Chapter 9: Can't Pretend

Love, I have wounds
Only you can mend
You can mend oh oh oh

I guess that's love
I can't pretend
I can't pretend

Can't pretend – Tom Odell

The next couple of days went by in peace. Doctor Wilson had decided that Sherlock no longer needed to stay at the ICU and had ordered to remove the catheter, drains and feeding tube. Sherlock was now back at his old room and feeling better every day. The detox was going fine and he didn't have much withdrawal symptoms. He even had talked to his psychiatrist and agreed on a treatment plan to start the EMDR sessions.
John did not leave his side and Mycroft was also always close by. Johns mood started to go up and he became more relaxed each day. They had some small talk, had some discussions about useless things and even cracked a joke from time to time. Sherlock didn't want to admit it, but it started to feel a bit like before.

This evening went on quiet as well. Sherlock was laying in bed reading articles on his phone and John was doing a crossword puzzle he had found in the newspaper.

"9 horizontal is Leila, the priestess of Bizet's 'the pearl fishers'," Sherlock said without looking up from his phone.

John smiled a little to himself and wrote down the answer. He continued in silence and finished the crossword. Then, he folded the newspaper and looked from his watch back at Sherlock.

"It's fine. Say hi to Lestrade for me."

John let out a small chuckle. "How did you know?"

Sherlock looked up from his phone. "You texted him two hours ago. Your text wasn't long so it was someone you know and knows you're in London. And got a reply right away, Lestrade always texts back immediately. It was obvious."

John smiled a little. "I'm glad you're feeling a bit better. I should go then. Do you want me to bring something?"

"Some cold cases."

He watched how John raised an eyebrow. "You want me to ask Lestrade to give you cases? Are you sure?"

Sherlock yawned in answer. "I'm getting bored."

"I'll ask," John said while he stood up from his chair and put on his coat. "Sherlock, would you mind if I go back to my hotel afterwards instead of dropping by?"

Sherlock didn't see this coming. John had stayed with him each night long after he had fallen asleep to make sure he was okay. This would be the first night on his own.

"If you want me to come back then…" John started, but Sherlock him off.

"No, it's fine. Go sleep. You need it."

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock tried his best to create a reassuring smile. "Yes. Don't pay for that expensive hotel room of yours if you are not going to use it."

"You know Mycroft is paying, right?" John grinned.

"In that case, you should order the most expensive bottle of champagne tonight, just to piss him off," Sherlock replied and gave a small grin as well.

"I will. See you tomorrow then. If you need company or anything else, just call me."

Sherlock waved it away. "Please John, I don't need a babysitter."

He watched John walk away from his room with a smile on his face and Sherlock couldn't help it but think that this almost felt like old times. But then, he realized that was a very dangerous thought.

John's sleep was roughly disturbed around 2:30 by his phone. It took a while before he registered what was happening. Only when his heard the sound for a second time did he realize that it was his telephone. He shot up immediately. This could not be a good sign.

He groped for his phone in the dark and answered. "Hello?" His voice sounded rough and thick with sleep.

"Doctor Watson," it sounded on the other end of the line. John immediately knew it was the hospital. "I'm sorry to call you in the middle of the night, but we don't know what to do with Mr. Holmes. He has been very nervous for a few hours and doesn't talk anymore. When we get close to him, he only seems to become more anxious. We cannot administer medication or help him this way. "

John jumped out of bed right away, turned on the lights, and quickly gathered some clothes. "Have you already called Mycroft Holmes?"

"Yes, he is already on the way. He thought you would appreciate it if we would call you too."

He clenched his phone between shoulder and chin so that he had his hands free to change. "Thank you. I'll be there as soon as I can. "

In a record time, he had put on his clothes and got into the back of a black car that for some reason always seemed to be ready to drive him to somewhere. It only took 10 minutes to drive to the private hospital, but that was long enough for John to worry. He could not help but wonder what could have happened. He made sure everything was fine when he left at the end of the evening. And yet there must have been something that had caused the sudden change.
Once at the hospital, John hurried down the corridors. There was no sign of the hustle and bustle that dominated the hospital during the day. He hardly met anyone and in the rare case that he did, the person was introverted and quiet.

