A/N: Hello hello, this is my first stab at fanfiction since I don't know when, and my first for Sherlock. The idea's been flying around my head for a couple of days so eventually churned this out today - more to come, but in the mean time, your views etc would be appreciated :)

Hope you enjoy!


It always started rather suddenly. One minute you would be up to your ears in ideas and words and pictures (and, rather often, some sort of chemical formula) and in the next you would be fighting to breathe. Your hands would shake, vision clouding, and soon enough it would only be an exceptional case of luck if you made it any walking distance without sinking into the floor in a bundle of panic and hitched breaths forced in and out and in.

You had been particularly lucky so far, though, in that you were yet to have an audience to any of these episodes. Well, if you don't count Mrs H, who had been boiling the kettle and tutting over the hydrochloric acid spilled on the kitchen floor while you fought to remain sane enough to throw back a snarky reply. You suppose that Mycroft has been a witness too, at some point, but either he has blocked out those un-pleasantries or had simply not noticed anything more that his brother's tight breathing as a sign of badly-controlled anger and frustration.

To be fair, that was often the case anyway. An easy mistake to make, and one you would be all too willing to crow about to Mycroft – beat you again, brother – save that you would never dare bring up such a topic of conversation as your own weakness. Madness is a quiet killer.

And such a fact you discovered was all too accurate as time had passed, and more and more things seemed to trigger the episodes. It was getting harder to keep quiet, harder to stay sane. You should have known that the spectators would arrive all too soon.

Opening 'night' was a matinée, an inspection of some murder or another – you don't recall the details, which is a little worrying in itself – and it caught you off guard.

"Suicide?"

Lestrade shoots the idea across to J, who shakes his head, his Latex fingers probing gently behind the ears of the woman spreadeagled on the apartment floor. He's absorbed in his work, muttering possibilities as he traces the victim's jawline with an index finger, kneeling so his face is as close to the body as possible without kissing it. The image in your mind at that thought makes you want to wince, but instead you continue pacing before the dresser in the far corner of the bedroom.

Vain, vain, vain so the makeup. Something about it but need more data why is she dead it's got to be something to do with the – oh.

"Don't move," you bark, and John blinks, half in the act of slipping off the gloves.

One eyebrow twitches upwards, and even Anderson and Donovan, who've been conspiring in the doorway, fall silent.

"Her makeup," you say shortly, by way of explanation. "You'll have to sterilise everything, Anderson, or better still – throw it all out."

They stare back at you, blank. You are frustrated that even John, who has been practically breathing all over –

"John, go and wash out your mouth."

He is about to protest, but you shake your head.

"The poison's in her powder, you idiots!"

John blinks, then understands. Even idiotic Donovan's eyes widen, and she wrenches open a bottle of water. You stride across, tug it out of her hands and fling its contents in John's direction. Before he has had the chance to react you have tugged the gloves from his hands, flung them on top of the body, and rinsed your own hands in the last few droplets.

"Was such a dramatic solution really necessary, Sherlock?" John splutters, wiping his eyes with the heels of his now-clean hands and clearing his throat.

"Any issues breathing in the next twelve hours and it'll be lead poisoning for you, for future medical reference. Doing you a favour, you know," you say, clapping a firm hand on his shoulder and pointedly ignoring his jibe.

"'Course it was," Anderson drawls, but you haven't got time for him.

"Better take off your own too, and that goes for you, Donovan – as much as I do love your company, Anderson, I'd rather you stay alive for the purposes of my criminal record."

"Freak," Donovan mutters, stripping off her own gloves and leaving for the bathroom next door.

You are about to comment for what must be the thousandth time on her lack of insulting creativity when you realise the doorway through which she has just left is somehow leaning rather alarmingly to one side. You frown and tilt your head, but it has righted itself in an instant.

"You right there?" Lestrade asks, looking thoroughly confused.

You don't bother answering, blinking hard and turning back to John, who has almost recovered.

"Coming?"

He surveys the body with vague disgust before nodding, ignoring your lack of apology. Perhaps they are going out of fashion, those goddamn manners, you think to yourself, almost excitedly. The thought is immediately squashed by an all-too-persistent reminder from your conscience that John is just too used to you to bother being offended.

"Hey, hey, where are you off too?" Lestrade blusters, endeavouring to block you from the doorway.

"I haven't moved house since this morning, you know."

He is exasperated, and you are thoroughly enjoying rankling him. You're yet to tell them whodunit, so to speak. You would have replied immediately but for a sudden sensation that feels as if a man with at least the height and bulk of Mycroft has thrust his hand in between the ribs behind your heart and taken a firm hold of your sternum. You can't help the instinctive intake of breath, making the pain sharper still as you attempt to remain stoic.

"What are you frowning about? Sorry that we aren't all the mighty Sherlock with all the answers in his – "

You shake your head, realising what's going on. Brushing past him, you take the stairs three at a time down the double flight of stairs and make it to the front door before your legs give out and you slump onto the porch step. Close call, you cannot help thinking to yourself, watching with some unease the tiles between your shoes rippling unpleasantly as the panic rises.

No one else is around outside, at least not yet, but you're not willing to wait until they turn up before trying to get yourself together. You pull your phone from your coat pocket at begin to punch buttons rather mindlessly, now scrunching your eyes shut and concentrating on breathing.

In and out and repeat, you idiot, it's not rocket science.

You wonder vaguely if berating oneself mid-breath could be some sort of new and innovative scare/recovery tactic. Like the entirely irrational theory that giving someone a good scare will stop them from hiccoughing. You are so engrossed in the process of staying conscious – in and out – that it takes a good half-second longer than usual for you to register that someone is calling your name.

They must be, let's see, halfway down from the poisoned room – three of them, so that'd be Anderson and Lestrade, most likely, then John lagging behind.

You reason that this is probably a little too cruel a portrait, but now the shaking has started and your phone slips from between your fingers, dammit, and suddenly you've tangled them through your hair. Well aware that no matter how hard you yank at the roots it will make no difference, thank you, but you haven't stopped – you can't – nor will you cease trying. Suffocating? you consider with some horror and your breathing is certainly hitching and laboured.

"Sherlock?"

Your fingers twist into your hair and the fog is billowing around your eyes and between the few words you're managing to string into thoughts and maybe now would be a good time to try and escape into your Palace but you're staring at a forbidding padlock on its door to safety and that would happen now wouldn't it, and you might just spiral into madness now but –

"Sherlock?"

Damn, he's persistent.

"John," you manage quietly, "please shut up."


A/N: And there you have it - that review button, you should type some things then click it. Please?