.

Sherlock was fuming. On the outside he struggled to keep calm and collected, but he could tell his mask was slipping. A phone call. A simple innocuous phone call. John's number. A strange high pitched tone in his friend's usually controlled voice. The worst birthday celebration invitation ever. 'Come and get me. Please, I didn't know who else to call. Mary is not even in London this weekend. I wouldn't want her to see me like this... Just, come.'

'John, what's wrong? Where are you? I'm coming to get you, hang in there, you're going to be okay.'

The paintball range. A birthday surprise from Greg and a few other Yarders to Anderson. John had been invited to join in, they heard he had a good shot.

Great. They went and put and army veteran in a fake war scenario with a gun on his hand, ducking for cover.

Right now, John is battling an incoming PTSD episode like he didn't have for a long time. He's breathing in and out, he forced himself out of the range, but even at the locker room, hiding in a shower cabin, he can feel the tremors racking his body, his brain fighting through a fog of swirling war memories, the echoes of distant gunfire and screaming. Probably smells, too. Sherlock can only guess.

Somehow, Sherlock is already in a cab, telling the cabbie he needs to speed up. He doesn't feel he's being taken serious. Could be the dressing gown he's neglected to trade for his long coat. It doesn't really matter, John's the matter. No, of course it matters. John can't ever know he's anxious, Sherlock needs to act like it's nothing, mirroring what he wants to see in John. Rapidly he shrugs off the dressing gown. He's going to throw it in the trash before he reaches the paintball place.

Bright coloured sign, promises of fun plastered in the sign outside the brick walled industrial complex. How did John not know it was a bad idea upon arrival, Sherlock wondered, as he pay the cabbie for the ride.

He probably did. But either thought he couldn't back down and show fear to the Yarders lot, or he thought he had to come to terms with it once and for all. Both, most probably.

Sherlock's phone rang. Greg's number. Hopefully he's just noticed John's absence and he's wondering if Sherlock is the cause. Or if Sherlock really doesn't want to join in, it's fun. Most of all, hopefully Greg hasn't found the melting down soldier hiding in the showers like a man scared for his life. Which he is.

Sherlock runs in, light-footed, trying not to draw attention to himself. Luckily the staff seems distracted at the front desk and he crosses right through to the male locker rooms.

'John? Are you here, John?'

'Identify yourself!' is the panic stricken demand muffled from the corner shower. A closed opaque door between them. Sherlock worries John has crossed the invisible line already.

'You phoned me, John, remember?' Sherlock checks that all the locker area is free of spectators. 'You asked me to come here and get you.'

'Who - are - you?' John's voice is cold and lost and hurt, and confused. Sherlock identifies all those nuances one by one. He understands John hasn't crossed the line, but he's fairly close.

Years of friendship had taught him every nuance of John's voice.

'The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Stop asking silly questions, John.'

'Right... Sherlock.'

'You asked me to come.'

'I shouldn't have. I don't want you here.' John's voice was cold, now.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. That was unexpected.

'I'm not going to hurt you.'

'I know that.'

'Why do you wish me to leave?'

'I'm a mess, isn't that enough reason, Sherlock?' There's a vulnerability in his voice now, like a childish request to be overridden by his friend's insistence. This time Sherlock understands it. It's a testament to the years of friendship shared that Sherlock actually understands that John is ashamed of his triggered reactions, and that he knows how to react.

'John, don't make me go in and get you. Come out and let's go back to Baker Street. I've got a case I need a doctor's opinion on.'

'Not a good time here to look at crime scene photos, Sherlock... Oh god, the blood...' John actually whimpers.

Okay, Sherlock's mistake. Time to brush it aside. What would John do to calm John down?

'The violin. I can play the violin, then. A few of your favourite Bach pieces.'

'Yes, that's good.' John is taking deep breaths now, steadying himself, regaining control. 'Keep going like that.' John is helping Sherlock help John.

