Possible triggers: Mentions of a crime scene, not very detailed, and a panic attack
Please note that I don't pretend to understand the things a person who has these disorders goes through. I tried my hardest to approach the subject in a delicate manner that would still convey well in the story. It's not my intention to offend anyone who suffers from PTSD, or agoraphobia.
I personally have panic attacks and can only write about my first hand knowledge and experiences with it. Everyone is different and it's not my intention to belittle the significance of such a disorder.
Nothing has changed in the last day. Alas, I still do not own Sherlock or and of the characters, and I still have a crap ton of student loan debt.
Sherlock Holmes is a character that won't leave John alone. His stories were a constant thought in the back of John's mind. He was the kind of character that would bother you until you got their journey down, only then would they stop nagging you.
This was how John found himself up at the crack of dawn in front of his laptop, coffee in one hand and the newspaper in the other. He had tried to get some sleep the night before, but the detective (John decided that's what he was best suited for) wouldn't give him a moment's peace until the author paid him another visit. John dragged the cursor over to the saved file and double clicked the small icon, bringing the tale up on the screen and allowing himself to get swept away into this world.
Sherlock had been taking shape in his head for the rest of the previous day, and by the time John was ready to venture back to 2-2-1-B, the character had layers that John had yet to realise he had even given him.
He took a deep breath, gave his fingers a little wiggle and dove back into the world of Sherlock Holmes.
"Ah, John. You're here."
The author took a moment to look around and figure out where 'here' was exactly. They were in a flat, that much was obvious. John was pleasantly surprised to find it closely resembled his own, though if he thought about it, it did make sense. However, the state of said flat was in utter chaos.
There were stacks of paper and piles of newspapers everywhere. Around the corner the kitchen was in a worse state. Unknown substances boiled on the stove, multi-coloured liquids sat in unlabeled vials throughout the room, and on the counter there was a jar of, what appeared to be, thumbs.
"I quite like it here, John. It's well suited to my needs," the detective said.
"I'll assume that's something akin to a 'thank you' coming from you," John answered in return.
Sherlock only murmured some unintelligible moan and stayed in his current position of lying across the sofa.
"Sherlock," John started. "You can't live like this."
The man on the sofa turned his head to stare at John and a look of disgust crossed his beautiful face. "Live?" He quirked up an eyebrow in John's direction.
"You know what I mean. All of this," he gestured to the clutter shrewd about the flat.
"These are my experiments, John."
The author could tell Sherlock was already bored with this conversation by the tone of his voice. "Still," John said. "You need someone to -"
"No!" The detective shouted, cutting John off. "Don't even think about it."
But it was too late, the idea had been put into motion and John just grinned up at Sherlock who was now standing in front of him after jumping up in his huff.
The front door opened and the two men turned their heads to see who this new edition had manifested itself as.
An older woman with a petite frame and sweet face had entered the room. "Sherlock," she scolded in a playful tone, "the mess you've made."
"Are you happy now?" Sherlock hissed down at John.
"Sherlock," John stated calmly. "You like her. I don't mean for her to interfere all of the time. Just pop in now and again to check on you, that's all. Honestly most of her time will be spent downstairs." It was said so matter-of-factly that it instantly became so.
"Of course I like her," he spat out. "No thanks to you!" The detective was annoyed and John couldn't bring himself to care. Sherlock needed her, no matter how much he argued it, he knew it too.
"I was just fine on my own!" The ebony haired man had taken to sulking and was now sitting on the sofa with his knees pulled to his chest eying Mrs. Hudson, who was now in the kitchen, like a hawk.
"Stop pouting."
"No."
John sighed, wondering how someone so argumentative had come from his head. Sure, he had come up with some complex characters before, difficult even, but he always found a way to bring the story around full circle and they always relented in the end.
"John," the detective whined, "I'm bored."
"You could help Mrs. Hudson clean up the flat." John joked, knowing full well that was never going to happen.
"Dull. Besides, there's nothing wrong with it." He shot John and accusing glare, still put out by the land lady in his kitchen. "I need a case!"
"A case?"
"Yes, aren't you listening? A case!" He shouted.
"And… you don't have one?"
"John, if you're going to ask stupid questions feel free to leave and return when you have something for me to do."
