Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes was quite comfortable with the way his brain functioned. Sure, he often struggled to find the right words, or the right timing, or missed the subtleties of human communication. He was easily overwhelmed and struggled to be fully present in the real world. But Sherlock would nevertheless assert that his mind was the best part of him.
He knew how to manage it, how to keep it sharp, and focus on the things that matter. He understood people–not in the same way others did–but he could predict behavior, motivations, and sometimes even emotions. He could focus so deeply on something that nothing else in the world exists, even his own body.
He’s solved cases that stumped Scotland Yard for months, he’s found a routine that almost completely prevents slips into the blackest depressions. He had a business in a field he excelled in, with his two closest friends in the world. As a child, he never would have imagined making friends this close, loyal, and unabashedly real.
In short, Sherlock’s mind was a well-oiled, frequently inspected machine that Sherlock had studied harder than any case in his entire career. He understands it, accepts it, and sometimes even loves it.
Until it changes. Until it's no longer in his control, but is instead a wild racehorse flying off the track and into the forest, as its rider clings on for dear life. Until his body and mind are no longer in agreement, and reality itself seems to slip from his desperate, clinging grasp.
Until one chilly evening in the pub.
~~~
“Oh fuck off, you have not!” John gasped as Stammo burst into hearty laughter.
“I swear it’s true!” Nadia cut in, eyes bright with amusement at John’s disbelief, “I have a video!” She pulled out her phone and began flicking through pictures to locate the aforementioned sky-diving-Stammo evidence. She held it slightly back from her face, as if she was beginning to develop farsighted vision–likely a result of age and genetics.
“See?’ Stammo said, gesturing to the photo, as the bar lights flickered above.
“Wow, AI is getting better!” Mariana said, nudging John playfully. Mariana’s face was flushed from the few drinks she’d had that evening.
“I nearly shit myself for that!” Stammo gasped, “And you’re accusing me of faking it?”
“Hey, hey, hey!” Mariana said, throwing up her hands in front of her, “John’s the doctor, not me!”
“Oh my God-” Nadia gasped, before bursting into laughter. John gave a long, exaggerated sigh.
“You can laugh,” He said to Sherlock, “That was a good one…”
“I don’t wish to mock your failed career,” Sherlock said, glancing toward Mariana as if she’d give him any indication of whether his reason was a valid concern or a rude excuse. Truthfully, he’d taken long enough to process the joke in the loud, crowded room that by the time he would’ve laughed, it had been five seconds too long, and drunk John would certainly make fun of his hesitation.
Mariana said something he couldn’t hear through his ear defenders, although it was three…maybe four words? And ended in an ‘ah’ sound. Whatever it was made John laugh and slap his knee.
“Loosen up, mate!” John said, “You know what, another round! On me!”
“Weren’t you just complaining about the cost of living in London rising over the last year?” Sherlock asked.
“That was sober John,” John said, downing the rest of his beer, “Drunk John knows what life’s really about!”
“Alcohol consumption?” Sherlock asked, as John stood up and walked over to the bar, only swaying in place slightly. Sherlock had seen him much more drunk, but also much more sober. It was amusing so long as John didn’t wake up too hungover to work the next morning.
“No!” John shouted over his shoulder, “Friendship!”
“God, I can’t with him,” Mariana giggled, covering her face, “That was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
John came back to the table with the first two drinks, which he handed to Nadia and Sherlock, who happened to be sitting closest to the bar itself. It was a Rum and Coke, stronger than the usual beer Sherlock drank from time to time. Nevertheless, he knew alcohol would loosen the tension of social interaction and potentially slow his mind a bit, so he downed a few mouthfuls in rapid succession.
“Ayyy, and here we are!!!” John said, bringing the rest of the drinks to the table.
“You’ll regret this tomorrow,” Mariana said, “You’re already three beers in.”
“That is tomorrow-John’s problem!” He laughed, “Sherls, we oughta do more drunk Mailbags!”
