John stared vacantly at the edge of the desk in front of him, flexing his hands around the arms of the chair. He could hear someone's voice droning on, but the words had become irrelevant. Nothing mattered. Everything mattered. His brow furrowed in concentration. Mike had stopped talking - was he waiting for John to respond? "Pardon?"

Mike leaned back in his chair, his face blank, his emotions carefully guarded. "Things will be alright, John," he murmured, his voice smooth and purposefully calming. Mike shifted in his chair to lean forward. John saw him steeple his fingers under his chin out of the corner of his eyes, felt his gaze on John's bowed head. "I was saying that due to space issues, we assign roommates here at Asylum. Based on your history -" the man took in John's sudden flinch with caring, compassionate eyes - "We assign you a roommate. You're free to change if something comes up." Mike paused. "You would come to me if you have any problems, of course."

"Thank you," John muttered automatically. He wasn't exactly sure what he was thanking the man for. John forced himself to look up at the vicinity of Mike's face, although he couldn't bring himself to meet his eyes. He probably looked terrible. Too little sleep combined with the bruises didn't paint a very attractive picture. "Thanks, Mike." A tired twitch at the corner of John's lips was about as much of a genuine smile as he was able to give. Exhaustion, apprehension, and fear warred for dominance in his expression and John wasn't wholly certain which emotion was winning.

"Here is your key." Mike placed a key on the desk and pushed it over to John, who picked it up without hesitation. Mike then stood up slowly and gestured to the open door, indicating for John to take the lead. Once they reached the door, Mike extended a folder to John, careful to avoid invading his personal space. "The folder contains your schedule as well as resources available to you, several of which you'll be taking advantage of. It also contains a copy of the house rules."

Mike's face was warm and polite as he moved ahead of John and indicated that he was to come out of the office. "No relationships between inhabitants, eat when mealtimes are available - you can eat either in your room or in the cafeteria, although we prefer you eat in the cafeteria. There's a curfew at 10pm, and no outsiders allowed into your personal rooms. Leaving is not allowed, although day or weekend passes are available to those deemed worthy." He sighed. "Violating these rules will revoke your residency pass and require you to leave, effective immediately."

"I know," John said quietly. He still couldn't bear to face Mike directly and spent most of his time with his gaze flickering around their surroundings. At the very least, he figured, he'd have a solid understanding of what the inside of that building looked like. While the hallway was mostly deserted, John could see a few people working in offices similar to Mike's. He kept his eyes down and studiously avoided eye contact. It was a shameful enough process without feeling like he was constantly being judged by others.

"I'll walk you to your room. If you're lucky, your roommate will be out." Mike turned around to face the door to his office, waiting for John to follow before closing the door behind him. He took out a separate key ring and locked the door, aware that John was watching him. "We have some particularly curious residents right now. Precautions and all, although that most certainly does not stop him." John frowned, perplexed by Mike's tone. He almost sounded amused.

Mike took off down the hallway, John following obediently. Silently he examined the hallway and the stairs they descended. Whomever designed the office building went for old-fashioned, stain-wood comfort. It was homey and took the edge off of John's rampant anxiety. Mike pushed open a door at the base of the steps and they were outside. Leading a shivering John down a short path to the right, it wasn't long before they encountered a two-story - something.

John wasn't quite sure what it was. A half-step behind Mike as he opened the door, they went up the flight of stairs and into a small, cozy corridor. The paneling and the colours were very similar to the hallway in the office building, John noticed with interest. There were two doors. Mike knocked on the door to the one on the left, pausing briefly before unlocking it and opening it. "We're lucky," he muttered. "He's out."

"He?" John inquired, tentatively following Mike into the room. He froze in the doorway. Now he understood why Asylum had shared rooms. The rooms were probably twice the size of most bedrooms had seen, with separate living areas on each side, a bathroom, and a small kitchenette tucked off to the side. "Is this a room or an apartment?" His eyes took in every small detail. It was simple yet elegant at the same time. Every detail seemed meticulously seen to, from the elegant design on the wallpaper to the closet full of spare sheets and fluffy towels.

Mike chuckled. "Most definitely just a room. Not elegant enough to be a flat."

"Bigger than most flats I've seen," John pointed out, taking a step forward. He grimaced, rubbing his leg. The pain had been bothering him for the past few weeks, ever since - well, that was in the past. "Bugger," he muttered, limping over to an armchair on the right side of the flat. John gave it a cursory look-over to make sure it was clean before he sank down into its plush comfort.

