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The case had sounded simple when they took it; just another robbery linked to a weapons cache, a few inconsistencies in witness statements, some encrypted emails that Sherlock decrypted in five minutes flat. But John had gone quiet the moment he heard the location. Military grounds, ex-training base. Then came the words “active shooting range.”
Sherlock hadn’t noticed at first. Or rather, he had, but not what it meant. John was already a bit tense before fieldwork. But when the first gunshot cracked the air, echoing across the field where officers were testing ballistics, Sherlock saw it.
That tremor.
John froze mid-step. For half a second, he wasn’t there. Not in London, not beside Sherlock, not in the cold air of the Yard’s temporary range. His eyes lost focus (staring past the noise, the smoke, the metallic tang of gun oil) and his hand twitched toward his chest, fingers pressing flat like he was steadying something that wasn’t there anymore.
Sherlock turned his head, frowning slightly, but John forced a grin before he could ask.
“Sorry! Just--- startle reflex! Bit loud. That’s all.”
But then it happened again. And again. Each test shot, each echo off the concrete wall, carved its way through him. By the fourth one, he was pale. By the sixth, Sherlock had quietly stopped talking, letting John stand there, blinking too fast, jaw clenched so hard a muscle near his ear fluttered.
Mariana was the first to approach him. She’d been handling witness interviews nearby, her clipboard tucked under one arm, her face drawn with concern. “John,” she said gently, stepping in front of him, blocking his view of the firing line. “You’re shaking.”
He blinked at her, uncomprehending for a moment. Then, quietly, almost defensively, “I’m fine.”
It wasn’t convincing. Not even close.
The ride back to Baker Street was silent except for Sherlock’s pen clicking in rhythm against the train's wall. Mariana kept glancing at John, her worry deepening every time she caught John’s vacant stare fixed on nothing. The tension was suffocating --- raw. Her heart ached for him.
When they arrived home, John barely muttered a word. He dropped his bag near the stairs, mumbled something about “just a bit of a headache,” and retreated to his room.
Sherlock watched him go, pen stilling in his hand.
He didn’t chase him --- not yet. He’d learned by now that John sometimes needed silence to reorganize his world. But the sound of the door closing upstairs felt heavier than usual.
That night, the flat didn’t feel right to John.
Normally, 221B was home; warm light spilling over the clutter, the soft background hum of Sherlock pacing, Mariana’s low voice from downstairs. But now, every shadow felt sharp-edged. Every small creak made his heart lurch.
He’d taken two melatonin tablets, maybe three (he couldn’t quite remember) just something to shut his brain down. But his chest wouldn’t settle. The weight there was unbearable, like something was pressing down on his ribs from the inside. His heart was beating too fast, not just anxious fast, but danger fast, erratic and wrong. He rolled onto his side, then back again, breathing shallowly, feeling stupidly like the walls were shrinking.
The sound came from nowhere (the crack of a door slamming downstairs, or maybe a car backfiring from the street) but it was enough. His body reacted before his mind could reason with it. He bolted upright, heart hammering, gasping like the air had been ripped away. His skin was ice-cold, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
He wasn’t in London anymore.
He was back there.
The gunfire wasn’t outside, it was everywhere,
Inside his head, behind his eyes, like someone had ripped open a wound that had never really healed. He pressed his hands to his face, then to his chest, trying to anchor himself, but his lungs refused to listen.
He stumbled out of bed, barefoot, dizzy, tears blurring his vision. The room spun; he caught the wall, breath hiccupping. A sob escaped (small, cracked, humiliating) but it wouldn’t stop. He couldn't stop.
That’s when Sherlock appeared at his door.
“Watson?”
His voice was calm but the faint crease between his brows betrayed it. He was in his pajamas, hair disheveled, a book still in one hand, he immediately put it aside.
John couldn’t answer. He couldn’t breathe. His chest was locked, throat constricted, air catching in ragged gasps that barely made it past his lips.
