Three Days...

by Bellwether3

Summary:

John and Mariana receive a text from Sherlock, explaining that he will be out of work for three days. No warning. No elaboration.
The loyal doctor is determined to figure out what is up with Sherlock, why he’s isolating in his room, and why the period of three days.
The answer takes him by surprise.

Chapter 1

I will be out of commission for the next three business days (Tuesday morning–Thursday evening) If you need me, no you do not.
Best regards,
Sherlock Holmes

~~~

“You’re seeing this, right?” Mariana asked, skipping their normal morning greeting as she let John into 221A exactly four minutes after 10am.

“Seeing…?” John asked, prompting her to elaborate.

“The text!” She said, gesturing for John to look at his mobile phone, which protruded rather precariously from his left jean pocket. Hey grabbed it and starred at the message for a moment, eyebrows furrowed and jaw tight. “And…?” She asked, finally.

“He hasn’t said anything else to you?” He asked, face portraying the exact confusion Mariana felt within herself. John started pacing towards the kitchen, in long aimless strides, one hand running through his thick hair.

“No, he seemed totally fine last night, where do you think he went?” John asked, “I mean, if he left last night, he could be halfway across the country by now!”

“Assuming no airplanes were involved,” Mariana added, arms folded. John glared.

“Think, when did we last hear from him?” John asked, pacing faster now, his agitation increasing.

“Around three am I heard him jumping in the room above me,” Mariana sighed.

“Hah, yeah he does that,” John sighed, “I better check if he left anything,”

“I’ll text Gwen in the meantime, maybe she sent him off somewhere confidential,” Mariana said, doubting her own words, but appreciating the way a bit of tension melted from John’;s shoulders at the suggestion.

~~~

The flat doors didn’t lock…or at least didn’t lock very well. With enough shaking and jiggling one could get the handles open, as they once discovered when John had locked them both out of the bathroom.

He was pleasantly surprised to find that Sherlock’s door was not only unlocked, but easily pushed (His frequent rearrangement of furniture in the room had been known to trap John outside on more than one occassion!)

“Sherlock?” He asked out of habit, about to turn on the light when he heard the rustle of a sudden movement coming from the bed.

Oh, he wasn’t missing; he was ill.

How had John not thought of it before? Three days to recover, avoiding the worry of others–it made perfect sense for Sherlock to send that message.

Deciding not to turn on the light in case Sherlock was already overstimulated, he blinked quickly to adjust his eyes to the darkness. Sherlock was not lying in bed as John had expected, he was seated, legs loosely bent in from of him, with his arms wrapped around his knees. He rocked, slightly in place, gaze fixed firmly on the closest wall. As John’s eyes adjusted more, he could see eyes firmly shut.

“Y’alright?” He whispered as softly as he could, knowing the answer already.

If Sherlock was unable to speak, he could sign yes or no, both of which John could recognise. Thankfully, he spoke.

“Please leave me be,” His voice was low. Controlled. Careful. Intentional.

John watched as a violent shiver ran through his friend’s body, and he burried his head in his knees, taking a deep, shaking breath.

“Can I first check if you have a fever?” John asked, quietly, stepping closer, but not so close as to loom over Sherlock. His hand floated ready to feel Sherlock’s forehead the moment he gave the okay.

“I don’t,” Sherlock answered harshly, his voice muffled by his knees. John wondered if Sherlock’s bony knees made an uncomfortable pillow.

“Sorry, it’s my job to check,” John said, apologetically, lightly putting his hand on Sherlock’s forhead. He stiffened, but didn’t move away. He felt cold as ever–if a little clammy.

“No, your job is to stitch up war wounds,” Sherlock muttered, “If I get shot anytime soon, I’ll give you a call,”

“C’mon mate, if you’re ill I’d like to help,”

“I’m quite sick Watson,” He said, “So stay away please,”

“My immune system is strong,” John insisted, wondering if he’d have to spoon-feed Sherlock soup himself.

