Lessons in Friendship 3 - Setback

Takes place directly after HoB. Sherlock regretting his plan to use John as a lab rat after he really understands how bad an idea it was. John's PTSD is having a revival. No First Person POV but almost entirely from Sherlock's side.

Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

This was written because John's PTSD was kind of affecting me since I suffer PTSD myself…

Many thanks to my beta reader Graveofthefireflies!

I have no medical knowledge.

This story was originally posted and completed on September 23, 2013.

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Chapter 1 - Heading Home

They were driving back home from Baskerville. The weather was good, nice, sunny.

Sherlock had asked John to take the first turn to drive. He was still distracted with thoughts about the case and the scientist's suicide. In addition, the things John had told him in the morning, about the test Sherlock had used him for in the lab and how badly it had affected him, were grinding on Sherlock's nerves.

Well, told was a bit too kind.

John had yelled at him when he had found out that Sherlock was the one who locked him in the lab, and he was angry that Sherlock had tried to drug him.

Though, in the end the drug had been in John's system, but it wasn't Sherlock's fault it got there. Nevertheless, he had without any doubt tried.

The idea that he had so recklessly used John as a test subject was the harm, that he had intentionally did this to someone he called a friend. That's what John had explained, because in the beginning he hadn't understood John's anger.

But now, that he thought about it, John had probably every right to be angry… and he also had the right to be angry with him with what he had said in the pub, too. Twice the right.
He was so stupid!

John hadn't said it out loud, but Sherlock understood this was a major setback in their friendship.

Loss of trust.

Although John hadn't said anything about PTSD Sherlock noticed the connection and assumed he might have reopened a wound that John had worked so hard to help heal. He hadn't seen John show any hint of anxiety for a long time, but that didn't mean he didn't suffer from panic attacks without him noticing.
A few months ago, after witnessing a light panic attack, he had upgraded himself about PTSD.

One of the books stated that coping with the disorder was like walking on an edge - as one patient described it.

There was always the possibility to stumble into a trigger, to suffer a setback or the symptoms coming back. Many patients never get rid of their PTSD, they'd suffer from it for the rest of their lives, just learned to live with it and how to cope.
People affected by the disorder were in a constant state of alarm, which in a long term increased their risk of physical illness and suicide. The mind more or less indirectly killing the body.

Which meant that the question was just how far away from the edge one was walking and how to prevent stumbling.

Horrified, Sherlock realised he had just not only put rather large stones in John's way but also shoved him. He asked himself how he could have forgotten John's PTSD when deciding to use him as a test subject - or hadn't he?

Had he been just reckless enough to ignore it?

Well, if he had, he didn't deserve John's friendship.

John seemed to be so normal and doing fine. The symptoms almost never reached the surface, his limp was gone, maybe that had made the detective think he was over the PTSD.

Lestrade had yelled at him, too, when he had learned what 'test' Sherlock had performed, his own experience with the gas still vivid. Gladly, John had been in the shower and hadn't heard it.

While staring out of the window he recognised he felt ashamed now, it had taken some time to identify the feeling, since he wasn't used to feeling shame. He had completely failed his friend, therefore the ugly, yellow-green and nasty feeling was likely to be shame. Very early in his life he had realised he didn't like to feel that particular emotion, and also not the one named guilt, and the best way not to be confronted with them was simple: just don't do anything that you might regret later. Always consider if what you are about to do might make you ashamed afterwards, always think it through… and don't misjudge. The only way to do this: observe accurately!

But now it had happened, and he didn't know how to deal with it… and the damage was to something that was important to him: John's trust.

He was sorry, too - also not a common feeling for him. He assumed all those came with caring.

Caring was difficult, loads of new configurations and protocols with so many variables… and all specific to one individual, another person's set totally different in over seventy-eight percent… it was huge.

Lost in his thoughts, he was still staring out of the window, the landscape rushing by.

John was driving a bit faster than allowed.

Hurrying home or to get out of the situation?

Sherlock needed to fix this… or at least start to work on fixing it. He could feel the problem physically between them. The inside of the car felt misted with repressed hurt oozing out of John. He could feel it not only in the air, but also on his skin and temples, a thick olive-coloured, almost slightly hurting pressure with molten sparks of angry red in it.

"John?"

"Mm..."

Obviously, not really interested in talking.

"John, I am sorry…" he started clumsy while staring ahead, not really able to look at the doctor, especially now that he felt John's eyebrows rise and his gaze shift towards him, resting on his face. Nevertheless, his flatmate said nothing.

"It was stupid. Forgive me… I didn't think," Sherlock continued.

John's eyes returned to the road and Sherlock could feel his astonishment about hearing an apology. Though, he didn't say anything, he just drove, a bit slower than before maybe.

Sherlock wondered if he was waiting for further elaboration, but when he gave John a small sideways look his face looked exhausted and sad… and empty. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should say more. But he had learned yesterday that saying too much could make things worse, when he tried to say sorry for his episode at the pub, it was distracting the message.

Sherlock wished John would yell at him, confront him with his anger and rage and let it out. He was angry with himself… and he deserved it. John's silent disappointment and hurt was far worse than being screamed at.

They drove in silence, Sherlock frantically thinking about how to make up for his mistake in a tactful and helping way, and without producing another faux pas.

"I'll stop at the next station for a lunch break," John informed, well aware that he wouldn't get anything to eat if he didn't insist on it.

They stopped half an hour later.

John ate some sandwiches and they had coffee, but their small talk was leaden and when they returned to the car Sherlock offered to drive. It would distract him from his thoughts and maybe John would welcome it.
So they went on, Sherlock driving and John dozing in the passenger seat.

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A/N:

I'd love to know what readers think.