anthea was suddenly next to him and leaned down.

"Dr Watson, everything is under control."

He briefly wondered if someone had blatantly told her to address him or if she really did care.

Well, she cared for Sherlock, so she probably cared for him, too, at least by proxy.

Tired...

And finally John let go, not trusting her a hundred percent to keep all three of them safe, but too exhausted to really fight any longer.

He had drifted off into an exhausted doze before they reached the vehicle.

Chapter Text

The Hospital – Part 1

When John regained awareness it was a slow process.

The first thing he noticed was that he was quite unnerved about something.

Noise.

Quite an amount, actually.

What the hell was Sherlock doing?

He'd wake Rosie.

For almost a minute he tried to move into a more comfortable position and sleep on, until he realised that something was hindering him. He felt restrained and there seemed to be a heavy weight on his chest.

Then the rhythm of the noise actually registered with his half conscious mind.

MRI.

It was an MRI machine.

The loud clonking and swooshing clear and unique.

He groaned.

"Dr Watson, can you hear me? Are you awake? You're having an MRI scan."

His body needed a bit longer until it connected with his thoughts, it continued to try to roll to his side, but the frame pinned him down quite strongly.

"Dr Watson, open your eyes. Can you hear me?"

Also, there seemed to be a head immobiliser.

"Dr Watson? Do we need to abort the scan?"

"No," he grunted, desperately trying to calm down and fighting his fight or flight response. His adrenaline was pumping and it was giving him quite a headache.

He didn't open his eyes, remembering well enough that being inside the tube felt much worse when one actually saw how narrow it was.

"Alright, calm down... Just breathe for a minute," the bodiless voice from the computer room instructed.

His first impulse was to ask for the Holmes brothers but he stopped himself, a radiographer was not up to date about what was happening in resus.

Noticing that his thoughts were quite sluggish and that he felt warm and cosy made him aware that he had probably been given the good stuff.

Regulating his breathing proved to be more difficult than he thought. In fact, he was panting, which annoyed him - in addition to cause him pain.

He had barely time to put some more effort into it, when he felt the bed was moved out of the scanner.

Someone touched his hand.

"Dr Watson, calm down, deep breaths... Open your eyes for me," the voice of another person.

He was trying, but it was not working very well. The only thing he managed was to force his eyelids up.

The light was blinding and he regretted it immediately.

"Can you understand what I am saying?"

He tried to nod, but the head brace stopped him.

"Yeah," he croaked.

"Calm down," she repeated.

"Tryin'."

Suddenly, he found a new understanding for why Sherlock was often so annoyed about his transport not doing what his brain wanted.

This was a bit like it.

He knew he needed to calm down and he wanted to, but his body had other ideas. He remembered the same vulnerable feeling from when he had been wounded and in rehab and his body was not cooperating, immobilising him by mental and physical issues.

The sense memories added to feeling disconnected and nauseous.

He didn't try to open his eyes again, it would make the situation even more real and he wouldn't be able to see anyone - at least not until they decided to lean into his line of sight.

People leaning over him while he was lying down had been a major trigger since Afghanistan, so he should probably avoid that anyway.

He was way to busy trying to get a grip on himself and barely registered the passing of time or the fact that there was another voice, then he sank back into oblivion.

.

The next time John woke he had severe difficulties sorting out what was happening. He was aware he should be in some resus room - or in a cubicle for emergencies.

But what he saw was not really fitting in with that knowledge.

From the setting, his first guess was post-OP, but then he felt someone was working on his head from behind.

A moment after he had first opened his eyes a nurse with a mouth cover and in a surgical paper gown was standing in front of hhim.

He was on his side and clad in a hospital gown, which only covered his arms currently.

The collar and the neck brace were gone and the back of his head was touched, although it felt odd.

Local anaesthetic.

"Don't move, Dr Webber is stitching your wound."

Which wound?

"Nice of you to join us, doctor. I've just started with your head. Your hands will be fine, no ligament or tendon damage. There was some muscle damage, but nothing severe. Though painful, it's superficial and will heal in a few days."

John lifted his hands into his line of sight. There were at least twenty stitches all over his palms. The black threat was surrounded by the brown red of iodine solution.

"I will bandage that in a moment," the nurse in front of him said while holding him steady. Moving his hands had made his torso wobble apparently.

"Sherlock?"

"Right behind us. He's been taken care of, too."

"Status?" John asked.

"Dr Meril?"

A female voice from behind them answered.

"Patient's back needs a lot of stitches, we went one better on the ketamine because he started to fight us while half conscious - in earnest. He is quite a fighter, isn't he?"

John groaned, of course he was.

"MRI showed five slightly broken ribs, but not fractured or in danger of puncturing a lung. Dislocated left elbow and three broken toes, mostly second degree burns on both calfes, two small sports of third degree. Gave him propofol before trying to set the elbow, but it kind of didn't work. Therefore the ketofol."

"Shit," John groaned, well aware Sherlock would have a really bad time waking up.

"Sorry, but we tried without at first and gave him hell that way. I finally needed to make a decision."

"I know, it's difficult," John agreed with a hoarse voice. "Anything else?"

"Mild case of smoke inhalation, hairline fracture in the left tibia, heavy bruising and... distress."

John stiffened.

"We didn't manage to set the elbow, yet. Too much of a fight. Considering anaesthesia."

"Well, either knock him out properly or do it while he is fully awake, but don't try to in a half-conscious state, it will bring back memories of torture and he will fight you teeth and claws," John suggested, "Any issues that indicate it needs to be set soon?"

"No, blood flow is fine. Movement of hand was good."

"Then wait."

There was silence for a moment and John tried to relax, then he added, "Mycroft?"

"Will be here any moment. Pneumothorax, three ribs fractured at multiple points, fixation needed on all of them. Concussion, several lacerations, severe bruising, few stitches on his back."

John exhaled.

The older Holmes was actually not as severely wounded as it appeared in the beginning, there were many injuries but nothing life altering or deadly.

"Expect him to arrive any minute," a nurse stated.

"Are you actually interested in your own injuries, Dr Watson?" Dr Webber asked from behind him.

"Yeah, listening," John answered.

"Sprained ankle, two deeper cuts in the knee, just flesh wounds, already treated, five and eight stitches. Multiple cuts on both hands, as you saw. Multiple cuts upper and lower back, small laceration at the back of the head, four o'clock. Very mild concussion, perforated eardrum on the right... did I forget anything?"

"Nausea?" John added.

"Nausea?" the nurse frowned, looking at the doctor behind him.

"Bit more than would fit a 'very mild concussion' or 'carbon monoxide poisoning'," John explained.

"Yes, your lab results showed none of the latter."

"Your MRI showed no internal bleeding," the doctor added, "We'll have the otologist check on you, see if there's a problem with your sense of balance."

John closed his eyes for a moment, to let it all sink in.

He must have drifted off again, because the next time he opened his eyes, there was a bed in his line of sight that contained a freshly operated Mycroft surrounded by medical personnel.

There were touches on his back. Someone – probably the nurse from before – was bandaging his wounds.

His gaze lazily wandered through the room, eyed Mycroft in detail and wondered how long it was till they gave them a room.

Overall, he was just tired and exhausted and wanted to sleep.

Then suddenly he heard something that send his adrenaline pumping once more.

Sherlock was humming that song again and not in a relaxed and dreamy way, but in a creepy and choking style, breathing heavy in between the tones.

"Finished? I need to get up."

"You should stay put, Dr Watson."

"I know I should, I'm a doctor. But I need to check on Sherlock. He's about to freak out."

"Alright, let me bring this gurney over there," she offered, much to John's surprise.

She undid the breaks and a moment later he was moving, which made his dizziness skyrocket.

He groaned and felt pathetic for it.

By the time his gurney stopped next to Sherlock, who was now lying in a fancy high tech hospital bed, he had adjusted to movement a bit.

Very slowly he sat up. The nurse helped him by holding him steady, while he lowered his bare legs off the trolley.

The damn hospital gown travelled down his right arm, the nurse slipped it back up and tied the ribbons.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

How often had he used that exact phrase in the past hours?

He had lost count.

It was just one step to his friend's bed and he carefully put his good foot on the ground, not even trying to put weight on the other, which was bandaged, too.

Moving in slowmo he found he could stand just fine, and once he was vertical the vertigo slowly dissipated.

"Hey mate, what are you doing?"

To his utter surprise, Sherlock stopped humming and answered.

"Please make a note in my file that no one ever gives me this obnoxious drug again, it feels horrible," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Sherlock sounded as if sheer willpower was preventing him to succumb to a full blown panic attack.

"Noted... Sorry. The other drugs at hand would have been worse... or contained opioids."

John reached for his friend's lower arm, not sure he'd be allowed the touch.

And as soon as he made contact, Sherlock's hand jerked away.

"Hypersensitive?"

"How's my brother?" Sherlock wanted to know.

John made a step back, leaning against his trolley again.

"Overall better than expected. Nasty but nothing severe. How are you doing? How bad is the pain?"

"Leave me alone."

 Sherlock rolled onto his side, turning his back to John. Which made both, John and the nurse suck in air, they expected this to cause a lot of pain.

John winced when he saw the large amount of bandages and red streaks across his friends back.

Apparently they had managed to relocate the elbow.

He was certain Sherlock was in quite some pain, even without trying to move, most moderate painkillers were not working too well with him. Of course morphine would work, which he wouldn't get.

Nevertheless this reaction was not really what the doctor had expected, but surely nothing new. His friend was trying to handle the physical agony and wanted to suffer in solitude, which he could absolutely understand.

John sat back down, not sure what to do next.

Mycroft was out.

Sherlock wanted alonetime... and he wanted to sleep.

He was sure they were all in good hands and from what he had seen until now this facility was well equipped and the personnel - that was still bustling around - very professional and capable, and even informed of special needs and issues.

How often had he had long arduous discussions with hospital staff about sensitivities they didn't care about because it would have been too much work.

"Dr Watson, we are ready to move you to your room now," another male nurse came in.

"Quiet!" Sherlock yelled but John was just happy that he wasn't freaking out in some kind of panic, everything else he could handle.

John nodded.

The nurse from earlier was still behind him, ready to assist.

"Wheelchair?" he addressed her.

"I'll get one," she answered in a low voice.

Chapter Text

They had made it into the hall and almost halfway down when John noticed that Sherlock was starting to become restless on his bed that was pushed down the hall in front of John. Mycroft's bed was the first in the row but was way down the hall already.

A few seconds later all hell broke loose when someone started to scream.

The bed caravan came to an abrupt halt.

It was more a screech really and John needed a moment to realise it must be Sherlock, which he only understood because people hurried over to his bed and tried to figure out what was happening.

Shit.

This didn't sound like his friend, this sounded like a panicked child, out of his mind in fear.