“What’re your symptoms?” He asked, “No fever, but you seem to have some chills. Do you have a sore throat? Any specific pain?”

“Too many questions,”

“Fine,” John said, “Are you sick?”

“In a sense,”

“Are you congested?”

“No,”

“Coughing?”

“No,”

“Nauseous?”

“Extremely,”

“Ah,” John said. If it was a stomach bug, perhaps Sherlock didn’t want anyone to see the less appealing gastrointestinal symptoms, “Sherlock, I undertsand feeling weird about it, but you don’t need to be ashamed, because trust me! I’ve seen so much worse in my time-”

“Oh, for fucks sake,” Sherlock groaned, his face finally making an appearance, “I’m not suffering a viral infection Watson, I’m experiecing a severe anxiety attack!!!”

“Oh shit,” John said, regretting how he’d impeded on Sherlock’s space. That probably made things worse, didn’t it? “I’m sorry, uh, I can leave or, erm– if you want to like, I dunno talk or–or…what was it you said? Hold hands? Talk about emotions? Uhh, sorry that wasn’t-”

“You’re unprepared for this sort of illness, as I expected,” Sherlock sighed.

“What normally helps?” John said quickly, willing himself to keep his big mouth shut.

“A certain Class A drug you’ve forbidden me to keep in the flat,” Sherlock answered shortly, “That’s why this is an experiment,”

“How exactly is it an experiment?” John asked.

“Because the last time I got through an attack this severe without substances,” Sherlock began slowly, taking slow, calculated breaths between every couple of words, “I was 14, and it took three days to recover,”

“Oh,” John whispered, unsure how to respond.

“Don’t sound so pitying, Watson, just leave me be,”

