Taking place after the events of "No Such Thing, No Such Thing".

     With John's leg healed, a new case arises for the two as a soldier, battling with PTSD claims sightings of a fallen comrade. Amidst the case, however, a new challenge presents itself in the form of John's past. John, determined not to let the horrors of his childhood hinder the sake of the case, and Sherlock, overwhelmed with unfamiliar feelings, band together in the hopes of bringing the truth to light. The two soon find out, however, that the truth as simple as it is complicated.

--------------------------------

 John sat, nervously tapping his fingers on the surface of the examination table. The paper crinkled ever so slightly as he shifted, trying anything to distract himself from the atmosphere. He hated doctors' offices. Sherlock had his hand over his mouth, watching John closely. John turned his head and scowled.

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"You know. Your deducing stare, it makes me nervous."

"I don't think that's the only thing."

John frowned, looking down at the floor.

"Well it certainly doesn't help," he said.

John had always hated doctors, he knew it was the silliest thing considering he was one, but being in the position of the patient was something he could never quite get over. Just the atmosphere of a regular doctor's office made him uneasy. He knew he had to be there, though, if he ever wanted to get his cast off his leg. The door handle jiggled, and a doctor entered the room, staring down at the clipboard he held.

"Well, Mr. Watson, good news, you can get the cast removed."

John breathed a sigh of relief. For the past four months, he had to deal with the bulky leg cast, which seemed to cause more discomfort than the wound itself. Considering John didn't take pain killers, that was pretty extreme.

"We'll get in someone else who's more equipped, just to ease the anxiety," he said smiling. John turned to Sherlock, who grinned awkwardly.

Of course, he told him about my fear, John thought annoyedly. Why wouldn't he?

As the doctor left the room, it took everything in John to not stand up and punch Sherlock.

"Why? Why would you tell him? You know-"

"That he would've been better off knowing, rather than assuming your fine with everything because you're a doctor."

"But don't you think it's silly that-"

"I'm sure he understands."

John huffed, resting his chin on his fist.

"At least I can get this bloody thing off, I'm sick and tired of it."

"Does that mean I get my bed back?"

John laughed. "Yes, you can have your bed back. Granted it's very comfortable, I don't see why you hardly sleep in it"

Sherlock chuckled.

"Why sleep and waste time when you can solve cases and read books?"

"Because humans need sleep, you clod."

"That's entirely debatable."

"No, it isn't actually."

They stayed there for a while until the doctor finally came in to take off the cast. After all was said and done, John couldn't have been happier to walk home.

"I'll never take walking for granted again," he chuckled. "That was an utter nightmare."

"Nightmare? You're not the one who had to listen to you fall down the stairs every other afternoon."

John subconsciously rubbed his elbow, which he hit rather hard on his latest excursion down the staircase. Most of the time he came out alright, as it only happened when he was near the bottom. He seemed to get a little too confident in his abilities, trying to go faster down the stairs but ending up tripping. He didn't think Sherlock had ever heard him.

"When we get back, why don't I find out what it's like to hear you fall down the stairs? You've got me interested."

"Hilarious."

"You brought it up," he retorted. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Anyway, I have another case-"

John stopped, staring at Sherlock incredulously.

"Already? You've just solved one before we left!"

"Yes," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. "But in the office, I received another text, and I presume you'll fancy this one."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and handed it to John, who shook his head.

"I highly doubt I'll..."

He trailed off as he read the text. He imagined Sherlock's idiotically satisfied grin next to him.

"So, a retired army lieutenant is being stalked by another soldier who he saw die?"

Sherlock nodded, tucking away his phone. "Swears he tried to strangle him."

"We are not repeating that bloody hound case again-"

"No- no this isn't anything like that. In fact, there's something else to the story."

John furrowed his brows as they continued to walk toward the flat. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, noting the chilly breeze that swept through.

"What else?"

"The soldier he claims to have seen never enlisted. He isn't real."

"Then why is he saying he's stalking him?"

"That's what we're going to figure out," Sherlock said, smiling. John laughed, knowing very well that Sherlock missed solving the cases more than anything.

"And what do you need me for, exactly?" John asked.

"You would connect with him better than I ever could, that's one of your strong points. Connecting with others. He's paranoid, he barely trusts himself let alone others."

John smiled slightly.

"If you're up to it, of course," he finished. John laughed.

"Are you kidding me? I've been bored to death and back, where do we start?"

...

"I watched it happen, I had just been shot when he had been as well. He... he was standing there for a moment before he fell. There was so much blood, so much..."

The man, Lieutenant Jason Huy to be exact, buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. John bit his lip and he wrote down notes, trying his best to distract himself from the associated memory.

