Archive of Our Own

The Royal College of Psychiatrists leaflet on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

This leaflet is for anyone who has been through a harrowing experience, who has been exposed to abuse or torture, or who knows someone to whom this has happened.

Sherlock insisted on taking the train all the way. John did not protest as he bought them both same-day First Class tickets, simply handing the little orange pieces of paper to Sherlock, and walking on ahead. They ended up in the quiet car, and Sherlock spent the first half hour leafing through e-mails (boring), then the papers, then, as John watched in his sightless, non-observant way, Sherlock quietly retreated into his mind, going over and over the facts of the case, looking for little morsels of interest. Just before they reached Bristol, a small bird (sparrow, female) crashed into their window with a dull 'thud'.

John leaped out of his seat, shouting, upsetting the table between them and nearly sending Sherlock's laptop crashing to the floor. Sherlock looked up. "What," he said, noting John's flickering eyes and the way his mouth wouldn't quite close.

"Nothing. Just... nothing." He sat back down again, gaze settling on the smear on the window.

A traumatic experience makes it very clear that we can die at any time. The symptoms of PTSD are part of a normal reaction to narrowly-avoided death.

As the other passengers stared, Sherlock settled back with his head against the window. John did not notice (John never noticed) when he picked his phone out of his pocket, did a quick search, and found a website.

The train drove on as he read.

If you are in a situation where you continue to be exposed to stress and uncertainty, this will make it difficult or impossible for your PTSD symptoms to improve.

They found a taxi easily enough at King's Cross, but John's dull demeanour was beginning to grate. Sherlock barked answers at his questions, trying to elicit some sort of response. None came; nothing like the usual barely restrained anger, the held-back response to the subtext screaming at his face. An eyebrow twitched, a reply (terse enough, tone lower than usual) here and there. Nothing out of the ordinary.

(He was cured, wasn't he? Not limping anymore, hardly at all, on good days. Conclusion: pamphlet obviously wrong. Overly sentimental. Sherlock knew the symptoms. For god's sake, he had cured him!)

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Lack of trust in other people – and the world in general – is central to complex PTSD.

He noticed the handcuffs - no, he deduced their presence - when John kept his left hand hovering over his jacket pocket - he never kept anything in there, always in the inner pockets, safer, a habit. Lestrade's, naturally. There had to be a purpose - at least five possibilities presented themselves, but none of them, as it happened, turned out to be right.

"I'm searching you for drugs."

Obviously not; that was a game reserved for very specific days, and the flat was clean,besides. But yes, Sherlock would play along, put on the petulant act. John did not notice (John never noticed), but then, his hands on Sherlock's body, and the warm breath on his neck, eyes dark; that potential, back, and with a vengeance.

Now there was a word.

Then John swept him to the floor, and straddled him, and there was no air, for a moment; then strong legs keeping him locked as he was fastened securely, metal on skin against metal. Sherlock struggled, pointlessly; he knew the strength of that metal, of those cuffs (he had not seen them taken out; fast, excellent reflexes, like shooting a gun). Pointless to struggle. How could he not?

"You are BORING me, John," he yelled, to John's retreating back. But John never noticed.

The day grew long.

You may find yourself re-living the event, again and again. This can happen both as a 'flashback' in the day and as nightmares when you are asleep. These can be so realistic that it feels as though you are living through the experience all over again.

Sherlock found that when he writhed and yelled to pour out carefully worded vitriol in John's direction, the cuffs pressed into his skin. A cold, constant reminder.

"Half a stone since Christmas morning," Sherlock snarled, rattling the chain (sturdy metal). "2.8 kilograms, if you prefer. You lost it over the weekend, but you'll gain most of it back again when you remember to hydrate."

John did not reply. Not verbally. With so little sound in the house (Mrs. Hudson out, visiting friends; Ellie Pierson, 68, East Putney) John's movements were amplified; each little tap of his foot as he read, each intake of breath when he watched the news (with headphones on; clever). Nothing could provoke him into action; Sherlock had known that, really.

Better to fall quiet.

His phone had rang a total of 27 times. Most of the calls were obvious, and the majority unimportant. Not all. He couldn't be absolutely certain. The fact that John was starving him of information was blatant; even the angle of his chair was such as to afford Sherlock merely the slightest glimpse, and never more than one part of his body at a time. Should be enough for a deduction, but everything (wrists, metal) was still and calm and (restrained) muted. See no evil, hear no evil.

"What does it say?"

John picking up his phone, leaning over to read the display, his back against Sherlock. Minimal information, still, turning his back on him. Oh, how quaint; did he think that clever? (Three new messages, either short, or John was uniterested, or feigning uninterest; which??)

Protests were useless, of course. (How dissapointing, had they not been.)

You may deal with the pain of your feelings by trying to feel nothing at all – by becoming emotionally numb. You communicate less with other people who then find it hard to live or work with you.

The everpresent noises of lives in the surrounding flats were all the stronger now, in this enforced silence. (A choice; he could yell, scream, if he wanted to. Perhaps later.) The Turners, Ian and Michael, bickering tediously about household chores so mundane they could be anything; hovering, washing up, food... preparation - what did people do?

The phone again; a call, this time. Mycroft - no, Lestrade. The latter had more patience; more stamina. (Fewer options.) Lestrade! Yes, Sherlock would have ignored it anyway, probably, but out of choice.

Once voice (Michael), reaching critical whining mass; it wouldn't be long now, until... ah yes; offended huffs turned to quiet moans, and there, the shuffling of feet towards the bedroom.

Closer to Sherlock, incidentally. He craned his head, stretching his arms. They were heavy with fatigue and warning ache. (Trembling. Why?)

Nothing from the lounge, of course. Not yet. Though John would tire of this game, this child's idea of 'justice' (presumably), and Sherlock would be released.

"Yes, Michael... Jesus, right there! Fuck, you're so... you're so..." It was getting dark out.

A traumatic experience makes it very clear that we can die at any time.

Sherlock was just his body. He was nothing but his brain, but here it was, shackled, helplessly slaved to flesh. Straining flesh, with sore wrists and complaining joints, legs numb.

It was so very important to breathe

'John', he very nearly said, a time or two. Then he smelled coffee, and thought better of it. It was very nearly 11 PM, and didn't John sleep, around then? People slept; it was a weakness, even Sherlock slept, when he needed to. Not here, in this (dark now) strange-familiar rom, metal eating at him. Not now.

Wait.

Not coffee. Tea. Yet more tea (third cup) - why would he make that mistake? It's Earl Grey, what John always drinks (before bed) and the room is noticably colder.

Footsteps. Little tiny clicks of fingers on buttons. (Ohpleaseohpleaseohplease)

"Murder in Leeds, disappearance in Hull, and something Lestrade says is 'just like the potter last year, but interesting.' Hm."

Drops in the desert. Far worse than nothing. "You have to let me go."

(He won't. He'd keep Sherlock here, feeding and cleaning him, letting him use the bathroom now and then, perhaps letting him onto the bed, if he were good. And then, if he were really, really good, perhaps-)

Would he have to beg? (I have never-) "Please. Let me go." Blood hammering in his ears. Some sort of response; Sherlock doesn't hear it. "Please, John. I'm begging you. Let me go."

Silence.

Footsteps.

Ah. His wrists slipped free. His mind...

Please note that we are unable to offer advice on individual cases.

"Did you know I was going to do that?"

Coffee. It's going to be all right.

"I'm not an idiot, John."