Chapter Text
Sherlock had known it was only a matter of time before he would lash out. He never knew when to stop. He had been walking on a floor filled broken glass the whole three months he'd been back, and he had been bound to reach the peak at some point.
And then he did. He called John invalid. Amongst other things. But it was cruel, it was completely wrong and Sherlock felt awful. Worse than ever before. He had known it was a bad day, the worst so far and yet he'd willingly picked on a fight that couldn't end well. And just as he was about to apologise – which would never be enough – John had turned and calmly walked out.
The cold grip of fear he hadn’t felt in a long while was suddenly back, unreasonably strong. It was a terrifyingly familiar panic, mostly from cold nights, the sounds of chains on concrete, from secret basements.
It shouldn’t be able to reach him here, not where he was standing next to the warm fireplace. Not in his home. But it did, and then it swept him off his feet with a searing pang of pain.
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John was absent-mindedly walking around - no particular destination in mind, just trying to burn off the adrenaline fuelling his anger - when his phone went off. He was half hoping, half dreading it was Sherlock. But it was Mycroft.
Sherlock’s through with his panic attack, it’s safe for you to return to 221b.
MH
It wasn’t like Mycroft to let them know that he still kept spying their flat with cameras. John could sense Mycroft’s disapproval over John leaving, and also concern. The doctor didn’t hesitate and almost jogged the whole way back, silently berating himself and fighting the fear. Sherlock had had a panic attack? Mycroft thought John was needed there? What if something worse had happened? Not that Sherlock having a panic attack wasn’t bad enough.
As he climbed the stairs, John tried to listen for any signs of, well, anything. The flat was silent and as he entered the living room, he saw Sherlock laying on his back on the sofa, one hand almost touching the floor. He looked as if he was asleep, but taking a few steps closer, John noticed the detective had his eyes half open and his other hand that was laying on his stomach kept squeezing and releasing the material of his shirt.
Then he noticed the blood. The front of Sherlock's shirt was covered in light bloodstains. There was drops of it on the floor, on the corner of the coffee table, a bloody handprint on one of the autopsy reports on top of the table. There were bloody scratches on the arm that was hanging off the sofa, he had obviously been scratching his arm at some point, but most of the blood seemed to have come from cut on the corner of his right eyebrow. John hadn't been able to see it at first, because Sherlock's head was slightly turned to the back of the sofa, almost spreading blood there too. He must've fallen and hit his head on the coffee table.
This was bad, John realised. Sherlock didn't lose control of his body like that. He came to crouch in front of the sofa and called Sherlock's name.
"Sherlock, what happened? Can you hear me?"
He didn't touch him yet, not wanting to cause any more damage to the situation. Sherlock didn't respond vocally, but he turned his head slightly towards John and blinked rapidly.
"Sherlock, I'm going to get my kit and we're going to get you patched up, okay?" Sherlock just swallowed and finally made eye contact with John, though only for a second. His expression was mild, almost confused.
John got up and fetched the medical kit from the kitchen. He came back to crouching in front of the sofa and noticed Sherlock had closed his eyes and his right hand had started to tremble very minutely on his stomach.
"Sherlock? I'm here. I need to touch you to clean the blood off, is that okay?" Sherlock exhaled loudly and his trembling hand started to clamp down on the fabric aggressively. His head tipped back, exposing his throat for a while, eyes squeezed shut. He swallowed and then went completely slack.
John waited for a response, but when none came, he reached for Sherlock's arm. When Sherlock didn't react, he lifted it gently to rest on his knee. Then he started to clean the blood with a small wet towel and tend to the scratches with an alcohol swab, all the while watching Sherlock's face closely for any sign of distress. The tall man was completely limp apart from his eyes, which were rapidly moving underneath his eyelids. Mind palace then, John thought. He rarely went limp like that though, usually he just stayed in his deduction pose.
John rolled a loose gauze around the scratched arm and then moved up to tend to the cut on the corner of Sherlock's brow. It was still bleeding slightly and a small trickle of blood had rolled halfway down the side of the detective's head. After cleaning away most of it, John swept another disinfectant pad gently over the cut.
This time Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and grabbed at John's wrist blindly, eyes blinking wide and almost panicking.
"Hey, hey, it's just me. Did that sting?" This time Sherlock gave him a tiny nod and stared right at John. It was almost relieving to see him gaining consciousness again. He lifted the pad for Sherlock to see and said, "I need to clean your brow and check your pupils just to be sure, hang on there okay?"