"This boy, what was his name?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward. Huy shook his head again.

"Bob, Bob Durant. We all called him Bobby."

"Did you know him well?"

"I can't remember... I must've. I recognized him so well- the doctors and my father think the PTSD caused me to forget."

"Now, your father, you haven't mentioned him before. What is your relationship like?"

Huy frowned.

"It wasn't too good, but through all of this, he and I have grown close through all of this."

John quickly wrote down a few notes, then asked,

"What about it wasn't good?"

"Is this all really necessary?"

Sherlock spoke up.

"If you want to find out what is really going on, I suggest you answer our questions."

Huy narrowed his eyes for a moment, which could only be him not being used to given orders.

"Before I left," he said, "money was a constant issue. Me and him, we argued about the fact he wasted our money on drinking. I knew with the way he was, there would be no way I could go to university without getting another job or a full-ride. I eventually decided to enlist. He was angry, of course. Before he would take all the money I earned to spend."

John blinked for a moment, feeling a rush of memories come back. It was uncanny how similar their situations had been. His father, of course, was long, long gone. Sherlock must've noticed, as he looked up and stared at him. John cleared his throat, immediately diverting the attention.

"So after the... incident... things seemed to improve?"

"Oh definitely. He made sure to hire all the best investigators, used all the money he would've used on booze for my therapists and treatment."

"So he just.. Quit? Cold turkey then?" Sherlock asked. Huy nodded.

John wrote down a few more notes.

"So, could you do your best to describe what happened when you thought you saw him?"

"Oh, God... I don't know..." He said, his face contorted with fear.

"Just try your best, I understand what it's like, but we must know this, ok?"

Huy breathed out slowly and smiled.

"Oh, yes, we do have some things in common, don't we, Doctor?"

John tried his best to smile at the comment.

"Well," he began. "I was on my way home when it happened. I had a therapist appointment, it was dark by the time it ended but I knew I needed some fresh air. I was walking down Devonshire- by a house actually- when in one of the shrubs, it started to shift. This may sound silly, but I saw him... I saw him in the bush- and-and he just stared at me. I screamed I tried running, but-but..."

"But what?" John asked curiously.

"I fell and hit my head mighty hard too. Because of that, nobody believes me. Says I imagined it. I didn't though, it was real, he was there!"

As the questioning continued, Huy began to act strange. Looking around nervously, as if he was waiting for something or someone to come out at any moment. Sometimes if John or Sherlock were to be talking, and the other moved he would jump back aggressively. As it continued he became so on edge he wouldn't even answer their questions, so they were forced to cut it short. As they were in the cab back, they went over all of their findings.

"Well, that was interesting," John said, reviewing his notes. "I don't understand how he thinks he is seeing this kid if he isn't even real? It can't be a ghost obviously."

"Do you think he's making it up?" Sherlock asked with raised eyebrows. John looked at him sharply.

"Why do you assume I would think that?"

"It sounded like you were-"

"Well, I'm not."

Suddenly, the cab driver chuckled. Both men turned as he glanced in the rear-view.

"What?" John asked, confused.

"Sorry, boys. It always just gives me a laugh seeing you couples go at it."

"We're not a-"

"What is your say in all this?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward slightly. "You are obviously a man of high intelligence."

At first, John believed Sherlock only said those things as a sarcastic comeback, until he said,

"Ph.D. in Psychology, unused since your graduation in 09'. Shame it went to waste, wouldn't you say, Ron?"

The can driver slammed on his breaks, whipping back to look at Sherlock.

"How did you know that? And how did you know my name?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"Lucky guess?"

The man let off the brakes, slowly pulling back into traffic. John glanced at Sherlock, who snickered ever so slightly. John rolled his eyes.

Ron glanced back into the rearview mirror, narrowing his eyes at the two.

"My best bet is this ain't the supernatural. Either all mental, or someone is going through a lot of trouble to scare this guy outta his wits."

Sherlock nodded, rubbing his chin.

"Something we aren't new to."

"Why though?" John asked. "Why go through so much trouble to drive a man mad? What could justify that?"

"Revenge. Money. Plenty of things, really," Ron responded, returning his eyes to the road.

The car slowed to a halt as it pulled off in front of 221b. The two men got out, but before John could close the door Ron said,

"Good luck with the case! I'll be sure to follow on the blog, Mr. Watson."

As they walked inside, John couldn't help it but grin to himself.

"Did you hear that? He follows my blog!"

"Don't flatter yourself too much, John."

"Oh, says you."

"What do you deduce from all of this, then?" Sherlock asked as he held open the door for John.

"Well," John said, "The dynamic between him and his father does seem suspicious. Why of all times would he act so kind? Even after the fallout?"

