The high profile case had not only drawn the whole of New Scotland Yard, but also reporters and crowds of people. Their case had involved a celebrity, though they were trying to keep the whole thing under wraps. The celebrity, Sherlock couldn't be bothered to remember his name, believed that he was being followed. Initially Sherlock dismissed the man's case, claiming that the stalker was probably just an obsessive fan or overzealous paparazzi photographer. He assumed the stalker didn't want to bring any actual harm to the celebrity and he told the man to increase his security and get a restraining order.
The celebrity returned though, in a drug induced state of paranoia. Sherlock was ready to kick the man out onto the street until he showed Sherlock his phone, which included texts from various unknown numbers that indicated the man was being watched VERY closely. There was no specific threat made to the celebrity, but the man could not be convinced of that. He believed that the stalker was one of his cleaners or assistants and that they were going to sneak up and kill him.
Sherlock had utilized his homeless network and did some research of his own, tracing the numbers to various phones that were not longer in use. He followed the celebrity at a distance one day, to try to collect data and determine who the stalker could be or what the stalker's motivation could be. In the end, it had been quite obvious.
The only person who was close enough to the celebrity to have their personal cell number, know the details of their daily schedule, but still have motive to stalk the man, was his ex-boyfriend. The celebrity was not openly gay and after his rise to stardom, he started dating another high profile celebrity, a woman, to further his popularity. His ex-boyfriend, hurt that he had been dumped, believed that the two of them were meant to be, so much so that he started stalking. Sherlock had involved Lestrade at this point, the celebrity agreeing to create a case against his ex boyfriend.
Unfortunately, the man's drug addiction continued to fuel his paranoia, even after his ex-boyfriend was arrested. He was convinced that his ex-boyfriend was going to break out of jail and kill him. There had been little anyone could do.
Last evening, Sherlock got a call from Lestrade inviting him to the scene of the crime that had been committed by the celebrity. Sherlock pieced together the scene within seconds. The celebrity had taken a cocktail of drugs before he had tried to fall asleep. His girlfriend, unknowing of his drug abuse that evening entered their bedroom and started getting ready for bed herself. The celebrity woke with a fright, hallucinating that his girlfriend was actually his ex-boyfriend trying to kill him in his sleep. He'd attacked his girlfriend and beat her over the head with a lamp until she was dead. Then, after realizing his mistake, he called the police before finding a knife he kept hidden away in his nightstand and repeatedly stabbed himself until he bled out and died.
As Sherlock had walked everyone through the gruesome details of the crime, he and John had tried leaving to return to Baker Street. The swarms of paparazzi, mourning fans, and news reporters prevented them from making a clean escape. Sherlock didn't like crowds. He especially didn't like the fact that he was himself a minor celebrity. Memories had started flooding back into his mind at that point of how his own rise to fame had drawn the attention of a psychotic criminal who tried to ruin his reputation, driving him to fake his own suicide and disappear. The sensory overload of the flashing lights of cameras and the shouts of fans and reporters overwhelmed him. Anxiety had started to grow in his gut at that point. He could feel his heart start to pound in his chest and his breath became more and more shallow as police officers escorted him and John to a police car to be taken back to Baker Street. Once in the relative safety of the car, Sherlock had relaxed a bit, retreating into his mind palace to calm himself down.
When they'd returned to Baker Street, Sherlock's body hadn't entirely calmed yet. His brain was still on high alert. To cope with all the incoming data, Sherlock had started fidgeting. He was rhythmically tapping his left thumb to each of his other fingers, silently "playing" a violin concerto. He bound up the stairs, eagerly looking forward to his violin actually distracting him. But as soon as he entered the flat, he froze in the doorway. He inhaled, hesitantly, slowly.
That smell. It could only be the smell of one man's cologne. He'd been here on six other occasions before he blew his own brains out on the rooftop at Bart's. But now, he could smell it again. Moriarty wore expensive, rare cologne. It could be described as spicy and woody, as it contained hints of Bergamot and papyrus. It also had hints of a rare flower, known as the Immortelle, which was found only in the Mediterranean, and it gave the cologne a bold, spicy kick.
