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‘Oh God! Why don’t they ever do anything to stop the tracks screeching!’
John looks down enviously at Sherlock in his ear defenders.
‘Clearly it is not a priority.’ He replies over the increasing roar from his seat.
‘God it’s horrible!’ John wraps his arm around the rail so he can press his fingers in his ears. ‘How is it getting worse?!’ He can still hear the metal screaming beneath them.
‘Would you like to borrow my ear defenders?’ Sherlock places his hands on the ear muffs ready to take them off.
‘No!’ John clamps his hands over Sherlock's, stopping him from removing them. ‘You need them, Sherlock. I’m alright.’ He tries to reassure him as he retracts his grip.
The tube tracks fall silent. ‘Ah see! Finally it’s stopped!’ He sighs in relief and leans against the rail in front of Sherlock.
SCREEEECH!!!!!!!
Suddenly the train lurches to a stop and John crashes to the floor. A floor now covered with pine needles and mud…
‘What the hell?’ He looks at his palms now covered in dirt; the cuffs of his denim jacket have turnt to camo green.
‘Look alive Watson!’ A voice that he hasn’t heard in months calls out to him.
‘Sholto?’ He looks up to find his former comrade Major Sholto looking down at him from the treeline.
‘We've got shellin’ comin’ in thick and fast!’ An American voice sounds behind him, as strong arms help lift him from the forest floor.
‘Vince? What the hell is going on?’
‘You hit your head Doc? We’re patrolling the border.’ He looks at him jovially.
More rapid fire echoes in the distance.
‘More shellin’. They're coming closer. Get ready to evac!’ Sholto yells over the bangs.
‘Come on.’ Vince leads the way through the trees to a clearing just before a roadside where their convoy will be waiting. John knows this clearing it’s haunted his sleep for the last ten months.
‘Arrrrgh…’ A pained moan blooms from the tall grass next to them.
‘Hold on, there’s someone here..’ he hears himself say. He knows who it will be. At his feet lies the soldier who tried to kill him. He looks down at his crooked shaped body; twisted like a storm battered tree, legs bent and knurled like roots searching for shelter. He looks at his face and swallows his anger. Looking back at him not the face of a war hardened killer; but a bloody and tear-stained trembling boy.
‘Awright mate?’ John feels himself move without thought. He wanted to help him back then; he still does it seems.
‘Watson come on we’re headin’ back to the road.’
‘Yeah, yeah, two secs.’ He tilts his head to look at the familiar wounds.
‘He’s not coming with us.’ Vince says leaving no room for argument.
‘He can make it, it’s not too bad a wound to be honest.’ He could stitch him up in less than twenty minutes.
BANG ‘That shellin’s gettin’ close move now.’
‘We have to take him.’ Maybe this time it could be different. If he just gets him to the convoy…
‘We don’t have to do anything. Leave him here and move, now! NOW!’ Vince shouts.
‘He’s a kid he’s just…’ beep…beep…beep.
It’s too late.
‘What was that? What’s he got?’
He couldn’t save him.
‘What did you just do? Oh shit! Run, run, RUN!’
He couldn’t even save himself.
BANG!
‘Somebody help me!’ He feels a gentle pressure over his head. The sounds around him dull to a thrum. Something is covering his ears. He keeps his eyes tightly closed. Scared that if he opens them he’ll find himself back in the frozen forest.
‘John… You’re okay. You’re on the tube. We’re nearly home. Can you hear me?’ The words are muted but he knows Sherlock’s voice.
He doesn’t trust his own voice so he just nods.
‘Good. I need you to breathe slower for me.’
He tries to suck in a breath but he’s hyperventilating so it’s more of a stuttered cough.
‘It’s alright, John. Breathe in and count to seven, out for eleven.’
He feels Sherlock take his hand and place it over his chest. ‘Keep in time with me.’
He feels the rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest and tries to match it. ‘One…two…three…’ He draws in a breath as Sherlock counts. ‘Six… seven’ He exhales as he feels Sherlocks own chest fall with his own. ‘One…Good John… Two…All the way to eleven.’
He exhales till he feels his lungs feel hollow and his body empty.
‘Eleven … Good, and again… One …’
John continues breathing as Sherlock counts for a couple more cycles till he feels like he’s come back to himself. He opens his eyes slowly and finds Sherlock knelt in front of him on the floor of the tube carriage. He’s still holding John's hand against his chest; and with the other he’s cradling the ear defenders covering John’s ears.
