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It’d be a lie to say Sherlock didn’t think of people’s emotions when he did things. He often did. Hell, most of his decisions were based on other people’s emotions, his care for others. Granted, the way he showed that was not always received in the way he intended. Turns out people didn’t like it if you pointed out that their girlfriend was cheating on them, but they’d like it even less if you waited until after they were married and had a child together for them to find out on their own. People were confusing, which just made Sherlock pay more attention to them.
Not enough attention to the people that matter, though. Never enough attention to John. He took notice of his companion's post traumatic stress early on, and was vaguely aware of his anxiety disorder and general socially awkward-ness. The heat of the case though, the thrill of it all made him lose track of everything. All he could think of was the case, racing around London, chasing after a murderer, with John on the phone held to his ear.
John Watson was far from Sherlock now, after the detective had jumped onto the back of a truck, leaving him in the dust. John shouted after his preoccupied friend, holding up the hand symbol of an old telephone, “CALL ME!”
What was he meant to do? Miss out on the quality content this chase was giving them? Of course, as usual, “call me” really meant “don’t ignore my phone call you arsehole”, and John whipped out his phone to call the man after he got out of the way of the busy street.
Watson held his phone up to the microphone and his ear simultaneously, hesitant to put Sherlock on speaker in public.
“Where are you headed? I’ll meet up with you just tell me where he’s going-”
“-He has a bomb, Watson, stay where you are, I’ll catch him.”
“A bomb? What's the bloke need a bomb for, ‘n broad-daylight?” John paced the sidewalk, microphone and phone in hand, gun in his pocket.
“It’s not a shooting–he has a terrible aim based on the dartboard on the back of his bedroom door, he’s trying to kill a group of people—he doesn’t have a gun license. Would you bother with a license if you were going to murder people illegally? Probably not, but he would, right stickler for the rules— ‘til now. Gun licenses in the UK take ages-”
“Who is he going to kill?!”
“Me, if I’m not quick about this.”
“Sherlock!”
“I’ve almost had him! He’s not alone anymore, got back-up, aw- piss-” Sherlock cut out for a moment, long enough for John to worry.
“Sherlock? Sherlock. You’re freaking me out, mate. I should’ve come with you. One woman’s already dead, I’m a doctor for christ’s-...” he let out a shaky exhale. “-sake. I need to sit down.” John stepped back into the break between apartment buildings, crouching over on the concrete.
It was stupid, really, to think life wouldn’t catch up to him eventually. He was never the adventurous type—not in practice. He’s not a soldier, he's a 10 year old boy waiting for his dad to get back from war. He’s always waiting on someone, his whole life. Always chasing after the idea of a man that doesn’t really exist, no matter who it is. Always waiting.
“John?” he heard faintly from his cell phone, now clattering to the ground. He frantically grabbed it, abandoning his microphone as he held it up to his ear.
“Sherlock?” is what he meant to say, but it ended up coming out as a strangled gasp.
“..Are you okay?”
“You’re the one chasing a murderer!” gasp of air, stabilizing hand against the brick wall in front of him.
“No murderers with you, now, right?” Sherlock shouted into the phone.
“No– no, I’m fine. Everything okay with you?”
“I currently have a bomber in a headlock on the ground in the middle of a busy street, if Lestrade doesn’t get here soon, I swear-” An aggressive yell, presumably from the man being headlocked, was cut off by what sounded like a phone being slammed against the pavement.
John let the phone slip out of his hand once more, as suddenly he became hyper aware of the two hours of sleep he got the night before. His body felt like a bag of rocks on an air mattress, sinking, sinking..
After a while he became vaguely aware that beyond the sound of his ragged breathing, his phone was ringing. For what felt like the fifth time, he picked it up.
“John, where are you? I’m coming to get you, just stay put.”
“I’m fine- I just need to catch my breath for a minute, I’ll come to you.”
“I’m done here- you’re clearly not alright. Where are you?”
