Work Text:
“I can't think when I'm this bored, John.” Sherlock hissed, balancing on the top of the couch and pacing back and forth.
”You're going to break the couch like that.” John called from his chair absentmindedly. Sherlock had been even more agitated than usual for the past hour, climbing on top of practically every piece of furniture in the flat.
With a great gust of air, Sherlock finally dropped down to the couch's cushions, breathing heavily.
“Thank you.” John muttered sarcastically at the abrupt stillness. “Now how about you stay on the seat rather than above it for a bit.”
Sherlock didn't respond, and John shrugged, turning back to his laptop. The two men sat in silence, save for John's slow pecking at the keyboard and Sherlock's heavy breathing, which hadn't gotten quieter despite the fact that he was no longer using the flat as a jungle gym. In fact, his breathing had almost been getting more rapid as they sat quietly.
“Are you all right?”
No response. John got up, concerned, to kneel in front of Sherlock.
“Sherlock?” John questioned gently, relieved when Sherlock twitched his head toward John in response. “Sherlock, are you okay? Has this happened before?” A tense nod was his response. “Can you breathe? Can you talk to me?” This time, he somehow managed to receive a condescending glare in response despite the fact that his flatmate's breathing had yet to even begin to slow back to normal levels. “Right,” John said sheepishly, “one question at a time. Can you breathe?” This time, a nod. “Is there anything that will make it go away faster?” Sherlock shook his head, looking down. “Would you like me to stay with you?”
At that, Sherlock's head snapped up and he stared frantically into John's eyes, but gave no response.
After waiting for a few minutes to see if Sherlock would give a response and getting nothing more than an intense stare down, John tried again. “Would me going away help?” This time, the answer was a much more clear no.
John was not unfamiliar with panic attacks, having seen them more than once in former soldiers he was friends with. Not knowing what had set Sherlock off, he was hesitant to touch him. If he didn't have any medication for these scenarios, there really was probably not much to do other than wait it out. He nodded, sitting himself down on the floor and preparing to wait out Sherlock.
Sherlock's right hand twitched, and he looked meaningfully between his hand and John. Eventually, it had made its way around until it was nearly palm-up. Slowly, to allow Sherlock time to retreat if he had interpreted the gesture wrong, John reached over to squeeze Sherlock's hand tightly.
At this gesture, Sherlock dove off the couch. Hugging John's waist tightly, he wrapped his whole body around John's on the ground, despite its likely status as a biohazard.
Sherlock was still breathing heavily, but he seemed to be slowly calming down. John and Sherlock sat waiting together in a two-person human pretzel until finally, nearly an hour later, Sherlock started loosening his grasp on John, and slowly made his way back to the couch. At this gesture, John himself got up, stretching before moving to his previous chair.
“Does that happen often?”
“Depends.”
“Have you … you know … talked to somebody about it? Does Lestrade know?”
“It doesn't happen on a case; I wouldn't allow it. On a case, I can keep it away by distracting myself, locking up the emotions in a spare room of my mind palace. They don't bother me anymore, anyways; they're more tedious than anything else. I … I apologize for you having to watch that. For next time, you're welcome to go to the other room if I bother you.”
“I don't mind if you don't. Next time, try and tell me what's going on. Between the two of us, we might be able to find a solution to at least shorten them. You shouldn't have to have gotten used to them if you don't have to, even if they don't interfere with your work.”