He turns around to see Sherlock, scarf haphazardly draped around his neck and hair ruffled. His eyes are narrowed, mouth pressed into a thin line, and he can barely feel his hands suddenly. There's so much noise around, he can hear Sally and Lestrade shouting what feels like a very long way away and his eyes are locked with Sherlock's, Sherlock who's just standing there pale and still as a statue and not saying anything, and it feels so wrong.
John's feet are leaden and his hands are shaking. His chest hurts and his lips feel numb, and somehow despite all of that he manages to turn tail and run, ignoring the cries behind him. His feet slap painfully against the hard concrete and his lungs burn, his vision swimming with the sight of Sherlock's face, the thought of what he might have heard, of how Sally had looked at him.
He runs until he cannot physically run further and collapses against a wall, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. He ignores the concerned looks of passers by as he slumps down to the pavement, his vision greying out in front of his eyes and sparks burst when he blinks.
"Are you alright sir?" someone asks, and he can't even focus on their face as his consciousness swims in and out of focus, let alone fathom out an answer.
"He's fine" gasps someone, a familiar voice with a shock of dark hair, and he can dimly make out Sherlock bent double with his hands on his knees trying to catch his breath.
"Are you sure?"
He can almost see the sneer on Sherlock's face.
"Yes I'm sure. Scram"
The offended passer-by does so, and through his haze of fatigue and confusion John sees Sherlock approach slowly, carefully, as a normal person would a wounded animal. The thought of Sherlock approaching an animal makes him giggle, and Sherlock pauses cautiously.
"John" he says, as though making sure it really is him, looking for a response, but John cannot bring himself to raise his head. He wants nothing more than to sink into unconsciousness, but Sherlock is suddenly in front of him with his hands on John's knees and his fingertips digging into his thighs, and it hurts.
"Please" he says, and then finds that he has no idea how to finish the sentence and trails off into silence. Sherlock moves closer, his hands resting on John's shoulders, and John braces himself for the insightful commentary that he knows is coming.
Except it doesn't.
"You're shaking" Sherlock comments in a soft, reassuring voice that John didn't know that he possessed, his thumbs moving in concentric circles over John's shoulders. It feels more soothing than it had any right to, and his breathing slows infinitesimally, the tightening in his chest easing and his vision clearing.
"Let's go home."
It doesn't surprise John that there's a car waiting for them, nor that it's a black car with no registration and tinted windows. He wonders when this became normal and not disconcerting at all. Sherlock sits next to him, close enough but not touching, and doesn't say a word to the driver although John's sure they're going back to Baker St. The journey passes in complete silence, although whether Sherlock's caught in his own thoughts or just trying to be considerate he can't tell.
He feels like he's calmed down when the car pulls up to Baker Street; his hands have stopped trembling and the world isn't fading in and out of focus. However when he tries to step out of the car his knees buckle and he collapses against the car, shame burning at his cheeks as he feels Sherlock thread an arm under his shoulder and pull him upright.
He is almost carried into the flat and if he wasn't so exhausted he would be impressed by Sherlock's strength; the other man is breathing heavily when he deposits John on the sofa, but his step didn't falter as he took the steps bearing both of their weight.
"I'll put the kettle on" says Sherlock, sounding oddly uncertain, and while John wants to snap at him to leave him alone and let him sleep, and go back to being his usual brusque self, he doesn't have the heart to. Instead he closes his eyes and tries to relax into the sofa as he hears the sound of the kettle whistling and the clinking of mugs in the kitchen. The odd role reversal of the scene isn't lost on him; if he had more energy he might smile at it.
"The tea didn't go so well" announces Sherlock, waltzing back into the room. John rouses himself from his half-awake state and cracks an eye open.
"How….?"
"Well, the milk's off and the tea-bags may have been…re-appropriated."
