Thud.
His head hit the wall, a hand fisted in his collar, rough fingertips brushing over his…
Thud.
His knees hit the floor, and all he could think about was that he was choking on dust and…
Thud.
He banged his fist fruitlessly on the floor, anything to take away the…
Thud.
The pain, the absolute agony…
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
"John"
Thud.
Thud.
He bolts upright, his sore ribs protesting immediately, his breath catching. The room is dark, the curtains still drawn, but the door is open and Mycroft stands in the doorway, his umbrella ever present, thumping against the floor.
"Good afternoon, John"
Mycroft's tone is pleasant, but his eyes are steely and he holds the umbrella (mercifully silent) as though prepared to use it as a weapon at any given moment. John has immense faith in his military training and sharp reflexes, but experience has taught him never to underestimate a Holmes.
He drags himself upright in the bed, not willing to risk the potential embarrassment of trying to stand, and swallows with difficulty, still tasting vomit at the back of his throat and wishing he'd had the energy for water. The idea of Mycroft seeing him like this was…well, excruciating.
"Afternoon" he manages, hoarsely, and Mycroft's nose seems to turn up even further than normal.
There is silence for a few beats while Mycroft's eyes rake over John, the bedroom, the soiled bedsheets and bin.
"Did we overindulge a little last night?" he asks with a sneer, and John thinks he might have fallen down if he hadn't been sitting already. In his mind, the brilliant brother of the detective would have realised somehow that the sickness was due to the antiretrovirals – is it a mistake, he wonders, or is it just that he figures so little into Mycroft's plans that the reason behind his illness is simply irrelevant?
"Did you need something?"
It's not too hard for him to inject a little waspishness into his tone – he still feels dreadful and wants nothing more than a shower and some paracetamol.
"I need to know about Sherlock's case."
"You should probably ask Sherlock then. He's out at the moment but I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you when he's back."
John is gratified to see Mycroft's grip tighten imperceptibly on the handle of his umbrella; it always fills him with a sense of satisfaction to see either of the brothers come even close to losing their cool.
"Please don't be awkward, John. I can assure you that I can make this visit less pleasant if you persist in being unhelpful."
The fight gone out of him, John sighs and slumps again.
"I'm sorry" he says genuinely, "Whatever the case is, it's new since I last saw Sherlock. He hasn't told me anything, or asked for my help."
The look on Mycroft's face says clearly that he doesn't believe his brother has every 'asked for help' but he seems convinced (as well he should – it's the bloody truth!) and wishes John a speedy recovery as well as reminding him to look out for Sherlock and make sure he's getting enough food and rest before taking his leave.
No longer than a minute after Mycroft has gone, Sherlock whirls in in a cloud of flapping coattails, leaves and righteous indignation.
"What did he want this time?" he demands, flinging himself into a chair and depositing a bag of Chinese takeaway on the table. John's stomach lurches and he has to swallow hard before he can answer.
"Wanted to know what you're working on."
"And what did you tell him?"
"I told him everything I know"
Sherlock's lips twitch up into a smile and he looks at John for the first time since he's blown in.
"You look dreadful."
It's not a question; John doesn't answer and Sherlock doesn't comment further.
He feels his flatmate's gaze on him for several minutes after he has picked up the paper, and fights the urge to pull at the sleeves of his jumper, or squirm in his seat, or anything else that Sherlock could possibly use to piece together what has happened. He can feel the bruises as imprints in his skin; if he concentrates he can feel the rough fingers digging in for purchase, the pain grounding him, focussing him, keeping him conscious.
Panic claws at him, hot and irrational, and forces him into action.
"I'm going to get some milk" he says as calmly as he can, "want anything while I'm out?"
When he looks up, Sherlock's head is buried in a book and a negative shake of black curls is his only response.
Outside he slumps down on the doorstep, his legs suddenly weak beneath him. He feels drained, sick, achey all over and he's not able to fool himself that it's only the medicine making him feel that way. The idea that this feeling might just become normal to him makes him tremble, and the tightness in his chest that he had felt inside becomes more pronounced.
"I am not going to have a panic attack in the middle of the street" he mumbles aloud, pressing his fingers to his temples and trying to take deep breaths. Four in, six out is what he's always told patients in the absence of a paper bag. He can feel his pulse and respiratory rate rising and can't help the flutter of panic that goes with a positive feedback cycle like this one. Eventually he knows that a combination of panic, excessive energy expenditure and reduced oxygen supply will render him unconscious at which point his breathing will regulate and he'll probably be as good as new when he comes around. It's just getting to that point that's the painful part – or so he's been told, he's never even come close to experiencing this before.
People are beginning to notice him now; a middle aged man slumped against the door, breath coming in short gasps, and they cross the road to avoid him. Of course they do, he thinks, knowing what he looks like.
When the street begins to tilt at his feet, he's on the verge of closing his eyes when the door slams open into his back, knocking him off the step and sprawling onto the pavement. Pain blossoms through his already injured ribs, although it does seem to have shaken him out of his panic. When he rolls over, Sherlock is standing over him with a flat expression.
"What is going on, John?"