Prompted Fanfiction: Remember When It Rained 3/5?

[anomoly_fetish]

Title: Remember When It Rained
Characters: Sherlock, John, friendship, hurt/comfort fic
Original Prompt: Sherlock is broken and traumatised on his return and doesn't want to leave 221B.
Author’s Note: The fact it’s raining in buckets and it’s dark inspired this. Somewhat.
Part of this is Sherlock watching John deduce what’s going - so it’s not exactly reading his mind, it’s just that they both have medical knowledge, and he comes to some of the same conclusions Mycroft’s doctors did anyway - only it’s a far less helpless situation, because John knows he can help. It’s just going to be a lot of trial and error. And this is NOT meant to be slash, so you are one sorry shipper if you do. 

Part I || Part II

John eventually nodded off from his position on the floor, one that he would be quite uncomfortable in the morning. If he stayed there.

 

The rain began as the clock chimed one.

 

He heard it - coming down in sheets, beating against the roof, threating to drown everyone its path, were they not on high ground.

 

He had been accustomed to liking the rain, before his absence - the shower made good accompaniment for his violin, which he strangely has no desire to touch now.

 

He remembered hearing the doctors talking when they thought he could not hear - one that does not speak or respond to stimuli, tends to also be assumed deaf. Idiots.

 

If Mycroft knew he’d likely have their licenses revoked, but that hardly proved useful to anyone.

 

Post-traumatic stress. Extreme, non-responsive.

 

Unless someone can break through the walls he’s put up he’ll likely not speak again.

 

It’s not PVS. If he wants to move, he can. He just has no desire to.

 

It doesn’t pain him to do so.

 

The voices echoed as the rain beat in sheets against the pain.
 

 

I will burn you, Sherlock. I will burn. The heart. Out of you.

 

I’ve been reliably informed I don’t have one.

 

We both know that’s not quite true.

 

What had John meant to him? Had he taken the time to consider it?
 

 

Had he forgotten? Accidentally deleted it as a safety attempt to protect his mind when the pentothal coursed through his bloodstream, burning fire throughout his veins?
 

 

It made them angry he’d never begged for mercy. Perhaps only once, when his brain had cried for relief.
 

 

Area relating to Yemen Trip and all relevant files. Command: Delete.

 

Command Not Valid.

 

Control - Alt - DELETE.

 

Operation Not Valid. Please try again.

 

A tear of frustration slipped down his cheek.

 

He knew what made him forget before - he just didn’t want it enough to leave 221B Baker Street yet.
 

 

John stirred in his sleep, and he stiffened a little straighter.

He was not a weak man - but he felt broken.
 

 

“Talk about Afghanistan,” he says aloud, his brain needing to compare if John’s war experiences are anything like his.

 

John stirs and mumbles, “Hell,”

 

For a moment his brain processes it as a curse that Sherlock awoke him out a sleep - how could he have forgotten that John didn’t like getting up before four AM? Then he realized John meant the war, he’d just shortened his response.

 

John opens his eyes, sleepily. “Afghanistan was hell,” he repeats.
 

 

Sherlock had garnered that, but he doesn’t say so. “You didn’t doze off.” John observes, sounding more concerned than peeved. “Sherlock. I need you to talk. Say something.”
 

 

No response. In fact if he hadn’t seen that his sunken eyes were still staring at the wall, he would have thought the man asleep. John pulls out his phone. Meaning to call Mycroft. Which means he has to force himself to talk, even if half of it might not make sense.
 

 

“There is nothing worthy of saying, John. Not anymore.”
 

 

John’s making mental notes in his head, not as judgmental or helpless as Mycroft’s “doctors” - strangely that one he can attach to ‘comforting’. John’s deductions.
 

 

Nearly catatonic - likely related to severe trauma.

 

Finds activities formerly enjoyed either boring or non-enjoyable - depression, likely related to the same trauma or a combination of both.

 

 

 

Sherlock - typically gloomy, however normally displays no prior symptoms of depression or catonia.

 

Appearance seems to indicate starvation and sleep deprivation, though Sherlock never has been one to eat or sleep unless absolutely necessary.