"Has he been given something to counteract the ketamine aftermath?" John asked Dr Meril when she passed him.

"Yes, but we could top that up a bit now. Pain killer is probably wearing off, too."

"Do it."

"I will top up both. Don't get up," the other doctor hurried to the detective's side but John ignored her and tried to move the bulky wheelchair on his own. The nurse who had pushed him had joined the others at Sherlock's bedside since he had started to struggle with his duvet and the hands that tried to calm him.

Right when he wondered how much damage he'd do to his hands by trying to wheel himself to his friend's bedside, another nurse appeared behind him and was grabbing his upper arm.

"Stay put, I'll bring you over," he offered and John thanked whatever deity there was for the understanding these people were showing.

The detective was surrounded by people now, who tried to calm him and keep him on the bed, but to no avail.

The state of the art hospital bed was rattling by the movements of the detective, he was clearly not aware what was happening.

"Mike?... Mike?" Sherlock yelled in panic.

"Make room, please," John addressed the medical personnel.

The staff allowed him to roll close to the bed.

"Sherlock, listen to me!"

But his friend didn't seem to hear him, still frantically tried to get off the bed on the other side.

Gentle hands hindered him and rolled him back onto the bedding but otherwise the staff tried not to touch him.

John stood up, cursing internally. Many times before his sheer presence or voice had been enough to bring Sherlock out of bad episodes. The doctor realised he had kind of started to rely on that.

"Mikemikemikemikemike?"

Sherlock's desperate cries echoed down the hall and gave John goose bumps.

"He's fine, mate. He's just out for the count."

There was so much panic and pain in the voice John was sure his friend was beyond talking down.

He reached out, carefully touched Sherlock's shoulder.

... And Sherlock went berserk, screeching and trying to get away.

"Hey mate, listen to me," John tried again.

There was no sign of recognition but he continued.

"Sherlock! Can you tell me what's happening? Come on. What's stressing you out?"

When his friend tried to get past the nurses and out of the bed, several hands reached out to prevent a fall.

It was as if an adrenaline rush was giving Sherlock extra strength, although – since he was very weak overall – it wasn't getting him anywhere.

"Alright people. Touching him is making things worse, probably because in his half conscious state he associates it with the torture he has been through about two years ago. The burns probably are hurting like hell now, which adds to the problem. We need to keep him still without touching him," Dr Welsh stated loudly.

"Mike... Mike...Mike..."

The calls became monotone, which was not really a good sign.

Sherlock's hand had formed fists and they opened and closed, clinging to the bed sheets. He still continued to call out for his brother, but his voice was getting hoarse.

"Get me a fair dose of that anti-anxiety drug recommended in his file, and add a good dose of the painkiller," Dr Webber ordered from the other side of the hallway and one of the nurses hurried away. "As soon as the meds are in, we let go of him and restrain him with the linens."

To John's sorrow, the only thing he could do was watch. He stared down at his friend, who was shaking and weakly trying to escape them, jerking his head this way and that, but hadn't had the strength left to even lift his torso or sit up.

"Hey, Sherlock, calm down. It's alright. You're gonna be fine," he tried to soothe.

But it did nothing for the detective, it was as if he had turned deaf and blind to the real world.

Sherlock's empty gaze scampered through the hallway, seeing nothing. His breathing was coming in short gasps and he was trying to shake invisible hands.

Another wordless scream echoed down the corridor, this time Sherlock sounded like a man.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, trying to make himself heard.

When Sherlock ran out of air, John addressed him again, loud and clear.

"Hey, mate! Come on," John raised his voice.

"Mikemikemike?" the words had turned into a whisper.

The former army surgeon recognised this tone of voice well; he had heard it from several patients in the course of his career.

He was sure his friend wasn't really conscious, his drugged mind running wild and on instinct, driven by fear and horrors only he could sense.

And the ketamine intensified all the negative feelings and sensations, pushed him unwillingly into amok mode while temporarily erasing most of his intellect.

There was no use in trying to reason with his friend, Sherlock couldn't really process anything in this condition, but he would hopefully also not remember anything later.

"Mate, you need to calm down. Look at me!" he tried nevertheless.

The detective continued to try to shake something off, then started to rock his torso back and forth. His movements were probably immensely intensifying the pain his injuries caused, which fuelled his anguish profoundly.

Then the nurse returned, armed with a syringe.

She pushed the substance into Sherlock's bloodstream while an orderly tried to hold the man's arm still.

"We'll try this, but make sure not to put any pressure on his lower legs, where the burns are... Alright, guys. Now, lower the side rails, grab the sheets and lift them high," she ordered and three nurses and two orderlies nodded and started to follow her instructions.

"Stretch them out in the air over him, tight. Lower them down on him and pin him down by tugging them under the mattress," she ordered.

The movements happened so fast John had barely time to blink.

They had Sherlock pinned down gently after only a few seconds.

"Wow. Where did you learn that?" John asked.

"Nowhere, but he was a bit agitated before, then we put him in the immobiliser for the scan and it kind of calmed him immensely... So,... this is just me improvising."

Sherlock's movements slowed down, the drugs and the gentle restraining taking effect.

Within just a minute Sherlock's resistance flagged, he slowly relaxed and his eyes drooped.

"I think we should keep going," one of the nurses urged.

When they started to push the bed further down the hall, John remembered just in time that putting weight on his ankle was not the best option and limped back to the wheelchair.

"God, I need some crutches," he cursed, then remembered that his hands were not in any state to carry his weight any time soon.

By the time they reached the room, the drug had done its full work, made Sherlock docile and relaxed, all anxiety chemically blown away.

Although the detective seemed conscious, his glassy and empty eyes spoke volumes about the state of his mind.

It made John cringe to see him like this.

The lost and sorrowful look reminded him too much of Sherlock on the ground in the mortuary, wounded and lost in desperation.

Remembering what he had done to his best friend still caused nausea in the doctor and although he thought he deserved to suffer from these memories, he didn't need to lose it with a handful of doctors and medical staff present.

The nurses connected Sherlock and Mycroft to the stationary equipment that would monitor their respiration, heart rate, temperature and blood pressure.

.

It took almost thirty minutes until they were settled.

Mycroft woke up during the process, obviously not happy about the state he was in, but his first conscious thought seemed to be his little brother, which amazed John, who moved over to the older Holmes' bed as soon as he had uttered an weak and hoarse, "Sherlock?"

"He's being a bit difficult, but he'll be fine," John assured him.

"Was he... screaming earlier?"

"Yeah, he was agitated. He's been taken care of. Relax, Mycroft. They operated on you and you need some rest. You'll be fine."

When the older Holmes took a shaking breath to argue, John held up a hand.

"Don't get agitated, it might worsen your state. Just relax. I mean it Mycroft!"

"I don't do... agitated," Mycroft protested weakly.

John just rolled his eyes. There were so many things in which the siblings were so very similar.

"Yeah, right."

"Excuse me, but we need to check him over," the head nurse interrupted their conversation, "And I want you in your own bed, Dr Watson. You were injured, too. You too need rest."

John watched them give Mycroft potent pain medication that made him quite sleepy.

A few moments later the British Government was out.

Looking weak, damaged and vulnerable like the average human being would in his state.

John had never seen Mycroft like this before, it was ghastly.

As was the memory of Mycroft recollecting the things Eurus had done in their childhood a few hours ago.

This all felt so very wrong.

John needed to check on Sherlock again himself, even if he felt dizzy and shaky. He reassured his now also sleeping best friend – in calming words – that Mycroft was alright and that he would be too. Then he stroked his hair back, the burned smell of their home was still quite present.

John frowned.

They needed to take care of that. The smell was probably quite intense from Sherlock's point of view, might cause him to get agitated again. Better nip that in the bud.

The doctor made a mental note to inform the nurses about this as soon as possible.

His knees felt suddenly weak.

He had kept his cool until now, but the events of the day hit him full force and he realised that he wouldn't manage to stay on his feet for much longer.

Accompanied by a rising amount of vertigo he climbed into his own bed, shivering from exhaustion.

Somebody covered him with a duvet and with a hint of embarrassment he realised that he had forgotten that.

There was something he needed to tell them.

But sleep's tug was so strong he couldn't have fought it if he had wanted to.

Chapter Text

Later that night, John was woken repeatedly by Sherlock moaning in his sleep, he had been restless for almost an hour at that point.

It was half passed three in the morning and they all had slept most of the day, more or less with the help of pain medication or the sheer exhaustion caused by their injuries, or in Mycroft's case the aftermath of anaesthesia.

The older Holmes had woken several times during the evening but was quite out of it.

John decided he needed a bathroom break and began the painful process of shifting into the wheelchair. He could of course call for the nurse, but he needed something to do anyway.

.

When he came back Sherlock was tossing and turning on the bed, his face a grimace.

"Sherlock? Hey? Can you hear me?" John tried to guide the wheelchair over to his friend's bed, but he was slow and moving the wheels without hurting his hands was difficult.

"Stop touching me!"

"No one is touching you. I am not even there, yet. Open your eyes."

Sherlock blinked and frowned in some internal puzzlement, but kept his eyes closed. John knew that expression, he was trying to figure something out and the dim night time lights were still too bright for him. The medications were pushing his hypersensitive perception into the roof, causing him additional pain.

"Mate, what's happening?"

Maybe talking would chase away the drug induced horrors Sherlock was undoubtedly still experiencing.

"Hey, I know this feels bad, so just talk to me. Get out of your head. Then I can explain to you what is not real."

Instead of telling John what nonsense he had just uttered, Sherlock was silent for a moment.

"Fire, there was 'ire," he then muttered.

John hesitated before he answered, but before he could speak, the other man continued.

"The smell!... Mycroft was hurt... Mummy wascreaming."

John closed his eyes for a moment.

The first two utterances fitted the recent events quite well, but the third made clear this might actually be about the fire in his youth.

Thing was, it all sounded quite real. Reassuring Sherlock he had dreamt or his mind had run wild while he was drifting was pointless. The doctor felt quite helpless for a moment.

Then something else hit him.

Where the Holmes parents safe?

They didn't even know their third child was alive, did they?

Would she go after them, too?

Clumsily, Sherlock pressed his flat hands against his temples, making a noise of agitation and frustration, the IV tube stretched dangerously because a loop was caught under Sherlock's shoulder.

The fact that the other man didn't even seem to notice made John switch into doctor mode again. He guided the wheelchair as close to Sherlock's bedside as he could, lacquered metals collided with a soft clunk and stopped the movement.

He stood up and lowered the side rail of the other man's bed, then freed the tube.

Sherlock flinched and his eyes opened briefly when he heard the noises and felt the foreign movement.

His hands jerked into a defensive stance and the former surgeon wondered how conscious Sherlock really was.

Was he aware what was happening?

"Easy," John soothed but didn't touch his friend.