Arriving at the room, He saw a nurse standing at the window, looking nervous. When she noticed John, she walked towards him with a guilty look on her face.

"Oh doctor Watson, I'm so sorry," she started, sounding slightly frightened. "I don't know what happened. I was getting him ready for the night and everything was fine. We were even chatting. I left him alone for a minute to grab some things and when I came back he was completely zoned out. I don't know what I did wrong." The young nurse panicked.

John didn't have time to respond. Mycroft stormed into ward. "What on earth did you do?" he yelled at the nurse. John saw her flinch slightly and felt some pity for her.

Mycroft didn't wait for an answer. "Get out. Go get someone who is capable of handling my brother, because you clearly aren't."

The nurse walked away with her tail between the legs. Mycroft turned to the window to see what was going on. John watched how his face fell and all color slowly pulled out of his face. "Are you alright?" He asked, but Mycroft didn't answer.

"He's having a panic attack," Mycroft muttered, still looking pale. John looked at Mycroft and tried to read his face. He almost looked scared.

"He had those when we were young," Mycroft continued. "Got stuck in them for hours." He shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

"Okay, and what do we do?" John asked.

"I don't… uhm… I think I should go in. "

But Mycroft didn't move. He was hesitating. John realized this brought back memories for Mycroft, ones he clearly had tried to push away deeply. And now, he was fighting them. "Do you want me go in first?" John asked carefully.

Mycroft seemed to ponder this for a moment. Then, he gave John a small nod. "Yes. Thank you, doctor Watson," he said, sounding slightly relieved.

When John entered Sherlock's room, he became aware of the whole situation. Sherlock wasn't in his bed but sat in the far corner of the room. How he had managed that, John didn't know. He sat on the ground with his knees against his chest and with his hands he gripped his head tightly, covering his ears with the palms. He was muttering something, but John couldn't understand what he was saying.
John realized that he had to approach this situation extremely calmly and carefully. He had had panic attacks himself when he had just returned from Afghanistan, but never as bad as this. This was a whole new level of panic.
He started thinking about what he needed at those moments. He had needed quiet. No sudden movements or noises. Reassurance. He needed to feel safe, to not feel alone. John swallowed. He knew he had to try everything to succeed. If he didn't, Sherlock wouldn't trust him anymore.

Even though his first instinct was to approach Sherlock and to touch him, John knew better. No sudden movements. "Sherlock?" he started, surprised to hear that his voice sounded completely steady. "I'm here. I know you can hear me. I am going to help you."

Sherlock didn't answer. John walked a bit further in to the room and looked around. There had to be something that triggered this. He started walking. His mind went a thousand miles per hour. There was no radio on. He checked if the TV was still on, but it was turned off. There was no book, so Sherlock hadn't read something that might had upset him. The lights were on, so it wasn't darkness that caused him to panic. He went through the conversation earlier this evening. Was it something he said? Was it something he did? But he couldn't think of anything.

"Sherlock, did someone say something that caused this?" John tried, but there was no response whatsoever. That was not it, then. He sniffed, maybe it was the smell of something that triggered this. But he couldn't smell anything. Food then? No, he had his last meal when John was still there. His eyes darted the room, but he couldn't discover anything new.

John started to feel a little panicky himself. He desperately wanted to find out what could cause this, but he just couldn't find something. What if there wasn't a cause that he could take away? Would it be possible that all of this was inside Sherlock's head?

John desperately tried again to make Sherlock talk. "Please, tell me what's wrong Sherlock. I don't think I can help you if…" But he suddenly stopped. He heard it. The tap. The tap was dripping.