“John.” Sherlock moved closer, quiet, deliberate, as if approaching a cornered animal. “You’re having a panic attack.”
John shook his head, choking out something incoherent “No, I’m--- it’s fine-- it’s---” before another wave hit, doubling him over.
Mariana’s door opened downstairs, footsteps quick and soft. She appeared seconds later after the sound of the key turning inside the lock, hair tied back, still wearing her sleep shirt, her expression shifting instantly from confusion to fear.
“John?”
Sherlock gestured sharply; a silent don’t crowd him. But she ignored it, crouching near the doorway instead, her voice steady, low, and kind.
“It’s alright. You’re home. You’re safe.”
John barely heard her. The air felt thick, his ears were ringing, vision tunneling. The tremor in his hands had spread up his arms; every muscle in his chest burned from trying to force air in.
Sherlock knelt beside him, voice cutting through the noise. “Count with me. In -- two --- three --- out --- two --- three.”
It wasn’t working. Nothing was.
And John broke. He was crying so hard his body shook, gasping between sobs, voice catching on half-formed apologies.
“I can’t--.. I can’t stop---.. I--- I’m sorry--- I’m sorry--..”
Sherlock’s eyes softened barely. Mariana reached for a glass of water but didn’t push it into his hands yet; she knew he wasn’t ready to swallow.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” she murmured. “Just breathe. That’s all you need to do.”
The attack dragged on; long, raw, merciless. It wasn’t cinematic or clean. It was ugly --- tears, saliva, shaking limbs, small whimpers that didn’t sound like him at all.
Sherlock sat on the floor the whole time, murmuring numbers under his breath until John’s breaths began to stutter less violently. Mariana dimmed the lights, opened the window for air, and quietly took his pulse when he finally let her.
By the end, John was exhausted --- shaking still, but more from depletion than panic. His skin was clammy, his eyes red, his voice barely audible.
Sherlock helped him sit against the bed, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders almost clinical, but there was a gentleness to the way he tucked it under John’s chin.
Mariana sat on the floor beside him, legs crossed, her hand hovering near his knee but not quite touching. “You scared us, you know,” she said softly. “But you did good! You’re still here.”
John tried to smile. It didn’t quite form. He looked up at Sherlock, voice breaking.
“Thought I was past this..”
Sherlock hesitated. His gaze lingered; analytical, but fragile around the edges.
“Trauma doesn’t obey time, Watson.”
John exhaled shakily, closing his eyes, gripping the blanket like an anchor.
He managed a full breath.
The flat was quiet again.
Mariana had made sure of it; soft words, gentle reassurances, the sort of calm that filled a room without needing noise. When she finally stood, smoothing her sleeves and glancing once more at John’s trembling shoulders, she touched Sherlock’s arm lightly on her way out.
“Keep an eye on him,” she murmured.
“As if I’d do anything else,” Sherlock replied, voice softer than she’d expected.
The door to 221A closed behind her, leaving only the faint buzz of the fridge and the slow, uneven rhythm of John’s breathing.
Sherlock stayed sitting on the floor for a while, knees drawn up, studying him in the dim light. John was still propped against the bed, the blanket around his shoulders, hair sticking up in clumps from sweat. His eyes were half-lidded, red-rimmed, unfocused. Every few seconds, his chest hitched with a leftover tremor that had nowhere to go.
He looked… small. Not in stature (John was never small) (well not like THAT.) but in presence, somehow. Like the air around him had been stripped bare.
Sherlock hesitated, unsure how much to say, how much to do. Comfort was an equation he still hadn’t solved properly. But watching John’s fingers twitch against the edge of the blanket (the quiet, almost imperceptible way he kept flinching at every distant sound from the street) it became obvious.
He wasn’t going to calm down on his own tonight.
Sherlock cleared his throat lightly.
“Watson.”
