August 4th, 2020
A/N: I'm not sure if anyone actually reads these but, I'm writing them anyway because I enjoy it.

Sherlock was running through the trees. He could hear Serbian voices shouting after him. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as though it were to burst like a water balloon. Terror gripped his entire being as he ran for his life. He felt the fear and adrenaline coursing through him.

Suddenly he was chained up. He felt the impact of a pipe, among other things. He felt his skin breaking and ripping apart. He felt the searing hot pain from each cut and the numbing ache from each bruise.

Sherlock felt like he was going to die. He knew he wasn't going to. He wasn't nearly injured enough to die. The Serbians didn't want him dead, but deep down he felt the fear of death. The most primal human instinct that even the great Sherlock Holmes couldn't avoid.

He felt hopelessness rising in his chest as he struggled to keep his mind working properly. He began to remember his time with John, tears springing to his eyes as the thought occurred that he may never see him again.

The pipe came down again and he yelled.

Sherlock sat up straight in bed with a gasp. His breathing was erratic and he was sweating. His heart was pounding as though he was still in that forest.

He swallowed as he brought his trembling hands to his face. The detective forced himself to calm down, to take slow breaths, and think rationally. He wasn't in Serbia. He wasn't injured. He was fine. He was in 221B Baker Street.

The door to his bedroom opened suddenly and a concerned John Watson in his pajamas emerged in the doorway. "You okay?" he asked quickly. "I heard you yelling."

"I'm fine," he muttered in response. He could feel his cheeks warming with embarrassment as he shook his head. His hands were still shaking and his heart was still racing. He silently cursed his body for betraying him. Sherlock shook his head. "You were mistaken."

The doctor scowled. "I'm pretty sure I know what I heard Sherlock. Are you sure you're okay? You seem a bit paler than usual... also, Christ, you're shaking. What's wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong with me," Sherlock snapped. He laid back down in his bed, curling up with his back to his friend.

John felt a mixture of annoyance and worry wash over him. He knew that he was lying. Should he just go back to bed? Or should he stay and try and find out what happened? He wasn't stupid. Sherlock didn't get worked up over nothing. He'd known him long enough to know that.

A thought crossed his mind and his lips formed an 'oh' as he looked at the detective's curled up form. Realization hit him.

John sighed sadly and made his way over to the bed, sitting down on the unoccupied side. The mattress dipped with his weight. Sherlock didn't move, but his breathing gave away that he wasn't asleep. "What kind of nightmare was it?" the doctor asked quietly.

"I didn't say I had a nightmare," Sherlock mumbled bitterly.

"Yes you did, in every way except words," he replied firmly. Silence was his response. Another sigh escaped him as he tried to think of what to say. His own experiences with nightmares were very different from what he imaged Sherlock's would be. "There's nothing shameful about having nightmares, especially those caused by exposure to trauma. I still get nightmares now and then."

Sherlock said nothing, but did let out a reluctant sigh as he relaxed a little. There was no way he'd be able to lie to John in his state and he had correctly deduced what was wrong with him already.

"So what happened?" the doctor asked him gingerly.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered the two years he spent away from London, away from Baker Street, away from John. Serbia wasn't the only place he'd gotten into trouble with, but being the most recent made it stick in his mind more.

A sharp inhale came from him. "Honestly John, you probably don't want to know."

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to-"

"No, I'm serious John," Sherlock cut in, sitting up and meeting his surprised gaze with a solemn one of his own. He blinked slowly and tilted his head downward. "You really don't want to know..."

Silence hung in the air. John felt his heart beating a little bit faster. What was so awful that Sherlock didn't want him to know? What had happened? Was it something from his childhood he never spoke about? Was it from his two years away from him? His curiosity and dread were both peaked by his words.

However, the doctor inspected him again. Sherlock's hands were in his lap, twitching. His shoulders were hunched forward and he looked smaller somehow. Now wasn't the time to push him into talking about something he clearly didn't want to discuss.

John smiled sadly and reached forward. He put his hand against his chest. As the deceive looked at him in shock, he nodded to the pillows. "Lay down, you need more sleep. I'll stay here."

"That's hardly necessary-"

"Doctor's orders," John said sternly, giving him a look that he couldn't argue with.

Sherlock sighed heavily and leaned back against the pillows. John pulled the blanket up over him, but stayed on top of it, not wanting to push things too far. He laid down beside him on his back, staring at the ceiling.

There was a tense silence between them for a few minutes before John sighed and turned his head toward his best friend.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" he asked softly.

"No I can't," Sherlock said simply.

John huffed and turned to lay on his side, facing him. "I'm serious, I've put up with you for this long, what could you possibly say to make me leave? After everything we've been through, do you still not trust me enough?"

"It's not that I don't trust you, John," he replied, turning around to face him as well. Their faces were far too close to be considered normal for two men in their position. "I don't want you to have to bear the burden. You're too caring... it would likely make you distraught to know what I... experienced... despite there being nothing you could've done differently to prevent it."

The sincerity of Sherlock's voice made the doctor's throat close up. He was probably right but he still felt like he couldn't help him properly without knowing what was wrong.

"Fine... you don't have to tell me, but I am here for you," John conceded.

He met Sherlock's eyes, noticing that one of his curls had fallen in front of them. His hand moved without a thought. Brushing it aside, he let his hand linger. The detective said nothing as he moved his own hand up to take it. He wordlessly laced their fingers together and brought them down on the mattress between them.

"I know."