"Well, there is that," Mike said vaguely, his face crinkling in a smile. "Your roommate should be back at some point, and you two can get acquainted." He rested a hand briefly on John's shoulder, squeezing in sympathy before he silently walked towards the door. Mike paused in the door frame before walking out and closing the door behind him.

"Thanks," John grunted to no one. His dark blue eyes were roaming over the part of the room in front of him, taking in all of its sights more closely. It was his half, he supposed. There was a small dresser, its four drawers dusty and seemingly abandoned. The bed was unmade, cotton white sheets perched on top of the comfortable-looking mattress. A small dark throw rug not far from the naked bed added a homey touch. John sighed, sinking farther back into the armchair. The lush red fabric was soft and warm under his touch, and he squeezed the arm of the chair tentatively. He sat for a few seconds longer before lurching up and walking over to the bare bed. As the other bed was made John assumed the empty one was his. He set about sorting and tucking the sheets, rapidly absorbed in the familiar task. So consumed John was by the chore he did every day, he didn't hear the door open.

He had just finished tucking in the neat, military corners of his bedspread when he heard footsteps behind him. John jumped six inches in the air. Who was behind him? Were they armed? What was their mission? He landed lightly on his feet, crouching immediately into an easily-remembered position that could conceal him from his enemies. As soon as John turned he realized that the tall man standing a few feet away from him didn't pose a threat.

It was then that John's leg protested all the leaping he had been doing. John, startled to realize he had indeed jumped and landed in a crouching position, stood up as fast as he was able to and settled his back end on the edge of the bed. Despite John's reaction, the other man hadn't moved an inch. If anything, John thought, the level of focus in his gaze had increased. It was strangely discomforting and John met the scrutiny with an impassive gaze.

John gave the man a cursory look-over. He was tall, just about six feet. Curly dark hair seemed to go every direction in its quest to appear disheveled yet perfectly maintained at the same time. Slender, high-arched eyebrows rested delicately over eyes as sharp as steel - as sharp as his cheekbones, John noted with mild interest. The man was dressed warmly, which was to be expected for the climate. John preferred jumpers himself. His coat was wool and draped down over elegantly shod feet. John watched long, slender fingers undoing a deep blue scarf that had been hiding a sturdy, pale neck. The man's trousers were well-tailored - custom-made, John supposed. The man was all angles and gawky, like he was not far out of adolescence and had not yet grown into his body. John doubted he was really that young - there was no way he was under twenty five, if that.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John stared at the man, somehow not surprised at the curtness of his voice. His eyes were boring into John's soul. Or would have, if John happened to have a soul. He flinched the thought aside and shifted uncomfortably on the bed.

"Afghanistan. How did you know?" John's fingers gripped the edge of the mattress as if affixing himself to the world through his fingertips. Trained eyes took in what he vaguely thought could be a hesitant expression flitting briefly across the taller man's face before it disappeared, replaced by a blank look with a hint of a smug smile. John got a fleeting impression of china glass - of something so fragile that it didn't know how brittle it was until it was broken.

"Elementary, really," the man replied. He slipped off his jacket, hanging it up on the coat rack not far from the door. He was wearing a plum purple shirt underneath, long-sleeved with shiny cufflinks. They were quite nice - some type of precious metal, John supposed. His trousers were black and accentuated the shirt quite nicely, John thought. The man obviously dressed to impress someone - who he'd want to impress at a place like this John didn't know. The man ignored the bed and settled down on the sofa in the middle of the room, his hands steepled under his chin, his elbows on his knees. He wasn't far from the armchair that John had sat in earlier. Absentmindedly John wondered if the placement was intentional. His direct gaze made John feel like a bug under a microscope and John narrowed his eyes in response.

John felt a brief flash of victory when the man seemed reluctant to answer. "Your haircut says former military - it's the right style yet not maintained, it's grown out quite a bit and become scruffy. The way you make your bed also indicates your military background. The state of your tan indicates that you came back quite some time ago - it's nearly faded. Six months, eight months tops. The faint tan lines around your wrist and your eyes indicate that it wasn't for pleasure. You have a cane in your baggage, although you may not have noticed it yet since you didn't put it there. You have a limp, although it's likely psychosomatic. You had no problem leaping about when I startled you. You carry yourself differently - your shoulder pains you. The injury that invalided you home likely originated there. Now, the cane. There's an engraving on the handle - to John, from Harry. Harry. Likely a brother, possibly a cousin. Although if you had an abundance of close relatives, it's unlikely you'd end up here."

