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Chapter Text

Sherlock had known what PTSD was in theory before he had met John Watson. Had probably known even more than most people, but not more than what would have fitted on fifteen pages in a psychology journal. He had known what events might cause a trauma of that kind and that symptoms might be flashbacks, panic attacks, triggers and physical reactions to mental pain. He also knew that there were several totally different ways to approach the problem. Many therapies contained elements of traditional Chinese medicine, some EMDR, some tried to evade reliving the traumatic events and kind of triggers, and some were about constantly confronting the patient with both.

When John had moved in he briefly mentioned his diagnosis (which Sherlock had already guessed himself) but they never really talked about it in detail.

Because John never showed any signs or symptoms related to PTSD-issues, Sherlock hadn't considered it a serious problem, especially not after John's limp had gone a lot better during their first case.

John was somewhat close-lipped about the topic, he never spoke about it and evaded anything that had to do with Afghanistan when asked, at least the few times Sherlock had been present.

 Now and then the detective saw a hint of hobbling when John was in emotional stress, but it vanished within days and he doubted anybody else saw it. After the cabby-chase, the crutch had been deposited in the hallway and hadn't been used since.

The first time the detective ever got a small glimpse of what might have been a symptom of posttraumatic stress was after the end of the banker-case. When John, Sarah and Sherlock had come home, Sarah urged John to go to the hospital for x-rays and observation but he refused.
Sarah had been shaken pretty badly herself but had taken care of cleaning and bandaging the wound on John's head.

While she did John had just sat there, staring blindly ahead, unmoving. Sarah had obviously been confused by that and Sherlock asked himself if she knew about John's diagnosis, or to recognise the signs at all.

At some point, the Sarah had clapped her hands in front of the former army doctor's face and he had slightly jerked and expressed he had been somewhere else for a moment, deep in thought. His date had raised her eyebrows but left it alone.
John had tried to convince her to stay if she didn't want to be alone but she insisted she wanted her own home.  Before she left, she made sure to instruct Sherlock to check on John every two hours minimum, and to call if he showed any odd behaviour. Sherlock made her recite every symptom that might fall into the description of odd.
It left him a little flattered that she had told him it was his task to care for his friend now, since she was too shaken and exhausted and Sherlock was obviously fine and knew John better and longer than she did.
He considered John a friend, he had since the end of the pink-case, but when he had introduced John to Sebastian earlier as his 'friend' John had corrected him with the word 'colleague'.
The remark made Sherlock very insecure and he wondered if it was because John wasn't sure if Sherlock was friendship material.
…Or maybe John didn't like to be mistakenly considered Sherlock's boyfriend?
Or might it have been inappropriate to introduce John like that? Better to say colleague at their work because it sounded more professional?
Maybe it was just too early for him to define their relationship as friendship… There was something about trust issues, right?
Sherlock had no other friends, but John's behaviour was kind and caring so he had interpreted it as friendship… but the doctor was kind to everybody else, too… maybe it was just part of his personality? Confused by the incident the detective decided to start a sub-routine running in the back of his mind that observed John's view of the topic friendship and stored it in close proximity to the program that monitored signs of PTSD

The latter had been idle since the day he had started it. The program hadn't written even a single entry into his mind's manila folder, which was in the file cabinet that was labelled 'John'. He wondered why John had a file cabinet in his mind while almost all other people (except Mycroft, who also had a file cabinet) had a kind of database without a physical association in his mind.

Sherlock had started using the image of a file cabinet for storing facts about people as a child. Everything from behaviour patterns in varying situations, their favours, and everything else was in there. He remembered when he had seen on of those large storage objects at a library and had immediately converted the concept for his mind's use. He had been about five at that time, computers hadn't been an everyday occurrence back then. But as soon as he had learned how to use them as a teenager, he had started transferring concepts of operating systems and programming.

Mycroft's cabinet was made out of dark wood and looked like some very pricy piece from an antique shop. In contrast, John's was made out of ivory painted metal and looked solid, efficient, and rather new.

About two hours after Sarah had left his PTSD-monitoring-routine kicked in for the first time.

As instructed, he had gone into John's room to wake him and check him for symptoms of a concussion. He was a bit at a loss when he found John breathing rapidly in his uneasy sleep; Sarah had not told him anything about the possibility of breathing issues.