“Oh God, no,” Sherlock said, forcing down another mouthful of the strong drink, and inhaling burning air through his nose.
“Come on, the listeners would love it!” John said, “I can see the comments now!”
“You would probably spill all your private information and dox us all,” Mariana said, a smile pricking at her lips.
“They already know our address,” John complained.
“Do you want random calls on your phone asking you if Sherlock’s ever seen your dick?” Stammo asked.
“Fiiiiiine, I’ll edit it sober, how’s that?” John asked.
“That could be acceptable…But I reserve the right to listen before you post it.” Sherlock said.
“Ditto,” Mariana said.
The warmth in his chest was spreading as Sherlock leaned an elbow on the table. He pulled down his ear defenders. Sure, it was loud, but somehow the world was much more bearable when he was drunk. He felt like he was about to belch, but the feeling refused to emerge, so Sherlock placed his fist over his mouth to shield the others from what was certain to be loud.
“Christ, I almost forgot to tell you!” Stammo said, “We’re adopting a dog!”
“Oh!” Mariana squealed, “What kind? Do you have a name picked out?”
Nadia went phone searching again, as the feeling in Sherlock’s chest turned into a hot wave of nausea. He felt sudden sweat clinging to the skin of his face. Had it been hot in the pub before?
“She’s gonna be Daisy. Daisy Ray!” Nadia said, showing a picture of a young, lanky, yellow dog.
“Her initials are D.R.” Stammo explained, “So when we come home, we can shout ‘Is there a Doctor in the house?’”
John burst out laughing. Sherlock tried to laugh too, but as he did, he felt the room shift slightly, as if his perception of space were not the reality. That was very odd. He didn’t usually feel this off so soon after drinking. He put his hands down flat on the table in front of him. He pressed them down against the wood to be certain they wouldn’t visibly shake.
“When she gets in trouble, you can threaten to take her license away!” Mariana cried, “Or you can ask for prescription cuddles!”
The oos and awws blurred into a sort of static that was somehow the most terrifying thing yet. Sherlock looked down at his hands, which were the only true clear thing in his vision, the rest sort of blurring into irrelevance.
“‘Eight years of school, and you never learned not to eat the neighbor’s garbage?” John asked as if speaking to the imaginary dog. Sherlock’s stomach rolled as another hot flash overtook his body, this time so intense he felt certain everyone else could see his face glowing with heat.
“Going to the toilet,” He told John as she shakily got out of his seat and made a beeline for the Men’s toilet’s on the other side of the Volunteer.
“Already told you, you don’t have to tell me!” John called, “I can make deductions too, y’know!”
Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him as he fixed his eyes on the metal door handle which he yanked open the second he reached it. He heard them laugh, maybe about him, probably about the dog. When the door shut, and Sherlock was alone in the little dark washroom, he truly, completely panicked.
This wasn’t like the sensory overload he had from crowded spaces and overwhelming environments. If he had to describe it, he’d say it was akin to the adrenaline rush of a chase, but without the thrill or the motivation. He leaned against the wall as he breathed in desperate, fast, gasps.
The faster he breathed, the more his limbs tingled with numbing pins and needles. Even his face felt detached, as if his nerves didn’t really connect to anything. He was thankful the bathroom was empty, but it likely wouldn’t remain so if previous pub visits were any indication.
The worst thing he could imagine was someone seeing him in whatever this state was. He had suspicions but…but he needed to do some research first. He locked himself in the first stall, which was thankfully clean-ish, although he had to flush some of the toilet paper left on the seat. It was claustrophobic, but at least it was private.
He pulled out his phone with shaky hands, almost feeling as though he’d drop it in the toilet from the sweat building on every inch of his skin. He had to close his eyes and swallow hard as another flash of heat overcame him.
When he felt he could bear it, he opened google and typed, “feeling hot can’t breathe shaking” The first result confirmed his initial suspicions. This was a panic attack.
