:::: itty bitty author's note: I'm not a doctor. I'm not a psychiatrist. I've done some research for this story, but I apologize in advance for inaccuracies that may (ok, will) crop up. Thank you for reading!.::::

Conflict of Interest, 5/?

We were alone again, Sherlock and I. I'm sure we were quite the sight; I was standing in front of him still, and he was clinging to my hands as if his life depended on it. Tears and mucous and blood were still dripping from his chin, leaving faint patterns on my fingers as he continued to cry.

My heart cracked inside me, but I forced my voice to be firm. "All right," I said. "Sherlock, I need you to calm down."

Sherlock nodded, but he was gasping for air, sucking in his lower lip as he struggled to breathe.

"I think you are having a panic attack, like the doctor said," I said gently. "But I have to ask some questions just to make sure we don't need the doctor to come back, all right?"

He nodded jerkily, his eyes wide. That was the last thing he wanted to happen.

"Do you have asthma?" I asked.

"N-no."

"High blood pressure?"

He shook his head.

"Any history of heart disease?"

"No. NO!" He let go of my hands to clutch his chest, clawing at his lungs. "Please…"

I got to my feet and dashed into the office area. I'd brought a bagged lunch from home that afternoon; I shook the contents onto my desk and rushed back to his side with the crumpled paper bag.

I knelt in front of him, offering the bag. Sometimes people with panic attacks would panic further if someone placed a paper bag over their faces, but Sherlock understood and held the open bag over his mouth and nose.

"Good," I soothed. "Now, let's try some deep breathing."

His eyes fluttered closed, and I reached to grasp his forearms. "Sherlock. You're about to faint," I called. "Try to stay with me."

He began to sag, and I leaped up, sitting beside him so he could lean against me. Instinctively, my arm circled his tremoring shoulders. He set his forehead against my shoulder, trying so hard to catch his breath.

I counted aloud, encouraging him to inhale and exhale slowly and deliberately. I was nearly trying to breathe on his behalf.

After a few moments of gasping raggedly, I heard the blissful change as he was able to draw a deep breath. Still, he kept his head pressed against my shoulder, and I felt my blouse grow wet with his tears. I whispered to him, rubbing his back, and eventually he lowered the bag, dropping it weakly into his lap.

"What in God's name was that," he whispered.

"It was a normal reaction to all the trauma you've been through today," I said.

"Although I've never known anyone who jumped off a building to stage their own death," I added. "But I would assume this would be a normal reaction."

I felt him chuckle against my shoulder. He sat up then, embarrassed. I decided to give him a minute to compose himself.

"I'm going to get you some aspirin," I said. "I am guessing with the day you've had, you have a raging headache."

He nodded slightly.

"Have you eaten today?" I asked.

He had to think about it for a moment; then he shook his head.

"The hospital will start sending your meals in the morning," I explained. "For now, though, I'll make you some toast."

He parted his lips to protest, but I cut him off. "If you don't eat, I'd guarantee you'll be vomiting within a half hour of taking the medication," I said.

I didn't wait for his reply; I walked into the next room and puttered around the kitchenette, making toast and slathering it with butter and jam. I made tea as well and poured him a glass of water, fairly certain he was dehydrated from his earlier vomiting and the prolonged weeping.

I took my time, loading everything on a tea tray, and by the time I had returned to his room he had pulled himself together. The tears had stopped, although his face was still flushed and his eyes nearly swollen shut.

He ate slowly, as if he wasn't sure the food would stay in his stomach. We both sighed in relief when he managed to keep the food down and swallow some painkillers as well.

"Lie back now," I said gently. "You need to sleep."

He nodded and lay back against his pillows. I pulled the blankets up to cover him, lingering long enough to pat his shoulder.

I had read in his file that Sherlock had a long history of insomnia, but judging by his half-closed eyes his body was going to take the rest it desperately needed. Still, when I said, "I'll be next door if you need anything," those luminescent blue eyes opened fully. A look of fear creeped over his face.

"I'll just tidy up first," I said. He relaxed a bit then, and my suspicions were confirmed: he didn't want to be alone but wasn't willing to admit it. And so I cleaned the bathroom slowly, keeping the door open, throwing wet towels in a nearby laundry hamper, wiping at the slippery floor.

When I was finished with that, I cleaned up the broken teacup he'd thrown against the wall earlier, folded his clothes, put his shoes in the closet.

When my work was through, I glanced over at him and was met with a comforting sight: Sherlock Holmes, snuggled into his blankets, sound asleep.