Chapter Two

John H. Watson, M.D., Sherlock realised, had been holding out on him. There had been something the resident genius had missed in the first 24 hours of meeting the man. And in the light of a new day, not even a full 48 hours after John had moved into the upper room of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was determined to find out what the man had withheld on their initial day together.

The first night, after the showdown between John and Mycroft (Sherlock had saved that particular incident into his Mind Palace), the consulting detective had wanted to grill John about what exactly had happened. Yet John had said he really needed to sort things out in his own mind first. It was hard for Sherlock to actually agree to that, but for some reason, he had. And, from the way John had relaxed after his second night in the apartment, he was glad he'd listened to his instincts.

Smirking to himself, Sherlock looked over to where John was sitting in the chair that was quickly become 'his'. The smaller man was busy reading a medical journal published in braille. The angular detective couldn't help but remember the spitfire in John as the doctor had commanded respect from his older brother. The smirk fell as he considered the earlier events of that night, and yet again thought about what John had actually been doing before he'd been seen just outside the police barrier while Sherlock had been talking to Lestrade. Because, if nothing else, Sherlock knew he wasn't ever far off wrong with his deductions.

He knew John had been the one to save him. John had even admitted it at the crime scene. John, who had been an expert marksman, had been acclimatised to war and violence, had nerves of steel (he had to, to stand up to Mycroft), had a strong moral compass, was still blind. For the bullet to have just missed Sherlock by mere millimetres (he could still hear the shot ringing in his left ear) to be buried in Jeff's chest, whomever had taken the shot must have taken the time to line it up properly. Especially with the handgun that was used.

So Sherlock was stumped at the puzzle presented by one John Watson. The man that was clinically blind, but could also kill with little effort for the consulting detective. Which left just one question to be answered: how did John manage it?

John refrained from rolling his eyes. "Yes?" he asked, not even bothering to look in Sherlock's direction.

"I didn't say anything," Sherlock returned.

"You didn't have to," the doctor shot back. "I can hear your mind twirling around from over here. Ask."

"How did you shoot the cabbie?"

John paused in his reading. "Is that the most important question you have, or are there other, more pressing, issues to consider?"

Sherlock frowned at that. Yes, he wanted to know how John had managed the shot that killed Jeff. But as he thought about what the doctor had just asked him, Sherlock realised that there were other things that didn't really add up about John. The next question, naturally, was how long had the doctor actually been blind? He looked over to where John had turned his attention back to his book. By the way his fingers were running over the pages of his book, it would seem that John had been blind a good length of time for him to be able to read braille as quickly as he did.

By what John had admitted the first time Sherlock bought up his blindness, the consulting detective knew that the man had served another year in the military before he was shot. Which meant John had been blind for just under two years – quite remarkable if Sherlock thought about it. Blind people could not serve in the army as the majority of their tasks was reliant on their sight. So either John had been lying about how long he'd been blind (which, after only knowing the man for less than three full days, Sherlock knew he hadn't been), or John had a way around the sight issue. That was far more likely, as it would also explain how he'd manage to shoot the cabbie.

"What happened two years ago, when you lost your sight?"

John visibly stiffened and paused in his reading. He was silent, trying to figure out how much to tell Sherlock without breaking his oath of secrecy. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, taking in John's posture. The man sat straighter, and looked like he was on the verge of a panic attack. Obviously something traumatic happened then, if it caused that kind of reaction in John. Sherlock wasn't sure what to say to bring John out of it.

"I was found about ten kilometres south of a known insurgence base by a patrol, beaten, starved and dehydrated," John said, his voice flat. It was like he was relating events that could have happened to anyone else, instead of to him. "If the major and his men hadn't found me when they did, I would have died before anything could have been done for me. They took me back to base and I was in a coma for a week. It took them twice that to get me to say more than a few words to anyone. My recovery took me six months between when I was found and when I was fit enough to return to active duty."

Sherlock let John's story wash over him. He really couldn't imagine what the army doctor had gone through. Swallowing hard, he allowed his gaze to drift over John's stiff form. It seemed that the doctor had courted death on more than one occasion. Sherlock frowned as he thought back over what John had said: John mentioned having been found, which lead Sherlock to believe the man had been lost. Oh. Oh… John had been a prisoner of war.

"How long were you declared missing in action?"

