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Looking back, John was surprised it hadn’t hit him earlier.
It was the non-stop adrenaline of the situation he supposed - adrenaline that hadn’t let up for what felt like days. In the space of 13 hours he’d landed in India, feared for his life on a TukTuk, had an - admittedly fake - gun shoved in his face, watched a man get poisoned, followed up by another terrifying journey at the hands of Sherlock’s non-existent driving skills and the chaos of Amritsar, ending in a drop into the waters surrounding the Golden Temple.
Once he and Sherlock had fished themselves out of the pond and made their way back to the White Eagle hotel, he felt as though he were running on fumes. The others had met them outside, Mariana immediately fussing over them both and their bedraggled states. DI Jones had confirmed that Sholto’s body had been taken away, and a post-mortem was expected to be completed and reported into Interpol by the end of the evening.
Mary had stood quietly by, a distant look in her eyes that had worried him and had him instantly switching to doctor mode. Ignoring the pointed look from Mariana, he’d pulled her aside, scanning for any sign of injury before gently running her through a few grounding exercises. It took some time, but eventually she was back in the present. Still quiet, but aware and responding.
He’d given her a final check-over, pulled her into a hug that she leaned into for a long moment, and sent her back to her room to rest. That done, his focus had turned back to the others, confirming that aside from being equally sodden from their unexpected swim Sherlock hadn’t been injured, before Mariana pushed both of them to go clean up.
Knowing Sherlock’s hatred of clothes sticking to him (“It’s an absolute sensory nightmare, Watson!”), he’d offered for the consulting detective to take first shower. Sherlock hadn’t argued, grabbing spare clothes and all-but running into their en-suite. John had resorted to grabbing one of the spare towels from the cupboard, placing it over the uncomfortable desk chair in the room and collapsing into it to pull off his trainers.
Shoes off, John sighed and leant back in the chair, eyes on the ceiling. Exhaustion and discomfort aside, he felt… off. Like there was a gear in his mind that was dislodged, causing things to clank and whir instead of running smoothly. Breathing felt strange, more laboured than usual, and he had a sudden desperate need to remove the oppressive weight of his shirt. He tugged it off, all but throwing it across the room as he took deep breaths and tried to calm his frantic heart-rate.
Why was his heart racing? Why were his hands trembling?
The clank-whir of his thoughts was getting worse, stuttering and providing a delay between what he wanted to do and his body complying. Absently, he registered that he should be doing… something. Some kind of exercise. No matter how much he tried to focus on it, however, it was impossible to remember.
The sound of water from the shower, and the thrum of traffic outside, seemed to be getting quieter, replaced by the mechanical noise in his mind. Another sound joined the clanking – a high-pitched whine.
Where was he again?
Glancing around for a reminder, John’s gaze skittered across the room. Desk with a small kettle, shabby looking wardrobe, three beds, a gun-
A gun.
The whining grew louder, shriller. There were other noises too – distant thudding, men shouting, the whistle-bang of bullets flying.
“Nobody move! Nobody move!”
The shattering of glass.
“Shit- medic! We need a medic over-”
A car, speeding past with music blaring.
“John! John!” “Watson!”
Screeching metal as bullets tore through a car door.
“-hands on your head – face down!”
High-pitched, relentless whining.
“-been hit, my god, Jones is down-”
Panicked breathing.
“Somebody help me!”
A door, closing.
“P-please, doc, I don’t wanna die, please-”
Heavy booms.
“Watson?”
“He’s bleeding out, shit-”
“John? John, can you-”
“-want my mum, it hurts, mum! Mum please!”
Screaming, cut-off suddenly.
“-IED reported, six casualties-”
“-’s OK, we’re in our hotel room, John-”
“Where is he?”
A gun, forced into his mouth.
Sobbing, heaving breaths.
“-need to evacuate immediately-”
Pressure against his hand.
“-can’t just leave him!”
“-going to squeeze, I need you to breathe-”
Pain, blindingly hot across his hip, his leg.
“-3, 4, 5, 6 – alright, now out-”
“Oh my god, oh my god-”
A child’s laugh, distantly.
“Speak English!”
“-with me, you’re doing so well-”
Desperation – not his friends, not Mari-
“I said no.”