So John turned-tail, and left the room.

~~~

He’d been gone for less than ten minutes, and Sherlock already missed his presence so much it hurt.

When justifying his drug use in the past, he’d often looked back on the times when he’d gone through these awful feelings without them, and smile at how much luckier he was to never have to go through all that again.

Of course Watson had to shake things up.

Not that being clean didn’t have its benefits–withdrawl was always a messy affair–but in moments like these, Sherlock longed for than anything for the feeling of a needle–

Fuck, he needed to not be alone right now. He could feel his pulse pounding in his head harder than before as his limbs become so numb he couldn’t even move his own fingers.

“Don’t panic,” He whispered, knowing it was a bit too late for that, “Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic,”

He flung his legs over the side of his bed and pushed himself towards to the door, pausing again the doorframe to catch his breath. When had it started going out of control??? He stood there, wishing he’d just let Watson stay. He wasn’t sure what exactly he needed, what could help, or why the hell he wanted Watson there so badly–he just did.

He pushed open the door before the thoughts could stop him.

“Hi,” He said, puffing out the word like a breath. Watson sat on the couch, looking up with wide eyes.

“You al-” He began asking.

“No,” Sherlock answered practically falling onto the other end of the couch, leaving a couple of feet between them. He breathed as if he’d run for miles to get there.

“Um,” John said, shifting in his seat, “What can I do?”

“Stop being awkward,” Sherlock muttered, “It’s just an illness like any other,”

“Okay, okay,” John said quickly, holding his hands up in surrender, “Have you had anything to eat recently?”

“Don’t ask that,” Sherlock groaned.

“Well you must need something,” John said, “Hunger makes nausea worse,”

“Can’t eat when I’m like this,” Sherlock answered, remembering awful feeling of the last time, when his mother tried to force him to eat an awful sandwich.

“You said it lasts three days,” John said.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” John whispered.

“Spare me the lecture, Watson,” He said, “I’ve heard it all,”

“Yes but, it’s dangerous to go long periods of time on a completely empty stomach, I mean, not even something small? Bland?”

“I’ll begin to try tomorrow,” Sherlock answered, “No promises,”

“So uh,” John said, “If you don’t mind me asking…what normally ends it? What happens after three days?”

“I am no longer able to stay awake. My body must give in to sleep regardless of how panicked or diregulated I may be.”

“Christ, that’s unhealthy,” John muttered.

“It’s probably healthier than dru–”

“Yes, yes,” John said, waving his hand.

Sherlock tightened his grip around his knees as he felt the swirling nausea surround him once more. It was getting worse, and there was nothing he could do.

What if he was wrong this time? A body likely changed in fifteen odd years. What if it now took four days to get out? Or five? He couldn’t go that long without food, at least without some pretty bad side effects…and what about sleep? There was more than a slight chance of hallucinations, or potentially delusions, memory loss, microsleeps, immune system collapse, secondary infections–

“Sherlock!” John said, gripping his shoulders to tightly he nearly shot out of his seat, “I’m sorry I grabbed you, but you need to breathe, do you hear me? You have to breathe. Shit, I’m not being a great example am I…gimme a sec, then follow my breathing…”

Sherlock almost laughed at John’s attempts to be calm.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” John said, too quickly to be convincing, “You’re not…you’re not going crazy, or whatever your mind is telling you, you’re right here in Baker Street, you’re safe here, nothing is coming for you, nothing is wrong with you, you are safe. What are you Sherlock?”

“Safe,” He huffed out, cringing at the way he sounded like a school child.

“Yes, that is true. It is true, and everything you’re feeling will pass,”

“When?” Sherlock asked desperately, clinging onto John like the only lifeline in the world.

Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think-

He kept telling himself over and over. The thought he needed to escape from. The fear that had kept him up all night and reduced him to almost nothing, practically being held by his flatmate.

“Soon,” John whispered, laying his forehead gently on Sherlock’s, “Very soon,”

No time could be soon enough.

Chapter 2: Day 2

Notes:

TW for disordered eating, accidental self-harm, and general poor coping

Mariana clicked on the hall light as she left her bedroom. It was still dark, and she knew from experience that if she didn’t, she would walk face-first into a wall between here and the kitchen sink. As she stepped into the kitchen, making a beeline for the cupboard that stored the glasses, she stopped suddenly, as the feeling of being watched overtook her.

She turned, used to quickly reminding herself that she was alone in her flat before returning to her usual nighttime routines,

“Uh, Sherlock?” She asked, feeling almost as though the detective would disappear as she spoke, having been nothing more than a sleep-induced hallucination.

“Hm?” He asked, looking up at her, dark shadows cast under his eyes. His eyes looked somewhere between sad and pained as he nodded his head slowly in acknowledgement of her presence. Her stomach flipped uncomfortably. Something was clearly off.

“What are you doing?” She opted to say, hoping that it wouldn’t cause any upset or strain on him.

“Trying not to have a panic attack,” He answered, casually, but with a directness indicating he was dead serious. She noted that each breath he took was very focused. Intentional. Planned. He wasn’t joking.

“Sherlock, I sincerely hope you’re okay,” She began, “But why exactly can’t you do that upstairs?”

“Because John is asleep,” He replied, leaning his head against the palm of one hand.

“Okay?” She said, trying to piece together an image with the little pieces she’d been given.

“In my bed,”

“...Sherlock, what?” Her heart nearly fell out of her chest in surprise at the sudden confession. Sherlock looked at her with something akin to disappointment in her reaction. She tried to settle her face to one of curiosity rather than judgment…but seriously, what the hell?

“Long story, I’m trying not to worry him anymore than I already have,” Sherlock continued, chewing the skin between his thumb and forefinger with what looked like a concerning amount of force.

“Hey, stop,” She said, gesturing to his hand. He pulled it away as if he hadn’t realized what he’d been doing. He stared at the spot he’d been chewing, watching as tiny pinpricks of blood seeped up through his skin.

“Apologies, I’ll go in the stairway,” He said, standing slowly and delibrately, as if he was afraid of losing balance on the journey to his feet.

“No, stay here!” She said, grabbing his arm to ensure he didn’t bolt. He gave an almost imperceptible flinch under her hand and she allowed it to slowly fall as he turned back to face her.

He was pale, almost grey, and his eyes looked heavy and bloodshot either from drugs or tears–and she didn’t know which she was more equipped to handle.

John had texted her an update that Sherlock was ill, with no elaboration. Actually, come to think of it, he hadn’t used the word ‘ill’, he’d simply said “Sherlock is not feeling well, and needs time to rest”. Perhaps he meant mentally, rather than physically.

Neither explained sleeping together.

“M-Mariana…” He said, as if struggling to get the word out.

“Sit down, what do you need?” She asked, wringing her hands, and looking for something that might help. She knew how to help people calm down when suffering from anxiety, but Sherlock had overlapping conditions. Was this related to autism? Depression? Something else?

“Water?” He asked, and she rushed to the kitchen, getting two glasses of water.

“Did you leave John a note or anything before you left?” She asked, “Or is he going to worry that you’re gone?” she placed the first glass on her coffee table, as Sherlock’s hands looked a bit shaky.

 

“No…” Sherlock said, the word coming out more like a sigh.

“Um,” She ran through a sort of checklist in her mind she often used on herself when having an off day, or dealing with particularly stressful circumstances, “Have you eaten?”

“No,” He said immediately, eyes fixed on the glass of water, as if convincing himself to actually drink it.

“Well, would you like–”

“No,” He repeated, more forcefully this time. Marina shrank away.

“How long since you’ve had something?” She asked, finally.

“Around 30 hours,” He answered, eyes down.

“Sherlock, that’s-”

“Bad, I know, I don’t need you reminding me,” He spat out forcefully, pushing himself to his feet.

“Sherlock, wait, please!” Mariana said, scrambling after him, but the detective was already leaving out the front door.

As it slammed behind him, she flinched, wishing she’d moved faster. She considered following, but eventually resigned herself to staying put.

And what the hell did he mean John was in his bed?