For any child, the memory of the own mother screaming or crying was a very distressing and bad memory. John's impulse was to ask Sherlock more about it, but then he decided it was enough for one night. He made a mental note to later ask Mycroft if Sherlock had been hurt back then, too.

"Hey, don't try to force those memories, it will do you no good!"

"Mike? Wh's he?"

"He's right here, next to you in the other bed. He will fully recover, few broken ribs, nothing that won't heal. We were lucky."

The detective tried to shift in the bed and John saw the pain lines in his face deepen.

"Can you open your eyes for me for a moment?"

"Wha' for?"

"I need to see if we are we on the same page here?"

"Which book?"

"No, Sherlock. I meant are you even fully conscious? Do you know where you are?"

"'ospital."

"Year?"

There was only a grunt as an answer and John reminded himself to be careful, traumatic memories could cause situations to go downhill fast.

"You remember the fire in Musgrave hall or/and the one in Baker Street?"

"Mem'ry of 221b 's fine... Musgrave still jus' glimpses. Bein' drugged seems to jog my mem'ries... Not in a pleasant way, though," Sherlock's voice was hard to understand but slowly getting clearer.

"Really?"

"Happened when Mary knocked 'e out before she left for... wherever... Morrocco?... Yes, Morrocco... I remembered the song then, although I didn't know what it was. When I sat at the Thames with Eurus, thinking she was Culverton's daughter... I..." he hesitated.

"What?"

"I... kind of... I felt... 't wasn't nice."

This remark actually made John tense up. Sherlock stammering wasn't normal, not even half drugged and in pain.

Also, what had happened while John had neglected his best friend, shoved him away in his grief was still a great source of shame he only hesitantly approached. The guilt he felt about it was still so intense he doubted he'd ever get over it.

"What happened there, Sherlock?" he asked carefully.

The other man's eyes closed even tighter than they were already.

"I... had a minor episode of... weakness."

"You collapsed while out there with her?" John tried to translate.

They had spoken about the meeting in detail recently, but of course Sherlock had left that part out, had only concentrated on his sister.

"Yes, I might have overdone... it a bit. No sleep in days, little food, walked all night..."

At a loss what he could possibly say to this, John kept his silence.

"She was kind, not the monster Mycroft said she was in her childhood... But she probably just learned how to... do things more... careful over time... I wonder why she did that."

"Yeah, let's find that out later. So, when in a bit of stress and drugged memories came back to you?"

"Apparently... My mind seems able to ream some areas of subconscious memories... or the restraints I put on them were released by the drugs... or the pain..."

His friend's features relaxed a bit.

"Has this happened before or just on those three occasions?"

There was a long pause and John wondered if his friend had dozed off again, but then he finally spoke.

"When Mary shot me... I saw Redbeard in the mind palace... He was there with me... I... I need to remember... " Sherlock's voice was getting worse, no more than a hoarse whisper.

"Did they... intubate me?"

"No. But you're suffering from a mild case of smoke inhalation. Also, you were screaming earlier.

"What?"

Sherlock actually opened his eyes in disbelief, disgust was clearly evident on his face and John decided not to dwell on that.

"Any chance there were any dangerous chemicals burning in Baker Street? You need to tell me," the doctor immediately changed topics.

"No... all safe in the new storage unit," Sherlock explained with a grunt, closing his eyes against the dim fluorescent light that was obviously irritating him.

When Sherlock had left a wounded Mycroft in his care on the landing, John had been surprised for a moment, expecting his friend to hover and find out how his brother was. But the detective went into the kitchen to make sure nothing dangerous was leaking, then killed the flames.

A few weeks ago, Sherlock had brought a safe storage unit for his chemicals when Rosie had shown the first signs of trying to crawl. It had really touched John when he was presented with it.

Only now Sherlock realised something was on his face. With clumsy fingers he tried to get the nasal prongs off.

His eyes were still closed and he was quite uncoordinated, but at least Sherlock now made a bit more sense again, which eased John enormously.

Gently he caught his best friends hands, stilling them.

"Don't. You need that."

With odd movements and slightly shaking fingers, Sherlock started to explore the form of the tube and followed it around his ears, even though John still held his wrist.

"Sherlock, to be honest I am not sure you are actually completely with me," the doctor stated, wondering if this was Sherlock running on autopilot.

With the tip of his forefinger, Sherlock unhooked the oxygen tube from his ear.

"Leave the oxygen alone and try to get some more sleep."

The doctor slowly tucked the tube back into position with his free hand, but didn't let go of Sherlock's limb.

"Hmn... Tight. Hurts."

Seeing his best friend in this much pain was difficult for John. The burns alone were probably mind-wrecking. Sherlock's pain tolerance was amazing, as was his ability to ignore it. The factor that the only thing he complained about was the oxygen tube, was a sign it was all too much, though.

"Alright. Let me loosen that a bit. Sorry, bit clumsy with those bandages."

He moved the slide bolo and adjusted the width to make it more comfortable.

Sherlock's breathing changed a few moments later and John understood he was drifting off.

He waited for almost three minutes and watched the monitors to make sure his friend really was slipping into sleep and staying there.

Finally, he limped back over to his bed, leaving the wheelchair in the middle of the room. It was quite a bit of work until John was back on his bed and when he was, sleep eluded him.

Half an hour later the night nurse came in and offered him some sleep aid, which he took gratefully.

.

The first day was quite horrible.

Mycroft was suffering quietly, or maybe he was just out of it because he was drugged up to the gills with the good stuff. He spent most of the day asleep.

Sherlock on the other hand was not receiving that luxury, he was in pain and miserable. Although he tried to hide it, there were moments were John heard him gasp and saw him fight tears of pain when he tried to shift position on the bed.

All John's tries to comfort him, talk or keep him busy were viciously cut off.

Sherlock refused to speak, turned away from him or kept his eyes closed, shutting out the world, to the mounting worry of the doctors and nurses.

Nothing really happened.

They were all unnerved, in pain and no one was eager to talk.

The boredom was just interrupted by more tests, more meds and more poking and prodding.

The fact that Sherlock was not constantly complaining about being bored said a lot about how bad he was. Not once did he even try to sit or use his laptop, but he didn't sleep either.

.

The complete next day passed without Sherlock taking part in anything that was happening around him.

Finally, in the late evening, Sherlock showed some activity and tried to work on his tablet computer, which didn't improve his mood but eased the mind of everyone else. Sitting up caused too much pain and he gave up soon, but at least he had tried, which eased John's mind a bit.

But the gloomy atmosphere in the hospital room made the air thick with worry and overall quite depressive.

Additionally the doctors were worried because Sherlock was not healing as he should, so they pumped him full of essential nutrients via IV. Because – of course – he didn't even try to eat.

Overall he seemed to block everyone out. He neither cooperated with the nurses, doctors, nor with John. Remained in his own private bubble of pain and shock, or spent all day in his mind palace, trying to retrieve childhood memories.

Mycroft's recovery was proceeding way better, but he was in a good state of health to begin with.

When night time came John considered taking the offered sleep aid again, but then left it standing on his bedside table.

The detective had barely slept in the past 24 hours and it was getting to him.

Exhaustion and the bad dreams he even suffered when he slipped into a light doze made sleep a horror trip.

An hour after midnight Sherlock finally fell asleep.

John started his going-to-bed ritual, happy that he finally was able to do most of the routine alone, except shaving. He had a two-day-old beard but didn't care.

His roommates didn't look much different, the stubble made Sherlock look a lot younger and suited him, but it wasn't that flattering on the older Holmes.

John used gloves to keep the bandages dry when he carefully washed and brushed his teeth. Every movement had to be executed slowly and by his least wounded fingers.

A few minutes later the doctor returned to their room, made sure the brothers' vitals were fine out of habit and that Sherlock had in fact drifted off.

As silent as John could he put up the left side tuck-away side rails of Sherlock's bed that had been lowered during the day.

.

The night was bad and John had no sleep at all.

Twice, the nurses had to come in because Sherlock ripped off wires in his agitation.

The detective could never remember what he had dreamt of when he came out of his distressing doze, but at least he could be woken easily.

In the morning the detective was soaked in sweat and close to losing it.

"I need to remember!" he yelled at John and Mycroft after the nurse woke them up. "So tell me what happened, or give me some drugs so I can explore my subconscious memories on my own once more."

"Even if I would consider that, now is not the right time, you are exhausted, out of your mind from sleep deprivation and in no state at all to do such a thing right now."

"For God's sake! I need to remember, I can't do this any longer."

"John, could you please drug my brother into oblivion so that we can get some sleep? His agitation is interfering with my recovery," Mycroft begged, in his typical siblings-quarrelling-tone.

"No."

"What do you mean, no? He asked for it," it was clear from this voice that the British government's patience was wearing thin.

"He did, that's actually why I am not sure it's a good idea."

Mycroft sighed, "Agreed."

"Stop talking about me as if I weren't in the room!" Sherlock yelled and threw a glass filled with water against the opposite wall. Other items from his bedside table followed.

"Get me some of that dreadful ketamine!"

"Nope, not happening. You yourself said it was a really bad trip you had from that."

"Don't you understand? That is actually the point!"

"Calm down, mate," John tried, getting out of bed.

"Then I need to try something else. Surely there is somebody on staff in a MI6 facility that is qualified in hypnotising me and allowing me to enter my subconsciousness that way?" Sherlock suggested, his voice a bit calmer now.

"No," Mycroft stated, lifting the head of his bed with the remote.

"What? Really? I can't believe..."

"I meant I will not allow it, Sherlock! This thing almost destroyed you as a child. I can't allow you to go in there digging around ruthlessly. You need to proceed with caution, this could turn out very damaging. I will not rush things concerning this, and especially not as long as you are not fully recovered from the drugs and from your injuries."

With worry, John noticed that both siblings' vitals were showing their worked up state.

Maybe it had been a bad idea that they had to stay together in one room. For both brothers having separate rooms would aid in their recovery.

"Ridiculous, I am fine!" the detective turned on his side so once more they could only see his back.

"We hear how fine you are every night," Mycroft deadpanned.

"What?" Sherlock spat, curled up and sulking.

"I am referring to your nightmares, Sherlock. They are almost as bad as after our house burned down!"

"Then tell me what happened, for god's sake, so my mind can rest!" Sherlock yelled over his shoulder.

Finally Dr Welsh entered, the loud voices must have carried down the corridor of the otherwise quiet hallway, although the facility was exceptionally good when it came to soundproofing.

She ended the interruption of ward peace by giving Sherlock what seemed to be a fast acting sleep aid that was safe to use in his condition.

To everyone's surprise Sherlock – without fighting the drug or even recognising he had been given something, which must be a first – fell asleep within a few minutes.

"I think he has suffered enough for one day. Don't worry, he won't trip from it and it won't jog his memories. It's a fairly new drug, not available on to the public yet, but the results on patients with his issues are promising."

