Chapter Text
After the conversation with Henry's therapist John wandered a bit aimlessly around the pub, realising he wasn't sure if he wanted to go to their room and face Sherlock right now.
Right now, he wished he had his own room, but this had been the only vacancy.
Thank god, they got one of those, not a double room, though it wouldn't really matter because Sherlock usually didn't even try to sleep during a case. He'd have the bed for himself.
John wondered if there was a chance he'd get any sleep at all while they were staying in Baskerville.
Sharing the same room with a hyperactive detective, who loves to think aloud all night.
Great.
He was a bit unnerved about Sherlock's plump manipulation earlier. The way Sherlock had used him to speak to the therapist. In addition, Sherlock's comments earlier had stung.
Well, maybe more than stung.
John found himself outside, in front of the pub, alone in the dark and with only a lantern here and there. When he sat down at one of the tables, it came back to him how Sherlock had acted during their 'discussion' a few hours ago. The cool night air cleared his mind a bit, enabled him to think about the events with less anger and more reflectiveness.
Now, that he thought about it, he had never seen his friend this desperate, desolate and out of control - maybe even disoriented - if he was reading the signs right.
Sherlock had been agitated by his feelings.
For god's sake, the man never even blinked while threatened by several guns or other mortal dangers. Only Moriarty had managed to provoke a reaction of disturbance or maybe fear, which had passed fast, right after he had stripped John of the bomb.
The man was a rock. But hours ago, he had been shaking with anxiety.
Jesus, Sherlock had had a panic attack! Why hadn't he realised?
Sherlock had all those feelings humans had, but he seemed to be perceive them in a different way.
John was sure his flatmate would describe them completely different than everyone else, maybe even feel them different - everything was so intense about Sherlock.
In many different situations John had seen how good Sherlock was at masking his feelings entirely or fake them if he thought an act was necessary. And he was able to do it with astounding precision and very convincingly.
The average fellow citizen reacted to Sherlock's behaviour with irritation, sometimes hostility or interest. But mostly people were either observing from a safe distance or unnerved.
John himself had found it occasionally difficult to handle Sherlock's intensity in the past, though he had known since his first day as Sherlock's flatmate that the man seemed to have quite vivid emotions.
Most of the time, Sherlock just handled them carefully, entrusting almost nobody with them ever – except John. Sometimes it was pretty rough to live with that, or with the grumpy behaviour that comes with a new set of experiences.
Sherlock seemed not to be able to connect a normal description of an emotion to what he felt, wasn't able to find the right words.
No, that was wrong, he just needed time to sort it out, compare it, translate the average human's description into his own understanding - trial and error in this field.
Sherlock observed, intense like today, being as honest and sarcastic with himself as he was with other people. Though usually the detective did this kind of observations not this publicly. Apparently, Sherlock had been too troubled to care about the other people in the room. That alone should have alerted John to the level of anxiety Sherlock was struggling with.
The fact that he had entrusted John with these innermost issues today was - now that John thought about it - heart-warming.
Sherlock had not only allowed John to witness his distress, he had even tried to address it, but the matter at hand had disturbed the discussion about exactly that matter - the panic attack had bugged his analysis.
But why the aggression?
John had thought about trying to convince Sherlock to retreat to their room, but his shaking and breathlessness had made him doubt they'd reach it without making a scene. Also, he assumed Sherlock wouldn't listening to him anyway, at least not to a level that was necessary to calm someone down.
Maybe John's lack of understanding the situation at first (out of sheer denial about what was enfolding before his eyes - anxiety attack - Sherlock? No way!) had made Sherlock turn away in frustration. The result was that he was yelling about being fine paired with a bunch of insults.
The doctor wondered what the other man had done since he left.
It wasn't the best idea to leave Sherlock behind like that - even though (or maybe because) he had tried to get rid of John by being harsh. The doctor now realised he should have stayed, as invisible as possible, but nearby.
Considering to which degree Sherlock was usually able to force his feelings behind a mask, the panic attack must have been very rough, since a lot had reached the surface. A normal person would have probably been screaming on the ground, out of his mind and hyperventilating, close to passing out.
Yes, Sherlock had had problems forcing his respiration to follow his will but he had stayed present and focussed.
How much longer had the detective sat alone at the fireplace?
Obviously, at least long enough to find out who Henry's therapist was and that she was in the pub.
John was sure his friend hadn't been steady enough on his feet to walk back to their room without help for at least another fifteen minutes after he had left.
Damnit, he should have kept an eye on him. But he had needed time to cool down. Hopefully, Sherlock had calmed down, too. John was finally ready to go check on him.
.
Before heading for the twin room, he ordered two drinks at the bar.
When he reached their door, he stopped in front of it and listened.
Nothing.
He tried the door as quiet as possible - it was unlocked.
The room was only dimly lit by a small lantern with a candle inside.
Strangely enough, Sherlock was sitting with his back to the door in one of the two armchairs. His hands rested against each other in the familiar position. He didn't react to John's entrance.
John stopped being quiet and moved louder than usual to make his presence known.
Without a word, he placed the drinks in front of the other man, on the small table. Then he worked himself out of his jacket and threw it onto a nearby stool.
