Chapter Text
Sherlock sat in the tub, knees pulled to his chest.
The shower-head dropped water over him, cold liquid pounding against his body, soaking his hair and streaming down his face. The cold assault of water was preferable to the impending anxiety attack he felt. He sat in the tub for nearly twenty minutes, just sitting, and trying to breathe. Finally, he managed to drag his limbs out. His legs felt heavy, like he had spent the last several hours climbing up a mountain. And his arms weren’t faring much better, which he discovered while attempting to rub himself dry with a towel that was beginning to smell a little bit funky.
Sherlock dropped the towel onto the tile and stood, naked and damp, in front of the mirror that had been partly covered in steam. Lifelessness seemed to fill his face — his eyelids were like lead, drooped halfway closed, and there were purple-blue bags under his eyes. He looked paler than usual and the lines around his mouth pointed down, like he’d spent his entire life frowning.
Exhaling so deeply it almost hurt his lungs, Sherlock slowly slid his legs into a fresh pair of grey cotton pants and pulled on his favourite navy joggers that had become relatively ratty over the years. There was no way he was going to wear one of his dress shirts right now. His muscles and bones were far too tired to even consider struggling with buttons and the ultra clingy fabric, so he wrangled a plain charcoal coloured t-shirt onto his body, which had started to tremble from the cold. Sherlock bent over slightly and ruffled the excess amounts of water out of his curls, droplets spraying the walls.
Shaking and exhausted, he swung the bathroom door open, sighing with relief as the warm air from the rest of the flat greeted him. The floor was still cold on his bare feet, so he shuffled down the hallway and through the kitchen to the sitting room. He moved quicker than he thought he could, which was comforting at the time. There was a blanket on the sofa and he snatched it up, wrapping it around his shoulders. He flopped down onto the cushions, his teeth chattering involuntarily as he absorbed the heat from the thick fabric.
Quietly, Sherlock sat bundled up, staring at the fireplace, a large fire burning bright and hot. It was easier to focus on the fire and all of the colours roaring inside of it. And it made it easier to ignore the man who had taken up residence in his black, leather chair.
This was a game Sherlock had always been better at, and always won — not that there was really anything to win. It had to have been at least sixteen minutes and four seconds before the other man decided to speak and break the silence that had somehow grown deafening.
“So, brother mine,” the man spoke, clearing his throat and trying to make eye contact with Sherlock. “Are you quite ready to leave, yet?”
Reluctantly, Sherlock slowly turned his gaze to his brother, one of his eyes beginning to twitch. But he didn’t reply. Instead, his heart started to race painfully and violently in his chest, so hard it felt like his ribcage was going to shatter into pieces. All of a sudden, he couldn’t breathe — he felt like he was dying and he knew exactly what dying felt like. Breathing rapidly, he clutched his chest, clawing at the blanket tangled around him. His skin started to tingle and burn, and tears started to roll down his cheeks — first in big drops, and then in thin streaks that seemed like they’d never actually stop.
“Oh, God,” Sherlock wheezed. “I-I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe!”
He barely felt it when Mycroft’s hands grabbed at his own, frantic but with purpose and steadiness.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said firmly, trying to break through the anxiety like he was chipping away at ice. “Sherlock, focus on my hands on yours.”
Mycroft pressed his thumbs hard against the top of Sherlock’s hand — not hard enough to bruise or to even hurt, just hard enough that he could feel it. When Sherlock didn’t show any reaction, Mycroft tapped his thumbs against Sherlock’s skin in a firm, rhythmic manner, trying to regulate his system. He tapped to the pace of a regular heartbeat and Sherlock’s fingers jerked in response.
Within seconds, Sherlock gripped Mycroft’s hands tightly — like Mycroft was a life vest and he had to hold on for dear life so that he didn’t lose grip and drown in the ocean of anxiety. Slowly, Sherlock began tapping his thumbs in time with Mycroft, focusing as hard as he possibly could, breathing in deeply and exhaling for two seconds longer. His chest still hurt — pain seemed to radiate into his collarbones because of the strain he had felt — but at least he could breathe again, shaky as it may be. Through he was reluctant, due to sheer humiliation, Sherlock locked eyes with his big brother and nodded in silent thanks. But he didn’t let go. Not yet.