Sherlock had started ripping through the flat, checking closets and bookshelves for a person or camera, anything to indicate that Moriarty was back again. Though his brain kept reassuring him that it was impossible, the faint smell that had greeted him upon entering the flat had genuinely scared him into believing otherwise. Any chance of him recovering from his anxiety had been tossed out the window. He was panicking.
John had only been a couple of steps behind Sherlock and had witnessed the man start to tear apart their home. He'd tried yelling at him, trying to get his attention, but nothing seemed to be getting through to him. He eventually had grabbed the detective's arm as he strode across the room at one point, and tried stopping him, only to have Sherlock flinch away and practically run away from him.
Sherlock had known he was losing it. He could feel his control over his body slip away. He was shaking now, his heart pumping erratically, trying to deal with the high level of adrenaline and cortisol that had been released into his body. He couldn't control his thoughts now, the data coming at him too quickly and loudly for him to sift through any of it.
Suddenly, it had felt like his brain short circuited, and he vaguely remembers crumbling to the floor, shaking and pulling at his hair, breath coming in short gasps.
"…-erlock? ….you hear me? ….-Sher…. Breathe, mate…"
Sherlock had known that John was trying to reach him, trying to talk to him and he wanted so badly to listen to his calming words but panic took over. If Moriarty was back, he couldn't protect John. There was no way. He'd have to sacrifice himself for real this time, so that his friend could have a chance at living. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to fight this man anymore. God, why wouldn't he just leave him and John ALONE?
John had crouched down to Sherlock's level. Sherlock had sat down on the floor, legs haphazardly sprawled in front of him, in front of the coffee table, trembling, crying, and mumbling incoherently. John had noticed instantly that Sherlock was panicking about SOMETHING, but John didn't know what the trigger was. Instead, he'd tried to calm the man with soothing words and mimicking deep breathing, but Sherlock was not listening.
"I'm going to touch you, Sherlock." He warned, but he knew the warning fell on deaf ears.
John gently reached up into Sherlock's inky curls prying Sherlock's left hand away. He gripped the man's wrist and took his pulse. He hesitantly placed the back of his other hand on Sherlock's sweat-covered forehead and was surprised when it seemed like Sherlock didn't respond to the touch. Satisfied with his pulse, he put Sherlock's limp left hand into his lap, and then moved his own hand to the back of Sherlock's neck. He knew it was risky, and an intimate gesture, but he needed Sherlock to start registering his surroundings and that he wasn't in danger.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, breathe, mate. Breathe with me." The touch seemed to have triggered some sort of recognition .He looked through his tears to John and took in a shaky breath. Sherlock exhaled quickly and didn't quite have the control over his breathing to slow it down. He tried speaking after that one, incomplete breath.
"Moriarty's… been here!" His voice wobbled, but he did not stutter. He took his right hand out of his hair and vaguely motioned in the air as he spoke.
John just shook his head. "No. Nope. Sherlock, Moriarty is dead. Do you hear me? He's dead, mate. There's no possible way he could have come into this flat because he's dead." He'd tried to be gentle while also emphasizing that Moriarty was dead.
Sherlock shut his eyes and shook his head. "No, no, no! I smell him! Do you hear me? I can smell him. That expensive cologne that he wears that no one else wears… it's HIM!" Sherlock was shaking violently now and had pushed John's hands away. Fresh tears coursed down his face.
"It has to be someone else, Sherlock. Moriarty is dead."
Sherlock started crying harder and pulled his knees up to his chest, effectively closing John out.
"I can't…" he choked on his words for a moment before he tried again. "I can't do it again, John. Why won't he leave me alone?" He was whispering, trying to get out each phrase between ragged breaths.
John was quickly running out of ideas. One popped into his head that was so… unlikely, but he had to check. He strode quickly into the kitchen and opened the trashcan, only to see a new, fresh bag. No. It would be new, he though to himself.