For a long moment, Sherlock just observed the man in the bed and compared what he saw with all the things he knew about concussions. When he found nothing finally he realised it might be a nightmare.

"John?" he tried, standing next to the bed, "John, wake up!"

But his flatmate didn't seem to notice him.

Sherlock leaned closer, seeing sweat on John's brow and a clenched jaw.

He hesitated, not sure on how to go on.
Was he allowed to touch him?

Up to now, he hadn't really touched John, at least not without gloves or other fabrics in between.

He remembered that he had grabbed John's head earlier, when trying to help him remember the graffiti.

In hindsight, he realised that the touch had been quite intimate and he came to the conclusion it had been inappropriate. John had grimaced and tensed up, clearly in discomfort, but had not pushed him away.
Why not?

Only after noticing the discomfort he caused, Sherlock had shifted his hands to his upper arms, but continued to spin him around. It had taken several turns until John had pushed past his stunned immobility and had escaped his hands.

In general, Sherlock preferred not to touch people, but being touched was far worse. He had only mad physical contact with John because he had worn gloves and assumed this would turn down both their discomfort in equal measures.

Standing there and watching his flatmate's uneasy sleep, he wondered if he should belatedly tag this behaviour as might-go-into-the PTSD-rubric? He kept his distance now because he didn't know how to proceed.

Had John been stunned by being held back then because it was a trigger?

No, John was used to touches and had not shown any signs of distress.

But PTSD caused nightmares, that much he knew for sure.

"John?" he asked again, louder this time.

The only response was a muted whimper.

"Wake up!"

John jerked awake and sat up, obviously distressed.

Clearly not the best choice to wake him like that, the detective made a mental note to try different next time.

"God, Sherlock, what is it?" John panted, lifting his hand to his throbbing head.

"I want to check if you are coherent and wake normally," Sherlock informed, still keeping his distance.

"I am fine, okay? So leave me alone," he turned his back to his flatmate.

"Would you please tell me today's date?" Sherlock asked, using 'please' to be nice.

"Leave it, I'm fine… Just let me sleep, please."

Sherlock hesitated a moment but was sure if John was in a bad way he'd not have answered like that.

He returned to his computer and set his alarm clock for two hours.

.

02:08

Sherlock switched off the alarm before it had a chance to ring.

Seconds later he stood in front of John's bed again, he seemed to be sleeping normally this time.

The detective leaned closer and tried to speak more soothingly than last time.

"John?… Would you wake up for me?… John?"

The doctor blinked awake.

"Uh, dammit, Sherlock, what is it now?"

"Want to know if you are alright…"

"I would be if I could get some decent sleep. Would you stop that! I am fine, you do not need to wake me up every hour, my concussion does NOT need monitoring!" he sounded unnerved.

So, he knew where he was and knew what had happened.

Good.

Sherlock left the room.

.

04:08

Two hours later he returned to the upstairs bedroom.

John's face was sweaty once more and he looked noticeably pale.

Sherlock briefly considered taking his pulse but stepped back when John moved.

"God, no… She'd dead… God, no…" John whispered, almost not understandable.

"John, are you with me?"

No reaction.

John's head moved from one side to the other as if he was trying to shake whatever he was dreaming about.

"John!" trying louder this time.

John opened his eyes and blinked, obviously only half awake.

"Can you hear me?" Sherlock started, but then decided it was time to be less superficial. A diversion from having woken John up again was in order.

"What did you dream about?" he continued.

"Nothing," John mumbled and sat up.

"You seemed distressed."

"Leave it…"

"I want to know."

John rolled his eyes, "Soo Lin."

"What about her?"

"She is dead for god's sake!"

"Yes. Obviously."

"Shit, do you care at all?… We should have stayed with her… Maybe she'd be still alive if we did!... Or at least if I did."

Oh, now Sherlock understood. John was feeling guilty, blaming himself or something?

What would be an appropriate response to that?

He searched the database and it took some moments until he came up with a reply.

"You can't change what happened. It's no use to- " Sherlock informed.

"Why do you ask, then? Just to tell me I'm wrongly having emotions?" John interrupted him.

