Sherlock had always been seen as infallible. That is, to most.
John knew he had weaknesses- cocaine being one, and, of course, his tendency to fall very ill on rare occasions. The doctor was thankful that these were, as said, rare.
But one thing John had never anticipated was a rather large chink in his flatmates mental armour. Specifically his amygdala.
He stumbled across it accidentally, when a case landed them in (quite literally) a tight situation.
SLAM!
Sherlock, John, Lestrade and Donavan all turn too late to see the bathroom door fall shut, the wood crashing into the frame and causing them all to jump. They had wandered in there to examine some evidence- a victim had been found in a public loo outside ASDA, just over two days ago, and they had intended to reevaluate the scene. Lestrade sighs, walking over. "Nothing to worry about, it's just the wind."
"Well open it then!" Sherlock snaps, thrusting a hand forward. John looks at him in surprise. The detective opens his mouth and shuts it again, shrugging moodily. "It-it smells enough as it is."
Lestrade grasps the handle and jiggles it up and down. "Ah, it's stuck." He yanks on it again, moving his head and peering down the side. "Bolts got caught. We can't open it from in here." He throws himself at it. "No, no way. It opens in the other direction."
Sherlock groans, storming over to kick the opposite wall. It's only a single pace away- the bathroom is quite small. And with all of them crammed in it, it's even smaller.
"Don't get your knickers in a twist," John says, rolling his eyes. "We can just call someone."
"No service," Donavan interjects, glaring at her phone. "God. I'm stuck with you guys untll someone realises we're in here."
"No," Sherlock states simply, weaving through the police force to face the door. "No," he repeats, slamming his fists against the wood. "Is anyone there? I'm stuck in here with a bunch of imbeciles!"
There's a collective sigh. "Sherlock," John says, putting his hand on his arm, "It's six thirty AM. No ones out there yet."
"Someone could be walking by!"
John shrugs, leaning against the wall. "We'll just have to wait it out." He wrinkles his nose. "You're right about the smell though. Is there air freshener or something?"
"You can only spray it in a ventilated area- are you trying to choke us John?" his flatmate growled, marching to the other side of the room again. The doctor raised his eyebrows. Yes, Sherlock could be nasty sometimes, but that was completely unnecessary- it wasn't John's fault they were trapped in here.
Lestrade puts the lid down on the loo and sits on it, legs spread. Donavan slides down next to him, against the wall. She holds her phone up to the ceiling, looking at the bars tiredly. "We're going to be here a while," Greg says, rubbing his hands together, "we may as well go over the facts, eh?"
John looks at his flatmate, who is pacing along the opposite wall and fiddling with his gloves. "Sherlock?"
"Uh," he says, staring hard at the ground, "we know the victim was killed in here, because the disinfectant was used on both walls, suggesting blood landed on both when she recieved the blow- because of the size of the room. The room is... the room is small- very small- so the blood hit both because it's... small. Really, really, small."
Donavan frowns. "What's wrong with him?" she sneers. "We know the rooms small, freak. We're the ones trapped in here."
"Trapped," Sherlock repeats, face seemingly impassive. But then his knees buckle, and he sinks to the floor, hand thrown out against the wall to steady his landing.
"You alright mate?" John asks, rushing over and placing his hand on friend's shoulder. Sweat laces his forehead, and he blinks rapidly.
"Fine, fine, it's just-" he gulps, bobbing his knee. "It's really small."
John's jaw drops. "Sherlock, are you claustrophobic?"
"No," he snaps, digging his fingernails into his arm. "Of course not."
"Shit," John breathes, ignoring him. "It's fine. Don't worry, we'll be out in a minute." Sherlock shakes his head, closing his eyes against the advancing walls.
Lestrade stands, rattling the handle. "Is anyone out there? We need to get out- now!"
"Calm," John soothes when the detective starts shaking, his teeth gritted. "Some one will come soon." He turns to Greg. "Try opening it from in here again?"
The DI pulls on the door, grunting. "Give me a hand, Sally?" She gets up, shooting Sherlock a wary look. "On three," her boss orders, pushing down on the handle. "One, two- three!" They tug the door hard, feet sliding on the linoleum. It doesn't move. They step away, gasping. "It won't budge. They'll have to break the bolt from the outside."
"How long until someone comes?"
"They open up at seven," Lestrade tells John, worried. "That's over an hour away."