~~~

Okay so John has slept in Sherlock’s bed, but in his defense, he hadn’t meant to. He’d spent the whole day going in and out of Sherlock’s room, trying to do something to help and failing each time. Eventually, Sherlock had told him to “either stay or go, just make up your bloody mind,” and so he stayed.

Apparently for longer than intended…

He hoped Sherlock had gotten some sleep before leaving, but of course, Sherlock had two modes: Concerningly long stretches of sleep and extended periods of insomnia. The fact he was gone likely indicated the second.

His whole body ached with the feeling of a long slumber. His mouth dry, he sat up to check the time. His phone told him it was 7:38 in the morning. As much as he wished to go back to sleep, he needed water, and might as well go back to his own room.

With any luck, Sherlock would be feeling better now that the first day had passed.

As he entered the kitchen, however, his hopes were dashed.

Sherlock stood by the window, breathing heavily as if he’d just run up the stairs. He was leaning slightly against the wall, but staring intensely outside. One hand was pressed against the edge of the window, while the other hung loosely at his side, trembling and practically shiny with a coat of sweat.

His body language tightened for a moment as John entered the room, but he did not turn away from the window.

“Sorr,y Sherls,” John whispered.

“You’re entitled,” Sherlock answered softly.

“What?” John asked.

“To sleep. Don’t let my anxieties stop you,” Sherlock said, “I assume at least, that’s what your apology was for?”

“No,” John said, “I mean, yeah kinda, I was more sorry that you’re still unwell,”

“My well-being is not your responsibility,” Sherlock said, finally turning towards his friend.

“Hm,” John hummed, taking it as an invitation to come closer, “Maybe not, but I want to help you–I should be helping you!”

“I’ve told you, Watson, three days, nothing can be done about it,”

“Can I ask something of you?” John asked, wondering if he was about to regret bringing it up.

“Maybe,” Sherlock said, eying him with what could only be described as suspicion.

