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Definitely containing spoilers for season 3 now. Ignores HLV however.

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Peanuts

Part 6

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John swallowed as he took in what looked like a landscape of violence, and he suddenly felt his eyes brimming and himself shaking more strongly than before.

"What happened?" he whispered, for his voice would have broken if he had spoken any louder. "Sherlock- what happened while you were away?"

"It's not as bad as it looks," Sherlock replied feebly, but John shook his head: "Tell me," he demanded, a little more vigorous as he felt his anger coming back, "I need to know."

Sherlock hesitated before answering: "I was dismantling Moriarty's network. There were... complications."

"Compl-" John was breathing hard and nasally, a sure sign that he was having trouble to contain himself. "These aren't complications, Sherlock. This looks like... it looks like torture."

Sherlock tilted his head very subtly; there was no point in denying it.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only audible sounds were John's heavy breathing as he tried to reign in the emotions which were assailing him, and the rain which was pattering against the windows now.

Eventually, John let go of Sherlock, turned to grab a pair of towels and handed Sherlock one of them. The detective gratefully wrapped it around his torso.

Half an hour later, both of them had taken a shower and were sitting in front of the fireplace in the living room, John wearing a track suit, Sherlock a pair of slightly too short sweat pants and a soft jumper which actually belonged to Mary. Who had brought them a pot of steaming hot tea and had tactfully disappeared again.

John, who had been staring into the fire, silent, jaw working, looked up and at Sherlock after a while: "Please," he said, not sounding angry any longer, only tired. "Tell me."

"What difference would it make if you knew?" Sherlock asked, avoiding his friend's gaze.

John shook his head: "All the difference in the world," he muttered. "Two whole years, Sherlock. ... Lost years. I'd at least like to know what you did during that time. As I've told you before." He sat up straighter: "And there's no need to protect me, you know I can handle it."

Sherlock dropped his gaze to look at his hand, flexing his fingers in a slow motion before nodding: "Well," he said, his voice as deep as it got. "If you really want to know."

John, listening with rapt attention and a varying range of dismay and concern, didn't interrupt him once. However, when Sherlock got to the part where he had been captured and subsequently beaten in Serbia, John became pale and very livid. Sherlock didn't go into detail and wisely hadn't mentioned Mycroft, which was probably a blessing for his older brother, since John looked as though he could kill right there and then.

"My God, Sherlock," he breathed when his friend fell silent. "You... I had no idea."

"You couldn't have." Sherlock looks at his hands again: "Well. It was over after that, I was back in London two days later."

John nodded, but then he paused: "How long did you wait until you came to me?"

"I didn't wait. I came to you straight away."

"That night, in the restaurant." John's voice was quiet.

"Yes."

The doctor sounded shaken: "God, Sherlock," he repeated, recalling how he had pushed Sherlock onto the floor. It must have hurt, but Sherlock hadn't said a thing. And on top of it all, John had injured him even further at that.

"God," John muttered, once again, running his hand over his face. At least he didn't apologize, Sherlock thought, for it would have meant that he in turn would have had to do it as well, and the situation was awkward enough already.

On some days, it was difficult for him to keep the memories at bay. He hated losing control, and his brief captivity in Serbia belonged to his darkest moments. He'd never felt so defenseless, and yet he'd been aware that he'd die there if he didn't find a way to help himself. So he had tried to deduce his interrogator, hoping to find something, anything he could use.

It had been made difficult by the pain; astounding, really, how distracting pain could be, but it had slowed his thoughts considerably, making it nearly impossible to deduce the man and find the correct Serbian words to translate his findings. "Coffin maker", for heaven's sakes, wasn't exactly a phrase for your standard holiday beginner's course after all.

The beating hadn't been the worst, however, Sherlock mused now, subconsciously glancing at his wrists. It had been the fact that he'd been chained to the walls. That in itself had put a considerable strain on his body, and in the end, when he had indeed gotten the Serbian to leave, he'd barely been able to stand. It had in fact taken all his willpower not to black out. He subdued a shudder; usually, he didn't allow himself these thoughts.

John seemed to sense that Sherlock was uncomfortable, and the last thing he wanted was to make it worse; rather abruptly, he therefore changed tack.

"If you had told me all this right away," he said grimly, "I'd not only have given you a bloody nose for not taking me with you."

It worked; Sherlock looked taken aback rather than gloomy, as he had before.

"And just to make it absolutely clear," his friend continued, "I bloody would not have said anything indiscreet. Not once."

Sherlock opened his mouth a few times, but couldn't seem to find his voice, which John took as an affirmation that he had successfully managed to change the focus of their conversation.

"Just so you know," he therefore added, feeling bold.

"What is it about Sherlock Holmes that make those who care about him automatically wanting to save him?" Mary asked John later, when they were lying in bed. She hadn't asked him what exactly had happened, but she could see that John was upset about something; once more, he was worrying about Sherlock for some reason.

He snorted now, sounding long-suffering: "He's the last person willing to be saved."

"And yet he needs someone to be there for him."

"Yep." With a sigh, John turned towards his wife and closed his eyes: "He's a bloody git. Still, I'd not exchange him for anyone else."

"I know. And he knows that as well."

"But he hides things from me," John muttered unhappily.

"Protecting you, remember?" Mary asked gently.

John opened one eye to peer at her: "Do you realize that you're always siding with him?"

Mary chuckled: "He charmed me. I'm sorry."