But he’d had those before, hadn’t he? Flashes of adrenaline with nausea and chest pain that went away after a few minutes were not entirely uncommon during stressful cases. But this was so much worse, engrossing, overwhelming. It took over every sense, every thought, every movement.
He didn’t feel safe alone in a public bathroom trying to catch his breath.
Not that he’d feel safe anywhere, but more than anything, he longed to go home. He wanted to be okay and feel normal again. He didn’t know how much longer he could take it. He dry heaved over the toilet bowl, but nothing came up. He knew it wasn’t real nausea, but he needed the relief of vomiting all of the bad things out. Maybe that would change the feeling.
He needed to leave, but he couldn’t bear the idea of anyone seeing him like this. Especially not John. John, who thought of him as some sort of superhuman, genius, prodigy. John whose eyes looked at him with amazement and fascination as he explained his methods. John, whose compliments stuck hard in his mind for months after they were spoken.
He pushed out of the stall. He had to get home, he decided. It was the only way he’d ever calm down. He went straight to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. It cleared his vision a bit, but when he stared into the mirror he could tell he looked off. He just had to pray with every forgotten scrap of religion left in the crevices of his mind that John would be too drunk to notice.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself. He still shook, and the feeling in his chest was unbearable, but he wasn’t completely lost to panic. At least for the moment.
So he left the bathroom, letting the door swing closed behind him, and as he passed by the table on his way out the door, he gave a quick nod to the group.
“I’m tired and going home for the night,” He informed them. Stammo booed, and John rolled his eyes, not looking directly at Sherlock.
“You alright?” Mariana asked, pushing herself off her chair, and grabbing her purse as if to follow him.
“Of course, I am just tired after a long week,” He said, turning to leave.
“Me too,” Mariana sighed, “It’s been lovely, but I think I’m heading back too.”
“Come on, John, one more round!” Stammo said, “I’ll pay!”
“See you tomorrow, assuming I wake up!” John called as Mariana pulled on her coat, and handed Sherlock his. With the heat barring into his skin, it’d completely slipped his mind. He tried to walk toward the door without looking at Mariana. She’d ask questions, and Sherlock could not handle small talk just then.
“Sherlock,” She said as they burst out of the pub and into the chilly night air, “You don’t look well,”
“I know, I promise I am alright,” He said, not looking directly at her, and walking swiftly toward the door.
“Too much to drink?” She asked sympathetically.
“I believe so, yes,” He answered, unlocking the door with shaking hands, and nearly flying toward the stairs, “Good night Mrs. Hu–Mariana–”
“You are drunk,” She giggled. Sherlock was already at the top of the stairs with the key in the keyhole. His hands were shaking harder now as another wave of hot nausea overcame him. He finally managed to open the door, and slammed it behind him. He didn’t usually lock it if he went home before John but he’d watched his flatmate grab the key before they left that evening so he clicked the lock shut.
Archie, as usual, scampered up to the door to sniff Sherlock’s hands. He rested his hand on the dog’s soft head and found it rather comforting. Perhaps dog ownership was a neurotypical excuse to stim with fur texture.
He went into his room, and shut the door before going over to Graham’s cage where he stuck his finger in to stroke the soft grey fur. Each stroke was an inhale, then an exhale.
John wasn’t home…and he’d hidden a pack of cigarettes under his chair in the living room. He paused for a second to consider whether it was worth breaking his flatmate’s specific rule of no smoking in the flat. But God, he needed it. He needed it more than he’d ever needed it before.
The decision was made, and he retrieved them from the living room. He moved Graham’s cage to the kitchen on a counter where he sometimes put him for better sunlight exposure. It was out of reach of Archie, and he wouldn’t be in the way. He couldn’t have his favorite small creature inhaling secondhand smoke, could he?
He closed the door of his room and opened the little window next to his bed before he lit the cigarette and shakily brought it to his lips. It was going to be a very long night.