"Did you consider the fact that maybe the father felt compassion for the son after his incident?" Sherlock said. John glared at him with a clenched jaw.

"Did you consider the fact that I am sorely inexperienced with that sort of situation?" He snapped. Sherlock stared for a moment.

"I was just joking," he said. John sighed.

"Sorry, sorry."

Once the two reached the flat, John made his priority to sit down in his chair. As he fell heavily, he subconsciously rubbed the side of his leg.

"You know, John, you really shouldn't let your heart dictate the head. That seems to be your common mistake," Sherlock pointed out as he hung up his coat.

"And you shouldn't let your head dictate your heart, yet here we are," John mumbled.

Sherlock paused, holding up his jacket mid-air.

"Then it can be assumed we cancel each other out then? A head and a heart?"

John looked up quizzically at Sherlock who resumed putting away his outdoor gear. He half-smiled.

"I suppose when you put it that way, yes."

Outside the wind howled, a subtle reminder that winter was with them to stay. The snowfall had died down, if not ceased completely since the incident. Only the bitter January air was to blame for the unsavory conditions. John picked his notebook out of his coat jacket, reviewing all he had written down.

"I think there's a connection with the incident and the father, it just seems... odd."

"You're really hooked on that dad, aren't you?" Sherlock said, looking at John. John scowled.

"So what if I am? Is that bad?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders as he sat down.

"John it's my educated guess that the father has nothing to do with this situation. I could be wrong of course, but when emotion comes into play there's about a 98% chance it'll be wrong-"

"What you're actually saying is that because I have a little bit of a history, my opinions are invalid?"

"I never said that."

"That's what you were implying."

Sherlock shook his head.

"The father being responsible for this is far too simple, nobody takes the easy route, John, you should know this by now."

"But what if this one time-?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock snapped. "But it isn't my fault for once you would like to see justice for what your father did to you, just please don't drag your personal problems into my line of work."

There was a heavy silence as John's mind went still. No thoughts, just a dark heaviness that settled like ash. In most cases, John would've blown up, screaming, yelling that he was right. But he wasn't right. Sherlock was. Like always.

"John I-"

"No," he said quietly, standing up. "No, you're right."

"I am?"

John walked toward the door, throwing on his winter coat and boots, not bothering with anything else.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, standing up as well. John shook his head.

"Just need some fresh air, don't... don't wait up on me. Notes are on the end table."

John left, gently shutting the door behind him.

...

Sherlock watched out the window as John walked away from the flat, hands in his pockets. It was a moment of deja vu, no doubt, as Sherlock was no stranger to making John angry, upset, whatever you'd like to call it. He was more conflicted than anything else. Any other time he knew it was best to give John space to sort himself out but after what he had recently learned, giving John any time to himself seemed to fill Sherlock to the brim with worry.

Worry.

Worrying, what a strange concept. Sherlock thought to himself as he gazed outside. Concern for the well being of another living or nonliving object, an event or idea even! Fearing the unknown of an event that has yet to occur is such a silly notation- as it changes nothing. Unless...

Sherlock soon became conflicted. He trusted John to make his own decisions but clouded by his own emotions it wouldn't take much to make a wrong one. If he left out after him, John may become even angrier. If he didn't go, and John decided this one time to make a stupid mistake, it could cost Sherlock dearly. As he pondered some more, the door opened. He turned, thinking it was John.

"Certainly is nippy out there," Mrs. Hudson chuckled, pushing open the door. "Thought you two might like some tea."

"Not two, just one," Sherlock said, turning back to the window disappointedly.

"Oh?" She set the tray down, looking surprised. "And where has John run off to at this time of night? Has he got another date?"

"I almost wish," Sherlock said forlornly.

"Oh, now don't say that!" She patted Sherlock's shoulder sympathetically. "I'm sure you two will make up, you always do, after all."

"Yes, well I'm afraid I've completely overstepped this time."

"Then go after him, dear."

His brows knitted at the comment.

"Go after him?"

"Yes!" Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands together. "Oh just like the movies. Mr. Hudson, he used to chase me for miles, quite romantic until he caught me. It was sweet while it lasted though,"

"Wouldn't that be invading his personal space?" Sherlock said, disregarding her anecdote. "That's what people like, isn't it."

"Sometimes, but other times all a person really wants is someone to show they care," she said knowingly. Sherlock sprang up at the realization.

"Mrs. Hudson you brilliant woman!" He exclaimed, planting a kiss on her cheek. "I'll be back shortly!"

"Oh, young love," she cooed. "How precious."

...

