John bent over the sink, splashing water into his face while he took deep breaths, trying desperately to calm his nerves.
"Come on Watson get a hold of yourself."
He glanced up seeing Sherlock slamming into the ground again and again with the thud of every heartbeat.
"Dammit man get a hold of yourself."
Eyes squeezing shut, fingers tightly gripping the edges of the porcelain sink as a wave of nausea hit him. Quickly, he staggered to one of the stalls in the back of the restroom, collapsing to his knees just in time to see the meager contents of his stomach resurface.
A tear fell onto his cheek at the shame that well inside of him.
"Fuck. Fuck. I fucked up." He wrapped his arms around his knees in an attempt to hold back another wave of nausea that he knew would simply be dry heaves.
"You said you wouldn't let this happen again. You can't do this to yourself Watson. He's back now...Fuck it."
His fingers shook as he fumbled in his pocket for his phone, the tears flowing in earnest as it clattered onto the tiled floors.
"Oh for fucks sake."
He scooped it up and breathlessly punched in Lestrade's number. His heart pounding as it rang.
Once.
Twice.
"Hello? John? Are you there?"
The former doctor clamped a hand over his mouth to contain a sob.
"Yea, yea."
John could hear muffled cursing as the DI shewed someone out of his office.
"What is it John. What triggered this one."
He took a shaky breath, big gulps of air coming in between broken sobs as he tried to push the words out his chest constricting once again.
"Sher- The. His body. He- Fall."
A fresh wave of dry heaves followed suit as more shame washed over him.
I'm A grown man dammit!
"Hey, Hey. John, mate. It's alright. It's going to be alright. Where are you? Where is Sherlock."
John rubbed his eyes uselessly with his sleeve.
"Restaurant. Dinner." another gulp of air. "Just talk."
He could here the Detective Inspector walk back and settle into his chair, the sound of metal and plastic squeaking somehow calming.
"Look mate, he's back. He's alive. That image that you keep seeing? It's not real, alright?"
John let out a deep breath, rubbing at his eyes with his palm.
"He said that I never saw the the-the impact. That my fucking mind made that portion up."
The former doctor could hear Lestrade's elbow contact his desk and the long winded sigh that followed.
"He's right John. Form what I know of the story you wouldn't have seen the actual impact."
John nodded, his heartbeat quickening once more. "Great so it's just my fucked up mind that's been haunting me all this time."
"John, it's not your fault. Just, talked to Sherlock, alright? Can you get up."
The former doctor tried to push himself up, but he was shaking too badly.
"N-No." He smacked his hand against the stall door.
Hard.
"Ow fuck."
He tossed his phone down only to here the slide suddenly come to a stop.
A pale hand appeared next to a polished shoe to pick the phone up.
"John?"
The doctor, cradled his hand in his lap and sucked in his bottom lip, trying desperately to regain his composure
Sherlock can not see me like this.
"I'm f-fine. Sherlock. Just a moment."
Damn that stutter.
"Do I really need to go through all of the ways that you are not fine, or can we simply settle on the fact that you're clearly suffering from an anxiety attack or flashback brought on by my thoughtless word choice."
John barked a laugh, one completely devoid of humor.
"The Great Sherlock Holmes thoughtless? Never."
Sherlock stepped closer and leaned against the stall door.
"May I come in?"
John shifted, reaching up and flushing the toilet.
"Yea." He flicked the latch on the door and Sherlock stepped into the doorway, his countenance instantly falling from suave detective to a mask of pain and guilt.
"John-"
"I don't want your pity."
He took another deep breath, calming his pulse slowly.
"I just, I need."
"What? Do you need something to drink, medications?"
One more breath.
To breath, see?"
His smile was as shaky as his body. He was still trembling uncontrollably in his position on the floor.
"You idiot."
Sherlock crouched on the floor, his eyes scanning his blogger while his hands braced against the man's shoulders.
Steady.
Warm.
"Is it alright if I help you up?"
Sherlock?
Asking for permission?
I must look worse than I thought.
"Please."
His voice was meant to sound strong and humorous, but it came out broken, and tired.
Sherlock hooked his arms under John's and hauled him to his feet. The former doctor leaning heavily against the detective.
"What do you need, John."
He took another deep breath. "I-I need to, to take a walk. Get some air."
He pointed to the sink. "Though rinsing my mouth out right now wouldn't be too bad an idea.
Sherlock nodded, helping him to the sink and held his shoulders while he swished hand fulls of water, turning the tap back and glancing at himself in the mirror.
He looked retched. His skin was pale and clammy, his eyes were rimmed with red, his shirt was rumples and the sleeves of it were stained with spit and tears.
He wanted to crawl back and hide in the stall again.
"I never knew you as a man that worried about his appearance."
The former doctor rolled his eyes pulling away slightly and rubbed his hands together.
"I'm not."
But I do usually make a point not to go into public looking like I've just awoken from a massive binge on the floor of my best mate's bathroom.
Sherlock helped him out of the bathroom and nodded to across the room, who waved back.
"Christ. Mrs. Hudson. Shit I've ruined her dinner."
The detective guided his blogger up the steps and out of the door.
"Nonsense. She understands. Honestly it lasted longer than I was expecting it too."
John glanced up, confused. "Why's that?"
The detective pretended to scan the street in an effort to ignore the doctor's gaze.
"Anxiety attacks are common in peoples suffering from post traumatic stress disorder. As are flashbacks. They are often brought on by a trigger, and i suspected that the mentioning of my fall would be one."
He paused, placing his hands in his pocket.
"I just never expected for it to be that big of one. And Mrs. Hudson pointed out that I may have been a bit harsh."
John nodded.
"I would expect nothing less from you."
They rounded the corner, John calming slightly while Sherlock tried to skirt around the obvious topic of conversation.
He failed miserably.
"Do you get these frequently?"
The former doctor hummed.
"Not really anymore. Right after your funeral I would get them once, maybe twice a day. Mrs. Hudson tried to help but she really couldn't do much more than drown me in Tea and unwanted hugging, bless her."
He rubbed at his wrist slightly, a mannerism that Sherlock found curious.
"Lestrade was the one who helped me most of the time. Guess that he had experience with it or something."
Sherlock's fingers twitched a s small twitch of jealousy burned him.
"I saw that he was the one on your phone. You called him when you couldn't talk yourself down."
His blogger nodded.
"I haven't had one in nearly a year though."
The detective felt the guilt twisting once more in his stomach, and apparently it showed.
"It isn't your fault mate."
John smirked.
"Well, it is. But you shouldn't feel bad. You did what you had to do."
He bumped his shoulder into Sherlock's arm.
"I'll get over it."
As they walked, Sherlock surreptitiously let his hand drift to intertwine with his bloggers.
John said nothing of the gesture, but took the hint.
They would be alright.