"Conspiring lot," John grumbled, closing the eye again. He couldn't really shake off the mental images his brain had provided while Sherlock had been talking; the only consolation he had was that it indeed was in the past now, and Sherlock was downstairs on the sofa (hopefully, if he hadn't changed his mind and gone home; John wouldn't put it past him to leave the house in the ill-fitting clothes he had borrowed), safe and sound.

Sherlock had not left but was staring at the dying embers in the fireplace. He was tired, but it took a while until he calmed down enough to close his eyes; he needed to concentrate in order to be able to do so. He wasn't at all sure how he felt about the notion that John knew now, and the worst thing about it was that he'd have to wait to find out. Why did time move so slow when one's patience was at its worst? He sighed and closed his eyes, pondering the impossibility of time, allowing it to distract him from anything else.

When he woke up in the middle of the night, distraught by an unfamiliar wailing sound, he was lying on his side, and there was a warm weight pressing against the back of his bent knees. For a moment, he was disoriented, but he quickly realized that he was in John's house, the weight was Gladstone who had taken liberties and the sound was the baby who was crying.

Drowsily, Sherlock reached for Gladstone's smooth fur; with his hand on the dog's shoulder, he dozed off again.

John, despite expectations, had slept like a stone, hadn't even heard Maya in the middle of the night. He woke up early and got out of bed when he found he couldn't go back to sleep anyway, even though it was a Saturday and he didn't have to work. He let Mary sleep and got dressed, then went to check on his daughter, who was awake as well, quietly playing with her feet.

"Hello, princess," John said, bending over the crib, and his heart lit up when Maya smiled at him. He lifted her into his arms and kissed her, taking in her warmth, her scent, the happiness she gave him, and for the moment, all was well.

While he changed and dressed her, his thoughts strayed back to Sherlock, and he tried to imagine how his friend had been as a child. It was incomprehensible how such a small, innocent being could develop into such a mind-boggling rollercoaster of a man. John pondered this as he blew raspberry kisses on the soles of Maya's feet because it made her squeal in delight, as he tickled her tummy, as he closed the buttons of her little cardigan; Sherlock had once been a baby, delicate and precious, and his mother very probably would have been horrified if she had known about all the things which were going to happen to him, how dangerous a place the world could be, no matter if one was careful or not.

It was almost too much to bear thinking about, and he was sorely tempted to never let Maya out of the house again.

When they looked into the living room, they were greeted with a sight that admittedly did a lot to lift John's heavy heart: Gladstone had apparently decided that normal rules could be suspended when having an unexpected overnight visitor, and had joined Sherlock on the sofa. He was lying next to the detective, stretched to his rather impressive full length, his head on Sherlock's chest, one paw on his ribs. John simply didn't have the heart to tell the dog off, and Gladstone, who obviously was awake and also aware that his master had caught him, since he was moving his ears and brows ever so minutely, pretended not to be doing something forbidden at all.

When John quietly padded into the room, Maya made a few rather excited sounds when she saw the dog, who briefly wagged his tail in recognition but obviously wasn't ready to give up his comfortable position. Sherlock stirred at that, frowning even before he opened his eyes.

John sat down on the coffee table, settling Maya in his lap while his friend blinked at him a little groggily.

"Morning," John said quietly, pulling up the corners of his mouth. "You've got company."

Sherlock peered at Gladstone, who peered back innocently. The detective appreciated his cheek.

John's smile intensified for a moment, but Sherlock could see that he was about to say something, and he'd prefer to get it over with rather quickly, so he raised one eyebrow in question.

John sighed, but there was no point in ranting about the fact that Sherlock always knew one was going to do or say something before oneself did.

"I'll only tell you this once," he announced, searching for words before continuing: "Considering what you told me yesterday... I imagine even you might be having issues... Problems about how to handle it. You know about my PTSD, so... if you're experiencing something similar, you can talk to me. Or I could help you find some more professional help. I'm not going to pester you about it though, you're old enough to decide that for yourself. Just... keep it in mind, okay?"

Sherlock regarded him through half-lidded eyes: "Okay." His voice was very deep and sounded slightly surprised: "Thank you."

"You're welcome." John felt relieved. His gaze was attentive as it now roamed over his friend's face:"You know I don't tell Mary about these things, do you?"

"Yes," Sherlock briefly pondered this. "You can, though. I don't mind."

John shook his head: "Being married doesn't mean it's compulsory to tell each other everything."

This actually elicited a smile from Sherlock: "Doesn't it? Maybe I should give it a try then."

John snorted, amused, before turning serious again.

"Are you?" he asked, quietly. "Having nightmares, I mean."

"Sometimes." Sherlock raised one hand to stroke Gladstone, "nothing too bad, though."

John nodded; it'd have been strange if it were otherwise.

"Well," he said, "you know..."

"I know." Sherlock avoided to look at John now: "I will."

With a funny little jolt of his stomach, John realized that Sherlock had given him honest answers without any of the evasiveness he usually employed when being faced with a direct question, and it made him feel utterly glad, for both their sakes.

"Right," John, who had been bouncing Maya on his lap to distract her from Gladstone, got to his feet: "Are you getting up? I'm making breakfast."

"I'm just having a déjà-vu," Sherlock told Gladstone, who flicked his ear as though he understood.

Chuckling, John went into the kitchen.

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The End

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This series will continue in a new story which is currently being written.