When Sherlock continued to ignore him, he stepped closer to try to make him communicate and perform an abrasive examination of his behaviour.
But his friend didn't react at all, not even a blink. He was staring blindly ahead, obviously not seeing what was happening around him. Or maybe he had just retreated into his Mind Palace.
"Sherlock?" John asked gently.
In the dark, it took him a moment to notice that Sherlock was still trembling and in serious worry now the doctor knelt down in front of him.
This can't be good.
"Hey?… Can you hear me?"
No reaction. This alone wasn't unusual, but the shivering… and Sherlock was still paler than normal. His breathing was laboured and sweat was visible on his face.
"Sherlock, I'm gonna touch you," John warned in a calm voice.
The moment he gently wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wrist, the man jerked back in surprise, making a startled noise.
"It's alright, it's me… just me."
Eyes now wide open in surprise, Sherlock gulped for air, flailing to get rid of John's touch.
John stepped back, his hands outstretched.
"Easy… easy!" he raised his voice, "Come on, don't do this… Calm down."
After a few long seconds Sherlock's expression started to show recognition, he was aware who John was.
"I want you to take it easy now. We're perfectly safe here, we're able to defend ourselves. Nothing will happen, everything is quiet and secure."
Sherlock didn't react to the words, though he was panting now.
Had he been in this state the whole time?
"Sherlock, I can help you with this. I know exactly what it feels like to go through this kind of panic attack, had my share after… after Afghanistan… You don't need to do anything, just go with what I do or say," John rubbed his hands against his own arms to warm them up a bit, then stood in front of Sherlock.
"Close your eyes, I'm gonna switch on the lights."
Sherlock ignored the warning and blinked when John lit the bedside lamp.
"You will now slow down your breathing a bit… do some deeper breaths."
He saw Sherlock's jaw muscles clench, but the change in breathing was so minute that he decided to push a bit more.
"Come on, a deep breath now… breathe in… and out…"
Although not very successful, Sherlock was trying to follow his instructions, that was a good sign. He repeated the instruction several times.
"… Breathe in… I'll touch you now… and breathe out…"
The doctor stepped closer again and put one hand gently on Sherlock's forehead.
The detective jerked slightly but didn't move away.
"Steady… Concentrate on breathing," John said in a soothing voice.
So John slipped the other around his nape, it was a bit bold to try that, but he wanted to test the waters.
Sherlock blinked several times but the level of agitation didn't worsen. John raised his eyebrows, either Sherlock was quite out of it or he trusted John more than he had realised.
"That's it, relax… and another slow deep breath… in… and out," John tried to speak in a calm voice and breathed with the rhythm while just standing there maintaining physical contact.
He was surprised Sherlock allowed the intimate touch, he had expected resistance. Nevertheless, this worried him even more than being yelled at would have. Sherlock despised being touched and this was completely out of character.
After some time, Sherlock managed to breathe easier, but the shaking remained the same. The detective's skin was clammy and he was tensed up to the max.
"I want you to lie down, on the bed… Can you walk?" John asked.
The only response was a minute shake of Sherlock's head.
John slowly let go of his nape and turned to the bed; he flipped back the duvet.
"You can't walk or you don't want to lie down?" John tried to make him reconnect to reality.
"No sleep," it was only a hoarse whisper.
"You don't need to sleep, just lie down a bit. You're white like a sheet and you need to relax. Your muscles will be sore in the morning from being all tensed up for hours, come on."
Slowly, he slipped his hands under Sherlock's armpits and around his waist to help him up.
But his flatmate was not eager to go to the bed.
Once Sherlock was upright, John could literally see the wave of dizziness hitting him. Apparently, orientation was slipping and John deemed Sherlock felt the room move around him. He immediately tightened his grip, then dragged Sherlock towards the bed.
"Sit down," John pushed him down to sit on the edge and saw Sherlock's coat in a heap on the floor, though his scarf was still around his neck.
With slow and gentle movements, John removed it, having no difficulties keeping Sherlock sitting upright since he was stiff as a board.
"What drinks did you have?" He looked around the room for used glasses. "Booze? Water?"
"Just the drink a' the bar," Sherlock answered, now a bit more present.
"Okay, let me get some water. You're okay sitting here for a moment?"
After Sherlock nodded he took his pulse to make sure he wouldn't faint and fall, then hurried to the mini-bar for a glass.
Seconds later a glass half full of water appeared in front of Sherlock's face. The stressed man just stared at it.
"Drink."
"Whatisit?" Sherlock seemed to have problems focussing.
"Water, pure countryside tab water, maybe from a nearby spring."
"Want bottledwater…"
"What?… Why?"
"The guide didn'trust th' water."
"Fine." The doctor returned to the bathroom, poured the water away and fetched a bottle from the mini bar.
While pouring it into a fresh glass, with his back to Sherlock, he added a small dose of the medication he had given Henry before and which had been still in his pocket.
He returned to Sherlock with the glass and placed it in his hands, even though he was trembling John trusted his flatmate to hold it.
"Mineral water, new bottle, sparkling," John informed.
"You put somethin' in it?" Sherlock asked, his voice tense.