"With his issues?" John echoed while his eyes widened, not fond of the idea.

He frowned, but the result was in fact positive - at least at first glance.

"Shit, what did you give him?

"Nothing like a classic sleep inducing drug, therefore almost free of nasty side effects. I give you a hint: among other active ingredients, this contains melatonin."

"Really? You need to give us a prescription for that," John joked, baffled by the approach of using something that contained a sleep hormone, and relieved that it obviously hadn't been a classical sedative.

"Can't do. Not 'official' yet."

"Eurgh," John moaned, theatrically.

"I'll see what I can do," it came from the other bed. "Cancel breakfast, please. We need to sleep after this hell of a night," Mycroft added in a dry tone.

John sighed and just nodded.

Dr Welsh saw the point and actually arranged that they could sleep uninterrupted until late afternoon, which was a blessing.

Chapter Text

John woke up with a start.

For a moment he was at a loss about what had woken him - and also where he was - before he remembered.

They had kind of moved in with Mycroft, to his most secure house - for recovery.

After two weeks in a high security hospital they had finally been allowed to go home, which had happened the day before.

At first John wasn't sure how he felt about it, but when he saw how spacious the place was and that Sherlock even had a permanent room there, he agreed that it was the best option.

With his heart still pounding he listened in the dark, meanwhile, his gaze wandered over to the digital clock on the nightstand.

4:38.

He had barely slept four hours.

When he heard a soft clonk on the posh carpeted staircase a few metres down the hall he frowned, but then he immediately realised there might be an intruder and his senses went into overdrive.

Mycroft had given them a lengthy course about the security arrangements of the house and then handed them each a semi automatic pistol and ammunition.

John's hand found and raised the weapon within three seconds, he had it unlocked and was at the door another five seconds later.

The thick carpet swallowed all the noises, good for his own disguise, but bad for spotting hostiles.

As silent as he could he opened the door, although it seemed to be of antique value there wasn't even a hint of a creak.

He checked the floor to make sure he wasn't casting a shadow from the dim moonlight that would alert anyone to his entrance into the hallway.

But he needn't have worried, the hallway was neither lit nor dark. The lights had been dimmed and only emitted a low glow.

Silently, with the gun ready, he moved towards the staircase and peered over the topmost step.

A moment later he let the gun sink down when he spotted Sherlock sitting on the second from bottom step a few metres down.

He exhaled but didn't let down his guard.

Sherlock sat sunken and was leaning his head sideways against the wall.

Carefully, John went down the stairs and secured the downstairs hall. When he found it clear, he was at his friend's side in an instant.

"Sherlock?" he asked in a low voice.

There was no answer, except that the other man started to rock with fast and small movements and some moments into that he started to staccato breathe, which in turn made John's internal alarm skyrocket.

The doctor squatted down to see Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock," he urged, "What's happening? Talk to me."

Then something moved on top of the stairs and John had the weapon up again in an instant.

"What's wrong?" Mycroft whispered from his position, his weapon also drawn.

John gestured silently that he didn't know and put his own gun down next to his former flatmate.

"Sherlock? Are you in pain?"

The other man just moaned quietly, neither looking up nor reacting to the questions.

"Is there somebody here? Did someone hurt you?"

No reaction.

"Sherlock. DO answer the question. Where do you hurt?" Mycroft urged.

And to John's surprise Sherlock took a deep breath and pressed out a few words.

"Right collar bone... hurts."

John's thoughts started to race.

Had he fallen?

Had they missed something at the hospital?

Was there something else wrong and the pain was just radiating?

Or was it trapped air?

Flail chest?

His thoughts were interrupted when Anthea appeared coming down the hall from the other direction, she was in a trendy leisure suit.

Her accomodation was one of the guest rooms in the basement, she was there in case they needed assistance – medical or otherwise.

"Make sure no one is in the house," Mycroft ordered and – with her own weapon ready – she was off to do so.

"Sit up, I need to examine you," John ordered, kneeling down next to Sherlock again.

The thing was, the other man ignored him completely.

"Sherlock? Let him have a look," Mycroft ordered, now coming down the stairs.

Very hesitant and slow, the younger Holmes did as asked, but kept his hand over the bone in a protective way.

"Broken clavicle," Sherlock muttered, then repeated it several times.

"What makes you think you broke your collar bone? How did you manage to do that? Did you fall down the stairs? Did somebody hurt you?"

"I fell... before..." Sherlock stammered.

"When? Where? Down the stairs?... Right. Let me see that. They might have missed something on the MRI and you made it worse."

But Sherlock didn't remove his hand, even when John reached for it to gently tried to drag it away he resisted.

"Don't!"

"Sherlock, we need to have a look."

"Don't touch me!"

The detective started to struggle and shy away from the people around him.

"For god's sake, Sherlock!" Mycroft cursed, "Let him do his job and allow him to have a look! He can't help you if he doesn't examine you."

Mycroft had reached them, slowly; his injuries obviously still caused a lot of pain.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took his hand away, which was trembling, it hovered in mid air, as if ready to lash out.

John started to palpate the area and while doing so, he watched the other man's face closely, it turned into a grimace of pain as soon as he touched him.

When John looked up and met Mycroft's gaze he shook his head.

"Whatever it is, I can't feel it from the outside... Sherlock, tell me what happened," the doctor in him urged.

But there was no reaction.

For a moment he wondered if Sherlock had retreated into his mind palace because the pain was so intense.

He tapped the detective's uninjured shoulder.

"Hey? Mate, come on! I need to decide if you need an x-ray."

"John?" Mycroft tucked at John's pyjama sleeve, which was completely out of character.

"Not now," John answered over his shoulder.

"Yes, now!" the older Holmes hissed, a bit louder and John understood he had something important to say.

They moved a few metres down the hall.

"What is it?" John asked with more patience.

"He... It's not..." Mycroft was trying to find words, which was so not normal.

John's alarm bells went ringing.

"Mycroft?"

The older Holmes reached an antique looking armchair and let himself sink into it, clearly exhausted by the bit of excitement. John had thought it was merely an expensive piece of decoration.

"He might be... This might be psychosomatic. He... His clavicle was broken when... Musgrave burnt down. Something might have triggered this. This is the kind of reaction I've dreaded for years... Details of the trauma coming back… Pay attention to this. This is definitely Musgrave-related. He needs...  he doesn't need x-rays - he needs... I don't know what he needs, but this is mental agony turned physical. He needs comfort, but is unable to receive it..."

The older Holmes took one strained breath after another, clearly agitated by the event.

"He's distressed. This might be memories coming back. He needs close monitoring... John..."

"Alright, Mycroft... calm down," John saw the worry on the older brother's face, in his whole body in fact.

"Your voice is the only one he currently seems to react to, so keep calm in case you are needed."

"Maybe we should knock him out, hope he won't remember… Back then, he freaked out at the hospital after... His clavicle was really broken..." Mycroft pressed out.

"What?... What happened?"

"Just... do... it!" There were beads of sweat on Mycroft's face now.

"I won't give him any stuff he might react badly to - unless it's absolutely necessary," the doctor uttered and returned to Sherlock's side. But Mycroft's reaction made him aware this must be a very bad memory, too for the older brother.

"He also sleepwalked like this after it," Mycroft elaborated.

"You think he's asleep?"

"Probably, looked the same when he did it as a child. Found him wandering around the house in pain and terrified."

"Alright, back to bed first, then I'll take a closer look at him. Can you make it up the stairs?"

Mycroft nodded and stood up again.

To John's surprise Sherlock allowed him to help him up and back up the steps, he really was acting like a half-asleep kid.

Fifteen minutes later Sherlock was back in his bed.

While John finished examining him once more, Mycroft was standing in the door.

The detective had finally calmed down and seemed to be dozing now.

"His clavicle seems perfectly okay, except for the pain," John had come to the same conclusion as before. "I guess it's time for you to tell me about the fire. I think even if you don't want to tell him, you should tell me."

"How will I know you won't tell him the minute you are alone?"

"Please, Mycroft. I know better than to mess with traumatic memories, but I need to be aware of triggers and other things."

They left the doors open and sat down in the morning room across the hall, John in a position where he could monitor Sherlock's form on the bed from afar.

Mycroft needed a few moments to settle down enough to speak.

"Early evening, after dinner. I realised there was a fire and that we needed to climb out of a window," he started without much introduction. "The direct way down the stairs was blocked by the flames. There was only one window we could reach - in the back of the house - that was close enough to the ground to do this."

John frowned, needing a moment to ascertain what the older Holmes was talking about.

Mycroft was silent for a moment before he continued, "But that particular window was high enough for a child of Sherlock's age. He couldn't reach the ground with his legs and I feared that he'd run back to the fire if I jumped out first to catch him. He was not really aware of the danger."

.

The house had gone up like a bunch of matches, the dry old wood fed the flames faster than Mycroft had ever thought they could.

For a moment he had watched the flames at the end of the hallway consume the banister in front of Eurus room.

The only thing he felt at that moment was astonishment, while doing so he realised how fast the fire was moving and then the panic started to rise.

The flames were coming closer very fast - not like in the shows at the telly, where they took ages to move.

Then their mother had started to scream their names from somewhere downstairs with a level of distress Mycroft had never heard before.

A cold wave of being scared for her hit him when he realised that she might be in the burning house looking for her children - instead of getting out.

He tried to answer their parents but the noise the fire produced was enormous.

It really was a roaring.

Also, he was too far away to be heard it seemed.

He turned his back to the amazing sight and stormed into Sherlock's room, shocked the child with his yelling.

They staggered through a small,l rarely used corridor that connected the main part of the house to the rooms in the back. It had been added to the house during the victorian era so the servants could reach all parts of the house fast and without being seen.

Mycroft knew there was a window in the back that was way closer to the ground.

Once they had reached and opened it, Mycroft had to convince his baby brother this was neither forbidden nor naughty but necessary.

While he advised him how to do this, the lights went out and they were suddenly standing in pitch dark.

But he managed to - nevertheless - make his little brother climb onto the window sill, hold onto his hands and allow him to lower him down, advising the small child to brace his feet against the wall to control the decent.

Luckily, children this age could still dangle from their hands without many problems, and he was light enough in weight to do this, although it was quite painful for the older brother.

When Mycroft let go of him as close to the ground as possible, he heard that the boy landed on his feet.

Mycroft was just about to breathe a sigh of relief and climb out himself when the little boy suddenly started to scream in the dark.

The older Holmes' son wanted to hurry after him but was hesitant at first, afraid he might hit him.

The darkness of the countryside had swallowed the child.

But the cries where from too far off to the right - he realised a moment later - so he jumped.

The impact with the ground made him gasp, but only because it was dark and he hadn't seen it coming, he landed on his feet, too.