‘Better?’ He moves his hand away from the ear muffs but keeps a hold of John’s wrist.
‘Getting there…’ His voice sounds far away, like he’s listening to an echo.
‘Good. Your heartbeat has lowered.’ Sherlock’s fingers are wrapped around the pulse point on his wrist.
‘I was back there… In Ukraine…’ John reaches up with his other hand and pulls down the ear defenders so they rest around his neck.
‘I suspect you’ve had a flashback triggered by the tube brakes screeching.’
‘Christ Sherlock…It was so real!’
‘It’s alright Watson, you’re safe now.’
‘Where are we?’ He notices the train has stopped and looks to the platform to get his bearings.
‘Baker Street Station. Nearly home. Do you think you can stand up?’
‘Yeah, you may have to help me up though. I think my knee twisted on the way down…’ He tries to lean on it and winces. ‘Ow!’
‘Hook your arm over my shoulder… That’s it, put your weight on me.’
John does as he asks and they awkwardly disembark onto the platform. Sherlock guides him over to a bench where he can sit. At the late hour the platform is deserted; something which John is eternally grateful for.
‘Ah, Cheers. Sorry, I’ll be alright in a minute. Just let me psyche myself up for the walk back to the flat…’ He rubs his knee. Breathes in and counts to seven, out for eleven; trying to overcome the pain in his leg.
‘Don’t apologise. Take all the time you need.’ Sherlock says as he rummages around his coat pockets.
‘Have you lost something?... We didn’t leave it on the Tube did we?’ John felt mortified. He'd never forgive himself if Sherlock had lost something important whilst calming him down.
‘No. I just can’t remember which pocket I… Aha! Here it is!’ He triumphantly reveals what at first appears to be a bundle of white sticks; a bundle which John recognises immediately.
‘My cane…’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve been carrying around the collapsible cane you gave me?’
‘Yes… I know you said you weren’t ready to use it but, I thought I’d keep it on me in case you ever needed it.’
‘But that was months ago…’ John says dumbfounded.
‘It was.’
‘You’ve been carrying it around for months just on the off chance I needed it?’
‘Well yes…’
‘That’s… that’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me…’ John found he was overcome with emotion.
‘Do… Do you think you are ready to use it now?’
‘Yeah I think I am. Thank you, Sherlock.’
They make their way along Baker Street with newfound ease. John occasionally pauses to give his leg a break. Sherlock, always by his side offering a shoulder to lean on.
Back at the flat they have to manoeuvre the stairs- all without waking Mariana. John struggled on ahead grimacing that not even the army's assault courses felt this cruel. Sherlock followed closely behind whispering words of encouragement.
Once they are inside John hands Sherlock back his ear defenders and makes a beeline for the sofa. He sits down with a heavy sigh.
‘God… What a night… I’ve never felt so tired and awake at the same time since…’ His memories drift back to the frontline.
‘It will be the adrenaline dump. You will feel better after some sleep.’ Sherlock places his ear defenders on the coffee table.
‘I, er… don’t trust my mind to go to sleep right now…’ He rubs his knee again.
‘You fear you’ll have bad dreams?’ Sherlock sits beside him.
‘Bad memories.’ He hides a shudder.
‘Like what you saw on the tube? Sorry that was insensitive.’
‘No, you’re right Sherlock. You’ve always been right. You knew I had PTSD before I did.’
‘Not the hardest deduction to make.’ Sherlock comments offhandedly.
John gave him a withering glare.
‘Sorry.’
‘I didn’t think I had it that bad and then today…’
‘We were working flat out on a particularly difficult case with little sleep. Exhaustion and stress, combined with a trigger of the tube brakes screeching equalled the perfect combination for a PTSD flashback.’
‘But I didn’t even know that could be a trigger!’
‘Anything can be.’
‘Then how am I supposed to live?!’ John explodes with frustration. ‘How am I supposed to exist here, in London? Home to millions of people and possible triggers? Oh, and on Baker Street where the nearest tube station has tracks that scream and trigger war flashbacks!? Do you know how expensive cabs are? I can't ride a Santander bike everywhere… God, I’m gonna have to move…’ He puts his head in his hands.
‘That doesn’t fix the problem though.’
‘Then what will?’ He looks sheepishly up at Sherlock through his fingers.