“Eat something?” He asked, and upon seeing the betrayal on his friends face added, “Today at least?”

“Maybe,” Sherlock answered, “Not now.”

“Okay,” John answered, trying not to feel sick himself.

~~~

He was frozen.

He had to eat something. Watson had left out a box of crackers and some slices of apple on the counter and he had to eat them.

He also wanted desperately to make contact with his brother, or perhaps even AJ. Not that he’d tell either of them that his skin was crawling with ants and his stomach was consuming itself…he just wanted someone else in the world to acknowledge he existed.

He also needed water.

And maybe to throw up.

And probably to lie down.

He sat on the edge of the couch in the same place he’d been for nearly three hours, running through each option repeatedly in his mind.

Text Mycroft, then eat, then water, then puke, then lie down.

No, if he puked, he’d get out of eating altogether.

If he ate first, puking would hurt less.

Water, text, food, puke, or maybe not puke, then lie down.

Or maybe, lie down.

No that would make the nausea worse.

The best option might be to do so on the bathroom floor.

Not without water first.

Which required going to the kitchen.

With the food.

Which he should be eating.

He needed to text Mycroft.

~~~

A rapid knock at the door startled John out of his worried thoughts about the condition of his friend, who’d spent the entire morning in the living room, practically paralyzed with indecision. He’d tried to intervene twice, and gotten the cold shoulder first, and snapped at second.

John watched as a thin slip of turquoise construction paper slid under the door. He picked it up, and opened the fold to see Mariana’s neat handwriting.

You are Condially Invited to 221A Baker Street for a night of snacks and animal documentaries. Bring a friend/flatmate.

John opened the door before Mariana was halfway down the stairs.

“When?” He called.