Sherlock's breathing quickens, and John swears. "Slow, Sherlock. Keep it slow."
"Have... to get... out," he gasps, holding on to John's arm. The doctor slides down next to him, his body serving as something to lean on.
"I know, I know," John says, squeezing his other hand. "Calm it down. In and out. Do it with me."
The detective sucks in a breath, and on its way out, you can hear his lips shuddering. His knee stops bobbing and intead goes slack, but the shaking intensifies. Their simultaneous breathing works for a few minutes, but then Sherlock loses control again.
Sally winces when the detective begins hyperventilating, unable to look away. To her, he'd always been an arrogant bastard. But watching this was just painful.
"Not good, not good mate," John says, squeezing his hand tighter so that his flatmate had something to ground him. "Slow it right down. Now."
And he does, only to be sent into panic again five minutes later. And this is how it goes for a long while- John working hard with him to slow his breathing, only for Sherlock to begin gasping again soon after.
It's quarter to seven when-
"I've just got some service!" Sally exclaims, ecstatic. John doesn't acknowledge her at first- Sherlock's grip has slackened, and his breathing won't slow down. He watches in horror as his eyes roll back and he goes limp.
"Sherlock-" He lays him on his back, slapping his cheek. "Come on, wake up." He looks up at Sally. "Good timing. Call a bloody ambulance."
He turns back to his best friend, moving him into the recovery position. "He was breathing too fast, and now he's passed out," John mutters, checking pupil responses. "Wet a paper towel with some water," he orders, speaking to no one in particular. Lestrade does so, handing it to the doctor.
"Sherlock?" No response. John wipes over his face, hoping the cool water will arouse him. "Come back to me mate."
"Hello? Yes, we need an ambulance outside ASDA, in Coventry. We're trapped in the public toilet, the lock jammed. Could you send a team that would be able to get us out?"
John keeps a finger on Sherlock's wrist, monitoring his pulse. "Wake up."
"We have a thirty-year-old male in here, unconcious." She looks at the detective on the ground. "I think it was a panic attack. He's claustrophobic."
"Wish I'd known," John mutters under his breath, worry lines appearing round his eyes.
"They'll be here soon," Donavan informs him, blinking at her phone. "Huh. Service is gone again. Must of been a satellite passing overhead or something."
"Thanks Sally," John says, eyes trained on his best friend, ears listening out for sirens.
They come, around ten minutes later. They knock on the door loudly, so loudly John almost thinks it might wake Sherlock. But he doesn't move.
"How many of you in there?" A paramedic asks while someone gets to work on the lock. There's clicking and scraping against metal, and Greg flinches at the sound.
"Four," he shouts, voice gruff. "Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sargeant Donavan, with Doctor John Watson and Sherlock Holmes."
"Which one of you is unconcious?"
"Sherlock," he shouts back, sighing in relief when he hears the door come loose. It swings open and everyone instinctively leans towards the fresh air. Two paramedics come in with a stretcher and an oxygen mask, and John helps them load him on. Once outside in the sunlight, the detective begins blinking, ghostly pale face turning towards his flatmate in confusion.
"It's alright, you just had a bit of a wobble in there," the doctor soothes, and Sherlock raises his eyebrows tiredly. "Okay, it may have been more than a bit of a wobble."
They let John on the ambulance with him, and he slaps Sherlock's hand when the detective tries to cast aside the oxygen mask. "Stop it," he orders, expression serious. "Just breathe with it. You need it."
"Do not," he counters feebly, but he puts it on again nevertheless. They sit in silence for a minute, and then John asks something he'd been meaning to ask for a while.
"Why didn't you tell me you were claustrophobic?"
Sherlock shrugs, averting his eyes. "Never came up," he says, voice alien with the mask on.
"Right," John replies, dropping it. A few heavy seconds pass.
"John," Sherlock voices, eyebrows knitted together. "They... didn't take any videos or anything did they?"
The doctor smiles, touched by this softer side of the detective- the vulnerable side. He didn't like being seen as weak.
"No," he answers. "They're not that cruel."
"Matter of opinion," Sherlock retorts, referring to Sally Donavan.
Despite her reputation, however, Sally made sure to jam a piece of wood under the door next time a case involved a cramped space.
A/N Mono is next. I hope you like!
-tapeandblades x