He ran from the kitchen, down the stairs, and knocked rapidly on Mrs. Hudson's door. She answered quickly and John wasted no time. He barged past her and into her flat, opening a closet in her living room where she kept her cleaning supplies. Mrs. Hudson had tried protesting, but John ignored her.
"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I promise I can explain later. Did you buy any new cleaning products? Any new candles, sprays, anything?" John asked as he frantically scanned the closet.
"Oh, well, there was a new room spray I purchased. It was quite expensive and new, but I just love how it smells. Here it is," she said, pulling out a small spray bottle from behind a bottle of bleach. "I bought it at that new store on Northumberland Street. It sells lots of expensive perfumes, but I'm afraid I could only afford this room spray."
Before she had finished her story, John had placed a kiss on her head, muttered a brief "thanks," and tore out of the apartment and back up the stairs to his flat where Sherlock remained softly crying to himself in the same position John had left him.
"Sherlock, here. It's this. It has to be. Mrs. Hudson did the cleaning today and she sprayed this in the apartment. This has to be it. Smell it." He held out the bottle to the frightened detective. Sherlock practically rolled his eyes and sprayed the scent into the room, knowing that there was no way it could be the same scent.
To his surprise, he sniffed and the pungent smell of papyrus and Bergamot filled his nostrils and he crinkled up his face in disgust.
A moment later, he let out a breath of relief as he concluded that his fears were unwarranted and there was no immediate danger.
"Christ." he'd muttered, after shocks of the panic attack coursing through his body. He seemed to have been able to get ahold of his breathing after he realized he wasn't in danger. "Open a damn window." He'd told John.
John complied and opened the window nearest them in order to let the scent escape the room.
John had left Sherlock there to recover. He wanted to give Sherlock some privacy as he recovered, but he was also confident that a cup of tea would help calm both of them. He made his way to the kitchen to start the kettle. When he'd returned to check on Sherlock, he was standing, brushing off his suit, and fiddling with his hair in an attempt to reestablish his dignity after panicking. John watched as he made his way to his black leather chair and sat comfortably, grabbing a tissue on the way to wipe his eyes and nose. The kettle had boiled then, and John finished making the two cups of tea and brought them out into the living area for them to enjoy. They'd sat in silence for a few minutes, neither of them particularly looking at anything.
Sherlock had been embarrassed at his strong emotional reaction to the scent in the flat. He'd panicked and lost total control of his body, the after effects of which he was still feeling. While John had managed to help him calm down, he had no idea what John was thinking about him now. But, this was John. They'd seen each other at their lowest points. He didn't mind appearing weak in front of John; there had been times when he'd been vulnerable with the man before. But every time, he never knew what to say after or how to alleviate the tension and awkwardness that surrounded them, as it did now.
John could imagine how Sherlock was feeling. He knew Sherlock didn't like appearing out of control. He knew that Sherlock liked other people to believe that he was emotionless, a high-functioning sociopathic arsehole with a remarkable IQ and an eye for detail that gave him an almost supernatural ability to solve puzzles and cases. John had learned that it was an act. It was a show to cover up the trauma and the struggle that Sherlock had dealt with for years from other people. He knew the truth. He knew that Sherlock was a high-functioning genius with a form of Autism who actually felt emotions quite often and quite deeply, but didn't always know how to handle the data. In his mind, Sherlock thought it would be better to be viewed as a jerk than as someone with a disorder. He'd kept his diagnosis secret, but John had found out about it through Mycroft, who had kidnapped him one evening, early in the doctor's friendship with Sherlock. Sherlock and John never talked about it and John knew that Sherlock would hate talking about it. Even now, John knew that Sherlock didn't want to discuss the panic attack that had just occurred in their flat moments earlier. And John knew that as his friend, he had to help restore balance to the universe and get things back to some semblance of normal.
So, he took a sip of tea, swallowed, and looked across at Sherlock until he was staring back at him. He inhaled and sighed.
"Dinner?" he'd asked casually.
Sherlock, whose expression had been stoic and reserved, now lit up. He tried to hide it, but a small smile crept up his cheek.
"Starving."