After the Bombs: 2/2
Title: After the Bombs
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 1600 for this chapter, 3000 total
Warnings: Spoilers for "Hounds of Baskerville"
Fic Summary: Slight AU for "Hounds of Baskerville," in which the drugs Sherlock used to dose John trigger a severe episode of PTSD. When terrors old and new cause John to fall apart, Sherlock must rectify his mistake and pick up the pieces.
According to the clock on Sherlock's bedside, it was 4:03 A.M. exactly when the screaming started. His eyes flew open, though otherwise he remained motionless, as his mind scanned the known particulars. Intruder? Potentially. Weapon? Advisable. Harpoon? Too hard to maneuver. Revolver? Satisfactory.
Sherlock swung swiftly out of bed, absently throwing on the dressing gown he had slung over the desk chair, retrieved the gun from his desk drawer, and padded silently into the hallway.
He could hear the screams more clearly now, and it took only a few seconds for Sherlock to realize that they were coming from the second floor. Oh God, John.
He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the small voice in his head that pointed out this was, in fact, more likely to alert any potential intruder to his presence, and burst into John's room with all carefully planned thoughts of tactics utterly forgotten.
The room looked like a bomb had gone off somewhere nearby. John's sheets, pillows, and blankets were strewn everywhere; the desk chair had been overturned and moved halfway across the floor; and the painting opposite the bed was nearly falling off the wall, most probably, Sherlock deduced, from having been struck by one of the pillows.
And to Sherlock's horror, there, curled up in the corner of the room, clutching a pillow to his chest and screaming his throat raw, was John.
"John, what's happened?" Sherlock demanded urgently, depositing the revolver on the desk before kneeling beside his flatmate and scanning him thoroughly for any outward sign of injury. "Who did this to you? Who hurt you, John?"
John's screams stopped abruptly as he turned his head, clearly with some effort, so they were face to face. Sherlock took in the sheen of sweat covering John's face and the haunted, angry look in his bloodshot eyes with no small dismay, which was nothing compared to the way he felt after the other man finally spoke.
John let out a ragged, breathless laugh as he said, "You know, for supposedly having the world's greatest detective mind, you really can be phenomenally thick sometimes." He leaned in closer before whispering, "You want to know who hurt me, Sherlock? You did."
Sherlock ignored the strange, clutching sensation in the pit of his stomach as he shifted his focus to figuring out which of the many supposedly inconsiderate things he always seemed to be doing could have gotten John this upset. It did not take him long. "John," he said placatingly, "It was just an experiment, conducted in perfect, laboratory conditions. You were never in any real danger."
"Oh, thank you, Sherlock," John said, letting out another slightly hysterical laugh that was utterly devoid of humor, "I am so glad that all you made me face were the most terrifying moments of my entire life, replayed in dazzling technicolor and surround sound thanks to a sadistic drug and an even more sadistic egomaniac without an off switch."
The strange, clutching sensation only intensified as Sherlock pieced together the implications of what John was saying. "Mycroft said you didn't have PTSD," he said, doubt creeping into his voice for the first time.
"Oh, well, Mycroft said it, so it must be true," John shot back caustically, "What do I know, I'm just the one seeing dead people!" The sarcasm pervading John's voice wasn't the gentle, bantering variety that Sherlock had come to rely upon. No, this was darker and angrier, embittered even.
Seeing John like that, his John, had been bad enough, but finding out that he was the one who had caused it made Sherlock feel cold all over.
"John, I..." Sherlock began, but he trailed off. He realized to his utter horror that his mind had failed him - for the first time in a long time, Sherlock Holmes had no idea what to say.
"You don't know, Sherlock," John said, the temporary steadiness his anger had given him slipping away in an instant as he slumped against the wall once more, a single tear running silently down his cheek. "You don't know what it was like for me in there."
"Tell me," Sherlock said, adding softly when John shot him a disbelieving look, "I...I just want to know how to help you."
John closed his eyes and drew his knees in close to his chest as the tremors running through his body grew more severe. "It was like I was trapped there all over again," he said finally, his voice breaking as more tears spilled from his eyes.
Clammy skin, shallow breathing, recurring tremors, Sherlock catalogued silently. Definitely in shock. In a move indicative of his level of desperation, Sherlock did the only thing he could think of to alleviate the symptoms - he grabbed the nearest blanket and wrapped it carefully around John's shoulders.