“Anytime,” She smiled.

~~~

Sherlock had not managed to do anything on his list before John dragged him downstairs.

John and Mariana left space for him on the left side of the couch, with pillows and blankets practically everywhere one could conceivably need them. He settled in hesitantly, his stomach churning as he adjusted to the new location.

“Can we watch the one about pandas?” Mariana asked.

“Aw, look at the little guy,” John said, smiling at the baby panda in the thumbnail, looking at the camera with curiosity.

Sherlock bit down his urge to remind them that panda conservation required sinking millions of dollars into a species incredibly unfit for survival with little impact on its larger ecosystem, and that “cuteness” should not be the determining factor for a species' survival. Imagine a world in which appeal to humans was the key factor in evolutionary fitness–ecosystems would collapse and food chains would fold under the weight of human obsession with their place in the center of the universe.

“Sherls, you with us?” John asked, nudging him gently, with almost no actual contact.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, nodding.

“I’ll get snacks,” Mariana said, jumping up as the video began to play.

Sherlock’s stomach turned at the mere suggestion.

“Just keep breathing,” John whispered so softly that Sherlock could barely make out the words. Mariana didn’t acknowledge the interaction as she returned, although she likely noticed.

John’s words were easier said than done, but Sherlock kept each inhale steady and rythmic, trying to soothe John’s concerns.

“Popcorn, crackers, orange slices, and carrots,” She said, smiling as she laid the items on the coffee table in front of them.

His stomach did a few flipped, filling his veins with seething, burning wave of panic. He gripped the edges of the couch tightly, certain his knuckles were white.

“I’ll be back,” He remembered to say before fleeing the living room in favor of Mariana’s bathroom. John, immediately sensing something was wrong, jumped up from the couch to follow, “I want to be alone,” Sherlock snapped.

He was no stranger to sitting on the cold tile of bathroom floors. Whether drugs, panic, illness, or injury landed him there, the hard icy ground of a hidden place was a small comfort. An offer of familiarity amongst the chaos.

He wasn’t going to be sick–he wasn’t.

He was only sick when things reached such a level that he could do absolutely nothing else to regulate.

It’d hurt so bad with his stomach empty.

He put a hand over his mouth and felt uneasy breathing mocking him against his palm.

Only one more day, then he could say goodbye to this hell.

If of course, it followed the pattern. If it didn’t, he was in quite a lot of trouble, wasn’t he? One couldn’t survive forever without food. Without sleep. Without one’s sanity.

He ought to be able to just think about it. Think about it directly instead of hiding from the thougths that had reduced him to a trembling mess on the washroom floor.

Imagining the floor swallowing him whole, he laid his head against the cool tile. He willed himself to dissapear.

Nothing happened.

He could hear footsteps.

“Hey Sherlock, uh, you alright in there?” John called from the other side of the door, “Sorry um, obviously not…I mean, I’m sorry mate, was it… was it the food? Cause we can move it, or have something else…I just really want you to be okay. I think if you eat something you’ll feel at least a little better? Right?”

Suddenly overcome by a crashing wave of guilt deep in his already churning gut, Sherlock pushed himself towards the door.

“I am sorry,” He said, cracking it open, “I am overreacting, and causing you to worry. I wished to avoid this.”

“Sherlock it’s okay,” John said, “But please, please try to eat something,”

“I’ll…I can try,” He said, mentally committing himself to one single orange slice.

John looked a bit more relieved, but still very concerned.

“Come out whenever you’re ready,” He said, turning away and allowing Sherlock another moment to gather himself.

As he returned to the living room, Mariana and John both offered nervous but sympathetic smiles.

He stole off to the bathroom twice more before the evening’s end.

Chapter 3

Notes:

TW: Self-harm (biting), brief discussions of suicide and eating problems

He felt a gasp rise in his throat that he quickly muffled with the palm of his hand. John had ended up in his bed again, “accidentally,” although Sherlock could tell the difference between John’s genuine forgetful nature and an intentional decision. Sherlock wasn’t complaining, even if John’s breathing was obnoxiously uneven, it made him feel a little more human.

Sherlock had managed maybe ten minutes of his eyes closed and mind drifting before the panic had spiked back up with a new ferocity. At this point, he knew there was nothing he could do to hold himself in bed any longer and with as much gentleness as he could muster, he slid out of bed.

John didn’t stir, so he must’ve done something right.

He slipped into the bathroom and sank into what was now a familiar place on the bathroom floor. His heart was sinking at the realization that he would never again be able to see this floor without remembering the awful feeling of panic in which he was trapped.

Day three had always been the worst. It was the day he had so often turned to drugs, no matter how many promises he’d made. It was when the pain of hunger became unbearable. It was when the fear of death became overwhelming.

One could not last without food or sleep. The body did not accept that violent deprivation.

…Could he? No, if he smoked here, John would smell it, and as much as he longed to, the idea of going outside alone right now filled him with such terror he could barely move his fingers. He wished he could cry, sometimes that eased the tension inside. Sometimes.

