Lessons in friendship 5 - Practising to give

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Chapter 2

"I need something tasting nice, maybe some soda?… Fast!" Sherlock repeated.

The doctor started to struggle harder and Lestrade hurried towards some of the police officers.

"John, you are not in danger. It is not necessary to fight me, calm down… We need to solve this case." He realised this might bring himself back to reality but probably not John.

Tell him something he cares about...

"Your blog has had another two thousand four hundred and eight visitors tonight!" he tried talking about something he knew John cared about.

No reaction other than John lifting his head to the sky and panting in an agitated way.

Probably not really what his flatmate needed. Sherlock didn't know what else to say. He felt helpless and out of ideas.

Was Lestrade right and he would only do further damage with his sentiment-blindness-thing?

Under his hands, John gulped and thrashed weakly.

What soothed John?

The violin - No, him playing the violin. The thing was, the violin was not available… so any other music?

Where to get music?

Sherlock was probably one of the few people who had no music on his phone.

Maybe John had?

"John?… Calm down, you're safe… You're in London… I'm gonna take your phone."

He reached into John's jacket and took the device. Meanwhile the doctor was staring ahead with blind eyes, not resisting Sherlock's touch now.

Lestrade came back the moment Sherlock had cracked the phone's password.

"Now, wait a minute… He has PTSD and you used him to perform a stress test on him in Baskerville?… To cause a drug induced anxiety attack…? Bloody hell, did you know back then?" Lestrade yelled at him.

Sherlock lowered his eyes, the events of the past month had made it more clear than ever to him what an asshole he had been and how bad he had treated John, not only performing the test on him but in general. Several people had told him so… including John.

He had found out his flatmate didn't open up to him because he was sure Sherlock would only reopen old wounds if he did. Sherlock had tried to be a better friend… but now shame crept up on him again.

The fact that the detective didn't respond proved that Lestrade was right, to both of them. Sherlock let go of John's trembling form.

"You knew… God, Sherlock! You know this... this is," Greg seemed to struggle for words to express his anger, "this is violation - even abuse! How could you?"

Lestrade grabbed his collar and Sherlock expected to get punched in the face. He was really angry, maybe angrier than Sherlock had ever seen him.

"I share your opinion that it was very - that it was a bad choice," Sherlock admitted.

Lestrade slowed down shaking him.

"In case you considering punching me - I deserve it. But, could we please delay it until I had the change to help him with this particular matter… Seems a bit more urgent right now."

Lestrade let go of him, with a slightly repulsed expression on his face.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock… How could you!… I wonder why he does this to himself, sometimes…."

"Does what?"

"Waste his friendship on you."

"What happened?" someone asked behind them.

When he turned, Sherlock saw a paramedic with a heavy bag kneel down beside them.

"He's having a flashback. PTSD. Former soldier."

"He has those often?" The medic asked, reaching for John's neck to feel his pulse.

The moment he touched him, John tried to get away in what could only be described as blind panic. Sherlock reacted quickly and pinned him to the car.

"Don't touch him! No, this is a rare event… John, come back to me."

Suspecting the medic could do nothing, Sherlock held up his hand between them. He seemed to be the only person who at least had some background information to what was happening. Therefore, it was his responsibility from the moment he had realised what was happening. He tried to recall what John had said back at the car on their way back home from Baskerville.

"Oh god, don't touch me… Take care of Lieutenant Jones first… Please… I'm fine," John was getting more agitated again.

"You got something for anxiety attacks?" Sherlock asked the medic, now remembering that John had used such a medication before.

Was John really only allowing him to touch him?

More likely it was random. However, it had now happened three times that John grew agitated when someone else touched him… No, John was a doctor, he was used to being touched… and he touched patients all the time. Must be a coincidence.

"Sure," the man offered him a small dropper bottle a few seconds later, already unscrewed.

"He is a doctor, he used something like this before… John, I need you to lean your head back and open your mouth." Sherlock started but when the medic reached out to John's head he hissed. "Don't touch him! How much?… Come on, John."

He reached for John's head to hold it in place and when John didn't flinch, he gently bent it backwards and thumbed his mouth open a bit.

"Six drops should suffice," the medic answered.

Sherlock pulled the dropper out of the bottle the medic still held in reach and let six drops fall onto his friend's tongue.

When John still didn't fight him he decided to leave his hand at the other man's neck… The doctor had touched Sherlock's head when he had been hurt in the past and Sherlock remembered it had a soothing and stabilizing.

John was barely moving now, just staring ahead without seeing anything.

Sherlock reached for John's phone again with his other hand and held it out to Lestrade.

"Play some music, slow, calming… maybe instrumental."

For a moment, Greg looked at him in puzzlement, but then he understood he was asked to look for music on the phone.

"We don't need further assistance right now, why don't you search for someone in need?" Sherlock addressed the medic who was obviously feeling unneeded, helpless, and frustrated about the fact that Sherlock wouldn't let him treat the patient.

