Whumptober 2022
Prompt 7: Shaking Hands | Seizures | Silent Panic Attacks
Their lives have been a whirlwind of give and take, pushing too hard and letting go too easily, a battery of pain and heartbreak. What, then, is another strike, another punch, another kick, between these two men?
This is how it goes: they never talk about it. They've never truly talked about anything, except in desperate moments between fear and exhilaration, between life and death. And even then, confessions are undercut by lies, and jokes are tainted with the truth. Absolution is passed back and forth that night, more like a cauterizing iron than an anesthetic balm on the open wounds of broken oaths; but split, bruised knuckles are not addressed, nor is a butterfly-bandaged forehead. This is not the first time they have come to blows.
(Yet, perhaps, it is.)
There is nothing abnormal or extraordinary about the morning. After everything, it has been surprisingly quiet, and this day is no different. Rosie is being lovingly spoiled by Mrs. Hudson downstairs; Lestrade promised to drop by with an interesting case; Sherlock is aimlessly plucking violin strings as his mind whirrs behind closed eyes. John sighs gently, soaking in the calm, then stands and walks toward the kitchen, reaches out absently, pats Sherlock's shoulder—
—and Sherlock, horribly, accompanied by the hideous twang of a protesting string, flinches.
John freezes.
For a fraction of a moment, Sherlock's eyes flash from John's outstretched hand up to his face. Then he stands, lays the violin in its case, and turns toward the mantlepiece, casually inspecting the pinioned knife. His hand is white-knuckled where it grips the back of the chair.
"You were making tea, John?" he asks, too bland, too polite, too even. If he sways, it could be from standing up too quickly; if his breath is too measured, too precise, the in-and-out perfectly timed to slow a racing heartbeat, John is in no state to notice.
"Yes—yes, tea." Half a glance backward, a jaw that works once, twice. He moves into the kitchen.
As he puts the kettle on, the physician's hands shake.
A/N: Inspired by that awful Tumblr text-post. You know which one I mean.