Sherlock smiles silently. He really wants to give back that trust, that help available at all times, even when the ex-soldier is a mess inside his head.

'I could make you some tea. Better yet, you could make me some tea, John.'

'Sherlock? Not very good with breakable porcelain right now...' Tremors, then. That hardly surprises Sherlock, he can hear them rattle his friend's voice.

'Two spoons of sugar for me, John, and swirl the tea until you dissolve them. Then you always do the same thing before you put the spoon down, John.'

'I tick it against the edge of the cup.' The sensorial and mechanical memories are doing the trick, grounding him in a safer reality.

'You always make the best tea, John. While you make tea I can lit the fireplace.'

'No, better not, too hot already. Not until this subsides, Sherlock. Then yes, please, do that.'

Hot like the desert, got it. 'I can get some biscuits from Mrs H, John, to go with the tea.'

John lets go of a shaky brief laugh. 'Steal them, is more like it.'

'She always forgives me.'

'She's a saint.'

'Yes, she is.'

The locker room door softly clicks shut behind Sherlock, startling him. He turns on his heels to recognise Anderson standing there, uncertain. How long has he been there? Has he heard John? Will he say something wrong? Likely. The man never used to miss a chance to berate Sherlock for being a freak. And yet the forensic technician is fairly demure.

'Give us five minutes, Phil. Don't let anyone in', he whispers as a secret request. The consulting detective that has so often publicly humiliated the forensic investigator is now gently, politely, requesting Anderson to play along. For John.

Anderson nods. He turns his back and leaves, holding the door silently as he closes it behind him. Not an idiot anymore.

'John?' Sherlock restarts, in a warm tone of voice. If not coming from a self-proclaimed sociopathic detective, one might say his voice was sweet and understanding. 'Let's go home.'

'I left. They'll be looking for me', he giggles with little control. 'I was in the blue team with Greg.'

Greg should have seen it coming. Greg can waste his time searching in vain.

'It's someone else's birthday treat, John. They'll hardly pay attention to you.'

'It's Anderson's birthday, and he invited you too.'

Oh, right, Sherlock had said he had a thing, the usual excuse.

'Never mind him, John. Please come out of there and let's just go. You can stay at Baker Street tonight.'

'I may not be much of a guest tonight', John gives in before taking one long deep breath. He's coming out.

Sherlock rapidly reaches the locker room door and gestures to Anderson. The man nods, looking relieved, and goes back to the sports area, ready to act like nothing is up. Sherlock is sure to get him a birthday present after all. Online. Anonymously.

'Sherlock.'

John has just emerged from the shower cabin, removing his blue team protective vest. The helmet had been off for a while, but he hasn't realized his blondish hair is all spiked up in disarray. Sherlock comes very near him, worrying he may startle John in his state, and brushes past him to reach his gym bag. John just watches him silently as Sherlock picks up the bag and waits for John to leave first. Sherlock follows right behind. He's got John's back in battle and out of it.

Ten minutes past, Sherlock's phone vibrates in his pocket. He picks up the call as the cab rolls the streets. Under John's gaze, he answers: 'Lestrade, I thought you were busy tonight. Is this a new case for me? ... John? John is on his way here, to Baker Street. I may just have phoned him saying I may have ingested poison by mistake. Can you override the ambulance, Lestrade? ... No, I wasn't poisoned. The victim was. I need his opinion ... Why would he be upset?'

Sherlock disconnected the call, John's smiling softly. Still a bit too quiet, but Sherlock takes what he can get. And then there'll be Baker Street, Bach, and tea and stolen biscuits. John is not alone.

.

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters or their previous feats.

A/N: Obviously I'm not overly familiar with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and I hope my approach to an incoming episode in this narrative wasn't in any way disrespectful to those who are more familiar with it. That was far from my intentions. My focus was on the person standing outside, struggling to help and not create further damage, and the person going through it, struggling to maintain his dignity and still reach out.