John said nothing, but shot Sherlock a grateful look as he pulled the blanket tightly around his torso before continuing, "Everything feels like it's happening at once - car bombs, insurgents with grenades, patients slipping away with their blood still wet on my hands. And no matter what I do, I can't get it to stop, Sherlock, I just...I can't..."
Sherlock noted with alarm that not only had the shaking spread to all of John's extremities, despite the best efforts of the shock blanket, but the time between his inhalations had shortened from an inadequate two seconds to a frightening one second.
"Breathe, John," Sherlock said, slightly panicked, "You have to breathe."
After calculating the chances of John sustaining brain damage without further intake of oxygen at a slight, but significant 2.7%, Sherlock concluded that some more drastic action on his part had become necessary.
He pressed a hand to John's shoulder experimentally and was gratified to note that his flatmate's - his friend's, a small voice in his head corrected - breathing slowed slightly.
Committed to testing his hypothesis further, Sherlock began to move the hand already resting on the soft fabric of the blanket in small circles and gradually placed the other on John's opposite shoulder.
"It's all right, John," he said patiently, reasonably certain that was the correct thing to say at this juncture, "You're safe now. I won't let anything hurt you."
When Sherlock felt a shudder run through John's body, he silently cursed himself for having clearly made some sort of misstep in the formula. Consequently, it took him completely by surprise when instead of retreating further into the corner, John launched himself, blanket and all, into Sherlock's arms.
Sherlock was further stunned to discover that his more than formidable mental processes seemed completely stalled when it came to what to do upon having his friend curled around him like he was some sort of teddy bear.
"I'm scared, Sherlock," John whispered, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. "I feel like I don't know what's real anymore. Like I'm going mad."
"Nonsense, John," Sherlock said fiercely, running his hands over John's back - just to make sure the blanket was properly situated, of course - as he continued, "Of the hundreds of people I have met stumbling blindly around this city, you are one of the only ones, the only ones, John, sane enough to see what's actually happening out there. You are one of the sanest people I know, John Watson, and I don't want you to doubt it for an instant."
John said nothing, but shifted so his head was buried in the crook of Sherlock's neck, with one of his hands clutching desperately at the soft fabric of his dressing gown. To Sherlock's distress, he began to weep again, great jagged sobs that radiated through Sherlock's torso.
In an attempt to contain any possible damage, Sherlock methodically applied compression, holding John in a vise-like grip until he grew silent once again, the violent shaking wracking his form having diminished to a light tremor.
John murmured something into his neck which Sherlock was seventy-five percent sure amounted to, "So tired, Sherlock," before slumping bonelessly against him.
Calculating the odds that he would be spending a very uncomfortable night sitting cross-legged on the floor unless they moved immediately at over eighty percent, Sherlock got to his feet as deftly as he could manage considering he had a hundred and ninety pounds of army doctor clinging to him like a life preserver, and allowed both of them to fall backward onto the soft duvet still mostly covering John's bed.
He couldn't in good conscience leave John like this, Sherlock reasoned. Though he seemed peaceful now, there was no telling if he would wake again, panicked and disoriented, and cause himself some serious injury.
With this in mind, he repositioned their bodies so they were both resting under the duvet, with John's head still nestled in the crook of his neck, his breath warm and reassuring against Sherlock's collarbone.
After reaching carefully over to switch off the lamp on John's bedside table, Sherlock leaned back against the cool sheets and let himself exhale for the first time in half an hour.
John is fine, he told himself. Everything is fine. "Everything is fine," he whispered again, this time aloud, in case it would aid John's condition to hear it. As if in unconscious reply, John shifted a little in his sleep and tightened his grip on Sherlock.
In case this small motion meant John was in need of further reassurance, Sherlock responded by holding him tighter as well and even allowed his hand to drift up and tangle itself in John's hair.
"I..." he began to murmur, struck with a sudden, strange feeling that there was more that needed saying, "I'm sorry John. I hurt you. I...I was wrong."
"Mmm, can I have a recording of that please?" John mumbled sleepily into his neck. "Want it for my records."
The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirked up, making him grateful John wasn't in a position to see. Yes, he thought, relieved, everything is going to be just fine.