"This man is in need of care and it's my duty to do that," he insisted.

"Give me some gloves and get out of my sight!" Sherlock's voice rose.

"Shh... Sherlock, don't agitate him," Greg hushed.

And Lestrade was right, John was starting to move again.

"No… no… Oh god," John whimpered.

"Please leave us, I take responsibility," Lestrade addressed the medic, who threw him an unconvinced look but turned away. Obviously, Greg had come to the conclusion this was not as new to Sherlock as it was to him, and that Sherlock at least knew what to try.

Lestrade finally found some music because in the next moment Bridge over troubled water came out of the phone.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at Lestrade, "Really?"

"Sir?" A young female stood behind them.

"What is it, Evans?" Lestrade wanted to know.

"I found some sherbet. One of the officers had it in his car for his daughter, Sir." She seemed unsure of what to think of the situation before her eyes. "And some water, sir."

"That's great, Evans. Thanks." Lestrade took the candy and the bottle and she trotted away.

"We need to stop the bleeding, fast. Come on," John argued.

"Good. Open the package. What is it? Powder?"

"Looks like it… Some blackcurrant flavoured stuff." Greg ripped open the package. "Yeah, powder. You're sure this is a good idea? I mean he could choke on that."

"I won't make him choke, I only need a bit."

But how to give it to him? Pouring it into his mouth would definitely make him choke.

Sherlock realised he hadn't thought about a delivering method. His fingers were dirty, as were John's.

"Should I get a spatula or tongue depressor out of the first aid kit?" Greg suggested.

"No, we're fine… open the bottle and let me wet my finger... John, I will touch you, don't fight me." Sherlock pulled a pair of medical gloves out of his coat pocket and slipped one of them onto his right. Then he returned the free hand to the side of John's face and again thumbed his mouth open an inch. He poked his finger first in the water, then in the powder Lestrade was offering.

Carefully and slowly he then touched the tip of John's tongue with a small amount of the now effervescent substance.

"John, come back… You are in London. There was an explosion, but we are safe now. There is no war and no attack. You are safe! Come on. The weather is wet, smell the rain… and you can taste the sherbet. Do you like it?" Sherlock tried to ground him with his voice.

"Oh god," John whimpered again.

"You're with me?… John, can you hear me?" Sherlock spoke louder now to, the low music still playing.

The scene was kind of loony. Sherlock was glad Lestrade had not yet thought about taking pictures.

"One more."

Sherlock repeated his moves and brought some more candy powder into John's mouth.

"That's it… Can you tell me what flavour it is?"

Keep talking, Sherlock reminded himself.

Talk him back to reality. Nonsense is better than not talking. Bring the feeling of London around them to his awareness, so that John knew where he was.

"You need to come back, now, back to London. We're on a case, remember?"

John's breathing speed up and he clumsily fought Sherlock's hand, shoved it away. He tried to get up and made it to his knees before Sherlock got a good grip and held him steady on his upper arms.

"John!… Look at me…. JOHN!" he tried.

The former soldier stopped struggling and blinked… and blinked again.

The look on his face could be described as stunned panic and he was holding his breath.

"Breathe John… Easy… Just breathe," Sherlock lowered his head towards his, mentally preparing that John might start fighting in earnest or run out of power completely within the next minute.

"Oh god," John breathed, "Let me go…"

He panted shallowly and Sherlock watched him closely.

"I think you would fall to the ground if I let go, nobody is watching. It's okay."

When John's eyes started to fill he was quite sure that John was completely back with him and that his need to hide had led to his plea to let him go.

Realising that his flatmate might feel very vulnerable not, Sherlock decided to remove things that might embarrass him now or later.

"Sit back down, easy," he told the still trembling man.

"Hnnn…." John sagged forward limply and since Sherlock was prepared he carefully pulled him towards his shoulder to prevent a fall. To his surprise, he felt John lean heavily against him, but not falling…. and felt he was shaken by silent sobs, still partly conscious then, though maybe drifting. The medicine was probably kicking in, making him tired.

Sherlock decided to pretend he was out would probably protect John's dignity the most, so he signalled Lestrade to open the backdoor of the car that was only two feet away.

"Stay with me, John… We will go home. Do know where you are?" Sherlock whispered into his friend's ear.

John shook his head, his breath fast and shallow.

"I want you in the back of the car. Lestrade, will you drive us home?"

"Of course. I'll help you inside and then give me a minute to inform Donovan."

Together, they lifted John into the seat.

When they had him settled Lestrade handed Sherlock the phone which was still playing.

Sherlock entered the car on the other side while Lestrade went to get an update on the explosion and inform his colleagues that he would be gone for some time.

John sat more or less upright, his jaw clenched and he had a slightly stoic expression on his face, like a statue. Sherlock took John's wrist to monitor his pulse.

