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John yawned as he stepped onto the train that would carry them back to London. Dartmoor had been pleasant enough, once you got past the minefield and chemical weapons, but he’d not mind being back at 221b. He might even be able to sleep peacefully there. And, if not, his walls were thick enough to mask any nightmares that surfaced.
He’d been careful not to sleep the night before – he knew that, whether the hound was real or not, the fear in the lab, then in the hollow, had been more than real enough to awaken the nightmares. The gut-wrenching, shudder-inducing horror was an old friend to John Watson, who’d lived with it for days at a time in Afghanistan. Unlike Sherlock, John thought with a grimace, who was apparently so good at shutting off his emotions that he’d been disgusted by a tremor in his hand. A tremor rather like the one that John had sported after being shot. But then, that was Sherlock – he despised weakness in all its forms.
“Alright, John?” Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow as he settled into the last bench in the car.
“Mm,” John hummed, sitting next to the consulting detective. He yawned again. “Didn’t get much sleep last night. Adrenaline, I suppose.” He pulled out one of the scientific journals Dr. Stapleton had given him. Nothing classified, she’d assured him. But far more interesting than the sort of drivel they sell on the trains.
John felt Sherlock’s deducing stare turn on him, and he forced himself to ignore it. They both knew that John had never had trouble sleeping after any of their other cases.
The detective finally turned away, and John repressed a sigh of relief. “Well, I suppose you can sleep when we get back to London,” Sherlock said, a bit of a huff in his voice that said he hadn’t found the answer to his questions. “Since you insist that it’s necessary for you to function.”
“For humans to function, Sherlock, not just me,” John replied as he turned the page of his journal.
“Dull,” Sherlock muttered, turning his gaze out the window to the scenery flashing past. John smiled.
The journal was less stimulating than he’d hoped, because some time later he awoke with a jerk, a strangled cry caught in his throat and his heart pounding like he’d run a marathon. You can’t let Sherlock see you like this, thought the part of his brain that stayed cool under fire, the part that made him such a good soldier and doctor. He lurched to his feet, ignoring Sherlock’s startled look, and staggered to the loo, locking it behind him with trembling hands before sinking to the floor, both hands pressed to his mouth to muffle his gasps and sobs.
“John?” asked a deep baritone, rattling the loo door. “Are you alright?”
No, I’m bloody not alright, John thought. If I weren’t hyperventilating right now, I’d tell him to go fuck himself. He tried to suck in a breath to do just that, but it was no good. His respiration and heart rate were both still rocketing out of control.
There was silence outside the door for a minute, then a series of tiny metallic clicks. He’s picking the lock on the bloody loo! John thought, dumbfounded. Before he could decide whether to be touched or simply infuriated, the door swung open and the brooding figure of Sherlock, sweeping coat and all, stepped into the tiny room and shut the door.
He knelt next to John, his eyebrows furrowed as his eyes flickered across John’s face and body. “You’re having a panic attack,” he said.
No shit, Sherlock, John thought, then sucked in a breath wrong and started coughing. He felt the detective grab his shoulders, and distantly heard him tell him to breath.
“I know… how to fucking… handle it!” John gasped, knocking the other’s hands away from him. “I’ve had enough… fucking experience… on my own.” He sucked in a few more breaths and, satisfied that he wouldn’t run out of oxygen again, leaned back against the wall. He closed his eyes and concentrated on slowing his heartbeat back down. “It’ll pass in a bit, so just go back to the seats, alright?”
“You’re trembling,” Sherlock observed in his deep voice.
John bit back a curse. “Yeah, Sherlock. Thanks for the observation, but, idiot that I am, I had managed to work out that I’m fucking shaking.”
He opened his eyes to see the detective’s expression freeze, like it did when he was trying to work out how to react. John sighed. He usually tried to avoid sarcasm, because Sherlock sometimes had trouble working out when he was being literal and when he wasn’t. He softened his tone. “Really, Sherlock, I appreciate that you’re trying to help, but I’m fine. There’s no need for you to see me like this.”
There was a flicker of relief across the other’s face before his expression turned mulish. “There’s no need for you to go through this alone, John. I didn’t realize the nightmares were still an issue.”
Which meant he’d known about the nightmares from the start. Fuck. “Not much, anymore,” he admitted, wishing his body would get back to normal. But he knew from experience it would take at least five more minutes before the trembling stopped completely. If only he could get Sherlock out of here, he could salvage his dignity in peace.
“So linked to a specific trigger?” Sherlock mused. Dismay flashed across his face. “Oh. The lab. And the hollow. I didn’t consider your PTSD when I was configuring the experiment. I thought it was a non-issue.”
Fuck. He hated those four letters. And now Sherlock was going to think that experimenting on your friends was bad, but only if they have a mental illness. He let his head fall back against the wall. “Look, Sherlock, can you just leave?” he asked, without much hope. The consulting detective didn’t obey orders unless they were to his own benefit.
“Why didn’t you discuss the issue with me?” Sherlock demanded, ignoring John’s request as expected. “I would have been more mindful.”
“Yeah, because that’s exactly what I needed,” John snapped. He imitated Sherlock’s two-sided conversation from earlier. “‘Sherlock, I’m having some emotional problems. D’you think you can help?’ ‘Don’t be stupid, John, it’s all just transport. Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. Now hand me a pen.’”
Sherlock looked hurt. “I wouldn’t –“
“Oh, yeah?” John interrupted. “You looked about ready to cut off your hand earlier when it started shaking, you were so disgusted.” He clenched his hands into fists, trying to still their trembling. “I’m not – you can’t – “ A noise slid out of his throat that was more than half whine, and he threw his arm across his face. He took a deep breath. “I know I’m not brilliant like you, Sherlock, but you let me tag along anyway. You give me a purpose. But if you looked at me like that…”
There was silence for a moment, and then he felt a cool hand settle on his arm. “John. You are the strongest person I know.” John choked back something that was half-laugh, half-sob, and the hand tightened. “Don’t laugh. You are. When I said that earlier, I didn’t mean you. Never you.” He seemed to struggle with words for a moment before crashing on. “Emotions blind me, so I repress them. But you, they make you see things more clearly. Things that I can’t. That’s why I need you.”
There was a rustle of fabric and the hand left his arm as Sherlock stood. “I need you, John Watson. And I always will.”