John blinked at him, slow and dazed. His voice came out rough. “Yeah?”
“Would you…” Sherlock stopped, rephrased, frowning faintly at his own awkwardness. “Would you like a hug?”
The pause that followed felt endless. For a moment, Sherlock thought he’d misjudged, that the question had been too much, too intimate. But then John exhaled shakily, his shoulders trembling as his throat worked around the words.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah. I-- I think I would.”
Sherlock shifted closer, cautious in the way one might approach something fragile. The floor creaked beneath them. He hesitated only once more (long enough for John to nod faintly) before opening the blanket and wrapping it, and himself, around the both of them.
John came willingly, almost collapsing into it. His arms slid weakly around Sherlock’s middle, his forehead pressing into the hollow of Sherlock’s shoulder. He was still shaking and Sherlock could feel them against his ribs, as though the panic hadn’t quite left his body yet.
Sherlock tightened his hold slightly. One hand came up to the back of John’s neck, fingers weaving gently into his hair. It was damp, soft, and warm under his touch. He didn’t overthink it for once; he just let instinct take over. His thumb brushed slow, steady strokes along John’s hairline, following the rhythm of his breathing.
“Shh,” he murmured, almost inaudible. “It’s alright. You’re safe now.”
John gave a tiny, broken sound (half sob, half exhale) and clung tighter, his breath hot against Sherlock’s collarbone. His voice came out hoarse.
“Didn’t mean to-- just..--- I couldn’t stop---..”
“I know.”
Sherlock’s voice barely rose above a whisper.
“You don’t need to explain it.”
He tilted his head slightly, pressing his lips to the crown of John’s head in a gesture that surprised even himself. The faintest kiss, a wordless act of grounding. John’s breath hitched again, but this time it wasn’t panic. It was release. His grip loosened just enough to let his body lean completely into Sherlock’s chest.
For a long while, neither spoke. The only sounds were the faint hum of the city outside, the occasional creak of the old wooden floor, and the slow, uneven breaths of a man who didn’t quite know how to comfort the other but were trying anyway.
Sherlock’s fingers moved through John’s hair again; slow, methodical, gentle. Every few minutes, he murmured something quiet. Sometimes it was John’s name. Sometimes just, “You’re alright,” or, “Still here.” His tone was steady, anchoring, patient.
And little by little, the tension began to drain from John’s frame. His muscles stopped trembling; his hands unclenched. His breathing evened out, though every now and then, a faint shiver would still pass through him.
Sherlock shifted slightly, pressing another faint kiss into his hairline. “You can sleep, you know.”
“Mm.” John didn’t move, his words muffled against Sherlock’s chest. “Feels… safe here.”
That admission made something tighten painfully in Sherlock’s throat. He didn’t answer — couldn’t — so he just held him a bit closer, thumb tracing lazy, absent circles against the back of John’s neck.
After a while, John’s breathing deepened. His grip stayed loose but constant, fingers curled lightly into the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock didn’t dare move. He stayed there; still, quiet, watching the gentle rise and fall of John’s chest against his own.
It was strange, he thought; how something as simple as human contact could calm such chaos? How this man, who’d spent half his life patching up others, finally let himself be held for once.
Sherlock leaned his cheek briefly against John’s hair, closing his eyes. “You did well, Watson,” he whispered. “You made it through.”
John stirred slightly, but didn’t wake.
He blinked with John in his arms, blanket cocooned around them both, the faint scent of tea lingering from earlier. And though he would never say it aloud, he realized with quiet certainty that he could’ve stayed like that all night if John needed him to.
The morning light slipped in slowly, touching the edges of the flat like it wasn’t sure it belonged there. It filtered through the thin curtains and landed in pale streaks across the floorboards, over the scattered books, and finally across the two of them; still tangled in the blanket where they’d fallen asleep.
