After he'd been living with Sherlock for a few weeks, John took Mycroft's advice and fired his therapist. He didn't need her, after all. Sherlock had been the one to cure his limp- he'd done in one glorious evening what she'd been unable to do in four months.
Sherlock was also the one who ended his depression. He hadn't realized he was depressed- had scoffed when he saw that she'd written it in her notes. But he knows now that he was. He'd lost his zeal for life; his passion and motivation to live every day to it's fullest, and always on his own terms. He'd been coasting, wandering about lost and a shadow of himself. Now, instead of numbly walking through a park, he races across rooftops, almost laughing with the sheer perfection of it all. Sherlock, with his childish enthusiasm for danger and action, brought John back to life.
His therapist thought that he had trust issues. Maybe he did, then- it felt like his life had betrayed him, when he was invalided. Maybe he just didn't trust her, because she was just trying to categorize him, stuff him into neat little boxes. He trusts Sherlock Holmes with his life. Has trusted him with his life, literally. And he's never regretted the choice.
The limp and the tremor may not have been PTSD, but that doesn't mean John doesn't have it. It's not the battles he remembers- it's bending over the body of a friend in the dust, watching their life pour out all over his hands as he fights- and fails- to save them. It's going from bent over trying to save an injured friend to injured himself, lying on the ground and knowing he's a goner, because they're stretched thin for doctors, and he's the only one nearby. John dreams of death. Sherlock doesn't make the dreams stop, except for those nights when he doesn't let John sleep at all. But when he wakes up from a nightmare, he always falls back asleep to the quiet sound of a violin. It's a small thing, and not one they ever talk about. But Sherlock understands, and he makes it better.
Sherlock is his physical therapist, too. Racing through London does more for muscles weakened by months of unnecessary limping more than treadmills and careful, specially designed exercise regimes ever could. And fighting criminals, climbing up or down fire escapes or occasionally swinging into windows while on cases keeps his shoulder from seizing up from disuse and helps restore range of motion. His wounds are merely an afterthought now, and the one time a suspect hits John in the shoulder- swinging a pipe he'd meant to hit him in the head with, but John had ducked- Sherlock dispatches the man immediately, then takes John home and 'experiments' with a few massage techniques he's read are good for joint injuries, asking for John's assistance in determining which is most effective. When he finds it, he practices his technique until John feels better, and again in the morning when he wakes up stiff and sore.
Harry asks one day how therapy is going. John dodges the question, saying he's been feeling much better, physically and mentally. She pushes, asking who he's seeing now. He isn't, he explains. He doesn't need to anymore. He has Sherlock instead.
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2012-04-19 09:34 am (UTC)Sherlock was also the one who ended his depression. He hadn't realized he was depressed- had scoffed when he saw that she'd written it in her notes. But he knows now that he was. He'd lost his zeal for life; his passion and motivation to live every day to it's fullest, and always on his own terms. He'd been coasting, wandering about lost and a shadow of himself. Now, instead of numbly walking through a park, he races across rooftops, almost laughing with the sheer perfection of it all. Sherlock, with his childish enthusiasm for danger and action, brought John back to life.
His therapist thought that he had trust issues. Maybe he did, then- it felt like his life had betrayed him, when he was invalided. Maybe he just didn't trust her, because she was just trying to categorize him, stuff him into neat little boxes. He trusts Sherlock Holmes with his life. Has trusted him with his life, literally. And he's never regretted the choice.
The limp and the tremor may not have been PTSD, but that doesn't mean John doesn't have it. It's not the battles he remembers- it's bending over the body of a friend in the dust, watching their life pour out all over his hands as he fights- and fails- to save them. It's going from bent over trying to save an injured friend to injured himself, lying on the ground and knowing he's a goner, because they're stretched thin for doctors, and he's the only one nearby. John dreams of death. Sherlock doesn't make the dreams stop, except for those nights when he doesn't let John sleep at all. But when he wakes up from a nightmare, he always falls back asleep to the quiet sound of a violin. It's a small thing, and not one they ever talk about. But Sherlock understands, and he makes it better.
Sherlock is his physical therapist, too. Racing through London does more for muscles weakened by months of unnecessary limping more than treadmills and careful, specially designed exercise regimes ever could. And fighting criminals, climbing up or down fire escapes or occasionally swinging into windows while on cases keeps his shoulder from seizing up from disuse and helps restore range of motion. His wounds are merely an afterthought now, and the one time a suspect hits John in the shoulder- swinging a pipe he'd meant to hit him in the head with, but John had ducked- Sherlock dispatches the man immediately, then takes John home and 'experiments' with a few massage techniques he's read are good for joint injuries, asking for John's assistance in determining which is most effective. When he finds it, he practices his technique until John feels better, and again in the morning when he wakes up stiff and sore.
Harry asks one day how therapy is going. John dodges the question, saying he's been feeling much better, physically and mentally. She pushes, asking who he's seeing now. He isn't, he explains. He doesn't need to anymore. He has Sherlock instead.