Spoilers for 02x02. Possible trigger for panic attack.
AN: So this takes place when John and Sherlock are sitting before the fireplace in Hounds and Sherlock is more or less having a panic attack. I wrote this based off my own experience with panic attacks, and I understand that panic attacks are different for everyone and therefore this does not represent everyone's experiences. None of these characters are mine.
At first it was just a tingling; little needles pricking the base of his spine, the back of his ankles, his arms. He ignored it, focusing instead on the hound. He had seen it, with his own eyes, but no, that was impossible; it wasn't real.
Then it spread. The tingling surged up his spine, the base of his neck, his forehead, his legs, his hands. In its wake heat was spreading, filling his veins, pressing against his skin. But his skin, his skin was cold. Freezing. Like ice to the touch. A clash of hot and cold, sending his heart racing. It sped, leaped, skipped, dropped. But he had seen it, with his own eyes. He had seen what wasn't there.
His chest was tight; his breathing came fast and shallow. His insides felt like they were on fire but his skin was ravaged with goosebumps. Sweat broke across his back, his face, his arms. Every little movement, every breath, every shiver, felt like knives stabbing him, ripping him apart. Henry had seen it too; it was real. But it couldn't be. Those eyes, that fur. The fear. It wasn't real.
But he had seen it.
His head was spinning. He felt like it weighed a million pounds while the rest of his body felt weightless, numb, lost in a clash of ice and fire, sweat soaking his clothes.
"Sherlock?"
The voice pierced his ears. His head was spinning so fast he couldn't breath. His vision was blurring around the edges. His eyes stung and he blinked rapidly trying to clear them but only sending his head into more of a confused flurry. Surely his brain was upside down by now, surely it had moved around inside his skull, spun and twisted and turned. Surely he was upside down, falling.
"Sherlock, are you alright?"
A hand reached out and touched his arm. The contact sent his skin on fire, needles piercing his flesh, the ice and the fire meeting in a painful shock. He recoiled and the hand was removed, still hovering though, still concerned. Tunnel vision had taken over and now all he could see was the reds and oranges of the flickering fireplace, and it felt like his retinas were burning but he couldn't look away, because he couldn't see anything else. He wanted to say something, to tell John that it was frightening, knowing you could no longer trust your own eyes, because what you saw to be real wasn't real and your head was in a mess and you were lost, and scared, and confused, but he couldn't say any of it because his tongue wouldn't move; it was dry and still and limp in his mouth.
"You need to breath." John was suddenly at his feet, kneeling beside him. He took Sherlock's hand in his own, but the detective shook his head.
"No," he choked out through a strained smile. His voice was rough and biting and John flinched at the harshness of his words. "There's nothing wrong with me." Even as he said it he knew it wasn't true. His blood burned beneath his frozen skin, his eyes stung red with tears. All he could see was the hound. It's black fur, it's glowing eyes. It was surreal. It was frightening.
"Oh course, of course Sherlock I know you're fine." John said. His thumb ran softly over Sherlock's knuckles and he put on his best reassuring smile. "Just...breathe. Breathe, and just talk to me." Sherlock scoffed but his lip quivered. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall at any moment. So he listened. He took in a breath, and slowly, painfully, it filled his tightened lungs, and he let it out. His forehead tingled and he reached up an unsteady arm to wipe the sweat away. Again, he took a breath. The stale air on the inn filled his lungs completely and he let it escape slowly from his lips. The burning was slowly receding, prickling his skin as it faded from his arms, his shoulders, his neck.
"I saw it, John." It came out as a whisper, and he didn't even know if John had heard him. The heat gathered in his spinal cord before becoming extinguished. Suddenly his skin was warming and his vision was clearing and he kept breathing, in and out, in and out, until his head and stopped moving and just felt heavy. It felt heavy sitting atop his unstable body, his muscles feeling as if they no longer worked, as if they had been strained so tightly that they had now given up and were resigned to leave him as a pile of jelly.
"The hound," he whispered again, and John nodded somberly when he met his eyes. "It was real. Henry was right. It was real." He blinked and a tear ran down his cheek. Sherlock let out the final breath he had been holding and his body shrunk into the pile of damp clothes covering him as the sweat dried on his skin.
"It can't be real." The realization hit him in the chest and his eyes closed. He had seen it, he had felt the fear in his gut, but had it really been there? Could he trust his own eyes? Could he trust Henry's eyes? Could he trust them more than his own mind, his own logic?
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock." And suddenly Sherlock didn't care. He knew he would replay everything he had seen in the moor a million times. He knew he would go over every fact and theory and speculation until he was sure he had an explanation. He knew he wouldn't get any sleep because every time he closed his eyes he saw the beast staring back at him. He knew, but he didn't care. He threw his arms around John and buried his face in his neck.
"Thank you, John," he said, closing his eyes, and feeling the comfort, the security, the safeness of John's arms around him. He allowed himself a smile, and it creeped across his face, buried in the soft wool of John's jumper.
So there you go! I'm sorry if there were spelling or grammar mistakes; it's rather late and I didn't get a chance to reread this as often as I usually do. I hope you enjoyed it! Comments are always so much appreciated :)