Through the Haze

Black-Angel-001: so sorry guys! i meant to post this saturday but a nasty storm came in and i couldn't. anywhos, this is a sequal to 'the haze' by ulura, written with her generous permission. this hasn't been beta'd or brit picked, but i hope you enjoy!

Warnings: Some violence, to include emotional/physical torture, mind games. Also two guys sharing a bed in a completly platonic way. No, seriously.

Disclaimers: I don't own this, just the idea.

Through the Haze

Sherlock wasn't sleeping.

Not because it was boring, or because he had a case, but just because he didn't want to. He was tired; he could feel the exhaustion beginning to creep over his limbs, his mind. No matter how tired, though, Sherlock wasn't sleeping. John wasn't either, which was why he hadn't pestered Sherlock about it, and why the detective was able to get away with it for so long.

On this night, with the lights of London peeking through the windows of the sitting room, Sherlock Holmes sat on his couch at 221B and stared at the wall opposit of him. Upstairs, he could hear the creak of John's bed as he twisted through his own sleeplessness. It was close to three am; John would be up by eight, maybe seven if he was really restless. The doctor would come downstairs bleary eyed and stumbling, pretending he and Sherlock hadn't stayed up all night. John

was somewhere in the warehouse, Sherlock was sure. He had to be, Sherlock couldn't be wrong, not about this. The world's only consulting detective sprinted down a narrow passage, throwing open every door he came across until he stumbled to a halt in a doorway. There, on a cot that used to be drab olive green, was John Watson, his friend. His once blue eyes, bright and deep and full of life and emotion, were now a dull grey, unfocused, yet accusing. That still tan face was now the color of death and slack, mouth open as if screaming, screaming for Sherlock. Sherlock's terrified gaze moved to the gunshot wound. After years of remaining unaffected by the most gruesome of crime scenes, Sherlock gagged for the first time. John's abdomen was stained a rusty color, and Sherlock could follow where the blood had dripped onto the cot and over the side to form a small puddle. But the worst of it was the maggots, beetles and flies going through the decaying flesh, eating it, laying eggs in the wound, in John's body.

Unable to keep looking, Sherlock refocused on John's face, only to be frozen still, breath halted as he drew it. Instead of the lax expression of death, John's expressive, so expressive!, face was twisted into an ugly look of hatred and loathing.

"You failed, Sherlock," dead John hissed. "You didn't save me, I thought you would!" Moriarty was right, you aren't extrodinary or anything like it! I thought we were friends, Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock."

"Sherlock!"

The lanky man bolted up with a gasp he would forever deny being a sob and frantically looked around. Home, he was home, not a warehouse. But John, the blood, the insects...

Then he registered a familiar warm hand on his shoulder. Sherlock followed the arm to the shoulder, then to the neck, then the face. John's blue eyes stared at him in concern, not hate or loathing, and relief rushed through his body so quickly Sherlock sagged.

"Hey now, you alright," John asked.

Sherlock mentally cursed the weakness as he straightened. He settled his expression to his normal stoic look as he replied, "Yes, yes I'm fine. You worry as much as Mycroft. More, I should say."

"Someone has to," muttered John while he headed to the kitchen.

Sherlock listened to the 'John-in-the-kitchen' sounds for a minute before contemplating, fingers steepled under his chin. Nightmares, nasty ones that woke him in a panicked, frenzied state or with tears.

He especially hated the ones with tears.

In the beginning, when John had still been missing, Sherlock's ever active brain, which wasn't prone to imagination or flights of fancy, conjured every scenario possible. Before he'd remembered, he could think of (and had) literally hundreds of ways he could've killed John. After Sherlock remembered, it was the thousands of ways Moriarty could torture and kill John. Then, late at night while sitting quietly in John's hospital room, there were the multitudes of ways he could have found John mixed with the Moriarty thoughts.

Once his brain was past the 'He'saliveJohn'salive' stage, all those hundreds of thousands of thoughts and could haves slammed to the forefront, and rested comfortably there since.

It got so bad, Sherlock had triedhalf of one of John's sleeping pills, but that only made things worse; he couldn't wake himself up. He was at his wits end on how to fix it, with no idea who to ask about this sort of thing.

Mycroft was laughable and out right at the start. Lestrade, well, he was a possibility but Sherlock didn't completely trust him with this sort of thing. That only really left...

He took the mug of tea without looking, but once John was turned to go to his chair, Sherlock looked. His bad shoulder was slouched as if in pain and a little of a limp could be seen in the clipped military stride. So, dreams of Afghanistan then. Only, John was also rubbing his arm, the one Moriarty had carved into, so there must have been nightmares of that as well.

The two blending would be a bit not good as John would say.

"Quit deducing me Sherlock, I'm not in the mood," John sighed before taking a sip of tea.