A flash of pain - so brief John wondered if he had imagined it - darted across the man's face. "Thus, a brother. Not a close one, since you're not staying with him. Obviously cares for you, thus the gift. Then there's Mike, whom I observed muttering about how nice it would be to have a doctor in my flat. Military, recently back, invalided home, recent deployment to a combat zone, estranged sibling, medical background - Afghanistan or Iraq."

John stared at the man, his eyes widening in surprise. "That's brilliant."

"Obvious," he said, although there were small spots of color blossoming on his cheeks. "That's not what people normally say," he muttered. He hadn't moved from where he was sitting, his eyes intently focused on John.

"What do they normally say?" John inquired blandly. He had absolutely no idea what constituted normal in the situation they were in. If the other man had a book, John would gladly do anything he could to borrow it.

"Piss off," the other man said, a slight chuckle escaping his lips. John couldn't help but laugh in response.

"I could see where that could offend people, yeah," he said, a proper smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What is your name, anyway?" It was the lightest John had felt in months.

"Sherlock Holmes." The taller man smiled briefly before he laid down on the couch, his lean body taking up the entire length with ease.

"John Watson." John sat on the bed still, staring at Sherlock, who hadn't moved. The silence felt awkward to John. What did he say? Why were you in a shelter? Who beat you so badly that it landed you here?

"I was kidnapped and held for ten months by a man who fancied me." Sherlock's voice broke the quiet in its deadpan fashion. John flinched, and inwardly he cursed himself for doing so. The curly-haired man's eyes were focused on the ceiling. John watched, fascinated, as Sherlock's eyes roamed the ceiling, seeming to explore every little nook and cranny.

"Hmm," John murmured, non-committal. "When is dinner?"

"Twenty minutes ago," Sherlock answered, looking vaguely annoyed. Not giving it another thought, John stood up and reached for the cane Sherlock had pointed out in his belongings. It had indeed been a gift from Harry, although he had forgotten it was there until Sherlock had drawn his attention to it. "Was I right?"

John looked at him, vaguely surprised at the return to the original topic. Was he really not going to pry? Clearing his throat, he settled the cane in his hand, a nervous habit. "I was invalided home from Afghanistan eight months and seventeen days ago. Shot in the shoulder. Harry and I don't talk much. I was an army doctor."

"Hah!" Sherlock's fists clenched and John watched him with some sort of detached amusement. "I was right."

"Harry, however. Harry is short for Harriet."

"A sister!" Sherlock exclaimed, sitting up. "A sister! How did I miss that?"

"Right, well, I'm going for tea. Are you coming?" He glanced at the taller man expectantly. Sherlock was sprawled haphazardly along the length of the couch now, apparently frustrated.

"Eating is boring. Digesting is a distraction." Waving a hand dismissively at the shorter man, Sherlock quickly steepled his fingers back under his chin. He was staring at the ceiling. John watched him for a few seconds longer. The icy blue eyes refocused on John again. "There's probably some food in the fridge. I was defrosting some chicken earlier for an experiment and got distracted." Sherlock exhaled slowly, patiently. "There's the cafeteria if you would prefer that, of course. Which you wouldn't. So stay here."

John gaped at him. Of course Sherlock would be able to tell that John wasn't enamoured with the idea of mingling with people for food. To be totally honest he wasn't exactly in love with with the idea of spending however long he was stuck at Asylum with the intense man, but one took one's victories where one could. It could be much worse. Then again, with the list of things Sherlock knew already, John wasn't wholly surprised. "Oh." John limped back into the kitchenette, his free hand opening and closing various doors as he examined what they had available to them. There wasn't much, but there was enough for a simple meal. Deciding on a stir fry, he gathered the ingredients and settled them on the counter. The combination of the cane and his PTSD made it an awkward exercise - hypervigilance and pain warring for domination made it difficult to get around the kitchen. For being just a small kitchenette, the kitchen equipment was high quality, he mused, pulling out a knife to chop up the vegetables and turning on the oven stovetop.