"Hey! Hang on! How's this my fault?" John asked, utterly bewildered.
Sherlock looked over at him with an I-can't-believe-you're-this-stupid look across his face.
"Have you come up with a scenario for me to solve, John? Have you given any thought as to what I'm supposed to do here in the flat all day?" Sherlock was angry now and becoming erratic.
"A case? Alright hang on and let me think for a moment."
"Quite quickly if you please."
John looked over at the detective who was waiting impatiently for something to solve. Character building was something that never came quickly, and John racked his brain to form people and relationships for Sherlock's world.
He would need connections on the police force: done. It wasn't very difficult; these lesser characters didn't need the full history and background that Sherlock had. They simply needed to fill their role in the story.
With each character John thought of, he watched Sherlock's face as he processed the information. It was as if everything was being downloaded into his brain as John came up with it.
Sherlock stared to rattle off names as John tried to tie all the loose ends together. "Lestrade: Detective Inspector, friendly, wife is cheating on him. Donovan: Dislikes me, feels threatened by my presence. Anderson: Forensics, prat, married, having an affair with Donovan." Sherlock paused, "you have a tendency to incorporate infidelity," he said pointedly, looking at John. His stare switched from one of general curiosity to the more scrutinizing one of I'm-trying-to-figure-you-out.
John suddenly felt self-conscience under Sherlock's heated gaze and shifted around. "Alright, well… now that that's done. A case, yeah?" The author knew it was silly to think Sherlock could see anything about him that he didn't allow, but he was still anxious to change the subject.
Deciding he had a good enough distraction for him, Sherlock's phone beeped with a new text message. The detective gave John a genuine smile and reached for his mobile. "Double homicide! Yes!" He jumped up. "Thank you, John! Ugh, it's Christmas!" and was practically out of the door before John could rose from the chair he was sitting in.
"You're far too happy about this, you know that right?"
"Your fault," Sherlock shouted back as he made his way down the staircase.
John bounded after him; he didn't have his limp here and was able to catch up with the detective relatively quickly. When he reached him, Sherlock was hailing a taxi for them which made John chuckle.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked, throwing the door of the cab open and stepping inside.
"No, it's just…"
"Don't be dull, John. Spit it out already."
"This is your world, Sherlock. It's more yours than it is mine honestly. I mean, I made it for you." John was aware that the detective's eyes were burning into him and he rushed to continue. "I mean I could have just pictured us at the crime scene and voilà." He snapped his fingers together for emphasis. "We could have skipped all the messy bits."
Sherlock continued to stare at him, trying to decide how to respond. "John?"
The author look up and held Sherlock's eyes with his own, knowing that he wouldn't continue unless he had John's complete attention.
"Life is the messy bits."
John didn't have anything to say to that, so he sat back and appreciated the silence. Sherlock didn't fill the air with idle chit-chat and John was thankful he had a character who didn't seem offended by the lack of conversation.
When the two arrived at the scene, Lestrade and the others were waiting for Sherlock's arrival.
"Hello, Freak." Sally Donovan greeted. "They're in there."
John followed Sherlock into a bedroom where a man and a woman were lying in bed. Blood soaked the sheets and the bullet holes in both of their foreheads left a river of crimson running down their faces, which were frozen in fear.
John shouldn't have been surprised, after all, it was a scene of his own design, but the realness of it was getting to him and he could feel the bile rising in the back of his throat.
He pushed his laptop away, unable to make out the words across the screen as the dizziness overtook him. He focused on his breathing; inhale, 1, 2, 3 exhale, 1, 2, 3. Inhale, 1, 2, 3 exhale, 1, 2, 3.
"Easy, John."
Sherlock was standing in front of him, his hands grasping John firmly by the shoulders, his touch comforting the author and keeping him grounded.
"That's it, John. Breathe, breathe. You're fine. It's all in your head."
The irony of a fictional character telling him it was all in his head was not lost on John. He'd have to appreciate the humour of the situation later though. Right now all of his concentration was being put into not vomiting.
"Remember your exercises, John."
The author looked up and nodded at Sherlock, surprised that the detective had torn himself away from the corpses to help John get through this episode.
When his vision started to focus again he took a step back and looked up at Sherlock, who was eying him with a look of concern.