The last time Mycroft had to do this was after Serbia. His brother stayed with him on and off for months when the anxiety and the nightmares seemed to hit him. It happened in waves. For a long time, he was fine, and then it would all crash down around him. And Mycroft was there — he was always there. Out of all the methods they had painstakingly tried, this was the one that seemed to help the most. Something about the rhythmic tapping pulled him out of his anxiety. He might never know why, but it didn’t really matter.
“John is…” Sherlock trailed off. “He’s hurt.” He tightened his grip slightly. “A-and there’s nothing I c-can do about it.”
“You can be there for him,” Mycroft replied with a soft, sympathetic smile that would have shocked anybody who worked for him.
“But it’s my fault,” Sherlock whimpered, fighting back tears.
Sherlock closed his eyes and tears snuck out, wetting his cheeks again. This was the feeling he’d been trying so hard to avoid, but if he was honest with himself, he’d been feeling it all day — it had just made him numb for a while. But he still felt it. He felt it in his bones. John could die — and it was Sherlock’s fault. All Sherlock wanted was for John to survive, even if it meant he blamed Sherlock, too. Even if he hated him. That was more bearable than the thought of John dying.
“Sherlock, look at me,” Mycroft spoke softly, and Sherlock sniffled, opening his eyes to look at his brother. “This is not your fault. You didn’t even know you had a sister, let alone what she was capable of.”
“But I should have!” Sherlock broke. “It’s my job to know!”
“I made sure you didn’t,” Mycroft sighed, shame visible in his eyes. “If I thought f—”
“I don’t blame you, Mycroft.”
“Perhaps you should.”
“I’ll only blame you if you don’t find her.”
Sniffling and trying to clear his nose, Sherlock hastily released his brothers hands and stood up, needing to move around, needing to break free from the intensity of the conversation. It was all starting to be too much.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft began. “What I said…what I’ve always said…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “About feelings and sentiment.” He paused, staring at Sherlock’s back. “I was wrong.”
Sherlock slightly twisted his neck, his face to the side, barely able to see his brother out of the corner of his eye. Anything more would have been difficult for Sherlock to process.
“And I’m sorry. Please,” he nearly pleaded. “Let me take you to John.”
Without fully turning around and facing Mycroft, Sherlock minutely nodded his head in agreement.
“Good,” Mycroft said. “Do what you need to do, I’ll wait in the car downstairs.”
Mycroft used his umbrella to push himself up off the sofa and started toward the door. As he briskly approached the stairs, Sherlock abruptly spoke.
“Mycroft?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said softly — so softly he had barely heard himself say the words.
They smiled affectionately at each other — a brotherly moment that happened more often than people realized — and then Mycroft wandered out of the room, Sherlock listening to his heavy footsteps on the stairs.
There wasn’t much he needed to do. He just needed to breathe for a few minutes. Sherlock wasn’t sure he was ready for this. To see John laying in a hospital bed, wires and needles and bandages all over his broken body. Of course, over the years he had seen John get injured, but it had never been like this. It had never been this close. He had never seen John so close to death. It paralyzed Sherlock to think of his life without John — he could almost feel the blood in his veins turn ice cold at the thought.
Trying to break free of his thoughts, Sherlock went into his room and began stuffing clothes into a big duffel bag. If he was going to go to the hospital to see John, there was no way he was going to leave John’s side — unless John specifically asked him to. He also shoved a few medical textbooks, a stack of cold case files, and his laptop, into the bag.
With a deep breath (or five), Sherlock zipped up his duffel and swung it over his shoulder. Before he left the flat, he took a look around.
For some reason, it felt like this would be the last time he’d see Baker Street. Like it wouldn’t be the same when he returned — hopefully with John.
Or maybe, everything would be exactly the same, and that was more than Sherlock could bear to think about.