Sherlock must have started to run around the house to the front door, probably in search for their parents.

When he reached the whailing child, he saw he had fallen down a small wall.

Mycroft scooped him up and ran, Sherlock's agonised yells loud next to his ear.

The moment he rounded the house Mycroft saw his sister standing in the distance, on a large erratic boulder, clad in her warm jacket and her willies, lit by the burning house.

Mycroft froze, staring at her.

Her expression was odd when she spotted Sherlock in his arms.

For a moment he considered leaving Sherlock here with her, but then he decided against it.

She was safe, so he headed for the front door and luckily it was open.

Yelling for his parents, he entered, finding his mother on the stairs, trying to kill the flames with a fire extinguisher.

Heavy smoke made it hard to see and breathe.

"Sherlock is hurt. I'm fine, Eurus is standing outside. Where is father?"

She let the red cylinder fall as soon as she realised her children were safe.

Coughing badly she shooed him out.

Mycroft soon realised she was trying to call out for her husband but couldn't draw enough breath.

So he yelled instead.

A moment later his father appeared in the door to the kitchen, pressing a wet towel to his face.

They all stumbled outside - and to his horror Mycroft watched his mother collapse between the false gravestones, as did Sherlock, who was still desperately clinging to his chest.

Father helped her up and wrapped his arm around his wife's waist, dragging her away.

They joined Eurus and the fact how she was dressed and that she had her favourite things in a bag next to her escaped only Sherlock and Mummy, who were both too busy with their distress to notice.

Staring at her, Mycroft suddenly remembered that he had heard her walk down the stairs a few moments before he had first smelled the fire.

The intense smell had made him step out of his room, by then the hallway in front of Eurus' room was already ablaze, blocking his way to the stairs.

Now, their parents were kneeling and coughing, all their faces were covered in tears, except Eurus'.

Sherlock seemed to have screamed himself into a panicked stupor and although they tried hard, they couldn't make him come out of it. He was still staring into the distance and crying when the fire brigade arrived a bit later.

.

"We were brought to the hospital. Our parents were suffering from smoke inhalation and Sherlock had a broken clavicle from the fall down the partition wall. He was in some kind of severe psychological shock and he and our mother were admitted."

John didn't know what to say, not only about the horrible story but also about the current state of the older man.

Mycroft was trembling, wringing his hands to stop them shaking almost violently. He was so pale John decided to have a close eye on him.

"While they were treated Eurus spent her time drawing in the waiting area. One of the nurses brought to my father's attention what she had been drawing. A whole heap of pictures all showing a dead, mortally wounded or crossed out Sherlock. Our parents had been aware of the tension she was causing but not the extent of her readiness to hurt him this bad."

"Had Sherlock tried to avoid her?"

"No, not really. But he had finally found a friend – his first friend. Our parents were happy because he was not really social, even as a child. And of course, when he played with Redbeard, she didn't understand Sherlock also wanted to play with other beings than her. She was jealous. Our parents tried to divert her from it, but the more they tried to help her find own friends or keep her busy with nice activities, the more vicious she became."

"Mycroft? Slow down," the doctor frowned. The other man's breathing had sped up and he was almost panting.

But the doctor's advice was ignored.

"There had been other incidents before, but they were still in denial about it, even after Redbeard's disappearance. But now their eyes were finally opened, they understood she had started the fire - deliberately. And that they were not safe from being stabbed in their sleep."

"Jesus," John huffed, trying to imagine what impact this had on the Holmes' brothers childhoods.

With a shaky voice Mycroft continued, "She was admitted that night, under the false pretence to make sure she wasn't suffering from smoke inhalation too, but she never got out. Uncle Rudy helped with the mess, he was working for the government. Back then things were insufficiently studied when it came to children with issues like hers," Mycroft finished his recollection.

John didn't know what to say and before he could make sense of it all Mycroft rose to stand on unsteady legs.

"I'd like to retreat now, if you don't mind."

When John stood, too, and wrapped his hand around Mycroft's upper arm to steady him, he was quite surprised when it wasn't shaken off.

If this would have been Sherlock he'd have to worry they wouldn't make it to the hall after such an admission of weakness.

So he took care to watch out for signs of vertigo or nausea.

He escorted Mycroft to his bedroom door where the British Government tried to finally walk on his own.

"I expect to be notified if you need assistance," John said while the other man walked into the room and sat down on his bed with a pained grunt.

"I am not lacking to see the need to attend to my body's physical needs… I expect to be informed if my brother's state changes."

"Right. Good night."

.

Sherlock slept through the night, but John couldn't find any sleep at all after what he had learned.

The next morning they were careful not to speak to Sherlock about what had happened at first, but when John realised that his friend wouldn't mention it even if he remembered, he asked him how his collar bone felt.

"What? Why?" Sherlock frowned.

It didn't even take a full ten seconds until the detective came to the conclusion something must have happened.

"John?"

"You woke last night - in pain. You said it came from your clavicle."

The frown deepened.

"Why would my clavicle hurt?"

"My chosen profession made me ask the same question. The places you should hurt are your tibia and your back. You said you fell but didn't elaborate. Fell back asleep a bit later."

"Are you sure you didn't dream this? Because I don't remember."

"Yeah, maybe you're right. I dreamt a lot of nonsense last night, maybe that, too," John tried to get out of the discussion.

Sherlock looked as if he didn't really believe him but changed topics.

.

It only took three more hours until Sherlock started pressing Mycroft to talk about what he himself seemed to have forgotten - again, sticking to his idea that he needed to be informed about the events.

Finally John tried to stop him, reminding him that Mycroft might suffer from the events, too.  

"Don't be ridiculous John. He doesn't care about anything. Caring is a disadvantage, remember?"

"That's rubbish, Sherlock and you know it. Have you taken your time to look at him these days? He's suffering as much as you are - and is as stoic about it as you are."

Sherlock only huffed in disappointment, or sulking, or whatever about not being supported on this particular topic.

The sour expression on the older Holmes' face told John that he didn't like the nature of doctor's interference but also that he understood this way was preferrable than to continue the argument.

In fact John had very carefully catalogued Mycroft's reactions and the man was extremely stressed out, frightened and worried. He was sure Sherlock either had noticed it and chosen to ignore it, frustrated about the whole revelation or he was still feeling too poorly to spent energy on it. Both options were fuelling John's worries and he hoped they'd get the chance to make a plan before Eurus could strike again.

He still couldn't believe the woman had been his therapist and flirting with him on the bus. Every memory of having met her was now accompanied by shame so intense it actually caused slight nausea.

He had been used and hadn't had a clue. Had walked right into a trap.

They spent the day each on his own, pondering, worrying, regretting and trying to be a bit less miserable.

Chapter Text

When they board the plane, Sherlock is relieved. He had feared that Mary might not allow him to convince her to come home with them. That she might try to escape them once more because she either felt the need to protect them and/or didn't trust them to protect her.

Sherlock is still ashamed about being knocked out by her so she could go on a hunt herself.

Why hadn't she trusted him?

This is still a question he hadn't found an answer to yet.

There was something she definitely didn't want to open up about - or couldn't, or didn't know the answers herself.

She had in fact looked puzzled during their meeting in Sherlock's cemetery bolthole, and not ready to believe she was really targeted by her former team member.

Also, Sherlock is glad to leave Morocco.

There are too many bad memories lurking in the typical aromas and noises of the region's back alleys. It was not the smells it selves, but the things his mind connected them with. He had spent time in North Africa while hunting down Moriarty and although it hadn't been as bad as Eastern Europe, these were no pleasurable memories.

In hindsight many countries were now spoiled by what he had been through.

To experience that particular uneasiness is something he loathes.

Because he should be able to ignore it.

He shouldn't still be affected by things like that – by simple memories!

Partly what was difficult about them was the distress they caused, which lingered, no matter how much he tries to kill it. But the other part was the shame about not being able to switch those sensations (were emotions really?) off, like a light.

It makes him feel defective and not-in-control.

Which was a no go.

Although he is relieved to leave, he is not at all thrilled about doing it by plane.

He had never really liked flying, but there were two air travels in his recent past that had seriously messed up with his willingness to board a plane.

He had noticed a growing level of distress in himself during the outward flight, following Mary to Morocco.

During that flight Sherlock had first realised that he was seriously unsettled by the memories about his flight to exile. But he had managed to push the distress away, trying to sooth an angry worried John and plan their next steps.

The day Mycroft had sent him off to his suicide mission, he had been in quite a bad state, mentally and physically.

The aftermath of his near death experience as well as the physical trauma of being shot were still affecting him when he had shot Magnussen.

Been sent to solitary confinement had caused him to fall into an abyss he had struggled to evade since John's wedding. It had been very hard to keep at bay in the boring hospital while he was in a tremendous amount of pain.

What hadn't happened during recovery due to his friend's efforts was inevitable in the loneliness of the cell.

Deep depression had caught up with him. He had - kind of - lost his mind. Been consumed by self-loathing, nightmares about having killed a person in cold blood, sorrow about this being the only way out of it and still all the haunting memories and trauma of his time hunting down Moriarty.

All those had plagued him to an amount that he hadn't know any longer what was reality and what wasn't. In addition his brain seemed to go to self-destruct mode without proper stimuli. He had suffered from perceptual distortions and other typical symthoms normally associated with sensory deprevation.

In the end he lost the connection to himself and had dwelled in a catatonia-like state -  according to Mycroft, he himself couldn't really remember, which made him loathe it even more.

All in all, the only reason he had managed to board that plane, running on fumes, was probably that he had taken a carefully calculated dose of cocaine when being allowed to go home to pack a suitcase.

After only a few moments the desired effects had hit him: the euphoria, the inflated self-esteem and the elevated mood to set in. It was right what he needed – as was the increased energy the drug provided.

He had packed his whole secret stash of various drugs, well aware that due to the nature of his mission neither his luggage nor his person would be searched. He didn't bother to pack much else.

His good-bye from John was a disaster. He was not able to handle his drug induced mood properly and in addition lost for words, still dazed as well as numbed by all that had happened in the past weeks.

He had added things he planned to tell John to a long mental list he had made while incarcerated.

But it was too much, he didn't know how to sum it up or how to start saying any of it at all. Instead he laughed and joked in his desperation, but it was hideous.

It was not how he had wanted their final parting to be and he felt very sick about himself after the plane door had closed behind him.

He had messed up the most important thing in his life again – John. But he eased his mind by telling himself his friend was better off without him in the long run.

The short flight had been disastrous on his already fragile state of mind – and the memories are hitting him full force now that he is once more in a plane getting ready to take off.

The threat of impending doom waiting somewhere in the dark of a sinister future causes him nausea.

He had opted for the aisle seat, fearing he'd need a bathroom soon.

Originally John and Mary had the seats next to him, but when it turned out the plane was only half full, Sherlock had chosen to sit in the empty row behind them, give them some space – and get away from their keen medical eyes. They now sat divided by an empty seat in front of him.