"I think it's best if you wait outside, John."
He numbly nodded his head and made his way out of the building, still in a bit of a daze. The fresh air seemed to help; the irony of this was not lost on him either.
His thoughts were interrupted by Sergeant Donovan moving over to where John stood leaning against the brick building to steady himself.
"Oi, did the freak scare you off already?"
"I assume you mean Sherlock." It wasn't a question and the emphasis John had put on the detective's name held an unmistakable warning.
The problem with creating these lesser characters was that they lacked depth. They served their purpose and nothing more, but John wondered how someone so hateful had come from him. It was a question that he already knew the answer to. The characters he came up with were all parts of him. He had anger and he had hatred, so it shouldn't come as a shock to him when these traits appeared in the people of this world. He did hate that this particular set of individuals had chosen Sherlock to spew their venom at though.
"You know, Sally, I'd watch that tongue of yours. It'll get you into trouble one of these days. I might just decide you're better off without it."
The threat was clear and Sergeant Donovan just sneered back at him and walked away, leaving John, once again, alone.
He didn't have to wait long before Sherlock came bounding out of the building, smiling like a happy little boy.
"Solved it then?" John asked, knowing full well that he had.
"Of course," the detective replied, no trace of humility in his voice. "It was the wife's girlfriend. She witnessed her lover and her lover's husband being intimate and shot them both in a jealous rage. Obviously. All you had to do was look at the victim's earrings to figure it out, but you knew that already." He stopped and looked at John, really looked at him and recalled that of course John knew.
The author was still slumped against the wall and Sherlock moved closer. It was a gesture that wasn't entirely unwelcome, but surprising just the same.
"Come on." Sherlock grabbed John's elbow. "Let's go back to the flat."
"Are you going to get a cab?"
"Not this time."
John nodded his understanding and they were instantly back at Baker Street. He felt more comfortable already.
"John," Sherlock scowled, "why were we just at the scene of a double homicide?"
"Because you needed a case?"
"Don't state the obvious. Why were we specifically at a murder that you knew, or at least had a strong suspicion, would trigger an episode for you?" The question wasn't condescending, it was one of genuine curiosity.
"I, er, I don't know."
"Yes you do. Think. What made you pick that particular crime? You could have given me a nice kidnapping or a less gruesome death and you would have been fine. Instead we went to a gory murder that resulted in your having to leave me. I'd like to know why."
John let out a long sigh. "It just popped in my head, alright? I read about it in the paper this morning and it just came to mind when trying to come up with something. I thought you'd be happy."
"Happy that you had a mild panic attack? I don't think so, John." Sherlock's head snapped toward the smaller man who had made himself comfortable in one of the chairs in the sitting room and the detective got down on his knees in front of John, a wild look of panic in his eyes. "John? You said you read about this in the paper this morning?"
"Yeah," John shook his head. "Front page story."
Sherlock grabbed John's arms and his brow furrowed. "You mustn't do that, John! You mustn't!"
"Hey!" The author rose from his seat and looked up at Sherlock who had taken his cue to stand. "It's all fine, alright? It's fine, no harm done."
"No harm do-"
"I'm fine, Sherlock. Don't worry about me."
"I wasn't worried!" the detective snapped back at him, to which John only smiled.
"No, of course you weren't. So…" John said, trying to change the subject to something less heated, "mind explaining why you wanted to skip the 'messy bits' this time around?" Asking why they hadn't taken a cab back to the flat.
"You were white as a sheet, John. I needed to get you somewhere familiar so you'd feel comfortable."
John had not been expecting that answer and looked down at his feet, slightly embarrassed. "Right, um, thanks for that."
The incident over the case seemed to have been forgotten, but John missed the worried glances that Sherlock kept shooting his way.
"Well then," John cleared his throat. "I'll be off."
Sherlock dismissed him with a wave of his hand, already engrossed in whatever was under the microscope he was looking at and John just chuckled.
John saved the file and shut his laptop. Grabbing his cane for support, he stood up.
The detective was one of the most fascinating characters he had come up with, and he had a feeling he would be visiting again very soon.
He went to bed that night coming up with different problems for Sherlock to solve, completely unaware of the fact that the entire day had come and gone.