"I…" Sherlock was not sure what to say, he had only wanted to say something nice.

"Let me sleep, Sherlock." The doctor turned away once more.

"Sarah told me to look after you."

"So, you're doing this not because I mean anything to you as a human being, but just because she told you to?"

"No, I do it because it is my duty as a friend."

Sherlock turned and headed downstairs to the kitchen, wondering what he did wrong. Apparently, however he did try to be a friend was misunderstood - or not the right thing at the right time.

It appeared John's nightmare had not been directly related to PTSD and the fact that John felt bad about losing a life was probably more a doctor-thing than a trauma-thing.

Once more he wondered what exactly had traumatised John.

Losing too many friends or patients and the circumstances of that process might cause trauma, so maybe it was a PTSD thing after all?

Unsure how to handle the mental database-entry, he left it in the PTSD section and added a subfolder in which to store things that had a question mark written over the information.

6:08

The next time Sherlock should have woken his flatmate turned out to be unnecessary because John was already up and in the bathroom, having a shower.

To have something to do Sherlock prepared a pot of tea for breakfast.

A bit later they met at the kitchen table where John sat down to stare at the picture of the graffiti again.

"So nine mill…. Nine million…" he read out loud what Sherlock had written over the picture while Sherlock filled their cups with tea.

They agreed to go to the bank again and ask the PA about the pin.

Chapter Text

Several weeks later, they found themselves in a pool area with John wearing a suicide bomber belt.

When Moriarty had simply left they – at first - thought the situation was solved.

Sherlock couldn't help but felt disappointed about the anticlimactic turn of events.

But then he saw John sway and ripped the bomb of him. The other man was pale and looked drained.

It suddenly occurred to the detective that there was a large time gap between John leaving the house and finding John at the pool.

What had happened to John in the time between.

Still confused and a bit shaken he tried to ask about John's well-being.

It was the second time Sherlock asked his flatmate about how he felt in just a few hours. He had never given such questions much attention before in his life, but during the past weeks had found it might be relevant to the outcome of cases.

The first time he had asked such a question was shortly before the TV host case had started. They had sat at a café having breakfast, after John had claimed he was getting sick with the lack of food their constant search for clues had caused.

The doctor's colour had improved after he had eaten, which confirmed that it was necessary to at least sometimes be aware that John needed nutrients. He was definitely more difficult to handle without a certain amount of sleep, tea, coffee and meals. It was slowing him down more than usual, which was inconvenient for both of them.

Bottom line: easier to give him the few minutes his body needed than cope with the lack of brainpower.

Since eating was something he'd forget regularly, he had decided to remember to ask for John's wellbeing, it was one thing to neglect his own health, but to do so with John's was unacceptable.

There was one delightful result this had already: John no longer got on his nerves by trying to convince him to eat.

.

"Alright? Are you alright?" Sherlock was getting nervous when he didn't get an answer immediately.

When Sherlock tried to free John of the bomb vest the doctor stumbled and made a joke about being glad that no one saw them.

But then he needed to crouch down and lean on a changing cubicle, pale and shaking.

Sherlock was - for the first time in a very long time - really wrought up with the whole thing.

In addition, his friend's reaction was a freaking him out a bit. The stress that was so clear on John's face and in his posture seemed to kick-start something in Sherlock that felt foreign and absolutely disconcerting.

As if John's distress was contagious it shook Sherlock's core somehow, an absolutely new and odd sensation. He realised he was scratching his head with the gun.

Dumb thing, really, not like him… because: not very professional - and he hated being not professional.

Lost in his own affliction, he ranted about some nonsense, trying to ease John's - or maybe his own - agitation.

Was it even agitation?

He was appalled by his inability to form a coherent sentence, he was babbling!

No, not anxiety…

Maybe only the adrenaline wearing off?

A bit early for that, though.

Well, at least he was not too messed up the remember he had decided to be a bit kinder to John.

He had in fact tried to smile at John during the past days, although he still was not sure if it looked convincing.

Friends smiled at each other, didn't they?

There was a need in him to contradict the fact that John was so disappointed with him, he had expressed his displeasure about Sherlock's cold behaviour repeatedly in the past month.

Moriarty had invaded something. Had stepped over a line, but Sherlock wasn't able to pinpoint what had really happened.  

