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John sits on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest, his back against his bed. It’s irrational, he knows, but even the bed is too high off stable ground for him these days. He’s moved out of 221 Baker Street and into a first floor bedsit that’s well within his price range. He’s left the surgery, not fond of walking up those stairs to get to his office.
He doesn’t move from this spot, in his bedsit on solid ground where he doesn’t have to worry about falling. It’s a fight to keep the image of Sherlock falling out of his head. It’s his fault, this sudden onset batophobia. Before Sherlock jumped, John had been perfectly fine. Since then, he can’t even look at St. Bart’s without feeling sick. Hell, he can’t look at a set of stairs without the fight-or-flight response kicking in; the increase in breathing, in heart rate, the tightening of muscles in preparation to retaliate.
His breath leaves him in a rush. It will never be the same, John thinks. Without Sherlock, there’s no point in it all. Perhaps he should try and overcome his batophobia. Maybe he can go to St. Bart’s to help with that.