Panic Attack

Sherlock could hear John's voice next to him as they both sat in the small lounge of their Dartmoor hotel, contemplating the evening's events. Sherlock could still see the spectral image of the gigantic hound – its jet black fur and glowing red eyes – which had stalked both him and Henry Knight back at the hollow, and it scared him. He'd always been able to trust the evidence of his own eyes, the hound wasn't real, he'd been convinced of that fact from the very beginning – it would have been just yet another stray animal, fuelling local myth and legend, simple and boring – and yet he'd seen it with his own eyes.

He couldn't bring himself to look at John, fixing his eyes straight ahead instead – he was afraid that if he looked his best friend in the eye he'd fall apart. Cold sweat started to gather upon the pale flesh of his forehead and trickle down the back of his neck. His hands, usually so steady, began to tremble and his body to shake as the breath hitched in his chest. He was usually able to divorce himself from his emotions, remain detached, and yet here he now was, his body giving into fear and betraying his moment of weakness.

He couldn't breathe, his palms were slick and clammy with sweat, and his heart felt as though it was about to burst through his chest, fluttering painfully. His head began to spin, his lips and fingers began to tingle, and turn numb, and there was a horrendous ringing in his ears. Rational thought in that moment seemed almost to have evaded him. He'd snapped at John once already this evening, but thankfully his best friend had seemed to realise that at least for once in his life Sherlock was not in complete control of the venom within his tone, and after taking a few minutes to compose himself had returned to find him still sitting were he had left him in the lounge.

He looked back down at Sherlock helplessly – yes he was a doctor but he'd never seen his friend like this before and so had no idea how to comfort him. Sherlock simply looked up into John's sympathetic face pleadingly, he realised that he was losing all grasp on reality but he was paralysed with fear – he couldn't breathe properly, he couldn't move, he couldn't even see straight. His legs had turned to jelly and he was worried that if he made any attempt to get up they would simply give way beneath him, which would prove exceptionally embarrassing - not to mention painful.

"John, get me out of here…" He begged for his friend's assistance, and John frowned, slightly perplexed and taken aback by Sherlock's request.

Sherlock's complexion was pale, even his sharp cheekbones had taken on a ghostly white hew, he was visibly shaking now, and his dark curls clung to his forehead and the back of his neck, which was slick with sweat – but still the young doctor had no idea how to help his terrified friend.

"Please John…" Sherlock gasped. "People can't see me like this… just get me out of here."

John looked deep into his friend's troubled eyes – he'd often seen this reaction to stress in men before, back on the battle grounds of Afghanistan – soldiers who'd been so paralysed by their own fear that they often couldn't move or even breathe, all rational thought seemed to evade them and they appeared to become locked inside their own minds, a prisoner of their own terrifying thoughts – but he'd never in his wildest dreams expected to see it happen to Sherlock.

Gently he aided his trembling friend to his feet – Sherlock's legs were so weak that he had to support his entire weight all the way up to their room as the detective's hands tremored and his teeth chattered together ever so slightly – his pale skin was also icy cold to the touch as John carefully guided him, and helped him to negotiate the small flight of stairs, and he gave the general appearance of someone beginning to go into emotional shock.

Back upstairs John forced his slender frame to sit down upon the bed – Sherlock's breathing was still rapid and irregular and so he carefully took him by his thin and clammy wrist to check his pulse - all the time speaking to him softly so as not to startle his distressed friend, but needing to reassure his own concerns that there wasn't something more serious going on than just a simple panic attack. So sudden and severe had the attack been.

Finally assured he let his wrist go and Sherlock let his arm drop limply back down to his side.

"I'm going to give you something to help you relax." John explained, as he made his way over to his black leather medical case on the dresser. "I don't know what's going on here Sherlock but whatever it is seems to be affecting you in the same way it's affected Henry Knight all these years, and I don't like it. We mustn't lose our heads, you're the most rational person I know, don't lose touch with reality."

"I don't need anything to help me relax." Sherlock snarled. "I know what I saw… and why is it that we can never go anywhere without you bringing that stupid thing with you?" He asked.

"I'm a doctor," John shrugged, "plus I live with you. It might come in handy one day if I ever need to top myself." He joked.

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head at his own wittiness, and even Sherlock managed to crack a small smile – now at least a little calmer, and seemingly significantly reassured by his best friend's jest and calming tone. He still fought to try to control his laboured breathing though as he watched as John flicked at the syringe he'd filled with a small measure of milky liquid.

"This will help you sleep." The doctor explained as Sherlock looked at the hypodermic reluctantly - although he offered up no resistance.

Realising he was beaten Sherlock took off his coat and rolled his shirt sleeve up slowly.

"You'll feel better in the morning." Watson reassured him. "But this might sting a little."

Sherlock however didn't even flinch as John pierced his skin with the needle and emptied the contents of the syringe into a vein.

S.H.S.H

Nearly half an hour later John had helped Sherlock out of his shirt and trousers, into his pyjamas and into bed – it was only 10 o'clock but the drug he had administered had had a rather rapid effect upon his friend, and he'd thought that they could probably both do with an early night. At least now that Sherlock had finally calmed down his breathing had returned to normal, and he'd stopped hyperventilating.

John sighed as he watched his friend sleeping soundly beside him – wondering what it was which could possibly have got Sherlock Holmes of all people, the most logical man John Watson had ever known, worked up into such a state.

He'd been troubled by what he'd seen that evening, and it had made him all the more determined to get to the bottom of what was going on at Dartmoor – but on the other hand he'd also seen a new and different side to his best friend tonight - a side he didn't get to see very often - a very human side, a side which was vulnerable, sometimes afraid - a side which had proven that every so often he too needed a little help from his friends.

That could never be a bad thing in John Watson's eyes.

Sherlock Holmes was not a robot – he was a human being after all.