 

Diagnosis: Trauma was likely torture though a physical examination would be needed to confirm. Likely for a period of at least a month, if not longer.

 

The visible emotion that crosses his face confirms Sherlock’s belief that John is making his determinations, and he’s only really observed him, but John’s clarity and quickness of the diagnosis, though done with understanding is slightly scary. As though John had hardened since his death. 
 

 

The John before the Fall would likely be crying by now.
 

 

Treatment: due to the fact that Sherlock is one who processes information and events differently than the typical patient, much patience and understanding must be exercised, however one might have to ask him how things happened, internalizing the experienced trauma will only worsen his condition.

 

John nods, tersely. “Come, on - I’ll help you to bed. Your bed, Sherlock - in your room, in our flat. You seem quite beyond exhaustion.” John tries to speak logically, but the sympathy edges through.
 

 

That’s the last thing the young man wants - and yet craves at the same time. He didn’t want pity - the sense that they knew things were awfully wrong with him, even though they didn’t understand.
 

 

Empathy perhaps? John may not know exactly what he’s gone through unless he chooses to tell, but he can see that it’s a battle-weary flatmate that’s returned.
 

 

He tugs on Sherlock’s hand gently - at least there’s nothing visible below his shirtsleeves.

 

Somehow the contact propels his muscles to slight action, though their stiffness from sitting in one position without moving when he stands is somewhat crippling.
 

 

He lets John lead him to bed, only because he’d rather not sleep in the stiff chair - and there is no hospital bed or cold floor …

 

STOP. DELETE.

 

COMMAND INVALID.

 

Why won’t his brain just work? Apparently it can’t consider the past events irrelevant - in fact it stubbornly refuses.

 

He sits on the bed, and John gently coaxes him to lying down.
 

 

He faces the wall, curling his knees up to his chest. He moves as close to the wall as possible.

 

“Don’t.”
 

 

“Don’t - what Sherlock?”
 

 

“Don’t leave.”
 

 

“I’m not going anywhere. I'll be - ”
 

 

“No. Don’t. Leave.” He wasn't sure if John intended to go to to his own room, but he doesn't want the empty room to himself. 
 

 

John catches the meaning and there is pressure on the bed as he sits. Sherlock locks his jaw. His head aches, and throbs, and races against the beating rain, and he only wants to cry - but he doesn’t know - or care - why.
 

 

He’d never liked to be touched by anyone, and now he’s too tired to care if he wants the contact or not.

But this time when John puts his hand on his shoulder, he does not flinch or back away.
 

 

----------------------------------

 

John fingers the phone in his pocket.

 

Sherlock doesn’t want him to call, he doesn’t want to go back to his brother’s.

If John hadn’t known better, he would have assumed Mycroft’s people had done this.

 

Whoever had was skilled in the forms of torture. Because he can't see physical wounds, he has to assume it's psychological. 

Sherlock barely responded to any stimuli, he’d not even looked at his violin, which still stood, polished on its stand near the window.

 

He’d need some form of help, and he really wasn’t sure who he could call on.

Molly? She wasn’t exactly trained in these forms, but she knew some clinical.

 

His partner at the clinic? Just for consultation. Hypothetical perhaps. Claim he was writing an essay and incorporate his own war experiences perhaps. 
 

 

He’d have to call off tomorrow, there was no way he was leaving Sherlock in the flat by himself.
 

 

Though the young man’s breathing had slowed, John really didn’t believe Sherlock had gone to sleep.

 

He adjusted his position, still watching the back of Sherlock’s head.
 

 

What the hell did they do to you, Sherlock? Moriarity’s people? Why did you pretend you were dead for a year and a half?

 

He expected a “Shut up, you’re thinking,” from Sherlock but he was met by silence. Occasionally it seemed cold, but it wasn’t. It was one of those silences that you might break yourself if you broke it.
 

 

The rain continued outside, and Sherlock’s breathing slowed, until he was finally asleep.
 

 

John considered going to his own room - but Sherlock had insisted he not be left.
 

 

He took the other corner of the bed, but he didn’t take his hand away from Sherlock’s shoulder.