Summary: This is a sequel to "The Banality of Evil," so please read that first (it is a fairly short oneshot). Sherlock and John attempt to deal with the aftermath what happened to John, but will their relationship be able stand the strain? And will Sherlock be able to deal with the emotions forced upon him by the situation? This will eventually be much more Johnlock than the first, so fair warning (I promise it won't be explicit—I would blush, haha).

WARNING, may be triggering due to mentions of rape and PTSD—and perhaps even an eating disorder, though not explicit. Again, I'm not terribly explicit with these things, but I am a bit more so than in the oneshot, so please read with care.

*Author's note: To be frank, this story is personally very difficult for me to write, so your gentleness (and support?) is much appreciated. As with my other stories, please visit Pinterest dot com /Adypose/ for more information, including the many inspirations for this story.

One more thing and I promise I will get on with it. Thank you so much to the readers of the oneshot that preceded this. I would never have continued the story without your encouragement and this story has been a difficult, but I think healing, process. So THANK YOU!

"Hello darkness my old friend,

I've come to talk with you again,

Because a vision softly creeping

Left its scenes while I was sleeping

And the vision that was planted in my brain

Still remains within the sound of silence"

(Simon and Garfunkel, "Sound of Silence").

John sat in front of his therapist once again, staring out the window at the rain that fell soft and warm like a memory, tapping a quiet pattern on the roof and walls. His mind was far from this room—miles away, countries away. An impatient noise from his therapist broke his reverie and he forced himself to look back at her.

"John, you still haven't told me why you're here," she said, giving him a piercing look that made him even more uncomfortable.

John cleared his throat, urging himself to speak, to get it out and over-with and break the silence that had taken him hostage. The night that Sherlock had confronted him, he made John promise to go back to his therapist to get help. John wasn't thrilled with the idea, but Sherlock clearly had no idea how to handle the information he had just learned and John decided to concede, if not for his own sake, then for Sherlock's. Still, the words wouldn't come to his lips, which trembled with even the though of speaking...of telling that story.

"I...I can't. Not right now. Not yet," he finally stammered, feeling weak and ashamed that he had let Sherlock down. Overwhelmed to the point of breaking, he rose and silently left the room, more than 30 minutes left still in his session. His therapist wasn't surprised, though she was frustrated. This wasn't the first time he had done this since he had shown up out of nowhere last month.

John let the rain fall unhindered on his face as he walked (limped) back to Baker Street, hoping it could wash away some of the thoughts trying to overpower him. He felt utterly hopeless and useless. How was he supposed to get help if he couldn't even speak? This silence was growing within him like a cancer. Worse, when he did find his voice, his words lacked meaning and substance—he was talking without speaking and everyone else was hearing without listening. He couldn't translate what happened and how he was feeling into words and he was growing incredibly tired of speaking words nobody seemed to understand.

He glanced at the buildings around him, knowing he should find a cab. It was a long way to Baker Street and he was really in no condition to walk, especially not in the rain. Although he had promised Sherlock to take better care of himself, he felt as though his body and mind were engaged in a constant, violent war. His body told him he needed sleep, food, water, etc., but his mind refused to allow him to provide himself with even the most basic needs without a fight, one he often lost.

He knew he was approaching the edge and he knew that Sherlock hadn't missed the signs. It was making their relationship tense and John was fully aware he had to do something soon or he would self-destruct, but he was slowly becoming aware that he was completely incapable of making a move in the right direction. He needed a push. He needed someone else to help him, guide him. But the only person he could even begin to trust with such an intimate task was Sherlock and, although he had been trying in his own way to help, John was aware that he was just as lost as he in this territory. The blind leading the blind, running into walls and trying not to fall off of cliffs.

Sherlock sat in the flat, his fingers pressed together in front of his chin, staring at the wall as though it could give him the answers he needed. He was in completely new territory and he was more uncomfortable than he had ever been in his entire life.

"All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage," his brother had said and Sherlock was never more aware of the truth of those words than he was now. John was breaking down in front of his eyes and he had no idea what to do about it. Before John he had been a rock, a machine, totally unencumbered by emotions, but now… John had disturbed the slumber of feelings he thought had died. Still, emotions were not his specialty. He needed facts, data, action.