"There's tea in the top left cupboard." Sherlock's voice startled John.

"You'd like some, I take it?" John's hand was already reaching for the named cupboard and he examined the containers decorating the inside. It was easy to tell that the owner of Asylum was a posh British bloke. There was barely any food in the flat, yet there was quite a bit of expensive tea.

"No."

"Then why did you…" John shook his head, exasperated. He stopped briefly to switch on the kettle. Pulling out the defrosted chicken he cooked dinner quickly and efficiently. He surveyed the results with a mild sense of satisfaction. It wasn't perfect but it was edible. John ate it standing in the kitchen, propping himself up against the counter. Once he finished he stored the dishes in the sink. He could clean them later. The silence felt awkward to him. Sherlock had told him why he was there - the barebones of it, anyway. What did he say in this kind of situation - "Oh, I'm here because my previous girlfriend beat the shit out of me and I had nowhere else to go?" The thought made John flinch and it was only when he noticed Sherlock's eyes on him that he realized he must have said it out loud. "I'm, going to shower." John went through the motions of gathering his toiletries and his pyjamas, feeling Sherlock's gaze on the back of his neck.

John's bad shoulder twinged in accompaniment with his leg, rapidly souring John's mood. Why had he opened his mouth? He knew nothing about the git in there. He wasn't abused. He deserved what she gave him, after all. He was just a bad boyfriend. Unfit for her. She deserved so much better, but she had chosen him, damaged as he was. He grimaced as he rubbed his aching leg before shoving all of the thoughts back into the back corner of his mind chained off for such - rubbish.

Not that he cared, anyways. His fists clenched automatically before he forced his body to relax. It was not the war zone. It was not home with - with her. John's mind shut down before he allowed himself to think as much of her as her name. It wasn't worth it, he told himself firmly. She was the past. He hoped. Regardless of what she was, the confusion she had caused was not worth it. Not when it came with - with everything else she offered. He stared at his reflection the mirror in the rather plush bathroom. There were circles under his eyes and he looked more ragged than he had in a long time. However, it wasn't as bad as it had been when he was in the military, so he still considered it an improvement. As bad as his situation was, it was better than being shot at. Or punched.

Pulling off his jumper and cotton undershirt, he folded them neatly and placed them on the counter. Consulting the mirror again, he winced at the sight of the large bruises still peppering his abdomen with their myriad splotches of colour. There was the blue and purple of the rather new ones mottled with the yellow-brown of those on their way to healing over. Combined with the scar tissue on his shoulder, he hardly made the picture of a desirable mate. His laugh was sarcastic, self-deprecating. Dropping his trousers and his pants, he folded those and sat them to the side. Especially being in a new place, he felt it essential to establish a routine as quickly as possible. Turning the water on, he waited for it to heat up before stepping under the spray.

He shampooed his hair and washed himself quickly, clinically going over his bruises and identifying a possible fractured rib. It had probably been missed when he was at the hospital. His mind ticked over his belongings, identifying anything that could be potentially used as a wrap and then discarding the idea before it merited further thought. He couldn't risk the infection immobilizing his chest could bring on. John had to force himself to refrain from laughing at the extremely surreal situation. Here he was, in the middle of nowhere, in some secret posh British home for men-with-nowhere-to-go. He still remembered waking up in the hospital, in the ER. The strange man in a suit, who offered him a place to stay. High off his rocker on pain meds, John agreed. The man had left a brochure behind. John had thumbed through it later, once he was in the bed he would stay in for two weeks or so while the remainder of his injuries healed.

The water went cold and John shivered and turned it off. He had gotten lost in thought. Towelling himself off roughly, he dressed in his pyjamas. Normally he slept in his boxers, but he was conscious of the healing bruises - and of the well-dressed, posh roommate. He didn't want to risk rolling onto some sharp quirk of the mattress that would jab harder without the thin cotton barrier. Wearing a t-shirt and loose, cotton pyjama pants, he brushed his teeth before leaving the bathroom. Standing in the doorway, John took a minute to glance over his half of the room.

"Someone didn't clean this," John muttered, limping over to the dresser and taking a closer look at the partially-opened drawers.

"I wouldn't do that," Sherlock remarked just as John caught a wave of the stench emanating from the furniture.

"Eugggh! What is that?" John gasped, plugging his nose as he staggered backwards. He nearly tripped in his effort to remove himself from the presence of whatever was in the drawers.