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: 1600 for this chapter, 3000 total
Warnings: Spoilers for "Hounds of Baskerville"
Fic Summary: Slight AU for "Hounds of Baskerville," in which the drugs Sherlock used to dose John trigger a severe episode of PTSD. When terrors old and new cause John to fall apart, Sherlock must rectify his mistake and pick up the pieces.
According to the clock on Sherlock's bedside, it was 4:03 A.M. exactly when the screaming started. His eyes flew open, though otherwise he remained motionless, as his mind scanned the known particulars. Intruder? Potentially. Weapon? Advisable. Harpoon? Too hard to maneuver. Revolver? Satisfactory.
Sherlock swung swiftly out of bed, absently throwing on the dressing gown he had slung over the desk chair, retrieved the gun from his desk drawer, and padded silently into the hallway.
He could hear the screams more clearly now, and it took only a few seconds for Sherlock to realize that they were coming from the second floor. Oh God, John.
He took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the small voice in his head that pointed out this was, in fact, more likely to alert any potential intruder to his presence, and burst into John's room with all carefully planned thoughts of tactics utterly forgotten.
The room looked like a bomb had gone off somewhere nearby. John's sheets, pillows, and blankets were strewn everywhere; the desk chair had been overturned and moved halfway across the floor; and the painting opposite the bed was nearly falling off the wall, most probably, Sherlock deduced, from having been struck by one of the pillows.
And to Sherlock's horror, there, curled up in the corner of the room, clutching a pillow to his chest and screaming his throat raw, was John.
"John, what's happened?" Sherlock demanded urgently, depositing the revolver on the desk before kneeling beside his flatmate and scanning him thoroughly for any outward sign of injury. "Who did this to you? Who hurt you, John?"
John's screams stopped abruptly as he turned his head, clearly with some effort, so they were face to face. Sherlock took in the sheen of sweat covering John's face and the haunted, angry look in his bloodshot eyes with no small dismay, which was nothing compared to the way he felt after the other man finally spoke.
John let out a ragged, breathless laugh as he said, "You know, for supposedly having the world's greatest detective mind, you really can be phenomenally thick sometimes." He leaned in closer before whispering, "You want to know who hurt me, Sherlock? You did."
Sherlock ignored the strange, clutching sensation in the pit of his stomach as he shifted his focus to figuring out which of the many supposedly inconsiderate things he always seemed to be doing could have gotten John this upset. It did not take him long. "John," he said placatingly, "It was just an experiment, conducted in perfect, laboratory conditions. You were never in any real danger."
"Oh, thank you, Sherlock," John said, letting out another slightly hysterical laugh that was utterly devoid of humor, "I am so glad that all you made me face were the most terrifying moments of my entire life, replayed in dazzling technicolor and surround sound thanks to a sadistic drug and an even more sadistic egomaniac without an off switch."
The strange, clutching sensation only intensified as Sherlock pieced together the implications of what John was saying. "Mycroft said you didn't have PTSD," he said, doubt creeping into his voice for the first time.
"Oh, well, Mycroft said it, so it must be true," John shot back caustically, "What do I know, I'm just the one seeing dead people!" The sarcasm pervading John's voice wasn't the gentle, bantering variety that Sherlock had come to rely upon. No, this was darker and angrier, embittered even.
Seeing John like that, his John, had been bad enough, but finding out that he was the one who had caused it made Sherlock feel cold all over.
"John, I..." Sherlock began, but he trailed off. He realized to his utter horror that his mind had failed him - for the first time in a long time, Sherlock Holmes had no idea what to say.
"You don't know, Sherlock," John said, the temporary steadiness his anger had given him slipping away in an instant as he slumped against the wall once more, a single tear running silently down his cheek. "You don't know what it was like for me in there."
"Tell me," Sherlock said, adding softly when John shot him a disbelieving look, "I...I just want to know how to help you."
John closed his eyes and drew his knees in close to his chest as the tremors running through his body grew more severe. "It was like I was trapped there all over again," he said finally, his voice breaking as more tears spilled from his eyes.
Clammy skin, shallow breathing, recurring tremors, Sherlock catalogued silently. Definitely in shock. In a move indicative of his level of desperation, Sherlock did the only thing he could think of to alleviate the symptoms - he grabbed the nearest blanket and wrapped it carefully around John's shoulders.
