A/N- I know there are tons of 'moments' stories like this out there, but I wanted to do this anyway.

And I don't own anything. Always forget to say that.

Chapter 1- Breathe

Deserts and jungles. Gunshots. Someone's down. Better run or it'll be you next. Running frantically, blindly, through agony and exhaustion and desperation. Running for sandbags and safety in the middle of a warzone. Someone gets hit next to you, and it's close, so close…

And John Watson wakes up.

Eyes snapping open. Body jerking into a sitting position. Arms behind him. Sheets tangled around his hips.

Deep shaky breaths. Trying to force the hysteria back down his throat. Deep breaths, clench your teeth, breathe through your nose and don't think about anything other than your breathing. It's routine by now, he knows what to do to stop it but that doesn't make it any easier and it hurts in his chest and his shoulder is burning, his heart is pounding like he's back in the battlefield and he needs to calm down or he'll break with the strain of it…

Thoughts run through his mind, mingling with memories of the war and eventually swallowing them and yanking him out of the blind moment of terror that comes with waking up from a nightmare that was so very real. And then he falls back onto his pillow and chokes back a sob, because he feels so damn useless and dammit he misses the action and he wishes more than anything that something, anything, would happen to him. He hates missing the war because he's not meant to, not meant to enjoy the adrenaline and the chaos and the never-knowing-what's-going-to-happen. But he does, because he's in his element, and he knows exactly what he's supposed to do and it's simple but so complicated at the same time, and it makes him hate. The man who shot him; the soldiers who died before he could save them; his country, who sent him to war; the Commanding Officer who sent him home again. And most of all, it makes him hate himself for being so broken, getting shot and coming home with a limp he knows is psychosomatic but can't help all the same and a head full of memories that haunt him every night.

And he hates the nightmares, because they make him feel weak and you can't be weak if you're a soldier. But they still come, no matter how much he tries to lock them away and move on with his life, they still come and threaten to drown him in the night until he doesn't want to sleep anymore because of what he will wake up to.

And so he breathes. In and out, in and out, surviving each second as it comes and not worrying about anything else. Grasping at the few fragile threads that hold him to reality and sanity and not letting go because if he did he'd fall into the tangled mess of madness and PTSD and he can't let that happen. Heavy breaths like he's trying to push the air out of his nose because it calms him, lets him focus his energy on something that's real and solid and simple.

Because that's all you can do. Breathe and try to get through it.

A/N2- If you have a moment you'd like me to do, leave a review and tell me!