"Testing the efficacy of mothballs." John watched Sherlock lift himself up from the couch and wander lazily over to John's furniture.

"In my dresser? Sherlock." John's dark blue eyes met Sherlock's icy blue, puzzlement and irritation mingling in a swirl of emotions. His earlier explosion and shame forgotten, John propped his hands on his hips. "You can't just use other people's furniture."

"Mine has my clothes in it." Sherlock crouched down in front of John, the strange eyes taking in every little detail of the mothballs and other assorted - things - in the drawers in front of him. He frowned, straightening up and waving a dismissive hand. "You can dispose of them. They are useless."

"Why don't you do it? You put it in there," John muttered, tracking Sherlock's movements with his eyes. He could've sworn there was the tiniest hint of a smirk on Sherlock's face.

"Boring." Sherlock walked back over to the sofa and flopped down onto it. He curled up into a ball with his back towards John, seemingly absorbed in the couch cushions. John stared at him for a few more seconds before limping over to the corner where his cane stood. If he was going to make the trip to dispose of the wretched mothball experiment, he'd need the support of the cane that Harry bought him.

How did he get stuck with such a bizarre flatmate? John wondered to himself. He gripped the cane, limping back over to the chest of drawers with a bag clutched in his good hand. He bent down awkwardly, scooping the contents into the bag and checking the nooks and crannies of each drawer to prevent future hazards.

"You're the first one to stay longer than ten minutes." Sherlock's baritone voice, passive and flat, echoed loudly in the silent room. John straightened with a grimace, the hand holding the bag absentmindedly massaging his thigh muscle.

"The first what?" he asked. Sherlock couldn't be serious. John could practically feel Sherlock rolling his eyes from across the room.

"Don't be stupid, John." Sherlock's voice was dripping with disdain. "The first roommate. Obviously."

John stood there and eyed Sherlock warily. The voice in the back of his head told him he'd been doing a rather lot of that lately, and that he needed to stop. John ignored it. "You're staring," Sherlock snapped. If John hadn't known better, he would have almost said that the man was self-conscious. Which was a ridiculous proposition, as even to John's untrained eyes, he was gorgeous. The pale, milky skin, the tailored outfits, the ridiculous curls - not to mention those eyes, that could tear a man down in seconds. If he was interested - which he wasn't - Sherlock would have been his type to a tee.

He wasn't. Interested, that was. John's face twisted into a frown, before rapidly smoothing out. "I don't see why, I suppose." John raised his eyebrows and cocked his head at Sherlock's drawn out, exasperated sigh.

"Idiot," the other man muttered, the base of his palms resting on his forehead. "Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!" John watched as Sherlock drew himself up just to flop dramatically back onto the sofa.

"Right, well. I'm going to bed." Limping over to his neatly made bed, he flicked the switch on the side. Immediately the lamp closest to John's bed turned off, plunging the room into shadowy twilight. Almost like himself, John mused briefly before shaking himself out of his reverie. "There enough light for you?" Sherlock made a noncommittal noise John decided to interpret as a yes. He pulled back the covers and slid between them. He tossed and turned for a while before settling down in the half-foetal position that had become natural for him the past few months. The bed was surprisingly comfy, John noted with interest. The pillow was soft and cradled his head and neck in exactly the right spots. He burrowed into it, his eyes closing.

Night was always the hardest time, John mused. All the thoughts at once - everything flashing and whirling and the nightmares and the night terrors. Although John was not horribly perceptive, it was often difficult for him to turn off his mind when he had a bad day. Images and thoughts just kept coming. Making a fist, John socked himself in the head, trying to convince the thoughts to leave him alone. Shivers ran down his spine as he curled closer into himself, falling into a fitful sleep.

Next thing he knew he was awake. Angelie was there, her dark brown eyes boring into John's as she stared cruelly at him. He cringed and drew closer into himself, hoping, hoping it would end. "You're a horrible boyfriend, John," she said silkily, her voice sending waves of fear down John's spine. "If you wouldn't make goo goo eyes at every tramp that passed by, I wouldn't have to punish you like this." A sharp blow to John's kidneys, another hit on his ribs. John felt like he couldn't get enough air in - like he was drowning. His breath was coming in short, sudden gasps whenever her leg connected with his ribs.