A part of his brain was near panic, trying to sort the situation out, another tried to handle the fact that John had just tried to save his life by sacrificing himself, when a more immediate issue forced its way into his consciousness: John, distressed, unable to stand.

Panting, making distressed noises.

Shock?

Was he hurt somewhere?

What had happened to John before he had entered the pool area?

Closer evaluation necessary.

When he headed towards the doctor he heard the door open again - and Moriarty re-entered!

No, he hadn't seen this coming, too!

Second big miscalculation in one hour!

Mental note: never let your guard down when dealing with Moriarty!

But the situation got dangerously close to an unpleasant end until the evil man's phone had started to ring… then it dissolved again when he just left to take care of more important things.

This time, neither John nor Sherlock even tried to relax.

Without hesitation Sherlock had phoned Lestrade for a SWAT team while he dragged John to his feet and they stumbled out of the pool area.

They left the building through the back exit, John unsteady on his feet and trembling so much it disturbed his walking.

Delayed fear reaction?

Or just the cold without his jacket?

Sherlock took his time to observe his friend closely.

Clenched jaw. Slight frown. Distant gaze - not the cold.

Distant gaze?

Shock!

 Shell shock? - Expression from WW1 and 2 for PTSD, also called 'Thousand Yard Stare' - check for response to be sure.

This was the first time the monitor-PTSD-routine kicked in, more delayed than he liked, but that was probably due to his own disconcerted state.

So, PTSD trigger?

"John?"

No answer.

"John, are you alright?"

They stood in the back alley, leaned against some wall and panted. It was dark. He gently shook John's shoulder.

"John!... Answer me! Do you need to go to a hospital?"

The man was a doctor, he'd know if he was physically hurt or if he needed medical attention.

No reaction.

Sherlock grabbed the other man's wrist.

Pulse: thready and fast.

Breathing: panting, seems to be an effort.

Shock due to stress presumably.

Keep person warm to prevent state from becoming life-threatening.

He slipped out of his coat and carefully manhandled John into it, who wasn't helping but was also not resisting.

Sirens in the distance.

"John, please answer me," the detective begged but John only stared blindly into space, seeing nothing.

"John, I need you here! Your medical knowledge is needed!" Sherlock's voice was raised and the whole thing distressed him more and more, too.

He flipped his fingers in front of John's eyes and this was when John gasped and started to move. But his legs wouldn't carry him and he started sliding down the wall.

Sherlock caught him and held him upright.

A few moments later John found his balance and leaned heavily against the wall, able to stand himself finally. Sherlock let go.

"What did just happen?"

John looked disoriented and ashy.

"I don't know…. "

"You weren't responding and just staring ahead."

"I… know," the doctor swallowed.

"Are you alright? Are you in shock? Do you need to go to the hospital?" Sherlock repeated.

"'m fine. Just a flashback, nothing to worry."

"You are not fine… What does a doctor do when a person has a flashback?" the detective tried.

"Not now, Sherlock,… please," John tried to reclaim his composure, frowning when he realised Sherlock was only in his suit jacket and looked around for the coat.

When he shivered once more Sherlock grabbed the coat's front and wrapped it tighter around his friend. The doctor felt a bit like a child, dressed by his mother. It took him a moment to look down at the unfamiliar sensation and saw himself wrapped in Sherlock's Belstaff.

"Why am I wearing your coat? What the hell happened?"

He of course knew where his mind had been, in a combat situation in Afghanistan, but what had happened in the real world during that time?

Shit.

He hadn't had a flashback in months and he had hoped that he was finally over those.

"I feared you might be in shock, so I tried to keep you warm. Lestrade is coming."

Sherlock wanted to tell John indirectly that if he didn't want to be seen wearing the coat now would be the best time to get rid of it.

However, John wasn't reacting, probably because he was still to far away to understand the hint.

Lestrade came around the corner and ran towards them only moments later.

"I want to go home," John whispered in a tight voice.

"We will, as soon as possible."

.

John convinced the ambulance crew that he was fine and after a short examination they let him go. He was grateful for the bright orange blanket they provided, though.

After they assured they'd come to Scotland Yard first thing in the morning they were allowed to leave.

