Chapter Text
Some days, John’s limp comes back and his shoulder throbs, a deep ache that settles into his very bones. Everything is grey and dead and flat, no matter if there’s a case or not. Some days, he can’t shake the feeling of sand in his shoes and blood on his hands and the dry desert heat desiccating his lungs. Some days, his hand trembles so violently that everything he touches shatters: mugs, pens, mirrors…everything falls to ruin. The nightmares come back and the smallest sounds make him jump, the past and the present merging into one rancorous reality that leaves him completely incapacitated.
Some days, Sherlock will pause, fixing John with a knowing gaze and cancel all of their plans. Minor cases are postponed, experiments annulled, Mycroft dismissed, and Mrs. Hudson left to her own devices. His jaw set, Sherlock will tow John into their room and dress them both in their pyjamas, ushering John into bed and curling up next to him, never speaking, never asking questions, just being. Some days, John will settle his hand over Sherlock heart and listen to his breathing, because that means that he’s home, that they’re safe, that the blood and the sand and the gunfire and those two years of crippling loneliness are far behind them.
Some days, John is haunted by the shadows of his past. Some days, he can’t quite escape his own mind. But it’s fine - it’s all fine - or, it will be, someday, because he has Sherlock to help him through it.