He was sobbing now, his whole body shaking and writhing as the jabs connected with his sensitive skin. Bruises mottled his ribs, thighs, and upper arms, most half healed. That meant the digs hurt more than they normally would. He tried to fight the tears - he knew she liked them, that she seemed to get off on his pain. He had fought several battles in Afghanistan. He had seen several people die. He had seen even more suffer, had been made to hold shredded pieces together of various bodies and pray that he would make it to a hospital in time to save them. He had faced death himself - a refugee with a gun held to his forehead, and his only defence was a prayer. John had made it out, albeit with a bum shoulder and a limp he couldn't leave behind.

However, here, in the face of a relatively petite five foot four woman, one that was arguably beating him, he had nothing. She was everything. She was his everything. He was broken - he didn't deserve anything else. She was good for him. "I'm sorry," he choked out, his arms curled protectively over his ribcage. The hospital had asked too many questions after the last time she broke one of his ribs. The next time Angelie had insisted that he bring home enough medical supplies from his office to treat his own wounds. She had mocked him for that, too. John had referred every patient with broken or bruised ribs to a colleague after that, unable to trust his own judgment.

Abruptly, the jabs ended the same time John heard a massive crack. The mirror had shattered, there was an explosion - no, no, not an explosion, a gunshot - John's heart seemed to stop in his chest as a small, dark hole appeared on Angelie's forehead and her body collapsed, boneless, on the floor. Unable to stop himself, bruises and all, he crawled over to her.

Trembling fingers trailed through the blood, smearing it through her light hair. The stark red against the blonde, the vivid contrast, made it real. John's heart had clued back into the proceedings and was vigorously hammering away in his chest. The brown eyes that had been turned against him in anger, in hate, were now blank, staring endlessly at nothing - nothing that John would ever see. Cold all over, John laid her out on the floor, wordlessly starting CPR. There was nothing he could do. Nothing he should do. The doctor in him, no matter how badly beaten, knew he had to try.

John's hands froze mid-compression, icy fear trickling down his spine. What was he doing? This wasn't real. He knew it wasn't real. What was happening? Angelie was - was a long time ago. If one considered two weeks a lengthy period. She'd never been shot. She was alive and well with - with what's his name, anyway. John had refused to press charges - the shame was too much. John stared down at the blood covering his hands, his eyes wide in shock and fear. He looked towards the body underneath his hands only to realize that it was gone. It was just him. Him and the dark, never ending pools of blood, sucking him in. He was drowning, drowning in the sultry red liquid that haunted most of his nightmares.

Gasping, John bolted out of bed so rapidly that he ended up on the floor, his legs tangled in the sweat-soaked sheets. His heart was pounding mercilessly in his chest, his breath escaping in fluttering, choked sobs of anguish. He fought to regain some control over himself, over his actions. It was a nightmare, John reminded himself, the adrenaline pumping madly through his nervous system, every nerve screaming to - to fight. No, to run. To fight. To run. John fought to stand, speedily realizing that he was shaking too badly to even hope to untangle the sheets he was twined in.

He gave into the fear, into the anxiety, into the nightmare, and just laid there. There was nothing he could do until his body spent itself, until the shudders of adrenaline cleared themselves from his system. The neurotransmitters would clear relatively quickly once the threat had passed. The threat that wasn't even real. Angelie was gone. Afghanistan was - was months passed. He wasn't some new boy who had nightmares over the death of a single civilian - he was an army doctor who held shattered lives together and sewed together sobbing soldiers in a field of death.

"You had a nightmare." The baritone voice was soft, hesitant. John merely glanced over at Sherlock, dully accepting of the fact that his worst nightmare in months had been witnessed by a near stranger.

"Yes." John ran a sweaty palm through his hair, trying to smooth the damp strands into something that didn't look like a hedgehog on crack. "I do have those." Sherlock seemed to consider this, his eyes taking in John's every feature, his every movement. John was sitting sprawled on the floor by his bed. His body was more relaxed, now. Although his legs were still tangled in the sheets, his fingernails were no longer cutting bloody crescents in the flesh of his palms. His pupils were constricting back to their normal size in the dark, his respirations slowing.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and laid back down on the sofa. John stared at him for a few more seconds, feeling the last surges of chaotic adrenaline leaving his system. He couldn't help but be just a tiny bit grateful for a roommate who shrugged off that kind of event with such nonchalance. John had had experience sleeping with those who described what his prior nightmares were like. This one had been a bad one, and he couldn't even stand the thought of how long he'd been talking or thrashing about in his sleep. Before meeting Angelie, he had stayed with some of his medical school friends. Maybe this whole situation wouldn't be so bad after all. He snorted at the thought. Nothing more awkward than having a massive nightmare in front of someone he'd known for two hours.