Entering that plane to Eastern Europe and taking off had been his version of the ascending the scaffold.

Of all the bad things his life, this had been one of the worst, maybe even worse than jumping off the roof, back then he had hope that he'd come back.

This time, he would not wait to slowly being tortured to death. This time, he'd be the one in control.

While waiting for take off he had taken more drugs that would ease the horrors of the flight and then planned to end it as soon as he had written down a few things. He had read John's block for the last time, remembering and celebrating the best time of his life.

The despair he had felt back then catches up with him now.

He tries to fight those memories but as soon as they had buckled in, Sherlock had started to  sweat in an amount he was not used to.

And it still goes and it feels bad.

Mary's and John's odd silence is grating on his nerves, too.

They are in imbalance and it is like in the months after Mary shot Sherlock. John was angry and Mary saw no other way.

Also, Sherlock is not really able to distinguish between the target of John's anger, all variations of it feel the same from his point of view. His friend being angry at him after his return and later being angry at Mary after she had shot him felt not that different.

John was pissed, and it was difficult. It was always difficult. Aimed at him it was only a bit worse, the difference almost too small to notice. He often wondered how people distinguished if someone were angry about them or about something else. The behaviour was lacked a proper distinction.

Snappy answers, petulant moods, low level of patience, irritability. These were all symptoms of anger John showed no matter if the cause of his anger was present or not, which Sherlock found quite unfair at times.

But a few years ago Mrs Hudson had explained to Sherlock that just absorbing it and not being angry in return was a sign of friendship and so he tried to do just that. She had also said that John deserved that he endured it, since the other man had done the same so often for Sherlock she had lost count.

So he would.

When the plane speeds up and he is pressed into his seat, the panic accelerates, too.

At that point during his suicide trip the drugs he had taken the moment he had been left alone in the cabin had started to kick in, but it was not as pleasant as he had hoped.

Instead of being pleasurable the chemicals aggravated his horror and dismay.

They messed with his emotions and he was glad the cabin crew were advised to leave him in peace until he called.

He would end something sooner and with lesser pain than planned, that was all. He couldn't go through another six months of those kinds of missions, the memories of torture and the permanent wandering on the edge was too much now.

He didn't have the energy left he had back then when he left to free the world of Moriarty. He was tired of all of this and since the outcome was inevitable he wanted it to be over fast.

That had been quite an odd feeling. Being sure it would be all over soon.

All his struggles, his awareness and everything just gone, switched off by himself.

It also left an odd sense of calm, that it was his choice when and where and how.

Then, Mycroft's call came and the plane turned around, although it wasn't allowed to get up he stumbled into the bathroom, the sudden change of his fate, the stress of it all and the sudden realisation that he might live turned his stomach inside out. He refused to puke into a vomit bag – or even search for one.

When he was back in his seat, he was still trembling and still suffering from painful heart palpitations... and a bit of shock probably.

Still, he was dizzy and felt very sick.

Also, he had probably accidentally expelled the drugs he had taken orally, among which was the one that was supposed to soften the unpleasant side effects of the others and take the pain away.

He felt awful.

He hadn't been finished with taking an overdose but it would be enough to make him quite sick for a couple of days...

The next couple of days.

There would be a tomorrow.

He clenches his teeth and headed to his mind palace to try to solve how Moriarty had managed to come back, he had only minutes until the landing and in there time passed differently.

The plane lifts off the Moroccan ground and ascends steeply.

Desperately trying to ground himself in the present, he looks out of the window.

It's evening; the sun paints the dusty beige landscape beneath him in a red tinge.

Nowadays his work is comparable to a mental minefield due to all those memories he tries to evade, which is pathetic and he hates it.

In his youth he had felt like nothing was there that could hurt him.

Now, there were things in his life that mattered and it meant that there are now real horrors.

The memories and insights make him feel queasy and he is aware that his face is covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

The pressure change assaults his eardrums. He closes his eyes and tries to gulp it away but it takes quite some time until it works.

Thankfully, John and Mary wouldn't see it from where they sat. They were also much too busy with being frustrated and not talking to each other.

His head is throbbing and he is tense to an amount that actually causes pain in his muscles.

Although his eyes are now closed, he meticulously monitors every movement around them, he can't let his guard down.

Once more palpitations start and he feels his blood pressure drop.

Short of breath, confined.

His eyes jerk open.

Control.

He needs control!

Slowly, he breathes in and out.

Once.

Twice.

... Ten times.

Then he suddenly feels very tired.

His hands are shaking slightly.

Well aware that no one is sitting in the seat behind him, he reclines his one.

He needs to relax.

But he can't.

Once more, he tries to close his eyes, tries to shut out the world.

But it feels too exposed and bare in the aisle seat.

Stop!

He opens and closes his hands several times. Self-stimulation might help.

But it's not enough.

There was a crown cork in one of his pockets from a soda bottle John and Mary had last night. He had collected it because it had an intriguing pattern on it.

Hastily fumbling for it with closed eyes he was relieved to find it almost immediately.

He pressed the pointy side into his left palm with his right thumb and pressed.

The pain had the desired grounding effect.

Focus!

This flight is a good thing, he tries to convince himself.

They are going home.

He'd feel better once he is back in London.

London is familiar and more assessable.

Then he finally finds something that might help, too.

He pictures 221b, mentally walks up the stairs to the flat. Then he concentrates on going in slow circles from the kitchen to the living room and back, visualising all the items on the shelves and tables.

After a few minutes he is still bathed in cold sweat, but his breathing and heart rate are almost normal now.

Finally, he manages to relax a bit.

They are going home.

Chapter Text

"Good morning, John," Mycroft greeted the doctor when they met in the kitchen.

The older Holmes had entered while John was busy making coffee.

"Where's Sherlock?"

"Did you allow him to leave?"

"I... I don't know... I woke up and he was not there."

"I told you to watch him," Mycroft scolded, sat down, fetched his phone and started to type.

When John put a mug of hot coffee in front of him, Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"What is it?"

"According to the security system no one has left the house.... I therefore assume he has retreated to the panic room in the basement. He liked to hide there in the past."

"You actually have a panic room?"

Mycroft's head was lowered, but he peered up in an annoying way that made John regret the question.

Of course the British government had a panic room, how stupid of him.

"Check on him, please. I doubt he'd welcome me."

"Right, how do I get there?"

.

Five minutes later John was in front of a hidden door, in the rear of the wine cellar.

To his surprise he heard music from behind it.

Dreading what was awaiting him, he reached for the doorknob.

For a moment he feared the door would be locked, but it wasn't.

A narrow dark hallway lead further into the depth of the residence.

John raised his eyebrows. He had expected the door to open into a small concrete chamber like in the movies, but it actually was only a corridor leading to another door.

A motion detector switched on dim lights and he was sure his presence was somehow announced on the other side of that door, too.

He stepped closer to the second door; the music was actually quite loud even outside, which was odd because Sherlock was really sensitive when it came to his hearing, and also because the type of music was far beyond everything his friend ever listened to.

To his surprise John found a small sticky note on the door.

'Do not interfere. This is important. Read the instructions,' it said.

The doctor sucked in air.

This sounded like something illegal.

He steeled himself to find a Sherlock in the throes of drugs, all the withdrawal they had gone through for nothing.

With a heavy heart he opened the door.

The music was way too loud, and sounded like something he associated with a meditation session, but with a bit more drums and rhythm.

The panic room was tinted in dim blue light, created by three blue nightlights, which concealed the actual dimensions of the chamber that seemed quite large nevertheless.

The eerie dark and the loud music kind of dazed John and it took him a moment to actually spot his friend.

Sherlock was on the ground, lying on a mattress covered in a neat white sheet.

He was wearing one of Mycroft's pure cotton track suits, which was a bit too big for him. Mycroft owned quite a number of synthetic ones, John had observed in the past days. He used to exercise daily and sometimes ate breakfast still clad in the training outfit.

But Sherlock had clearly chosen this one for its bulky and leisurely lose fit - and the material.

At first glance the detective seemed to be resting, but a few moments later John's eyes had adjusted to the dark and with growing horror he saw that his friend seemed to be in the throes of a panic attack, because he was clearly hyperventilating.

The movements of Sherlock's rib cage were too fast and hectic for his liking.

Horrified, John hurried over and knelt down, ready to address him, check his pulse and start an examination, but then he saw another note pinned to the wall next to Sherlock, at eye level for a kneeling person.

It instructed him not to touch Sherlock or disrupt his breathing session, and instead either leave him be or read a text about what he was doing on a tablet computer.

Looking around, John found the device next to the mattress, together with other things. There was an old mechanical stopwatch, a half empty bottle of water, a mobile phone, a book, and Sherlock's watch.

John picked up the tablet that was plugged in next to the mattress and found an open text document with an odd name he had never heard or seen before.

He gave his friend an uneasy glance, checking him over just by observation.

The doctor noticed that - on second glance - the breathing didn't look like hyperventilation, it was fast, deep and exhaling on exertion.

Then he noticed that it was actually in sync with the drums of the music.

This was a controlled event then, not the result of anxiety.

The text he found was too scientific and detailed, he needed a brief survey first, not seventy-five pages of in depth information about the topic.

Unsettled about the situation he opened the browser to find independent information that briefly explained said kind of breath work, some kind of an overview to understand what was happening and why.

The loudness of the drums in the music had an unnerving quality.

He found several websites and the more John read, the more uneasy he became.

Sure, this seemed to be better than Sherlock taking drugs, but actually this sounded rather odd. He had heard about some exotic alternative psychotherapy in the past, but this sounded actually dangerous at first sight.

While handling the tablet he found another note.

'Do not interrupt this, wait for me to come out of it on my own. Please!'

He sighed and read on.

The thing that made John actually respect the plea was: a) the word 'please' and b) what he read a few minutes later.

He had taken seat in an armchair nearby and hurried to read several summaries about the topic he had found. This kind of breath work could obviously take hours he learned, so better get comfortable why he waited for what would happen next.

One of the websites said that using this technique could - but not necessarily - result in trance like states and bring forth intense body movements. He was glad it was obviously not happening like this with Sherlock.

Why the hell did Sherlock always took risks like this without asking for help?

Probably because John would have been not happy about the idea – and very suspicious.

He cursed silently when he read on what else could happen or how the breathing person might react while going through the intense emotions the session might cause. For that reason the breathing person should be monitored.

Right, he'd probably have uttered severe doubts about taking part in something like this after reading the texts, and he'd probably even refused to do it.

Nevertheless, he monitored his friend closely and continued to gather knowledge.

.

When a change came, it was sudden and intense.

Sherlock's whole body started to tense up, not just like going stiff, but with a brute force that put John on high alert immediately.

He hurried over, ready to interfere.