John hurried to the sink and jerked the handle of the tap as hard as he could. The dripping stopped and a horrible realization hit him. A shiver went down his spine and he felt a wave of nausea. During his work in Afghanistan, he had heard of an old torturing method where they slowly dripped water onto someone's scalp or forehead for hours to get information out of them. It drove people insane in the end. Was this one of the things what had happened in Kosovo?
For the first time since Sherlock was back, John understood why he had given up. He could see why he thought he couldn't come back from this. No one could go through this alone, not even Sherlock. Something inside John's chest contracted painfully by the thought of that.

A small sound from the corner of the room made John snap out of his thoughts. He walk towards Sherlock and kneeled down next to him, acting on instinct now instead of common sense. Now that he was closer, he noticed Sherlock's shallow breathing. John knew that he had something to do about that, otherwise he would collapse.

"Hey," John started carefully. He gently grabbed one of Sherlock's wrists, not caring if it was the best thing he could do right now or not. Sherlock didn't flinch. Instead, he let John pull his hand from his ears slightly. "It's okay. There's nothing there anymore."

When Sherlock realized John was right, he pulled both of his hands away. For a second, John was relieved. But then he heard Sherlocks breathing quicken in a pace that was quite alarming. "Easy Sherlock, try to breath," he said in his most quiet voice." In through your nose, out through your mouth."

But it didn't help. Sherlock's breathing quickened even more and he started gasping for air. John grabbed him firmly by his shoulders. "Calm down, you are starting to hyperventilate. Stop fighting Sherlock, you are okay." He tried, desperately trying to make contact.

Sherlock didn't calm down. John moved closer and decided to try something different. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's and waited for a moment to feel if there was a reaction. When Sherlock didn't pull away, John started to speak softly. "Focus on me, follow my breathing. Can you feel it? Try to breath with me."

He tried to keep his own breathing as strong as possible. After a couple of long minutes, John heard Sherlock's breathing grew a little more steady. Little by little, he seemed to come back from it and John was relieved. It looked like the tide finally was turning.
Without warning, a rush of emotions came over John and suddenly he felt everything. But mostly, he felt pain, maybe heartache even. It hurt. It hurt to see Sherlock like this. It hurt like hell.
John didn't want to lose it in front of Sherlock. He had to stay strong. He pulled back a little so he could take a deep breath and looked up, trying to regain his composure. But Sherlock didn't let him. He grabbed John's arm as if he tried to prevent him from leaving.

"John, please."

It was barely a whisper, but Sherlock's voice cut through John's heart like a knife. He just couldn't stand it any longer. He pulled Sherlock to him and closed his arms around him. He held him tight, letting Sherlocks head rest against his chest. He felt how Sherlock began to shiver under his touch.

"It's okay, you are safe. I'm with you," John whispered softly. "Try to relax. It's going to be okay, love. I'm not going anywhere." John was only vaguely aware of what he just had said. For a brief moment, he wondered if Sherlock had heard it.

Then, Sherlock placed a hand on John's back as a response and John had to fight back the tears that threatened to spill.

John had no idea how long they had sat on the cold floor. They sat in complete silence and John felt how Sherlock slowly started to relax, almost melting against his chest. He waited patiently for Sherlock to make the first move, not able to let go just yet.

After a couple of more minutes, Sherlock lifted his head slightly from John's chest and looked up to John. "Thank you," he said softly. He sounded completely worn out.

John just gave him a hint of a smile. "Do you want to get back to your bed?" Sherlock nodded.

"Okay, we'll ask someone to help." John shifted slightly. "Let me just call someone."

But that wasn't necessary. The door of the room opened and Mycroft walked quietly towards Sherlock and John. Without a word, he took Sherlock by one arm and let John get up. Together they lifted Sherlock on his feet and guided him to his bed. When they stood opposite each other, John's eyes met Mycroft's and he instantly knew the older Holmes brother had seen and heard the whole thing. He felt his cheeks flush.

When Sherlock finally laid down against his pillow, Mycroft gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and decided to leave the room in silence, leaving Sherlock and John behind.

Sherlock looked up questioningly into John's eyes. John didn't need words to understand what he meant by it.

"Don't worry, I'll stay."