John leaned over the railing of the bridge, gazing at the frigid water churning beneath him. There was always something about watching the water, entrancing watching it move. It wasn't alive, but sometimes you can't help but wonder. He sighed, rubbing his hands together briskly. As much as he tried to distance himself from the conversation, his mind continued to wander back like a lost puppy.

Please don't drag your personal problems into my line of work, ran through his head over and over. Maybe he was being silly, maybe everything he thought was based on past traumas, and he was just imagining a scenario he wished could've played out. The more he thought about it, the clearer the thought that he wasn't wanted for the case became. He wasn't helping any, only hindering. If he wasn't working with Sherlock though, what would he do with himself? As he continued to fall deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole, fast footsteps sounded behind him. He whipped around, nearly losing his footing.

"John! Get down!" Sherlock yelled, holding out his hands. John stared, confused.

"Sherlock? What are you-?"

"I said get down!" He yelled, looking almost desperate. That's when the realization clicked.

"Sherlock, I'm fine, I'm fine, see?" he said, stepping off the elevated level of the bridge. Sherlock took a step forward.

He noticed Sherlock was breathing heavily. Had he been running? He wondered.

"Are you alright?"

"What?"

" Are you alright ?" He repeated louder.

"I'm- I'm fine, Sherlock, I'm ok, you don't need to-"

He was cut off as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close to himself. He wanted to resist at first, but the warmth felt too welcoming.

"I'm sorry, John, I didn't mean to upset you," he breathed.

"It's fine... really."

Sherlock let go, holding John by his shoulders an arm's length away

"No. It isn't. I shouldn't have been so unsympathetic toward you, especially about that. I had the good fortune of stable parents and others don't isn't something they can help."

John stared wide-eyed, still trying to process the fact he had come after him. Did he really think he was going to jump? Was he going to jump?

"I would appreciate it if you said something," Sherlock said, chuckling. John knocked himself out of his trance-like state.

"Why? Why did you follow me?"

Sherlock looked down awkwardly, kicking the ground with his heel.

"I just, erm, wanted to make sure you were alright. I realize assuming in these situations isn't ideal, plus I knew I owe you an apology."

"Well, thank you," John said slowly. "That was kind of you."

"Was it? I have such a hard time telling," he said. John laughed.

"I'd say so, yeah."

"Hate to break the mood," Sherlock said suddenly. "But I found where Huy's father resides if you would care to join me."

He paused for a moment, then finished with,

"Please."

John looked around, then nodded his head.

"I just need my-"

"We have no time to waste," Sherlock cut him off, handing him his notebook. "I'll explain on the way there."

...

"He's growing more unstable by the day," Sherlock finished. "Doctors, therapists, nobody can explain his PTSD worsening."

"He was doing fine for a long while though," John said. "Why now is he going mad?"

"Prolonged exposure to his triggers," Sherlock said, flipping through notes. "The problem is that we don't know all of them. It could be anything, something as simple as a light switch. The possibilities are endless."

John rubbed his chin, looking out the cab window.

"It must be something he encounters every day then, or at least most of the days."

"Exactly."

"A person perhaps?"

"No, he's shut himself away completely, nobody has seen him for days."

"Then how do they know he's getting worse?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment.

"They can hear him."

John looked forward, realizing what he meant.

"Oh."

John looked at him quizzically, realizing something

"Wait, you said you didn't think the father came into play, why question him then?"

"Anyone who Huy mentions could have some information," he said, bouncing his leg. "And if you think that he's a person of interest, it couldn't hurt."

"So why are we on a time crunch then?"

"The father's alcoholism is getting worse. With his level of consumption, the liver certainly doesn't have much time left-"

Sherlock was cut off by the ringing of his cell. He rolled his eyes and answered.

"Yes, Lestrade, what do you need?"

Sherlock furrowed his brows as John could only assume Lestrade spoke. His face contorted into a look of surprise.

"Alright, we're heading back now then,"

As he hung up, he tapped on the shoulder of the cab driver.

"Change of direction, so sorry, St. Mary's if you please."

John looked at Sherlock.

"What was-?"

"We were too late, he was just transferred. Complete liver failure."

John slouched back, staring forward.

"Listen, John, if you don't want to take on the case you know it's alright-"

"No, no it's fine."

"You use that word a lot when it isn't 'fine', you know that?" Sherlock noted. He raised his eyebrows.

"You said it, I shouldn't let my personal life affect your work-"

"-Our work," Sherlock quickly interjected. "I misspoke. Our work. Sorry- continue,"

John smiled a bit. "Our work. I need to get over it, plain and simple. I can't let something from so long ago affect what I do now."

"Well said," Sherlock smiled. "If it ever becomes too much, though, you can say something."

"I'll lightly consider it," John laughed. "Very, very lightly."