‘I think you should see a therapist.’ Sherlock says gently.
John knows he’s right but doesn’t want to accept it. He chokes on a strangled sob. ‘Yeah… Yeah, I think you’re right there…’
Sherlock looks at him earnestly. ‘I’m sorry John.’
‘For what?’
‘That you’re upset.’
‘I just… I don’t like this feeling… Feeling broken. I think I’ve felt this for a while but ignored it…’ His eyes well up with tears.
‘It’s easy to deceive ourselves when we want the lie to be true.’
‘Yep…The thing is Sherlock making the podcast, helping you on cases it’s given me a purpose again that I don’t think I can live without. I don’t feel broken when I’m with you ; I feel of use .’ John whispers the last part like a confession.
‘You don’t have to live without it.’
‘How am I supposed to be of help to you when I’m a liability? What if I have a flashback whilst chasing a suspect? This can be life and death, and I don’t want to be the reason why somebody gets hurt!’ John raises his voice to a shouted whisper; conscious of Marianna sleeping downstairs.
‘You are not a liability John! Not to me or the work. Your skill and bravery have helped us on countless occasions.’ Sherlock states matter-of-factly.
‘But all it takes is one bad cock-up for it all to be spoiled! I can’t be the reason someone gets hurt Sherlock; I just can’t.’
Sherlock's face falters. ‘You mean you won’t solve crime with me anymore?’
‘It’s not that I don’t want to. I just don’t think I’m in the right place right now to be of help to you. I think you’re right, once I’ve spoken to someone…’
‘A qualified therapist.’
‘Yes a qualified therapist, and sort out whatever the hell is going on in my head and how to manage it, then I can help you out in the field again.’ John tries to placate him.
Sherlock abruptly jumps up from the armchair and storms off to his room.
‘Sherlock! Wait, we can talk about this!’ John tries to heave himself up from the sofa until his knee protests. ‘Ah! Sherlock! For God’s sake…’
‘Here.’ Sherlock has appeared in front of him holding a wad of pamphlets and business cards.
‘What, what are these?’ John gingerly takes a hold of them. He notices the heading on one titled “Combat Stress” and another “Veterans Support Network”.
‘Charities?’
‘Some are… There’s also an NHS guide for mental health support available for veterans. The business cards are for therapists and support groups that specialise in PTSD in service personnel.’
‘Why do you have these?’
‘I thought they may be of use to you… When we moved in together your night terrors were particularly bad. I didn’t know how to help you so I did some research and began collecting resources…Have I overstepped?’
‘No…no, you haven’t…’ John again found he was overcome with emotion. This man who had changed his life in so many ways; who had bought and carried around a collapsible cane for months in case John ever needed it. His friend who had been so concerned for his well being that he had been researching how to best support him. He was so touched he couldn’t put it into words.
‘Then why are you crying?’ Sherlock looked completely lost.
‘I don’t know… I’m just grateful to have you as a friend, and a little scared about…’
‘Getting help?’
‘Yeah…’
‘Would you like a hug?’
‘Yeah.’
As annoying as the detective could be, he did give good hugs.
‘Thanks.’ John said as he released his grip. They now sat facing each other.
‘It will be alright John.’
‘I know. You’re a good friend, Sherlock.’
‘As are you.’
‘Thanks… First thing tomorrow I’ll start looking at support, but right now I think it’s time for bed… Christ it’s nearly four!’
‘Do you think your mind will let you sleep now?’
‘Yeah, I think it’s too exhausted to do anything else.’ he rubbed his eyes.
‘If it’s not you know where I am.’
‘Aren’t you going to bed?’
‘No. I still have some work to do for the case.’
‘You just solved the case. You need to sleep too Sherlock.’
‘And I will, just not yet.’
‘Well okay but I will hold you to that.’ He says yawning.
‘I’m sure you will. Do you need a hand getting to your room?’
‘I think I’ll be alright, it's just a bit stiff now.’ John stood up shakily and began to head towards his room. Sherlock stood, watching his steps grow more confident.
‘Goodnight Watson.’ Sherlock called out to him as he passed through the kitchen and out of view.
‘Goodnight Sherlock.’
John climbed into bed fully clothed; careful not to disturb the lump that was Archie snoring peacefully. Through the door he heard the faint sound of a violin playing something gentle. He smiled, he didn’t know Sherlock knew any lullabies. He rolled over and welcomed sleep's calm embrace.