Sometimes It Storms

Where are We?

There was another loud crack of thunder, closer than the last, and the lightning lit up John's window. John jumped at the sudden noise, pressing his eyes tightly shut. He whimpered as the thunder shook the room.

"John," Sherlock said, sounding bemused, "it can't hurt you." He paused. "Sentiment?"

John made a noise, bobbing his head. " 's not thunder," he mumbled. "It's, I'm, it's dangerous - " John paused as the thunder roared. "...Afghanistan."

Sherlock nodded, understanding. This wasn't the first time something had triggered John's memories of the war. The nightmares mostly stopped when John started bunking with Sherlock - John said the human contact and Sherlock's warmth helped - but there were still some days that were worse than others. John had taught Sherlock how to help when the situation arose.

Kneeling down beside John, he spoke in an even tone, saying: "You're not in Afghanistan, John. You are here at 221B Baker Street in London. And I'm here, too. I'm going to put my hand on your shoulder now, John." Sherlock narrated his actions, just as John had told him. He felt his heart racing and swallowed back the overwhelming worry and care that John's attacks often summoned in him.

"Okay, John, I'm going to ask you some questions now. Your mind is stuck in the past right now, and I need you to come back here with me. Tell me 5 things you can see, John."

Sherlock's voice was calm, soothing even, lacking all of its usual snark and sharp edges. In another situation, John would have appreciated the softened features of Sherlock's worried face, the gentle way in which he was taking care of him. But there were other things on his mind now. John raised his eyes from the floor, looking around.

"I, I can see the carpet."

"Yes, John, good. What color is it?" Sherlock asked patiently, as though he couldn't see the carpet that they were both sitting on.

"It's blue a-" Again, John was cut off by the thunder, and he shook in Sherlock's arms, ducking his head back down.

Sherlock shifted, wrapping his arms around John, pressing his knees on either side of John's. "I'm here, John." He took a deep breath. "That's one, what else can you see?"

"Erm... I see, erm, my shirt?" John pinched his shirt between his fingers.

"Yes. It's a good shirt." Sherlock smiled fondly at John. "You wore that shirt when we were pursuing that trio of stranglers outside of Kent."

"Mmhm." John nodded distantly, closing his eyes.

"John? John, stay here with me. Where are you right now?"
"I can't tell you. Classified..."

"John, open your eyes. You're at Baker Street. I'm here."

John slowly opened his eyes and Sherlock moved to look at him squarely. "Look at me, John," he pleaded. "Who am I?"

"Sherlock," John said finally.

"Sherlock," he echoed with a sigh of relief. "Go on, John. Tell me three more things you can see."

"I see your shirt, too." John said, a little smile appearing on his face. "It's purple. Long-sleeved. Tight. Looks good on you." John listed.

Sherlock's cheeks heated up, and he sat up a little straighter, smiling. "What else?"

John opened his mouth to answer, but a flash of light outside the window and a loud crash interrupted. He still jumped, but he kept his head up, his eyes on Sherlock. Sherlock noted that John was shaking less now, even with the continual torrent of the thunder.

"I see your face. And your ears. 's hard to be a pirate without an earring, you know. Maybe you should get one. An earring, that is. Not a pirate." John looked up at Sherlock. "Your turn. What do you see?"