John stirred first. It wasn’t graceful; it never was. His neck ached, his shoulder was half numb, and for a moment he couldn’t quite remember where he was or why his head was pillowed against something warm and solid instead of his usual lumpy mattress.
Then he shifted slightly, and the something moved; slow, steady, breathing beneath him. And he realized.
Sherlock.
His eyes blinked open to light and color and the familiar mess of 221B. His body was heavy with exhaustion, foggy, drained. Every muscle felt like it had been rung out and left to dry. His heart, at least, wasn’t racing anymore; that horrible pounding rhythm from last night was gone. What remained was a quiet throb in his chest.
He felt it before he saw it: a hand, still resting in his hair, fingers loosely curled against the nape of his neck. Sherlock’s hand. His pulse kicked just a little, but not from panic. It was… strange. Disorienting. But safe.
Sherlock was still half-asleep, his head tilted slightly to the side, curls falling over his eyes, his mouth parted just enough for his slow breaths to brush against John’s temple. He looked much of a human like this. Peaceful.
John should’ve moved; really, he should’ve. He was acutely aware of the situation, of the weight of his head against Sherlock’s chest, of the warmth between them, of how uncharacteristically tender the whole thing was. But his body didn’t want to move. The idea of shifting away felt wrong... like stepping out into cold air after being wrapped in a blanket too long.
He took a careful breath, listening to the steady thump beneath his ear. The sound of Sherlock’s heart. It grounded him in a way he hadn’t expected.
For a few minutes, he just stayed there. Let himself feel the quiet, the calm, the aftermath. He hadn’t had a night like that in years. Not since before everything got tangled inside his head.
Then Sherlock stirred, a faint hum in his chest as he came back to consciousness. His hand moved slightly, brushing John’s hair in a lazy, absent motion that made John’s stomach twist with something he didn’t have a name for.
Sherlock’s voice, rough from sleep, came quietly.
“You’re awake.”
John swallowed, nodding against him before realizing he should probably say something. “Yeah. For a bit now.”
A pause.
“Did you sleep at all?”
John gave a faint, self-conscious huff. “Sort of. You make a surprisingly decent pillow.”
That earned the tiniest twitch of a smile from Sherlock! just at the corner of his mouth, barely there. He didn’t move his hand, didn’t pull away. His tone stayed calm, careful, still half-draped in morning quiet.
“You stopped shaking,” he said softly. “That’s an improvement.”
“Yeah. Thanks to you, probably.”
That silence again, not uncomfortable this time.
John looked up at him briefly, then away. His face felt warm. The embarrassment was there, curling around the edges of his chest, but it wasn’t enough to make him pull back. Not yet. He wanted to stay like this just a little longer; the warmth, the quiet hum of another person, the small miracle of stillness after chaos.
He shifted just enough to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder again. His voice was low, muffled by fabric. “Hope I didn’t make things weird..”
“You didn’t,” Sherlock said instantly. There wasn’t even hesitation in it, just certainty, steady and real. “You needed comfort. That’s.. normal.”
John breathed out a shaky little laugh, the sound half disbelieving, half grateful. “You’re getting better at this, you know.”
“At what?”
“People.”
Sherlock hummed, his hand still tracing idle patterns through John’s hair. “I’m getting better at you,” he corrected softly.
That nearly undid John all over again.
He closed his eyes, exhaling slow, letting his hand rest loosely against Sherlock’s side, just to keep the contact there. The warmth between them was subtle now, steady instead of fragile.
Neither of them spoke for a long while. The city was waking up outside (cars in the distance, faint chatter from the street) but here, in this small patch of morning light, it stayed peaceful.
Eventually, Sherlock shifted just enough to press his lips fleetingly against John’s forehead. A simple gesture.
John froze for a second, breath catching (not out of surprise, not even embarrassment) just feeling. Then he relaxed again, a tiny smile ghosting over his face.
“Thanks,” he murmured, voice soft.
“Anytime,” Sherlock replied, just as quietly.