It seemed all the tendons in Sherlock's whole body protruded due to the tension. His face turned into a grimace of exertion. His knees came up and his feet were hovering a few inches over the mattress.

It certainly had slight similarities with a person suffering from a seizure but was clearly something else.

The episode lasted only about twenty seconds, then Sherlock relaxed again, sank back into the cushions, and for almost a minute just continued to breathe.

John had almost dismissed it as a single event and something that might go into the category of the mentioned body movements, but then it happened again about two minutes later.

With growing concern he watched his friend, whose breathing pattern seemed to suffer from the interruption. 

Several times during such a fit Sherlock held his breath.

Worry was growing, but John returned to the armchair to read on. He needed to understand what was happening.

The episodes of tension ebbed away during the next fifteen minutes without any further visible distress on Sherlock's side, though the tension on the doctor's side was rising by the minute.

.

Half an hour later, John finished a brief explanation of the role of the assistant for the breather.

Staying with the one breathing was deemed essential. The person shouldn't do this alone, an assistant was paramount.

Of course Sherlock had ignored that fact, as well as the one not to do this at home without a facilitator present!

When Sherlock's hyperventilating slowed down a bit John's focus shifted back to his friend.

Three minutes later Sherlock slowly sat up.

John hurried over.

"Sherlock?"

"Don't talk... Don't..."

Sherlock blinked up at him and John saw his red rimmed eyes were swollen.

"Right..."

"Volume down... Toilet."

"What?" John frowned, this was the least he expected.

In the past Sherlock actually seemed to be master about his bladder, the few occasions where he had asked for a bathroom break could be counted on one hand!

John was happy to turn the music down, it was way too loud and grating on his nerves. But by now he knew its function.

"I need the bathroom," Sherlock explained in a slow and hazy voice.

John hesitated, he had in fact just read about the necessity and the responsibility of the assisting person to accompany the breathing person to the bathroom, to prevent falls or injuries due to vertigo or dizziness.

Was he really sure Sherlock hadn't taken anything and was trying to mask it with something as exotic as this?

Was it the right time to ask him to pee in jar?

He needed to pee anyway, didn't he?

When John didn't move, too perplexed about the whole thing, Sherlock started to get up on his own, his movements slow and unsteady.

"Jesus, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Didn't you read the text? I am currently in the process of trying to recover some lost memories, kindly assist me?"

"Jesus..."

"Although this experience seems kind of otherworldly, I doubt it has much to do with this kind of spirituality," Sherlock deadpanned.

"How could you be so stupid to try this alone?"

"I am not alone... and please do shut up, I need to keep my focus. If you can't, just leave me be."

"No. No, Sherlock, this is not the healthiest option in your state, you know that."

"Actually, I think it is one of the healthiest options available. Although I considered taking a small dose of a sedative to force me to hover in a semi conscious state to experience the memories I try to revisit. But I was certain using any kind of drug would result in anger from your side. I experienced brief flashbacks of memories when Mary knocked me out... as well as when I used... Well..." he stopped, no need for further explanation necessary. The guilt in his eyes and the fact that he wouldn't meet John's eyes spoke volumes.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock breathed and to his friend's horror he saw his eyes seemed quite wet in the dim twilight.

Was this affecting Sherlock's emotions? Were they all over the place, dragged to the surface?

Finally, Sherlock managed to get on his feet, but was quite unsteady. John wrapped his arm around his elbow, not only to steady him but also to do signal physical and maybe even emotional support.

Now that they were living in close quarters again the signs of what Sherlock had been through during the past three months were dreadfully visible. Mary's death and John's rejection were still haunting him, although he tried to hide it.

The drug abuse was also something that had changed him. Sherlock's  willingness to go to the end with it had, too.

John hoped he would fully recover but there was no way to tell yet. He also hoped that nothing about being almost dead would come up from this.

At the moment John had his doubts he would be able to handle it. His own horrors about bleeding out in a desert, experiencing death this nearby and also feeling Mary's life seep out of her were still a raw wound in his soul.

Sherlock hadn't smiled in weeks, not even tried to fake it. Neither had John, but at least he was trying to smile at his daughter.

The dull and sad expression in Sherlock's eyes was mirrored in his own, John knew. Also, the depression Sherlock had brought home from the hospital hadn't left him. The shock about Eurus existence and being almost blown up, then a second hospital stay, had made it worse.

Currently, they were hiding out in one of Mycroft's residences, without Rosie and almost without contact to the outside world.

John hadn't felt this broken in a very long time. Time passed and it wasn't gradually getting better, it was just getting worse. His friend seemed sure that his sister might be the one responsible for many of those events.

Being shot by Eurus had brought old memories back, the moment she pulled the trigger he hadn't know it was only a tranquiliser.

His own nightmares about going down were vicious, too.

Their combined issues to feel a large amount of guilt for the things that they had done to the other was a plan for disaster and depression in addition.

They were both desperately working on trying to fix this, but it was a slow and difficult process.

Sherlock was moving towards the only other door the room had and they shuffled into the bathroom. A few moments later John realised that Sherlock's fingers where too stiff to tuck at the bow tie in the drawstring of his pants. He tried to do it on his own repeatedly, but was losing patience fast. John frowned at first, but then helped him.

No wonder Sherlock had issues using his hands, after breathing in a deliberate panting way for more than two hours - at least that was the time the stopwatch had shown a few minutes ago - his hands must be beyond tingling.

Was this why the text stated that bathroom breaks needed assistance?

He turned his back while Sherlock relieved himself.

The detective was obviously oblivious to the potentially awkwardness of the situation, probably because withdrawal and two hospital stays in a few weeks had left him with little privacy about his bodily functions.

Soon they returned to the mattress on unsteady feet.

John decided to read into the medical aspect of this next, he had seen there was a chapter in the table of contents.

"Sherlock, can I assess your state?"

He carefully lowered his friend down.

"If you must, but do it fast, I can't afford to come out of this too much... and stop speaking."

John sighed, trying to reduce the talking to a minimum.

When he felt for the carotid pulse in his neck, Sherlock actually hummed, leaned his head back for better access, which made John freeze and stare at his companion's closed eyes in puzzlement.

Out of an impulse, he rested his hand on his friend's sternum to assess... whatever.

Sherlock twitched in surprise but didn't complain.

Then he must have decided John was finished because he started breathing fast again.

John stood up, understanding it as a sign to leave him alone.

But when the touch vanished, Sherlock flinched and immediately raised his right to make sure the other man was still there.

"Shhhh. You're alright."

"John?" Sherlock asked in between his heavy panting, "Could you... I underestimated... the effect... a friendly... presence could have on this.... Please... Could you... not leave?"

Not leave?

The doctor stared down at his friend.

It was a first for Sherlock Holmes to ask for a thing like this. He sounded oddly vulnerable and hesitant.

John lowered his gaze, still amazed that after the beating Sherlock had received from him the detective was this ready to let him in. If anything, the past months seemed to have even boosted his trust.

Brotherly...

Never before had he dreamt about hearing Sherlock say out loud he was family.

Sherlock had named him family right before the explosion, hadn't hesitated to alienate Mycroft when he told him John was the closest thing he had and he'd stay no matter what.

His friend deserved to be listened to, especially after the injustice John had done to him by beating the shit out of him a few weeks ago.

If he thought this might bring back some of his traumatic childhood memories Mycroft refused to share then so be it.

"All right," John agreed.

Chapter Text

4x03 - Trying to remember - Part 2

"All right," John agreed to help his friend through this.

Unsure of how to assist him, he fetched two pillows from the ground and sat down next to the mattress. While Sherlock continued to pant-breathe, the doctor leaned against the wall and switched on the tablet.

He needed more background knowledge. If this really brought Sherlock in a state similar to having taken mind-expanding or psychedelic drugs he should be prepared.

Planning to read the chapter about the companion's role in this in depth next he browsed the index.

A moment later John noticed that Sherlock's breathing rhythm was in sync with the drums of the music, it was also quite fast, pressed out, the emphasis on the exhalation. As a doctor he knew what hyperventilation did to the body and his gaze moved toward his friend's hands.

Like in slow motion Sherlock's hand's started to stiffen up, while his fingers straightened out and moved towards the wrists. John knew Sherlock was experiencing an intense tingling sensation under his skin right now. Some minutes later his hands now looked like a bad case of 'main d'accoucheur'.*

After a while, Sherlock rolled towards him with his eyes closed, still panting in the frantic rhythm.

The book said it was a very important rule that the assistant should only participate if asked to do so.

John wondered if Sherlock would be able to actually ask... although, he had done such this huge step only moments ago already, asking John to stay.

No, he hadn't really managed that, he had asked him 'not to leave', which was kind of a difference when it came to the detective, one that spoke of tentativeness and insecurity about the question if he had the right to do so.

Overall it was quite monumental to be asked a thing like this at all when it came to Holmesian standards.

Four years ago, John was sure he'd have called an ambulance immediately - or Lestrade for a drugs bust, or Molly for an urine analysis – if confronted with a situation like this.

Sherlock's open-mindedness and his willingness to seek new paths and test the boundaries of science had certainly broadened his horizon, not only in a medical way, but also in a psychological way.

He was way more open to observe alternative ways and try new things nowadays, though a healthy amount of distrust and cautiousness remained.

So John just sat next to the mattress and waited, watched his best friend on his 'journey towards wholeness' for several minutes, then continued reading on the tablet computer.

He was aware that he should keep his eyes on his friend constantly, but he had been thrown into this without any background knowledge and he needed to know what to look out for.

He tuned into his best friend's movements while he read and when Sherlock's rhythm went off the beats fifteen minutes later he immediately noticed and moved closer.

The detective had turned to lie on his front a few minutes ago. His breathing wasn't going in panting style any longer, it had changed to something John would describe as hitching.

Or maybe kind of sobbing?

If Sherlock was making any kind of sounds John couldn't hear them, the music drowned out anything below loud speech.

He leaned closer to hear.

"Nononononono..."

Was he supposed to interfere if he had the gut feeling that something was not going well?

"What's happening?" he asked in a volume that would allow Sherlock easily to ignore him should he want to choose to do so.

"No. You tell him. I can't..."

"Sherlock, what do you see?" John asked, wondering if this felt like a hallucination on Sherlock's side.

"Mary... is distraught because Rosie misses her," Sherlock heaved.

John winced; this sounded like kind of a bad hallucination and brought back difficult memories of him feeling Mary's presence.

But who was he to name those 'bad'.

He had lived and interacted with Mary's ghost for weeks and not even told his therapist - Shit, Eurus - about her.

There were hints that Sherlock had the same issues, at least once John had overheard Sherlock talking to her.

Isn't that right, Mary?

John had been quite flabbergasted about that comment, since Sherlock had repeated the exact words Mary had said to him before – Mary's ghost had said it.