The moment they arrived home John started to make tea, still wrapped in the blanket.

Sherlock let himself fall into his armchair, coat still on, no time for unnecessary distractions - the activated monitoring routine needed attention.

"John, how often do you get flashbacks?" he asked.

"I am not in the mood to discuss this."

"I need to know!"

"What for?… To evaluate how nuts I am?"

Aggressive tone, insulted?

"I don't think you're nuts."

"Really? Why not? Psychosomatic limping is considered pretty nuts by most people."

So, not insulted, more like protection from further hurt?

Was that why John never told anybody he was shot in the shoulder?

He left everybody to believe their own wrong conclusion that he was hit in the leg, didn't correct them. He also never mentions his PTSD to anybody, or that he had been invalided in Afghanistan.

Nobody except Sherlock seemed to know his leg was physically okay.

Had John been treated as if he had a defective mind?

Sherlock had known all his life that he was different, but never considered himself damaged, though he knew other people did.

People called him 'freak' and other names, but he had learned to live with it.

He knew his social skills weren't the best. Knew he had more brains than a lot of other people and he knew other people's senses were blind and deaf in comparison with his.

But people didn't like to realise others were smarter, it made them hostile or they tried to prove they were smart themselves all the time.

He had accepted these behaviours and partly encapsulated himself.

But John was an open, friendly character, a fully functioning member of society. And now his world was upside down and his PTSD prevented him from functioning on a satisfactory level in his profession, robbing him of his job as a soldier and army doctor, rendering him unable to work fully.

Was he himself thinking he was damaged goods?

Or did other people make him think that?

His self-consciousness had obviously been affected since he was shot.

Then Sherlock wondered if he himself had added to that issue?

Probably.

It hadn't been his intention, but he might have been careless.

But John was a friend and he wanted to care.

Though friendships were kind of an unexplored area.

His first action was to start a new routine which's task it was to prevent him from saying things to John that might be condescending in the future.

"I'm frequently called a freak, and I don't think you are nuts. And since we live and work together I want to know what I can do to understand, prevent and be of assistance in case help is needed. One day it might be the small thing that makes the difference."

"You mean you're afraid that I blow it and you can't compensate?" John was getting more hostile by the minute.

"I consider you a friend and I want to help."

"Now, what makes you think I want the help of someone who doesn't want my help himself, and who pushes me away or is rude whenever I try?" John stood up. "A friend would accept my help, too, Sherlock… Besides, I like friends to be eye-to-eye… I'll have a shower." And he was gone.

Was that it?

Was it impossible for John to entrust Sherlock with his most vulnerable topic?

Was he afraid Sherlock might rampage there?

A bit horrified about himself he wondered if he had done that too often with John?

John was right, he pushed him away when he himself was vulnerable, in pain or depressed or overwhelmed with something.

When John had offered help in the past he had regularly rejected it.

Even though it was John's profession he had avoided to ask him for help when his transport was physically affected. He kept quiet about things that a doctor could take care off or should have been entrusted with - like being almost choked to death by a Chinese villain.

Sherlock finally realised that to receive trust meant you had to give some first.

He knew that, but he was so out of practice to rely on anyone, he had forgotten it worked that way with normal people.

So, entrust John with a bit more of his own vulnerabilities and give some more care about the doctor's needs.

He had already started to practise that…

And google in depth what to do when flashbacks happen and how triggering works.

Nevertheless, the thing with eye to eye he didn't understand.

This was not the moment to ask, obviously, so he might check that concept on google, too. Although he was aware of the meaning of the phrase he wasn't sure why John assumed it wasn't present.

Or had he said it for another reason?

Was it an exclusion criterion?

The idea felt dark purple and ugly.

Didn't John want to be his friend at all?

But John had said he 'liked friends to be' like this, was that a challenge?

An invitation to learn how friendship worked in detail?

The tone of his voice had made it sound more like an exclusion criterion.

The one thing Sherlock knew for sure was that he needed to evade rejection, because the idea of John being disappointed had felt not good either.

He surely needed to gather a lot of data concerning that topic.

Thankfully John was usually prepared to explain human nature, inappropriateness and sentiment to him when need arises.

He needed data.

And he wanted John's friendship - definitely.