Sherlock ran his hand up and down John's arm for a few times and then let go and nodded. The doctor went back to the task, still occasionally glancing back at Sherlock's face. He seemed to be calming down and actually smiled when John had trouble placing the plaster on the tricky curve of his brow. Then he dug out his phone and carefully pointed the flashlight at Sherlock’s eyes at a good distance, checking that he hadn’t hit his head more severely.
Plaster in place and wounds tended to, John sat back on his heels and just looked at Sherlock. He really had no idea what to do now, if he should ask or not. Why did this happen? Or how? Had it ever happened before?
Sherlock met his gaze, finally calm and present and looking only slightly apprehensive. The whole area around his right eye was slowly swelling but otherwise he seemed alright, not counting the arm. But John had to ask to be sure.
"Are there other injuries or just that eye?"
The brunet seemed to consider this for a second before gently shaking his head. Then he started to push himself up with his elbows, trying to get up, and John resisted the urge to stop him and let him sit up. Sherlock seemed to waver though and John stood up himself. "You can rest for a bit, in fact you should. I'll make us some tea, alright?"
Sherlock slumped back halfway, rolling to his side and curling on himself just a bit. It was almost like his usual sulking position but he was facing the room, and John wasn't that worried. He quickly fixed two cups and ventured back to the living room. "You should drink this while it's still -"
Sherlock clearly started at John's sudden appearance but he quickly tried to mask it as a small full-body stretch and sat up again. John made his way to the couch and sat down, offering Sherlock a cup and sipping from his own. The taller man was still tense, it showed in his movements and John wished that he knew what to do. They should definitely talk about this, he knew these things, but how could he -
"Yes, I've had them before." Sherlock cut through his thoughts. "I've had... episodes... like that before, but never here, not like that." Sherlock was staring intently at his cup, now very tense again. John wanted to calm him but he didn't know if contact would be welcome. "So, do you know why now?"
"Lack of sleep, malnutrition and a stressful situation." He listed dispassionately, like he was reading off a book, but he looked resigned. He sighed and took a glance at John. "Mostly the lack of sleep." Despite lacking Sherlock's skills, John had built quite a comprehensive understanding regarding Sherlock, and he could tell not sleeping wasn't about his 'not on a case' agenda or 'just transport' but something that happened involuntarily and it clearly bothered Sherlock. He decided to ask about it later.
As the brunet lifted the cup to take a sip, his right hand twitched and almost tipped the cup into his lap. He exhaled shakily and tried to support it with two hands.
An old memory from years ago flashed in front of John. He'd just gotten back to London, had rented that depressing small bedsit he hadn't even thought about in years now. Every morning, he would've made tea, dash of milk, and hadn't been able to drink it while warm for weeks in the beginning because his hands shook so much it was a wonder he hadn't dropped the whole mug.
Now, he abandoned his own tea and reached to help Sherlock. He laid a hand to the back on top of Sherlock's left one and steadied it enough. Sherlock's eyes were squeezed shut again, but he did accept the help and drank. As they lowered the cup and Sherlock let go of it for John to put it away, a tear managed to escape the corner of his eye. John had to offer some kind of comfort and laid his hand now on the detective's shoulder.
“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t.”
"I know. It's alright," John murmured, stroking his thumb back and forth, "it's all fine."
Sherlock fisted his hand to John's shirt and buried his head to his shoulder. He didn't exactly cry but his breath came in short, shaky huffs. John covered Sherlock's shaking hand with his own and then they just sat there. He had been upset by Sherlock’s outburst, he had said things that had been hurtful and unfair but John did believe that Sherlock hadn’t mean it. He had had a bad day, and now that John thought about it, probably a whole week of bad days. Sometimes it took all his willpower not to snap at Sherlock himself and call him things that weren’t true, but he’d never mean it.
It took Sherlock almost an hour to finally take a deep breath and disentangle himself from John. The doctor met his gaze and smiled reassuringly. Sherlock returned the smile but seemed exhausted, and John realised he had looked like that for a long time, probably ever since he came back. How had he not noticed how much darker the bags under the brunet’s eyes were nowadays? Then again he managed to forget many little things during those two years. Not a good train of thought.
Sherlock went to have a shower and John fixed them sandwiches. Sherlock ate his with only an irritated huff and then said he was off to bed. It was barely nine but John knew first-hand how draining those experiences could be and didn’t say anything. He slouched on the sofa, staying up watching telly for a bit longer than usual, just in case. He couldn’t help it; he even turned down the volume a bit more than necessary so he could hear Sherlock but nothing happened. Sherlock seemed to have really fallen asleep. Resisting the urge to go and check up on him, not wanting to accidentally wake him now, John finally gave up and headed to bed himself.