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It wasn't at all like the movies, and for that, Sherlock was glad. It had never been a complete lapse from reality into the past- not the way it's portrayed on the bad daytime soaps about washed-up war heroes that John hates. But sometimes, especially times like now, his hold on the present could only be described as tenuous, at best. Intellectually, he knew he was in the kitchen of 221B and that he had been washing dishes just moments ago. If he were to rely on his senses, however, he might be persuaded to believe that he was somewhere in the Dinaric Alps, being held in a cell that looked more like a fall-out shelter than a prison, tied by his wrists and colder then he realized it was possible to feel.
He could see bits of the flat, if he concentrated on it hard enough. He knew there was a dining table, just 18 inches in front and 3 to the left of him, but unless it was in his direct line of sight, it took on the form of a flat outcropping of rock they tied him to when they wanted him to believe it was safe to sleep. Sherlock fixed his eyes on the wooden panels of the table, unable to do much else than simply wait for the flashback to end. He would wait it out, and he would be fine.
Well. He would be fine if he wasn't so damn cold.
He felt his knees start to give out, so he used the counter-top and cabinets behind him to ease his body gently to the floor. Suddenly, the material he was resting on felt much more like stone than linoleum, despite the fact that he could make out the tiles clearly. He smelt a mixture of the scents from 221B- tea, laundry, John's cologne- and rather unpleasant odors, mostly involving his own filth and that of his captors, that plagued him during his time away.
Sherlock struggled to hold his torso upright by bracing himself against the cabinet- not rock, a wooden cabinet- and propping himself up on his right arm. His elbow shook with remembered chills, but appeared to hold his weight for the time being. His left arm, while physically fine, felt as if it had recently been dislocated at the shoulder. The combination of adrenaline and perceived pain drew the color out of Sherlock's face, making even his lips appear pale, and the shadows under his eyes to announce themselves more readily. Despite the chill he felt running through his body, there was a thin sheen of sweat covering Sherlock's neck and brow. This, unfortunately for both parties involved, was the sight that John was greeted with when he arrived home from his shift at the clinic.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, you're shaking. Are you with me? Do you know where you are?"
"J'nnn," was Sherlock's only answer, his mouth refusing to cooperate with his malfunctioning brain. The room began to spin around him, making it difficult to distinguish between the kitchen in reality and the prison from his past. John was kneeling in front of him now, gripping Sherlock by his shoulders as his body started to slump further down.
It had been only days ago that John sat Sherlock down and asked him point-blank if he had been experiencing post-traumatic stress symptoms since returning from his battle with Moriarty's operative web. Flashbacks had been a point of discussion then, but this was the first one John had been present for.
"That's right, Sherlock. It's John. We're home, on Baker Street, in London. You're safe. It's alright. We're in London."
Sherlock grasped on to John's voice and the feeling of the doctor's hands squeezing his deltoid muscles. The rest of the room continued to flicker between London flat and Serbian prison, but the sound and feeling of John around him was starting to help him ground himself.
"John. Jooooohn," Sherlock half-whispered, half-moaned, bringing one hand up to wrap tightly in the chest of John's jumper. Later, he would be embarrassed by his behavior, but at the present he would be willing to physically climb inside John's abdomen if it meant he wouldn't feel trapped in his memories any longer.
"I've got you, Sherlock. You're alright. We're home, and we're safe, and it's over... if you can, tell me if there's something else I can do to help."
"Cold."
"You're cold? Here, does that help? I don't want to hurt you. I can't see where you're hurting," John said as he began to rub his palms up and down Sherlock's upper arms, the friction generating a warmth that finally seemed to penetrate the biting cold he had felt since the episode had started. Sherlock's tense muscles relaxed minutely, and he let his head fall back against the cabinet while he closed his eyes. He wasn't sure when his eyes had started to water, but closing them pushed out several tears that tracked down his cheeks, unchecked.
"That helps. That helps," Sherlock answered, unaware he was repeating himself.
"Good. You're alright. Starting to feel less disoriented now?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I..." Sherlock started, but appeared to loose his train of thought halfway through. He opened his eyes and blinked at John a few times before trying to speak again. The kitchen swam into focus, but he could still smell the filth of Serbia faintly. "Christ, I'm tired."