"Eight months," John replied quietly. His voice was hollow now. He didn't have to say that the eight months he'd been imprisoned was hell. Sherlock saw. Saw that it had been one of the worst experiences that John had been through; saw that it was during that time that John's sight had been forcibly been taken from him. But also during that time, his sight had been restored, at least partially.

Because, Sherlock mused, how else could he explain John's continued service in the army? It was highly unlikely the British Army would have kept John on if they'd known he'd lost his sight. They wouldn't have paid for the cost of research into returning the sight to one decorated, but broken, solider, let alone actually given the man his sight back. So, John had been gifted a rare thing indeed – his captors had tormented him, experimented on him, and eventually 'gifted' him with an imitation of sight.

Sherlock exhaled as the last piece clicked into place. John's eyes. "They implanted lenses into your eyes. There could be a few possibilities for that. First, it was to hide the usual cloudiness associated with blindness. This is unlikely, as your captors wouldn't care about your blindness.

"So that leads to the second reason: they wanted to experiment. Perhaps someone important to their war effort was blind and they wanted to find a way to restore a blind person's sight. They used you as an experiment to see if they could give you your sight back. That means they found a way to implant camera lenses into your eyes that connected to your visual cortex. Means that whoever was experimenting had knowledge of technology and had worked with tiny cameras before. They must have had a neurologist or eye specialist in their camp as well. How else would they get the lenses to work? I expect the surgery was done much like a cataract removal surgery.

"Third reason is that they wanted to plant you as a spy within the RAMC. That's clever, using our very own personal against us." Sherlock wasn't paying much attention to the effect his deductions were having on John. And once the brunette started rattling off his theories (more like facts, John thought), the doctor felt himself being sucked into the memories of the time he'd rather forget.

"Fourth reason," Sherlock continued absentmindedly, "the scientist that developed the lens tech cameras may have been a prisoner as well. They may have tried helping you, even if it was to lie about having a working prototype. Or several prototypes, because it would have taken several attempts to get the lenses working correctly without causing additional problems with the test subjects.

"You were disposable to them. They didn't care if you lived or died. The only thing they probably cared about was having a successful run at giving artificial sight to someone after they'd lost it. That's probably why they'd beat you and left you to die. They may not have even known that the experiment had worked, otherwise they would have used you..." Sherlock looked over from the sofa where he'd been lying and trailed. John wasn't listening, or even really moving at all. The book the man had been reading had slipped from his hands and had landed on its edges, tenting with the spine pointed up.

"John?" Sherlock asked. The blond didn't answer. In fact, it didn't seem like he had heard Sherlock call his name at all. What was wrong with the doctor? Had Sherlock said anything wrong? And that's when Sherlock remembered all of the things he'd read about post-traumatic stress syndrome. Talking about John's eight months of hell had most likely forced the man to relive the experience. How could he have been so stupid? "John?" he repeated.

This time, it seemed John heard. He took in a shuddering breath at the deep baritone calling his name a second time. He was shaking. Another shallow breath. Where was he? He could have sworn he had been back with his captors. Back when he first lost his sight nearly three years before.

Again, that calming baritone called out to him. "John, take in a deep breath." John focused on that voice and did as it commanded. "Good. Hold it." Sherlock smiled as he saw his flatmate comply. "Now breathe out slowly. Very good. I'm here, John. Take another deep breath…" Sherlock kept talking until he saw John visibly calm down.

It was a good ten minutes before John could form a coherent sentence. "I'm sorry… I don't know what happened," he apologised.

The taller man shrugged it off. "No apology needed, John. I should have realised earlier that it was a difficult subject for you." From what he'd read of PTSD, it was a common occurrence in soldiers who'd been wounded in war and sent home to recover. And looking over his new flatmate again, just to reassure himself that John was really okay, Sherlock knew that they wouldn't be talking much more that evening.

So he decided on the next best thing: he pushed himself up off the sofa and went to the window. Picking up his violin, Sherlock settled it between his shoulder and chin and began playing what he hoped to be a soothing song. A smile graced his features as he saw John relaxing back into the chair as the music washed over him.

It wasn't long after he'd started playing that John bent over to pick up his book off the floor and returned to his reading.

AN: I hope I've done these characters justice, and that my portrayal of both a blind person and someone suffering from PTSD are realistic. I am neither blind or suffer from this condition. I have great admiration for the blind community, and for the way that they live. They are incredibly resourceful people, and I know they use many different ways of getting around, including guide dogs and canes. As for the people with PTSD, I admire you for what you do and have done for your countries.