John buried his face in his chair, only his dark curls could be seen. He just wanted Mycroft to leave. It didn't matter that he had been the one to suggest contacting him in the first place. There was simply too much of everything going on around him and he needed it to stop. He heard Mycroft leave, then the door to the flat shut gently behind him. It felt as if the air itself had grown lighter and was easier to breathe. Without looking, John knew that Sherlock had come over and sat on the floor in front of him. His presence, there, but not touching, was immeasurably soothing.

"Are you feeling better?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"I don't know."

"It's okay, you don't have to know." Sherlock hesitated. What would John do? "I'll make tea."

Dark curls bobbed as John nodded an acknowledgement. He let himself surrender to darkness. On a whim, he rebuilt the flat around himself. He was able to recreate every detail, from the skull on the mantle to the medical journals stacked by his chair. He wandered the flat in his mind, going up to his room. There he found his medical kit. He picked it up and placed it on his bed. When he opened it, information poured forth - medical terms and procedures - all of it information he had lost. It didn't make sense. How could all this knowledge be here? He hadn't learned it in this body, with this mind. He most definitely hadn't stored it away using the method of loci, but here it was. His mind whirred. Taking a closer look at the information, he realised it was very limited in scope. All of it pertained to events that had happened in Sherlock's presence and it was all from the detective's point of view. Still, John was able to grasp at each memory and let it settle in his mind. It felt right, somehow, and seemed to connect with something deep inside him. He was certain he could perform each procedure with ease.

Sherlock returned from the kitchen, tea in hand, only to find John sitting upright in his chair. His gaze wasn't vacant, precisely, it was more like it was focused on something that the detective couldn't see. He stood there looking at John for a few long moments, giving a start when the doctor's hands started moving. It was as if John were sorting through a bag and coming up with something cupped in his hands. The doctor repeated the actions over and over. He must have found his way into Sherlock's Mind Palace after all.

Biting his lip, Sherlock hesitated. He didn't want to disturb John who appeared truly calm for the first time since this whole ordeal had began. He opted to set the tea on the table within easy reach in case John wanted it.

Sitting down in his chair, Sherlock let himself give way to the shakes. He brought his hands up to cover his face and struggled to breathe against the constriction in his chest. A mobile buzzed insistently on the table by John's chair. Sherlock ignored it. A few minutes later, another phone buzzed on the desk. The detective ignored it too. Finally, the first phone began ringing. Sherlock lunged across the room trying to get to it before it disturbed John, but the doctor returned to the here and now and snapped it up before the detective could reach it.

John had glanced at the ID, so he answered with, "Now's really not a good time Greg." There was a pause at the other end of the line, no doubt at being called Greg by 'Sherlock'.

"Look, I don't care if you're in the middle of defusing a bomb, I need you and I need you now. Two little girls have been kidnapped. There have been no ransom demands, just..." Here, Lestrade's voice broke. "We've received disturbing photos of what's being done to them. Now get your arse in here and help me get the bastard."

"Oh, bloody buggaring fuck." John's hand holding the phone fell limp, the mobile falling to the floor.

Greg's voice rang tinny in the air, "Sherlock! What the hell? Sherlock!"

The detective bent and retrieved the phone, trying to think what John would do. He would smooth things over, that was John's job. "Le..." He paused. John never called the DI by his family name. What was his first name again? Gary, Geoff, Gavin. How was he supposed to remember? John would remember. Greg! That was it. "Greg, Sherlock's not feeling well at the moment. Sorry. Whatever you have will have to wait."

Sherlock got a double earful as both Lestrade and John barked out, "No!" simultaneously.

The detective looked at John in disbelief. A low grade anger was building inside of him. What did John expect them to do? Sherlock's mind was moving at a glacial pace and John... The doctor had already experienced one meltdown in the safety of the flat. Sherlock snapped, "Don't be an idiot, John!"

The doctor wrenched the phone from Sherlock's hand and held it to his ear. "Text me the address and the details of the case. We'll be there within 45 minutes." Pressing 'end', John rang off.

Sherlock stepped into John's space, glaring at the taller man. "We can't do this. What were you thinking?! You get the use of an exemplary mind, and you don't bother to use it."

"You need to calm down," the doctor advised. He felt his own anger growing, but it was a cold thing. The mobile pinged several times. Looking down, he noted that some of the messages had attachments. Opening one, he grimaced. It was a disturbing picture of one of the missing girls. He thrust the phone in Sherlock's face, forcing him to look at the image. "That's why we're going. Two missing girls."

The detective couldn't take his eyes from the photo. Seeing it was doing strange things to him. It was affecting him viscerally. It finally became too much and he bent double, his stomach heaving.

John placed a hand on his back. "Sherlock?"

"God, John. Is this how you always feel?" The detective didn't wait for an answer. "My skin is crawling, John. Can you see it? You should be able to see it. I want to find the bastard and hurt him." He looked up into John's eyes. "Let me hurt him."

The doctor was calm with his response. "Yes, that's how these things make me feel. It's worse when you're the one in danger or being hurt."

"It's like I'm a live wire. I need to do something." Sherlock reached out for John's hand. "I do care, John, I've always cared, but I always controlled it before. How do you cope with this."

John barked a harsh laugh. "I don't. Nightmares, remember?" Knowing that wasn't at all helpful, he added, "I concentrate on breathing. I focus on keeping your arse alive and I think about the consequences if we don't do our job. Sometimes I just think about the next step and what needs to be done. Can you do that for those girls?"

Sherlock swallowed hard and nodded.