"That's normal. Let's get off the floor, okay? Think you can make it to your bedroom if I help you?"
"Slowly."
"Alright, c'mon then," John said, pulling himself up first and then helping Sherlock to his feet. The detective swayed slightly, but managed to stay upright, if only by using John to steady himself, on the way to his room.
"This entire situation is hateful," Sherlock bit out as he reclined back against the pillows at the head of his bed. "It was cold water, John. I was washing dishes, and suddenly the tap ran cold. It was like a switch was flipped in my brain. The Great Sherlock Holmes, defeated by faulty plumbing."
"It'll get better. You have to give yourself some time. People don't recover from this kind of thing overnight, and you know that," John reminded him, sitting on the edge of the bed near Sherlock's hip. He placed a gentle hand over one of Sherlock's, rubbing the pad of his thumb along the bump of his ulna.
"People don't. People have inferior minds. I've spent the majority of my life honing my psyche. And now, this," Sherlock continued, using his free hand to gesture at himself, as if he were the picture of psychological dysfunction.
"As many psychology textbooks as you've read, and still you insist you're above reacting to severe stress? Think about it critically, Sherlock. I know I don't have to explain to you what's happening in your brain for these things to occur. People- even you and Mycroft- can only handle so much stress. Everyone has a limit. You found your's, a couple times over I think. And that's okay. You'll get through it. But you've got to stop beating yourself up about it."
"I thought I could avoid it. I hadn't... I didn't expect the repercussions to be this severe. Sometimes I wonder if it was even worth it, John," Sherlock's voice started approaching a whisper again, as they delved into uncharted territory. "I catch myself thinking things like... it would have been so much easier to just die and not have to come back to this imaginary hell I'm living in. Everyone was already mourning me, save Mycroft and Molly. It wouldn't have been a great loss."
Up until this point, John had been doing his best to overpower his desire to wrap his arms around Sherlock and hold him. Upon hearing this, he decided to abandon all pretenses. He moved his hand from where it was wrapped around Sherlock's, softly took the detective by his shoulders, and pulled him to his chest. He felt Sherlock tense slightly, before arms snaked around John's torso, returning the embrace.
John lowered his head so that it was nearly resting on Sherlock's shoulder, and spoke to him in a low, quiet tone that he hoped was calming. "Sherlock, when you were gone... When you were gone, I felt like I lost myself, too. I wasn't... I wasn't living. I was barely making it. But you're back. Christ, Sherlock, you came back, and I almost thought I'd gone off the deep end when I first saw you. But you're really here, and alive, and mostly okay, and I have never, never been more relieved in all of my life, than I was when you came back. I've never been more relieved than I am, every day, when I wake up and remember that you're here."
John realized they were both crying now, quietly weeping on each other's shoulders. He smoothed Sherlock's curls with one of his hands while he continued.
"Thank you so much for staying alive then. For saving my life. For enduring everything. For making it home. For letting me help you now. It won't always be this hard. We're going to be alright, Sherlock. We'll be alright."
Sherlock's shoulders shook slightly as he choked back a sob. He shook his head against John's neck in disagreement.
"Yes it will be. You'll get through this, just like I got through coming home from Afghanistan. It's alright. I'm here, and God help me, I don't think there's anything you could do to get me to leave, besides having someone physically drag me away. Even then."
Sherlock answered by letting out a brief chuckle that quickly dissolved into erratic, poorly-suppressed sobs. John carded his fingers though Sherlock's hair, and held him tightly with his other arm.
"Shhh, shh. It's alright. It's alright, 'Lock. I've got you. You don't have to deal with this on your own. It's okay," John murmured into Sherlock's ear. After a few minutes, Sherlock's breathing evened out, and John felt him relaxing against his body. He eased Sherlock, only half-awake now, back down on his bed. Just as he was about to get up, planning on finishing the dishes that Sherlock had started washing earlier, Sherlock grabbed his wrist and then wove their fingers together, effectively anchoring John to the bed.
"I take it you want me to stay a bit, then?"
"Always, John."