#johnlock fic

Just a warning, the final chapter is much longer than originally planned but it got away from me a bit!

After a few bumps in the road, including being locked out of my account for a while, I’m so excited to be finishing this one (although there may or may not be a bonus standalone for this one coming as well.)

Not sure if this actually works: link to image

Sherlock went to the living room to see John crumpled in a way he'd never seen before, making his stomach drop. Immediately he went to John's side and dropped to his knees. "John."

Badge clipped to his belt loop-- just come from work.

New scuff on the side of his shoe-- clumsy from a hurried stride.

Large folds in his cardigan-- pinched between John and the door, slid down while pressed against it.

No screaming or running outside-- no natural disaster.

Just a personal one.

John's vacant yet wild eyes were the last piece of evidence that Sherlock needed to understand.

"John, it's alright," he soothed, reaching to hold John's shoulders but deciding at the last moment not to, lest it agitate him further while in an active flashback. "You're alright, John. I'm here. You're safe, at home."

Sherlock's voice floated somewhere through the cursed memory, between bombs exploding and the screams of men getting ripped apart. Arterial spray clouded his vision while an armored man shook him violently, begging him to be saved in a yell barely heard over sharp gunshot--

HIT THE DIRT!

"No!" John's face screwed up in pain. He covered his head with his arms and cried while Sherlock watched, even his cold heart breaking at the sight. He whispered the same words in a soothing sort of mantra, over and over, hoping to bring his friend back from war.

Seconds later, John partially surfaced with a gasp and blinked hard through blurry tears, searching.

"Sherlock?"

"Right here." Sherlock placed his hand over John's and brought his face closer into view. "It's alright, John. You're safe."

"Sherlock." This time, John sounded relieved not to be alone, although his gaze was still far away. He grimaced and squeezed Sherlock's hand very firmly. "Sorry, I--"

Sherlock cut him off.

"Trust me. " It was just as much an imploring statement as it was a question.

"Yes," John answered without hesitation, closing his eyes and swallowing while he dropped his head back to rest against the door.

Sherlock got up quickly and went to the kitchen, returning with a prepared syringe and needle. He went to work tugging John out of his shirt and cardigan sleeve while John forced his breath to even out in between quivering gasps and whimpers.

Sherlock injected the syringe into the muscle of his bicep and watched John carefully.

"Haloperidol and promethazine," he explained quietly, before the doctor could ask what he was being injected with.

John simply nodded and closed his eyes, able to manage his breath just through his nose now. He didn't speak.

Sherlock turned to cap and dispose of the syringe, then turned back and decided it was too soon to get John to his feet. So, he sat beside him instead. Drew up his knees and said nothing.

John swallowed again and sighed.

"S-Sorry."

"Don't apologize."

John blinked away a tattered memory of a single ear and chunk of shoulder joint sitting atop dark and bloody desert sand.

"It was from work..." he kept his head back against the door, but turned to face Sherlock while he explained. He didn't bother to wipe away the tears that continued to fall.

"Surgical consult, got yanked in before I could say no. Industrial explosion, tore the guy to shreds... they got me because of Afghanistan." Sherlock had already connected the dots, but didn't point it out. "Felt like I was back looking at a solidier who'd run over an IED. Held it together at work, but..." he trailed off.

For a few minutes, Sherlock just watched him silently. Noting the rate at which the sedative began to work, but also trying to wrap his head (heart, mostly) around what it would be like to serve in active combat and then come home as if nothing had happened. Single or double murders, suicides, accidents-- those were one thing. But it felt a wide gap between those and war, for a reason Sherlock couldn't really name. Perhaps because he knew John Watson, the doctor with nerves of steel, and to see him unravel this way truly meant something about the caliber of horrors he'd witnessed.

He'd wait to consult John on his current case until tomorrow, he decided.

"Where did you get those medicines?"

John asked, and Sherlock smiled. Getting back to normal already.

"Pinched them when I was in rehab."

"Rehab? I didn't know--"

"I never told you. Didn't work anyway, clearly. Mycroft felt it necessary to try once I'd discovered opium."

John raised an eyebrow at him, but Sherlock ignored it in favor of getting up and bending over to take hold of John's torso.

"C'mon, I'll help you to your room."

Soon the sedative had taken stronger hold of the doctor and he was drifting off comfortably, now that he was settled in bed. Sherlock pulled blankets over him and turned on his desk fan, both for the white noise and for potential anxiety relief later, if a bad dream woke him.

"Thank you, Sherlock."