"You're okay?" Sherlock started.

Dumb question, of course he is not!

"We will be home soon, relax."

John was obviously still fighting the panic but didn't pull his hand away. His eyes showed awareness and slight disorientation.

"Do you hurt anywhere?" Sherlock's eyes examined him.

Still trembling, still very pale, sweaty.

"Any nausea?" the detective continued to ask.

John shook his head.

"More sugar?" Sherlock tried, another headshake.

"What do you need me to do?"

"I don't know… All I know is I… just relived two of my unit's men bleeding to death - missing vital parts of their bodies. God… Shit," he panted, his voice was hoarse.

"What's happening, John?"

"Leave me alone, please."

"No. Tell me what the problem is."

"Dammit… Guess there's a panic attack ahead… I shouldn't have told you… Triggered myself… Just stop bothering me, would you? Keep your curiosity at bay for a moment, can you do that?"

The doctor unbuckled again and leaned forward, until his head rested against his knees. He then wrapped his arms around his head, trying to control his breathing.

Keep him present, try to distract him, try to comfort him, Sherlock reminded himself. He felt quite helpless. He wanted to take care of his friend but he had no idea now how to execute the things he wanted to do. He noticed that he was also afraid to do something wrong.

This was affecting him more than he had ever thought possible. He was worried, really worried. Because he couldn't help, because it was an uneasy unhealthy yellow feeling to see John suffering.

He raised his hand but hesitated, then slowly placed it on John's upper back, just rested it there, hoping the touch might be comforting. The phone stopped playing and he reached for it and started another song in a low volume.

Okay, distractions.

It started to rain outside and the raindrops grew slowly louder on the car's roof. John's breathing sped up again.

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"I want to help, tell me what to do," Sherlock urged.

"I… I don't know."

John was clearly starting to hyperventilate.

Unable to do anything, Sherlock felt his own panic rise. He had learned how that felt in Baskerville and had been so stupid to confront John with the same thing, lacking the understanding what it would do to him.

He felt helpless. This was a pretty ugly feeling, he realised, darker yellow, dotted with sick white spots and a vague image of the smell of rancid butter. He hadn't felt helpless too often in his life before.

He always thought he'd just know what to do in every possible situation.

What was different now?

Right, caring, sentiment. Nevertheless, this insight wasn't helping at all right now, so he stored it away for later.

He unbuckled, too and moved closer to John.

"Slow down your breathing," he tried.

"Can't… can't breathe."

"You're hyperventilating."

"No shit… My head knows… my body doesn't," John panted. He was loosing the colour he had gained again.

"You need to calm down," Sherlock tried.

"I… know… that… Shut… up!"

"You need a paper bag?"

"NO!… Hyperventilating… is not… dangerous… unless… I pass out… and… choke... on… blocked airway."

"You're sure?"

"Of course… I'm sure. I'm… a bloody… doctor!"

John was clearly getting unnerved. Maybe making him angry was a bad kind of diversion, Sherlock decided.

In his agitation the doctor sat up straight and rested his head back. He started to clench his hands into fists and straightened them out repeatedly. From that, the detective drew the conclusion that a tingling sensation was starting, a side effect from hyperventilating. John was obviously working hard on slowing down his breathing, but the effect was minimal.

"If I… pass out.. my body… will… slow the breathing pattern - automatically."

"Has that happened before?"

No answer, but John leaned forward again, gulping repeatedly, now resting his head on his hands, elbows to his knees. He was shaking.

Sherlock remembered that John had told him once that one of the important things in bedside manners and establishing trust in any relationship was: not to do to anybody what you wouldn't want done to yourself. The doctor had also said that usually the reverse was: do what you'd like others to do to you, but then revised the information because what Sherlock wanted would absolutely no way be what usual people wanted.

So Sherlock had added a new mental database in which he stored possible needs of his own and what could be good for him (this alone was difficult at last because it required to realise a need was there) and the adequate needs other people would have when confronted with the same situation. However, there were almost no information in that database, yet.

Therefore, his only option was to mimic what John had done in the past.

He would have done to others what he would like to receive, right?

"I'm gonna touch you," Sherlock warned because this was in fact a need he had, to be warned of touch, except from John, at least not any longer. He carefully reached for John's face, still buried in his hands, and sneaked his fingers to into the gap and rested them on his forehead and partly over his eyes. Just resting his hand there.

John's face was clammy. He returned his other hand to rest on John's back.

The other man blew out his breath, slow and through his mouth, and gulped again.

"Er... Sherlock..."

"You're going to be sick?" Sherlock asked.

"No," only a whisper.

"What is it?"

With surprising force, John pressed his own hands over Sherlock's, keeping the detective's hand trapped under both of his, holding onto him that way.

"John?" While Sherlock still tried to figure out what the problem was, he felt a rush of heat under his fingers.

"John?... What's happening?"