He shook his hands then his full arms as hard as he could put it wasn’t enough to take away the pressure tightening around his body as he sat staring at the ceiling and begging for it to be over.

Pain. He needed pain. If he couldn’t pull himself out any other way, pain would have to be the thing to force him out.

He took an arm and rolled up his sleeve, biting down with all his strength on the soft skin. He let go and bit down again a few inches up. It’d bruise. It’d be a disgusting reminder of his weakness. But the invisible rope around him loosened with each shock of pain.

He bit the other arm now, working his way from shoulder to wrist as far as he could reach. He thanked whatever deity was out there for his flexibility. The sting of his teeth and the burn after he released his grip softened the ache in his mind into a dull groan…something of little importance.

“Sherlock, what the actual fuck?!?”

Oh, he had miscalculated.

John looked as though he were halfway between crying and punching a wall. Sherlock shrunk in on himself a bit as he felt the dread slowly slipping back around his body, its blackend claws gripping his heart.

“John…I don’t wish to alarm you…” He said, “I was merely attempting to self-regulate–”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” John sighed sinking against the wall and onto the floor next to Sherlock, his body language conveying defeat. “You can’t–you were hurting yourself!”

“I’m aware…that was the intention,” Sherlock answered, feeling as though he’d been through this all before.

“You…wanted to hurt yourself?” John asked, his eyes growing wide, almost panicked.

“You seem to be conflating self-injury with suicidal ideat-”

“Well it’s a little bloody hard not to!” John said throwing his hands in the air, “I mean, Sherls, do you know how terrifying it is to find your best mate on the floor attempting to mutilate his own arms???”

“I see,” Sherlock said, guilt gripping him almost as tightly as anxiety.

“I just…why? I’ve given you patience, and time, and I figured eventually you would explain but clearly I have to do something here so why? Why are you so stressed you’re physically ill? Why are you unable to eat or sleep? Why are you trying to hurt yourself on our bathroom floor?”

“I…I don’t…” Sherlock began speaking before he knew what words to say, “I’m not sure if I know myself.”

“How do you not know? What’s the worry? The thing eating at your mind that makes you feel this way? How did it start?”

“One question at a time please, Watson,” Sherlock sighed.

“Fine. What are you worried about?” John said, dropping his arms in exasperated defeat.

“How I have no eaten nor slept in over 48 hours,” Sherlock answered.

“Okay, what about before that?” John asked.

“It was…I woke up and a wave came crashing down over me; it wasn’t anything internal, but rather my body rebelling against my every thought. I sent that message because I knew you’d be more upset with increasing drug dependence than my disappearance for a few days.”

“That’s… worrying,” John said, “I mean…I don’t want you to just vanish like that, mate, I want to be able to help…”

“I suppose,” Sherlock said, feeling as though he’d had this conversation before, far too many times. With Mycroft. With AJ. With Mother. With Lestrade.

“I’m just so frustrated,” John admitted finally, “I want to help, but everything I do seems to make it worse,”

“No,” Sherlock said, “Everything you do has little impact. But were you not here, I would being going through this alone, and that is decidedly a worse option.”

“I just can’t stand not being able to…solve it,”

“Ah, one of the reasons psychology is such a dead end,” Sherlock said, “It’s not like crime with a clear solution, beginning and end, motivation and goal.”

“I think I sort of understand,” John said slowly.

“I may be in the minority in the way I experience anxiety, or perhaps any emotion,” Sherlock admitted, trying to piece together in words in a way John could understand. “Thoughts, emotions, and physical sensations are all separate from one another. There is rarely ever a true cause and effect. When I experience mental stress, I do not immediately feel it physically, and when I feel physical stress, I do not always connect it to an emotional response.”

“That sounds…confusing…”

“Quite.”

They sat there in silence on the floor for a few moments before John finally looked at Sherlock.

“Okay, I need to get those cleaned.” He said, nodding to the places where Sherlock’s teeth had broken the skin.

“Will that hurt more?’ Sherlock asked, voice dull and strained.

“Do you want it to?” John asked anxiously.

“Hmm…” Sherlock hummed noncommittally. He was not certain.

“Then I’ll just use soap and water,” John said, wetting a wash cloth and gesturing for Sherlock to come closer.

The cold water was soft and soothing, and as John brushed it against his skin, Sherlock became very aware he had not had a shower since the onset of his anxiety. Perhaps removing the thick layer of sweat which clung to his skin would have a similar effect.

“John, I think I might like to shower after this,” He said, as John gently but firmly cleaned each place where the skin had broken/

“Hmmm,” John did not sound like he’d even heard at first, “Are you sure you’re alright to be alone right now, mate? I mean, I found you having a breakdown like ten minutes ago.”

“I despise the word breakdown Watson, I was completely in control of myself.” Sherlock said.

“Fine, you can shower,” John said, putting the washcloth down on the edge of the counter, “I’ll make breakfast. If you’re not out in the next fifteen minutes I’m coming in, okay?”

“Okay,” Sherlock answered.

John gave his best ‘don’t make me regret this’ glare, before leaving the bathroom.