Not Sherlock-
“-in again, 1, 2, 3-”
Sherlock…
“Or what, you’ll throw a toy at me?”
“...Sherlock?”
Another firm squeeze, and a quiet sigh of relief.
“I’m here, John. I’m here, you’re here with me.”
“I’m…”
“Do you remember where you are?”
“I… there was- a gun, there was a…”
“A toy gun, John. It wasn’t real. You’re safe, we’re in the hotel room.”
“Ma… Mariana…?”
“Gone to the hotel shop, she mentioned she was going to grab snacks for the evening.” Sherlock paused, before squeezing his hand again. “Is this OK? I read that some people suffering flashbacks cope better with contact, whilst others feel worse. I tried to ask, but I’m afraid you were rather non-responsive.”
John opened his mouth to answer, but the words in his head couldn’t seem to make it through. After a couple of tries, he swallowed heavily and nodded.
“Alright, good. Would… would a hug be helpful?”
Another nod. Almost instantly, John felt wiry-but-strong arms around his waist, a familiar smell of fabric softener from the shirt his face was resting against. He wrapped his own arms around Sherlock’s shoulders – their usual hugging position – and pressed himself impossibly closer, face buried against the consulting detective’s neck.
It was a little awkward, due to Sherlock’s crouched position in front of him, but despite the odd angles John doubted he could feel any safer. One of Sherlock’s hands was rubbing against his back, fingertips of the other tracing absent shapes against his bare skin.
Ah, yes, he’d taken his shirt off.
Overwhelmed and a little embarrassed, John pressed a light kiss against Sherlock’s neck – half-registering the stuttered breath that caused – before pulling back, rubbing at his eyes with a shaky hand to dispel the remaining tears.
“Thank- thank you, Sherls. I’m sorry-”
“Nope.” fingertips pressed against his lips, silencing him. He blinked, staring at them in bewilderment before meeting the detective’s eyes.
“No apologies, Watson,” the other man continued, “none are required. You’ve gone through a very stressful day, one that I imagine brought back a lot of stressful-to-traumatic memories. It’s completely understandable that your body chose this method to process the stress, and it’s not something to feel ashamed of.”
John flushed, turning to stare at the bathroom door, and sighed. “It’s stupid, though. I should have worked out it was a damn toy for one. For me to get so worked up over it when I’ve gone through about the same as you and Mari have-”
“Do you think my meltdowns are stupid, when I get overwhelmed over normal things?”
John’s focus snapped back, scandalised. “Of course not! You have a lot to process, more than most, and you can’t help it!”
Sherlock’s eyebrow rose, challenging. “Then why would your episode be considered stupid?”
“I- well- it’s different!”
“It isn’t, John. In both cases, they occur when the individual is tired or stressed, and due to outside factors they become overwhelmed to the point where their body temporarily loses control.” Sherlock shrugged, adding, “yours are caused by reminders of past trauma, mine are caused by a surplus of stimuli or a major change in routine.”
John paused, considering Sherlock’s words. He’d never really thought about it in that sense – was too ashamed of his perceived ‘weakness’ – but… maybe the consulting detective had a point?
As if he could read John’s mind, Sherlock offered a warm grin. “Neither are stupid, and both are things that are only temporary.”
Doing his best not to cry again, John nodded, a wobbly smile forming in response. Sherlock’s grin widened, and he knelt up again, pressing a kiss against John’s temple and carding a hand through his hair. The action helped nudge that loose gear back into position, and the next breath John took felt far easier.
“Now, Mrs Hudson likely won’t be too long with those snacks – unless she’s decided to purchase half the shop’s produce – so I’d recommend going to grab your shower before she comes in and scolds you about it.”
John laughed, pushing himself out of the chair with a groan. “Yeah, best avoid that one – not to mention these shorts are driving me mad now my attention’s back on them.” he agreed, digging through the suitcase to tug out a change of clothes and his toiletries bag.
Dropping them both onto the closed toilet seat, he paused. Spinning on his heel, he strode back out of the bathroom and tugged Sherlock into another hug. The consulting detective landed against him with a quiet “Oomf!”, arms nonetheless returning to the doctor’s waist.
“Thank you.” John murmured, tightening his grip for a long moment and feeling Sherlock melt against him in response.
“Any time, John.” came Sherlock’s quiet response, “I’m here for you.”