He had shrugged it off as a coincidence.

"I don't know how to do this...." Sherlock was now in some obvious distress, his voice raspy.

"She has always been able to puzzle your abstract thoughts into meaningful things... Just talk to her," John gently reassured his friend.

It had helped him to do so, why not Sherlock, too?

The widower tried to hold his own grief, not ready to do this but dragged into it by Sherlock's subconsciousness. A bit of anger rose in him, about the fact that he was thrown into this unprepared, but it evaporated when he felt warmed about the fact how much Sherlock was actually grieving for Mary. Not in the sense of liking to see him suffer but in the sense that it was proof the other man had appreciated and valued her deeply.

Talking to her was what John himself had done, hadn't he? Maybe it would help Sherlock, too.

Sherlock's mixture of silent sobbing and panting lasted eight minutes, John monitored it closely, then he calmed down again.

For another ten minutes Sherlock just continued to breathe, fast but normal, then he rolled onto his side again, facing John.

A moment later something changed, Sherlock seemed to cross paths with another thing that was plaguing him.

Maybe this whole thing was in fact working the way it should, or maybe it was allowing Sherlock to be a spectator of what was going on subconsciously and/or emotionally.

John had a hard time figuring out what was happening this time, although it should have been easy to recognise from the start.

Sherlock suddenly flinched so hard he fell off the mattress, towards him, almost broke the tablet under his angular elbow.

"Shit."

At the very last moment John managed to shove the device out of the danger zone and carefully reached for Sherlock who was half in his lab.

"Hey? You're okay?"

Sherlock winced, frozen in what seemed to be a memory of intense pain.

"Sherlock?"

He flinched again, trying to scramble off.

John reached for him and tried to help his friend back onto the resting place, but he was too heavy to be rolled back up.

"Hey, what's happening? Remember that you are in Mycroft's house with me, in the bunker. We are safe and sound, nothing will hurt you in here."

Sherlock relaxed but didn't open his eyes. His head was now resting next to John's knees on the ground, his legs still on the cushions and his hip turned in what must be a painful twist.

Instead of getting back on the mattress Sherlock completely rolled off it, and towards John, so that he was on his side, his back resting against the length of the cushion, using its height to snuggle into the corner between it and the hard ground John was sitting on.

"No, you need to get back onto that thing. That's the rules."

"It hurts."

"Where?" John couldn't hold back trying to help.

"My back," Sherlock breathed. "I need pressure on my back."

John wondered if his damaged back was bringing forth memories of being tortured. The scars were - to this day - still very visible, and Sherlock still had nightmares about the events that marked him.

In the past weeks John had had plenty of opportunities to see the lasting damage.

Withdrawal also seemed to promote the reappearance of bad memories, Sherlock's nightmares had been vivid and hard to witness.

After the explosion of 221b Sherlock had needed quite a large number of stitches to repair the new damage to his back, he was still in quite an amount of pain.

"Alright. If you want to, you can just let those memories pass by, remember?" John reminded him, "They will not harm you."

Oh god, he sounded like Ella at one of the few occasions when their session had actually triggered him and he had freaked out.

Also Sherlock should know that perfectly well, so why reminding him?

But his friend nodded, obviously calming down.

The detective moved, curled up, and his forehead come to a halt against the outer side of one of John's bent knees.

Out of reflex the doctor started to move away to give the other man space, but then he wondered if it was deliberate and froze.

The gesture was so very unlike Sherlock John wasn't sure what was happening.

After several long seconds of hesitation and when Sherlock didn't break the contact, he interpreted it as a need for touch and placed his left hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

He cursed inwardly, aware that Sherlock barely managed to recognize his needs himself, so asking for them was something quite unlikely.

Besides, quite often the detective was either too proud or too afraid of being not independent and that stopped him from doing so - even if he knew he needed help with something. Over the years it had become better when trust between them grew... or maybe John just hadn't understood when he was asking for before.

They had talked about it once, and Sherlock had stated he had asked, just not in a way a normal person would ask and therefore John hadn't realised.

That issue burdened him with a rather large responsibility Sherlock was aware of and reluctant to give in to.

So the doctor was the one who had to decide if this was a request for contact or not. Normal rules just didn't work with his best friend.

He remained insecure if it wasn't too proactive in this kind of setting.

But to his ease the same thing happened he had witnessed before: Sherlock relaxed under his touch.

They stayed like that for almost twenty minutes.

Sherlock's breathing slowed down and he seemed to be processing something, busy handling the memories, maybe but not as surprised and vulnerable as in the moment it had first hit him.

Finally, he uncurled and then a long-winded climb back onto the mattress followed.

"You need something?"

"No, John. Thank you," the other man replied hoarsely.

This new side of Sherlock was still a bit odd - when he was kind of shy, polite, and caring in a not quite, but close enough, society compatible way.

Once Sherlock had repositioned himself he started to breathe faster again.

Somehow John had hoped this might be over, but this meant Sherlock was going for another round.

Was there a suggested time limit for this?

John fetched the tablet computer again and started a search about recommended length, the answer was it would last as long as it lasted, so he continued to read about the positive outcome this could have and the healing it could assist with.

He was still quite sceptic about the whole thing, the positive effects were almost too good to be true. On the other hand what some people experienced during such sessions was seriously heavy stuff.

And he was understanding the reason Sherlock was doing this when he read on. His friend hoped to regain access to the lost memories of his childhood and his sister.

Up to this day Mycroft refused to elaborate.

They had had long talks about the topic, in which Mycroft had gently revealed a small amount of nicer aspects of their sister, trying to jog his memories carefully this way, or by revealing little details, but it was no use, the younger Holmes could only remember vague fragments.

Sherlock had been frustrated because he couldn't haul the things out of the dark by sheer force of will. And Mycroft was too stubborn to give in and just tell him everything, claiming that specialists had advised him not to.

As a last resort the detective had even tried to call his parents, but they had either been warned by Mycroft or where still in so much grief they refused to talk, too.

Then John reached a chapter with in depth description of peoples' experiences.

Out-of-body, reliving-birth and several other things that sounded quite intense were listed in detail. He cringed when he once more read that the assistant should not interfere or touch if not explicitly asked.

It was what he had done earlier, overruling Sherlock's note because he thought he was doing the right thing. The rules about how to do this were required to be followed to the point, it was stated again and again in the text that only educated people should to this.

.

Half an hour later Sherlock started to whisper, but due to the music John couldn't make out the words.

It went on for quite some time and was quite creepy. Sherlock rolled from a supine position to lying on his side, then back and a minute later moved his body into a prone position and back again. Overall he was very restless and tense, now and then even rocking back and forth.

The doctor's uneasiness rose but up to now nothing that was happening was in contrast to what he had read in the past two hours. Overall it was still quite moderate.

That was until another fifteen minutes of rolling around later Sherlock suddenly emitted a bloodcurdling scream that caused John to drop the tablet in surprise.

"Shit!"

Horrified, he was on his feet immediately, only to whiteness as Sherlock clawed his hands desperately into his long-sleeved T-Shirt, tugging at it.

The doctor dialled down the volume of the music.

"Control, control, control..." he heard Sherlock gasp.

Then his friend pulled the shirt so forcefully the seams gave way.

"Sherlock?"

"John?" it was barely a whisper.

"I'm right here, what can I do?"

"Control..."

"What?" John stammered.

Desperately, the doctor wondered if the harsh breathing had caused one of the injuries still healing to cause problems again, or if Sherlock was remembering being shot.

Sherlock's knuckles where turning white now and his movements were changing, from pulling on the fabric to rubbing his chest violently.

"Control..." Sherlock repeated.

"Stop that, you're going to hurt yourself."

"Hurts..." Sherlock moaned.

This was getting a bit too much, Sherlock's agitation skyrocketed and he didn't stop the chafing, even intensified his efforts.

"Hey, what's happening? Talk to me."

John relaxed a bit when the rubbing movements dragged away the now damaged neckline of the shirt and – for a moment – bared Sherlock's chest. There was no other visible injury than an angry redness Sherlock was causing right now.

"Was bleeding..."

Past tense, then.

Sherlock was very aware of everything that was happening, this was obviously not like being thrown into a flashback or suffering from a bad trip.

Sherlock seemed kind of in control and fully aware where he was.

Nevertheless, John didn't dare to believe in his conclusions and made a mental reminder to check his friend out later.

Sherlock's erratic movements weren't slowing down though.

Enough, John decided, this was close enough to Sherlock's hurting himself, which was the only reason for interference by the assistant.

Very slowly John wrapped both his hands around Sherlock's cold fingers.

As soon as his friend had registered the touch, his hands blindly reached for John's hands, then forcefully caught them in a vice-like grip, holding onto them.

John flinched in surprise but allowed the movement. The force with which Sherlock encased the doctor's hands in his, though, made John grunt. The cuts in his palms were still painful now and then, though the bandages and stitches were gone, his palms still felt sore.

Then the detective pressed John's flat hands to his ribcage - with force.

Once the contact was established Sherlock relaxed a bit, his breathing slowed down, became less frantic.

The position of their intertwined hands was odd, over the second and third rib, between the clavicle and the sternum. Helplessly, John watched and followed the frantic movements, puzzled but ready to do whatever his friend needed.

After a few moments, Sherlock's hands relaxed further and John lessened the pressure to his chest, but this caused another wave of panic from Sherlock, who immediately pressed his hands down again - with John's hands buried under them.

"Don't... don't..."

Obviously Sherlock was unable to actually put his needs into words, but John got it nevertheless. He applied a bit more pressure, but not enough to do any harm.

To his amazement his friend started to completely relax under his hands, his suddenly limb arms and hands fell away and his left came to rest next to John's knee on the mattress.

He was leaning over the other man, pressing down.

Sherlock's breathing slowed down dramatically, and for over five minutes Sherlock just relaxed more and more, it was an interesting process once it caught John's attention.

Gradually and very careful John lessened the pressure, watching his friend's face as it turned into an expression of total relaxation and then... peace maybe?

Whatever it was, John had never seen it before.

He looked relaxed... more relaxed than the doctor had ever seen him.

Not even deeply sedated or under the influence of drugs Sherlock looked like this.

Although there was one aspect of his expression that John knew - the fact that he looked suddenly fifteen years younger - that he had seen when Sherlock was drugged or high and completely out of it.

But this was different.

Sherlock's breathing was very shallow and his body slackened.

Peaceful.

Had he passed out?

The question was answered a few moments later when Sherlock's right returned to John's hands and lightly wrapped around one of his wrists.

It was a very gentle touch and John lessened the pressure further, until it was just a firm touch, but he didn't let go.

Obviously, it was okay since Sherlock didn't protest, he just relaxed and maybe John saw even a hint of a tiny smile ghost over his face.

This was actually amazing.

* I couldn't find an English word for this.