"Can't help it," he mumbled, irked and petulant because John knew that.

"You can if you stop looking at me," came the tired reply as John flipped open the paper.

Sherlock did a not-pout (because he didn't even if John swore he did) and lay back on the couch, mug resting on his stomach and craddled between his hands. His fingers tapped out a three time rhythm as slowly and without really being aware of it, his eyes drifted shut

only to snap open again at the sound of John's scream. Another bloody warehouse, with too many doors down a too narrow and long hallway. John screamed again, a sound Sherlock had never heard from a human being, let alone his friend. He never wanted to hear it again.

Sherlock took off running, calling for John but knowing the other man wouldn't hear him over the screams or pain. He kept calling and running anyway, now hearing mewls of agony that in no way could be John, a harsh Arabic dialect, and above all that Moriarty's insane, gleeful laughter.

Sherlock jolted up, then swore loudly when his still warm tea ended up all over his chest and lap. It only increased his annoyance in the worst way, making him ready to throw the mug against the wall, or the floor, or anything. Instead, at John's throat clearing, Sherlock thumped the mug harshly onto the coffee table then strode into his room, where he slammed the door. He changed into another set of pajamas (he wasn't going out for God-which he didn't believe in anyway-, Queen-which he didn't care about-, country-see previous-, love-previous, previous-, nor money-which he didn't need- thank you very much) and flopped onto his bed. Sherlock heard John moving, getting a shower, going downstairs and heading for Sherlock's room.

"I'm going to work," he called through the door. "Don't do anything too destructive to the flat before I get back."

Sherlock hummed loudly so John knew he'd been heard, at least. As his friend's footsteps faded out, Sherlock jumped up from the bed and headed to the window where his violin sat. He carefully tuned his treasure, making the strings taunt again. Once that was done, he tightened the bow, and began a series of quick jigs, just to get the blood going, before settling on Bach's Violin Concerto in E Major. Sherlock needed to think, organise his thoughts into order-the chaos his mind was currently in was unacceptable on every level. When Bach had run his course, Sherlock went seamlessly into Puccini's O Mio Babbino Caro, one of John's favorites.

Speaking of, or rather thinking of, John, the nightmares were ridiculous. Absolutely, completely and totally ridiculous, pedestrian, normal. Sherlock's face twisted into a slight sneer at the word, spoken (thought) in John's voice.

'Get out John. My mind palace in the one place you don't dictate,' Sherlock grow-thought at thought John. Speaking to his flatmate in his head was probably not good, but Sherlock used to talk to a skull in public, so there were worse things.

Like not making it in time and finding your best friend dead.

Sherlock flinched and a note turned sharp at the crescendo. Frustrated, Sherlock put down his violin (because no matter how angry or upset, he'd never damage it, ever) and began pacing. His room wasn't big enough so he went back to the sitting room and paced there.

"It's illogical," he told his faithful skull, rescently reaqquired from Mrs. Hudson (she took it so he could find it again, he knew; it was a game that had been developed to keep him entertained when he was bored and usually worked...usually). "It is illogical and dull. I found John and in time too I may add."

'Barely though,' the skull seemed to grin back.

'But I did! I remembered, I found him, we both recovered, and are all fine," he retorted.

'Says the man who can't sleep.'

"I can sleep. I just choose not to and I'll thank you to remember the difference," snapped Sherlock.

By the time John got home, Sherlock had worked himself into a tizzy and was no longer speaking to the skul ("He just keeps pointing out the obvious and irrelevant, John"). The good doctor stayed out of his way-much as he could when you share a small living space-, hardly bothered to nag him into eating, and instead of watching telly opted to quietly read after supper. Normally, Sherlock appreciated it, really; when John was quiet and considerate to his moods it helped an awful lot. Usually. This time, Sherlock was too irritated with himself and John to be appreciative.

"Shut up," he snapped.

John's head and eyebrows shot up. "Exscuse me?"

"I said shut up."

"I'm not-"

"You're breathing and turning the pages too loud! I can hardly think over the noise!"

John's mouth opened like he was about to make a sharp retort when instead he closed his mouth, eyes, and book. He took one deep breath, then another.

"Right. Bedtime, Sherlock," the former Army surgeon said firmly.

"I'm not tired," the formerly mature detective groused.

"Oh yeah, you are."

"Not." And with that, Sherlock flipped himself over to face the back of the couch, with his knees drawn up.

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Who needed kids when you had a flatmate who regressed to the age of two? Time to change tactics.

"Sherlock, look. Maybe you're not tired, but I am."

"Then go to bed," was the somewhat muffled response.

"Yeah, well," John cleared his throat. "Will you come to bed with me?"

Black-Angel-001: hope this is up to expectations so far...i know alot of readers can be protective about favored fics. hope you enjoyed and review please.