John blinks, and stares at Sherlock. Their eyes meet for a split second and before he can stop it, the laughter has bubbled up and spilled over his lips, his eyes creasing at the corner as he tries not to imagine what Sherlock has done with all the teabags. His housemate regards him, head cocked and brow furrowed, and that just makes John laugh even harder, and as much as he tries to keep the note of hysteria out he knows he hasn't quite managed it; again, he has broken under pressure, and without a second's warning his chuckles turn to sobs and he hides his face in his hands.
His only warning is a rustle as Sherlock moves closer, and then hands on his shoulders again, and he tries to still his silent sobs as though he can pretend that it's all alright and that he's not falling apart from the inside out. Sherlock has such a tight hold on his shoulders it feels like his friend has understood his thoughts and is trying to hold him together like the pieces of a broken vase without any glue.
"John, please" Sherlock says urgently, his grip almost painful, "Tell me."
John laughs bitterly through his hiccups.
"Don't tell me you didn't hear enough" he says flatly, and Sherlock sighs.
"You always overestimate my emotional capacity" he says with a hint of sadness, and when John looks up his eyes are shadowed, "I find it very difficult to connect emotional cues with hypotheses – that's always been Mycroft's forte."
John takes a breath and releases it again, not sure what to say.
"I think I understand", Sherlock continues slowly, his eyes fixed on John's knees as he turns it over in his head, "You were attacked. Not by the clinic patient as you told me; and more brutally than I credited. And Anderson had some involvement, although not personally or you would have had a marked emotional reaction much earlier than this. But for Donovan to be so distressed, it must have been his hand in it somewhere. There must have been something that repulsed her. And it must have been something unpleasant enough for her to tell Lestrade."
John cringes away and waits for the hammer blow of the words, but they don't come. Sherlock drums his fingers on John's shoulders thoughtfully, his eyes distant.
"I don't understand why I didn't see it earlier" he says carefully, "I'm afraid that I've let you down terribly."
Something in John's gut twists painfully at the tone in Sherlock's voice; genuinely surprised and saddened, and his eyes are full of guilt when John meets them.
"It wasn't your fault" John breathes, his fingers ghosting out to trace the planes of Sherlock's knuckles, feeling them tighten beneath his touch.
"You imply that it's somehow your fault" he responds neutrally, and John's eyes drop to his lap. They sit in silence for a few moments, and John is excruciatingly aware of the stickiness of the tears drying on his face. He wants to dash them away without drawing attention to his weakness, and he's so focussed on that that he doesn't notice Sherlock reaching up and swiping them away with the pad of his thumb. The gentle touch makes him lose his breath for a moment and he bites his lip, heart aching at the contact.
"I wish you'd told me before" murmurs Sherlock, his thumb still resting against John's cheekbone in a gesture that feels painfully intimate, and not for the first time John struggles to reconcile the different facets of the detective. "I could have helped."
John barks out a humourless laugh and shakes his head, knocking Sherlock's hand away.
"That's just why I didn't tell you" he says coldly, not caring how cruel the words are, "You just see me as a case, a puzzle to be solved, and most of the time that's fine, but this isn't…I can't…"
His voice breaks off and he slumps back again, digging the palms of his heels into his eyes so hard that he sees stars.
"Can we not do this right now?" he asks desperately, and Sherlock sighs.
"I'm trying to help."
He sounds petulant and John has to fight laughter as well as exhaustion for a moment before, shaking his head and getting to his feet. He has come to expect the wave of dizziness as he stands but Sherlock's steadying hand on his elbow makes him jump and his cheeks burn with a new flush of shame.
"I just want to sleep" he whines, unconsciously leaning into the taller man, tiredness sweeping over him with an almost painful intensity, and Sherlock's arm slides around his waist. Against his better wishes he suddenly relaxes, his knees giving beneath him, and the arm tightens, pulling John in close. Sherlock is murmuring something above him, but John's too gone by this point to be able to decipher it let alone respond, and he allows his eyes to drift shut and sleep to claim him.