Marriage and Mental Illness (Sequel to Tall Buildings and Pill Bottles)

Even Scars Heal

John's POV

I was running. From what, I don't know. All I knew was the rocky mountain path beneath my feet was Afghanistan. Dressed in my uniform once again, this time all alone.

I couldn't hear anything over the roaring wind, dust and sand burning my eyes. I slammed to a stop, stopping just before a solid wall of rock. Without thinking, I reached up, pulling myself up the sheer incline. The adrenaline washed through my veins, knees wobbling from the rush.

I pulled myself to the top of the cliff, terror sealed in my heart for reasons that I couldn't seem to grasp. On the tip of my tongue, yet forgotten. I turned around, heaving for air.

There was nothing there. Just the mountain I'd been running up, the dust still billowing around me.

And then I was being yanked from behind, off the cliff.

Falling.

***

"John, wake up!"

I woke with a start, Sherlock's warm hand on my bare shoulder. "It's just me, John. Just me," he whispered.

My heart was pounding, alarmingly so. My chest and eyes still aching with the sand and dirt. Mind racing to figure out where I was.

Home, in bed with my husband. Safe.

I pulled Sherlock against me, breathing uneven and ragged. "Oh thank God," I breathed. His arms locked against neck, undoubtedly hearing how quick my heartbeat was. I rocked back, breathing deeply into his hair.

"You're safe, John," he murmured against my shoulder. I nodded, finally beginning to loosen my grip on him.

I'd gone nearly the whole week without a nightmare, it had been inevitable. Yet that hadn't prepared me for it, it was still just as horrifying.

Sherlock's hand was on my back, rubbing it slowly. "What was it this time?"

"Afghanistan, I was alone this time. What time is it?"

He rested his chin on my shoulder, sighing. "Four in the morning." I nodded, before untangling myself from him. I stood from the bed, stretching. I reached back, holding out a hand to him. He took it, following me into the sitting room. I sat down as he sunk into his own chair, the two close enough for our knees to knock.

Sherlock had brought a blanket with him, wrapping himself in it dutifully while waiting for me to speak.

"It hasn't sunk in yet, I think. That we're safe," I finally said. "I don't know how to deal with there being nothing to worry about. No worries about the trial, or Stewart. Because it's all gone now. And I don't know how to get back to normal now."

A lump formed in the back of my throat and I shook my head, hanging it. The rustle of the blanket alerted me to his movement, but it wasn't until I raised my head that I understood what he was doing.

Still wrapped in his blanket, Sherlock quietly took his violin out of his case. Not bothering to really tune, he began playing. The melody was low and sweet, one I'd recognize anywhere. The song he'd written to help with my nightmares when I'd originally moved in.

Tears sprung to the back of my eyes, threatening to spill over as he wandered over, and carefully perched on my knee. He sat back, his back resting against my chest as he continued to play. I wrapped my arms around his waist, the tears spilling over. Sherlock continued to play as I cried, giving the utmost comfort he could.

By the time the song ended, I had calmed for the most part. He set the violin off to the side before fully turning to me. He was positioned so that he was siting in my lap, back leaning against one arm rest, legs falling over the other.