AN: This is probably my first fic since 2009... We'll see where it goes. Warnings for very brief mentions of drug use and self harm.
Sherlock walked. He didn't know where he was or where he was going. He didn't particularly care. He walked until his feet went numb and fingers were stiff balls in his pockets. He walked until long after the sun went down and the streets grew cold and empty. He walked until he forgot who he was.
It wasn't until the far side of London that Sherlock's thoughts settled. Slowly, they calmed from a panicked frenzy to the distant chattering of chickadees, and finally settled down like an oppressive dust. Finally, there was just enough space in his head for himself, he could breathe again. Sherlock took up this mind space, trying to keep his thoughts to a minimum. He focused on a single thought at a time, blocking out the flitting noise that filled his mind far too often. If he didn't funnel his thoughts, he'd have to keep walking until they stilled again. First, location.
A cold, wet breeze hit him from his left- likely the Thames broadcasting it's cold waters, best to avoid. The park to his right was dark and heavy with thick trees, an excellent place for night time refuge, best to avoid as well.
At the back of his mind tickled possible next steps- left at the next crossing, left again, right for four blocks and left into an alley for easy drugs; the shop across the street for a pack of razors; a cab home to see John… No, no, not ready for that yet. Sherlock closed his eyes, and re-focused on his thought funnel. He found the breeze, the cold air, the sound of his breath and his thoughts settled again.
Sherlock headed back the way he came, hoping to find a main road- Stepney Green, judging by his quick river-park-drug alley triangulation. He dodged a sloshed middle-aged banker (six shots of Lowlands scotch in, but will still remember that he cheated on his wife with his male gym partner- based on the missed crease in his slacks, mismatched cologne, and breath. Obviously), and was relieved that his brain was still working, even if he wasn't talking to it presently.
Second, strategy. He strictly avoided the low voice suggesting drugs or pain to make certain the thoughts stayed quiet. He dodged those thoughts like he dodged that man retching in the street, effectively. Now that he could think and breathe, it was time for introspection, not repression. Think Sherlock, it's time to think. He backtracked several hours, dismissing his cold street wanderings, ignoring his late afternoon escape from Baker Street, and settling in 221b. With John. Even thinking of him caused his breath to hitch and his heart to race. He hated to admit it, but Sherlock knew that his pupils were likely dilated, even in the dark, his blood pressure rose and his muscles released enough glucose that he could keep running for days. This had been happening more and more lately when Sherlock was around John. Even as he puzzled him, fitting together his day from his outfit, his mood from his posture, Sherlock felt things he rarely had before- flutterings in his stomach, flushing, and sweating like a damn schoolgirl. And finally today, it boiled over into uncontrolled, breathless panic.
Sherlock sat on a bench, cold soaking through his jacket, and rested his head in his hands.
He could smell John leaning over to hand him tea. He could feel John's warmth from halfway across the living room, and it made him feel all the warmer. Sherlock could barely remember the last time someone elicited such a frivolous response from him and today it was overwhelming. He briefly assessed the possible causes. Maybe he was being slowly poisoned. Unlikely. Maybe he was having a psychotic break. Strange set of symptoms for that, and limited by proximity to John. Maybe… well, there was no point denying it. He knew what his body had been trying to tell him for months now- he was undeniably in love with John.
Just as he started to feel stiff on his bench, formulating a plan that would allow him to block off his feelings for John, locking them in the basement of his mind palace, a dark sedan pulled up. Nondescript, tinted windows, frequently maintained. Mycroft, of course.
"You can't hide forever, borther. John called, it's time to go home." Giving up on turning off emotions he'd never felt before, Sherlock succumbed to the warmth of the car.
"Next time, don't make your boyfriend call me to fetch you. I haven't time for your teenage romance." Sherlock bit back what he was thinking Please Mycroft, I'm scared but they rode in silence, neither wishing to show their cards.
After an eternity of brotherly-inflicted silence, the car pulled up at Baker Street. The street was cold and quiet but a fire flickered upstairs. John was waiting for him, or asleep based on the hour. Sherlock felt an overwhelming pressure in his chest, all at once shaking in fright and anticipation. He opened his mouth to say something to Mycroft- seek comfort? Reassurance?
Mycroft briefly studied Sherlock and turned back to tomorrow's newspaper (you know they send him one first). "You'll do fine, brother. Just say what you feel, John loves you too. And stop making me fetch you in the wee hours of the morning, I've got at least three countries to run."
Sherlock steadied himself, his dread withered, and entered 221b. His home. His John.
He found John asleep on the couch, a cup of cold tea next to him, curled around his phone. He looked peaceful, hair ruffled and clothes disheveled, but still peaceful. Cold tea and not quite in his night clothes- he must have been worried.
Sherlock watched John sleep for some time, his steady breath softening those tight parts in his chest. He watched John for as long the walk he took to get away from this cozy scene. He watched until he couldn't take not having John in his arms, and reach down to brush his hair with the back of his hand, and whispered "John."
John's eyes sprung open and he sighed with relief. "Sherlock! You've been gone for hours, I was so wor-" Sherlock kissed him. John kissed him back.