Sitting erect suddenly, Sherlock reached for his phone and dialed his brother's number.

"Hello brother. How is our good doctor doing?" Mycroft sounded legitimately concerned, but Sherlock ignored this.

"I need details, Mycroft," he said, bypassing a greeting (boring). "I need to know everything you know about what happened."

Mycroft hesitated before his voice sounded on the other end of the line. "Sherlock, I don't think that's a good idea. It really isn't my place. John needs to tell you, not me."

"John isn't talking and I need data," Sherlock insisted, his voice growing impatient.

"Sherlock, this isn't one of your cases. Data isn't going to help here," Mycroft responded, sounding almost pitying. "You aren't dealing with a puzzle, you are dealing with a human being who is hurting and needs your support."

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled, "give me what you have or I'll get it myself, and we both know how much you hate it when I break into your office."

Mycroft sighed. His brother obviously didn't understand and he hoped that whatever finally made him understand would not kill John in the process.

"Fine," he said at last.

Sherlock read the documents in front of him with growing fury as he began to piece together the story of what happened to John. The hospital report indicated no major injuries (other than those consistent with, well, what Sherlock already knew had happened to John), indicating that John had not put up too much of a fight. It was also noted that he had alcohol in his system when he arrived, which might explain the lack of a struggle. The record also noted that John had refused to tell the police. Why?

The documents about Robert indicated that he and John had known each other long before either joined the army. They had grown up in the same town, on the same street, not two houses down from one another. Sherlock was becoming, if possible, more furious, his blood boiling in his veins. They had been more than just casual mates then. John had obviously trusted this...bastard. He made a decision.

John walked into the flat just as Sherlock finished rereading the documents for the 10th, 20th time—he had lost count. He looked up immediately and noted John's appearance. He was soaked and looked exhausted, leaning on his cane heavily. He had obviously walked home from his session and, judging from the time, had left said session early...again. Sherlock frowned.

John simultaneously noted the pile of documents in front of Sherlock, immediately recognizing a medical record-his own, in fact-and became angry (which he seemed to do quite a bit lately).

"Sherlock," he snapped, still standing in the doorway, "what are you doing?"

"Gathering data," he said, obviously confused that John didn't understand.

"I'm not a case!" John nearly yelled.

"John, I said I would help. How can I if I don't have data," Sherlock explained, as if to a child. "I need data, particularly if I am to find this bastard."

"W..what," John stammered, taken aback at this sudden outburst. "Sherlock, we've talked about this. I don't want you going after him."

"We haven't talked about anything," Sherlock gave John a stern look. "Why didn't you report him to the police after it happened?"

"Sherlock, I'm not talking about this. I can't. Just leave it," John was panicked now. Sherlock obviously wasn't interested in listening to him.

"John," Sherlock's anger rising again was now directed at his friend. "Why do you insist on doing nothing to help yourself? It has been a month since you started therapy and your PTSD is no better. Plus, you are losing weight!"

"Sherlock, getting…him…put in jail isn't going to help," John was hurt by Sherlock's accusation, as though he were deteriorating deliberately. As though he could control it.

"I wasn't planning on putting him in jail," Sherlock spat, looking away from John.

John's eyes widened. This was very not good. Not only was he unable to help himself, but now his best friend was going to commit murder and get himself locked up, all because of him.

"Sherlock," he began. "Please, you can't do this. It will make everything much worse for me, I promise."

"Why?" Sherlock shouted, getting up from his seat and marching toward John. "Why would giving that bastard low-life some justice make things worse?"

"It just would," John looked at Sherlock furiously. He didn't want to think about this and this man, who was supposed to be helping him, kept shoving it in front of his face. "You have no right to do anything, Sherlock."

"Fine," Sherlock said, his voice full of venom, "fine, if you just want to sit here and self-destruct then I'll leave you to it." With that Sherlock stood and swept out of the flat.

John stared at the door in stunned silence. He couldn't believe he had said that, had driven his best friend and only hope away. God he was stupid, so stupid. Their lives had become a still-life watercolor of a relationship falling to pieces. They were becoming a badly written poem—verses out of rhythm, couplets out of rhyme—and he had no idea how to fix it. Tears began streaming down his cheek and soon became a flood, sobs choking him as John collapsed in on himself, certain he had just lost the only thing keeping him together.