John got his breathing under control, testing his legs occasionally to see if he would be able to slip out of the sheet's grasp. Finally he was able to stand without fearing his legs would slip out from underneath him. Grabbing his cane and hobbling over to the closet with the spare sheets, John stripped his sweat-soaked ones and remade his bed. After a second of thought, he moved the rug closer to the edge of his mattress in case he had another nightmare. The rug would provide at least some comfort against the hard floor.

It was only once all order had been restored that John was able to crawl back into his bed. He had even changed pyjamas so the sweat-soaked cotton of his clothes wouldn't cling to the fresh sheets. Hopefully it would be enough to allow him to sleep. While John had been released to go to Asylum, he was still physically and emotionally recovering from his ordeal. John brushed the thought aside automatically. He wasn't broken. The war had done some things to his head - that was for certain. War did bad things to good people. That alone was common sense. Angelie wasn't part of it.

Why was he up at only God knows when thinking about this? John had long given up trying to find a reason for his sporadic insomnia. He had heard somewhere that it wasn't uncommon in those who had seen combat. Hypervigilance and all, he supposed. Finally, he was able to bully himself into a fitful doze, only minutely more comforting than it was restoring.

John groaned and stretched as the light seeping through the window hit his face. The blinds must have been closed when John arrived the day before, that's why he hadn't noticed the bloody thing. He pulled the pillow out from underneath him and smooshed it over his face in protest. A hand reached out and plucked the pillow away from him. Sherlock's face came into view, scrutinizing him clinically.

"Breakfast?" John yawned, rubbing his eyes. Maybe a good night's sleep had improved the mood of the odd man that shared his room. Bleary eyes cleared as Sherlock moved out of his range of vision, only to see a fully-dressed Sherlock perching back on the sofa as if he hadn't moved all night. The only difference was the clothes - and the fact he had John's pillow in his hands. "Did you sleep at all?" John inquired politely.

"No." Sherlock's voice was dismissive, an answer to both questions. Slightly stung, John pulled off his covers and reached for the dressing gown perched on the edge of his bed. He examined it, noting its similarities to the one he wore at home.

"Well, the more for me," he said, a hand reaching for the cane leaning against his dresser. John smoothed the dressing gown, noting how easily it slid over his skin. It was a comforting sensation to John, full of memories of a happier time. Regaining his grip on the cane, John thumped over to the kitchenette and began assembling a quick, simple breakfast. "You need to eat."

"No." A pale hand flapped briefly in his direction before returning to Sherlock's chin. John frowned, pausing mid-motion to turn back towards Sherlock.

"Are you feeling okay?" John paused, cataloguing mentally to see if he had brought any of his medical supplies with him to Asylum. He hadn't - that he knew of - but he could easily manage a brief physical exam without his equipment. John took a step in Sherlock's direction before Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave an exasperated sigh.

"My metabolism has adjusted to a lack of food. I don't eat that often. Digesting is boring - it slows me down." Sherlock's dismissal was obvious. John narrowed his eyes, sensing a challenge.

"You still need to eat. Your body won't have energy otherwise, and you'll start burning muscle -" John's voice was cut off when Sherlock sat up. Crystal blue eyes were glaring malevolently in his direction.

"Yes, Dr. Watson, I am well aware of what happens when normal humans don't eat food," Sherlock snapped. John's internal concern meter kicked up a notch. He could feel himself slipping into the persona of Captain John Watson, MD.

"Then you'll eat something," John said bluntly, his hand on his hip. He turned his back on Sherlock before he could protest, turning back to the kitchen and surveying the refrigerator. It was emitting somewhat of an odd smell. "What did you put in here, anyways?" John reached out and grabbed the handle, opening it with one swift move. "Did you know there are - oh god - are those eyes?"