John said nothing, but shot Sherlock a grateful look as he pulled the blanket tightly around his torso before continuing, "Everything feels like it's happening at once - car bombs, insurgents with grenades, patients slipping away with their blood still wet on my hands. And no matter what I do, I can't get it to stop, Sherlock, I just...I can't..."
Sherlock noted with alarm that not only had the shaking spread to all of John's extremities, despite the best efforts of the shock blanket, but the time between his inhalations had shortened from an inadequate two seconds to a frightening one second.
"Breathe, John," Sherlock said, slightly panicked, "You have to breathe."
After calculating the chances of John sustaining brain damage without further intake of oxygen at a slight, but significant 2.7%, Sherlock concluded that some more drastic action on his part had become necessary.
He pressed a hand to John's shoulder experimentally and was gratified to note that his flatmate's - his friend's, a small voice in his head corrected - breathing slowed slightly.
Committed to testing his hypothesis further, Sherlock began to move the hand already resting on the soft fabric of the blanket in small circles and gradually placed the other on John's opposite shoulder.
"It's all right, John," he said patiently, reasonably certain that was the correct thing to say at this juncture, "You're safe now. I won't let anything hurt you."
When Sherlock felt a shudder run through John's body, he silently cursed himself for having clearly made some sort of misstep in the formula. Consequently, it took him completely by surprise when instead of retreating further into the corner, John launched himself, blanket and all, into Sherlock's arms.
Sherlock was further stunned to discover that his more than formidable mental processes seemed completely stalled when it came to what to do upon having his friend curled around him like he was some sort of teddy bear.
"I'm scared, Sherlock," John whispered, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. "I feel like I don't know what's real anymore. Like I'm going mad."
"Nonsense, John," Sherlock said fiercely, running his hands over John's back - just to make sure the blanket was properly situated, of course - as he continued, "Of the hundreds of people I have met stumbling blindly around this city, you are one of the only ones, the only ones, John, sane enough to see what's actually happening out there. You are one of the sanest people I know, John Watson, and I don't want you to doubt it for an instant."
John said nothing, but shifted so his head was buried in the crook of Sherlock's neck, with one of his hands clutching desperately at the soft fabric of his dressing gown. To Sherlock's distress, he began to weep again, great jagged sobs that radiated through Sherlock's torso.
In an attempt to contain any possible damage, Sherlock methodically applied compression, holding John in a vise-like grip until he grew silent once again, the violent shaking wracking his form having diminished to a light tremor.
John murmured something into his neck which Sherlock was seventy-five percent sure amounted to, "So tired, Sherlock," before slumping bonelessly against him.
Calculating the odds that he would be spending a very uncomfortable night sitting cross-legged on the floor unless they moved immediately at over eighty percent, Sherlock got to his feet as deftly as he could manage considering he had a hundred and ninety pounds of army doctor clinging to him like a life preserver, and allowed both of them to fall backward onto the soft duvet still mostly covering John's bed.
He couldn't in good conscience leave John like this, Sherlock reasoned. Though he seemed peaceful now, there was no telling if he would wake again, panicked and disoriented, and cause himself some serious injury.
With this in mind, he repositioned their bodies so they were both resting under the duvet, with John's head still nestled in the crook of his neck, his breath warm and reassuring against Sherlock's collarbone.
After reaching carefully over to switch off the lamp on John's bedside table, Sherlock leaned back against the cool sheets and let himself exhale for the first time in half an hour.
John is fine, he told himself. Everything is fine. "Everything is fine," he whispered again, this time aloud, in case it would aid John's condition to hear it. As if in unconscious reply, John shifted a little in his sleep and tightened his grip on Sherlock.
In case this small motion meant John was in need of further reassurance, Sherlock responded by holding him tighter as well and even allowed his hand to drift up and tangle itself in John's hair.
"I..." he began to murmur, struck with a sudden, strange feeling that there was more that needed saying, "I'm sorry John. I hurt you. I...I was wrong."
"Mmm, can I have a recording of that please?" John mumbled sleepily into his neck. "Want it for my records."
The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirked up, making him grateful John wasn't in a position to see. Yes, he thought, relieved, everything is going to be just fine.