Lebensmüde – Life Tired

Set immediately after a SIP. John continues to struggle with PTSD.

Warning for suicidal thoughts, and PTSD flashbacks

Discalimer: Anything recognisable is not mine

Chapter 1

It was getting on for 1am by the time Sherlock & John returned to 221b. The flat was in a state from Lestrade's earlier "drugs bust", but neither man could face dealing with it now. Sherlock was too hyped up from the case, cursing his own idiocy at dropping his pill meaning he couldn't find out if he had been right or not. John was just plain exhausted from chasing across London with Sherlock on minimum food and rest.

"G'night, Sherlock" John murmured as he headed for the stairs to his upstairs room. Sherlock replied with a grunt that John interpreted as distracted reciprocation.

As John changed into his t-shirt and bottoms after brushing his teeth, he felt the familiar trepidation creeping up on him. What nightmares awaited him tonight? He hoped that the bone-deep exhaustion would allow him a peaceful, dreamless sleep, though he knew it was by no means a guarantee.

John awoke with a shout, sitting bolt upright in the double bed that came as part of his furnished room. Panting and sweat drenched, it took him a moment to get his bearings. As his heartbeat began to return to normal he eyed his alarm clock (not that he needed the alarm these days, unless he had an early appointment with Ella), it was past nine and the sun was filtering through the curtains. He hoped that his flatmate hadn't heard his nightmare – he was aware that he wasn't always quiet and that his own shout had awoken him. It wouldn't make any difference as no doubt Sherlock would deduce his nightmare and it's cause the second he laid eyes on him.

With no work to go to and no therapy scheduled that day, John gave into the feelings of hopelessness sitting deep within. He curled up on his side and sobbed quietly, wishing that the tears that eluded him would flow and give him some kind of release. Eventually, he drifted off into a restless sleep haunted by jumbled images of Afghani insurgents and killer cabbies.

Shortly before 9am Sherlock was pulled from his Mind Palace by a sound that he couldn't immediately place. He stood up, Listening intently. The sound came again. Sherlock frowned, it sounded like a whimper from the direction of John's room. As he stood listening the whimpers changed in pitch and intensity. 'A nightmare' he concluded, no doubt about his time in Afghanistan.

He doubted that John would appreciate his intervention. If he judged him correctly (which of course he did), he would be ashamed of what could be perceived as a weakness, a contrast to the strong soldier persona Sherlock had witnessed in their short time together.

After a few minutes he heard John shout, then it all went quiet. 'He's awake, then' Sherlock mused, 'he'll be down soon. I won't mention it unless he does.' This wasn't an entirely selfless notion, as anyone who knows Sherlock will attest to – he's not good with emotions, hence the self-labelling as a sociopath, albeit a high-functioning one.

Sherlock went back to puzzling over the previous night's happenings, so it was early afternoon before he registered that despite several requests (read: orders) he still had no cup of tea and his phone was still in his jacket pocket.

He looked around. John's coat and shoes were still where he had left them early this morning, the kitchen was empty with no new cups having been used and the disarray left by Anderson and co. hadn't been touched – John had not come downstairs after his earlier nightmare. Maybe he was catching up on sleep, maybe he was worried that Sherlock had heard him earlier.

He felt a tight edge of something unusual nagging at him – concern for the veteran. He concluded that he would go and check on him.

When Sherlock quietly cracked open the door, the sight that greeted him shocked him to the core. He froze where he stood and whispered John's name shakily.