Sherlock walked into view and poked his head into the fridge. "Mm, yes, those are human eyes." He stuck a hand inside and pulled out the container, whirling the top off and sniffing them cautiously. "I don't know how they got in there." John started to relax. They could dispose of it, John could write it off as a one-time thing, and they could get along with their weird lives. "They were supposed to be in the microwave with the fingers."

"The fingers?" John asked mildly. He was surprised that he was able to keep his voice as steady as he was. "What were you up to last night while I slept?"

"It's an experiment, John." Sherlock shrugged dismissively, an oh-you-peasant gesture that made John want to punch him. John had a feeling that it was a sentiment he would experience often around Sherlock. The man seemed to have the kind of personality that made people want to physically injure him. "For science."

"Science requires that you keep fingers and - and eyes in microwave? Why the microwave?" John's gaze flicked back towards the refrigerator now, attempting to find something edible. "There's practically nothing in here." He paused, looking at Sherlock. "What the hell did you do last night? There was food here yesterday."

"I'm sure there's something." Sherlock's face was uncomfortably close to John's for a few moments, the cold blue eyes clinically sweeping the contents of the refrigerator. "Oh, I had forgotten about the toes. You can throw those out." Sherlock closed the refrigerator (nearly hitting John in the face) and walked off, his luxurious dressing gown flying behind him. John stared at him, his mouth dropped slightly open. "Do close your mouth, John. You look like a fish."

"How long have they been in there?" John asked, readjusting his grip on his cane to give him something to do with his hands. "They were people, Sherlock. They deserve some amount of respect rather than just forgetting them in some dark part of the fridge." For some reason, the body parts in the fridge made him angry. Irrationally, likely. All those people - they were more than the sum of their parts. Was this - was it some part of what had happened? Absurd emotions that came up at totally inappropriate times? It was none of John's business what Sherlock did with body parts in his spare time, and John accepted that.

The calmer, rational part of John took control over his body and John could feel a sensation like cold water rolling down his skin. It was soothing. He didn't like being so quick to anger - so powerless over his own emotions, tossed raggedly about like a drowning victim being buffeted by the waves.

Sherlock was motionless and silent for a few long seconds before he got up and shuffled over. He forced the refrigerator door open before reaching in and re-arranging some petri dishes. Sherlock removed a few with particularly suspicious-looking chunks that John didn't allow himself to examine before pointedly gestured ('before he pointedly' or 'pointedly gesturing') to the rubbish bin. Sherlock threw them into the bin with a dramatic crash of glass breaking. Without another word Sherlock stalked back to his couch and threw himself dramatically back down onto it. John smiled faintly. Sherlock looked like an overgrown toddler who was throwing a tantrum because his mum had told him to pick up a toy.

"Stay there and fuss all you want, but you're still eating something for breakfast." John threw him a disapproving glance as Sherlock wrapped his dressing gown farther around himself and sulked into the sofa. Rolling his eyes, John searched the cupboards, looking for anything edible. It seemed to be a losing battle. He pursed his lips, exasperated, and sighed, settling back against the counter. "How do you get food, anyway?" Silence emanated from the sofa. "Oh, come off it, you git. You're not a child."

John gave up after a few moments and limped over to where his clothes sat on the floor, rustling through his pockets. He had dropped them on the floor after his shower. "Hey, where is my mobile?" Turning in time to see a hand raised holding the offending device, John raised his eyebrows. "When'd you take that?"

"While you were sleeping. I was bored." Sherlock's voice was muffled by the sofa curtains and John wondered just how far into the cushions he had pushed himself. John walked over and grabbed the phone. Sherlock's pale underarm was bared for a few seconds, long enough for John to catch a glimpse of something he did not wish to ever see on a human being. "What are those?" he demanded, his voice harsher than he intended. Sherlock's arm disappeared into the lump that was now projecting emotional walls bigger than the Great Wall of China.

"Bugger off." Sherlock's voice was ragged. After a few seconds, Sherlock got up from the sofa and stormed out of the room in his dressing gown. John was left standing in the room, silent and shocked, his eyes wide, his thoughts derailed.

On Sherlock's wrists were interlocking, crisscrossed, haphazard scars and scabs. Some were new, possibly days old. Some were old. Track marks - some relatively recent - were mapped out frighteningly close to the slashes. They were so thin as to be unnoticeable unless you came up close and saw the patterns. John's blood ran cold. From force of habit he walked to the kitchenette and put on the kettle for tea. He would deal with it when Sherlock returned.