~~~

Eleven minutes later as John spread butter on toast, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom in a towel and disappeared into his room. John wondered for a moment if he should have specified that Sherlock ought not to hide in his room after the shower, but his fears were soothed as Sherlock entered the kitchen a minute later.

“Stop starring at me,” Sherlock said as he sat down at the kitchen table, a slight tremor still visible in his folded hands.

“Sorry, uh,” John turned away and fixed all his attention on the toast. Sherlock’s behavior had him extremely on edge. There was a moment there where he’d genuinely considered taking him to the hospital. He’d known people who killed themselves. He couldn’t stop imagining Sherlock becoming one of them. It sent a shiver through his body and a wave of suppressed panic over his mind. He shook his head hard, as if that would clear out the thoughts.

“John,” His head snapped around at Sherlock’s voice. John. This was serious, “I’m sorry for worrying you…I want you to know…I just…I didn’t want to hurt myself. I wanted the panic to stop and that was just…the only thing i could think to do…”

Sherlock wasn’t looking at him, and sounded near tears. Despite the anxiety he felt around his friend’s safety, he found himself wanting nothing more than to comfort Sherlock.

“Hey, hey,” He said, putting down the knife and walking to the table, “It’s okay, right? Day three, remember? You’re almost through,”

“What if it doesn’t end?” Sherlock asked, eyes shining with emotions held at bay, “What if I can’t come out of it?”

“You have to try,” John said, feeling the anxiety in his own chest increase at the thought. He couldn’t imagine how much worse it must be for Sherlock. “Please, try to eat something.”

“Okay,” Sherlock whispered.

“Okay?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, “As in, you’ll eat something?”

“Okay.” Sherlock repeated, flinching as he nodded.

“Okay,” John said, handing him the first plate of toast.

He watched as Sherlock lifted the bread and took a small bite. A single tear fell down one cheek as he did so.

“Oh, Sherlock…” John whispered, putting a hand on Sherlock’s back. The detective didn’t protest, so John kept his hand there, slowly moving his thumb in what he hoped was a soothing motion.

Sherlock swallowed the small bite and John could feel him shiver. But he took another. And then another.

He’d eaten over half of the toast by the time he stood on shaky legs and pushed the plate away. It couldn’t have been many calories, but if he could eat no more, there was nothing John could do.

Sherlock had stumbled over to the couch, and was now looking at John expectantly.

“Want me to come over?” John asked, smiling.

“Obviously.” Sherlock answered.

~~~

As heavy as the food sat in his stomach, he felt as though something was finally calming inside. At least for the moment. Perhaps his fight-or-flight system had finally worn down, and he no longer had the energy for a panic response. That would be ideal.

He lay against John’s lap, with his head resting on one knee. The exhaustion was catching up to him, and now he’d eaten, he wanted nothing more than to sink into the oblivion of sleep.

“Tell me about something?” He asked, knowing John would oblige.

“Like what?” John asked.

“Anything,” Sherlock said.

John started talking about something football related, and Sherlock settled into a comfortable position (When was the last time any position had felt comfortable?) and closed his eyes.

He could feel the warmth of his every breath against John’s knee, and slowed them. His heart rate slowed too. He needed this. Needed sleep. Needed comfort. Needed to feel safe.

He couldn’t tell you when he drifted off, only that it was nearly two hours later when he woke to the sunrise.

“Hey,” John whispered as Sherlock opened his eyes.

Oh sweet relief, his limbs were heavy and his eyes were tired and he was alive again.

“I’m going back to sleep,” Sherlock said, standing up and moving towards his room. He looked back for a moment to see John’s face, lit with a smile.

He closed the door behind him.

Notes:

Oh boy oh boy oh boy
here we go again!
I just can't stop giving these guys my issues, can I?

I am currently living in the woods, so updates may be sporadic (Or I might do what i did last time and ignore every relationship and responsibility in my life til I finish. We'll see.)