No use arguing with the most observant man in the world. “I- i don’t know- I’m where you left me. Kind of. I’m in an alleyway–probably not- not very smart of me, huh? Yeah, murder case and all… all that.”
“He’s been caught, John, we caught him, and everyone else. I’m on my way, alright? Be right over there.”
—--
Was this PTSD related? Anxiety? Sherlock didn’t really know. He’d had his fair share of panic attacks, all of which were very Sherlock-specific, and wasn’t going to take any chances. He hadn’t gotten far from John, so it shouldn’t be a long run. His hands were still covered in some innocent woman’s blood, so he hastily smeared it off onto his black coat. As he ran, he pickpocketed a perfume bottle out of someone’s shopping bag, spraying it haphazardly all over himself, making him choke and cough before leaving it to shatter on the ground.
It didn’t take much longer to find John, slumped against a filthy wall, both hands covering his face.
“John?” Sherlock crouched down over his best friend, tearing his hands from his face forcing eye contact. “Yeah, that’s it, hey, take a deep breath, okay?” He brought his hands to rest on either side of his partner’s face, blood still staining his fingers.
It took a couple tries, but eventually John’s erratic breathing became less of that like a rooster with asthma after running a 10k.
Watson coughed. “Erraugh— what is that god awful smell all over you?”
“Some disgusting peppermint perfume I’m using to disguise the smell of blood—didn’t want to trigger your post-traumatic stress. Is it working?”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’m alright.”
A hoarse giggle escaped John, his grin causing his cheeks to press against Sherlock’s palms. “Do you do this for all your traumatized ex-military doctor podcast-partners, or just me?”
“There's no one else but you, John.”
He knew that this was probably just Sherlock not quite understanding sarcasm again, but the way he said it made it feel like they were the very last men on Earth, and they may have well been. It always felt like just the two of them, alone yet together.
—-
It didn’t feel like long before he was on the sofa of their flat, wrapped up in two different blankets, listening to Sherlock and Mariana bicker in the kitchen. The aftermath of a panic attack usually felt just as bad as the attack itself, his whole body jittery and exhausted. Usually, always, no one else knew about it. The aftermath was facing his friends, his family, totally strangers, as if nothing had happened. After all, it was all in his head. It felt.. nice, knowing that someone knew this time.
“Please tell me you’re going to shower, you smell like the victim of a Christmas-elf-skunk.”
“I have greater concerns right now, Ms. Hudson.”
“At least take off that coat, it reeks.”
A few minutes later, Sherlock entered the living room, now trench coat-less, with a mug. He handed it to John before sitting down beside him.
“Hot, don’t burn your tongue.”
“Mmm, thank you. Cocoa?”
“The listeners don't need to know this time.” Sherlock winked, smiling.
After an appropriate amount of time, John took a gulp of the hot chocolate before setting it on the table beside the sofa.
“Alright, go get my first aid kit, I need to disinfect your face.”
“Arg, I just sat down, can it wait?”
“No, you’re all banged up and dirty, go get it.”
“Ffffffffffine.”
Sherlock returned from the bathroom with a red first aid pouch, and sat back down. He watched as Watson spilled disinfectant from a clear glass jar onto a cotton ball, gesturing for him to lean closer.
“This might sting a bit, I’m just cleaning it.”
“I could do it myself.”
“You wouldn’t do it right. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
“No.”
“Sherlock, I saw blood on your coat.”
“Perhaps you’re more perceptive than I thought. That was not my blood, though.”
“Jesus.” Watson gently brushed the cut above his eyebrow with the cold cotton. “What am I gonna do about you?”
Sherlock's lips quirked upwards in the way it did when you were trying to suppress a smile. They smiled at each other as John wet another cotton ball.
It was interesting, watching Sherlock warm up to him. When they first met, the detective avoided almost all eye contact. Now, he seemed to seek it out. Let his eyes wander to his friend without thought, as if reading his mind. He probably was.
“All we have are Thomas the Tank Engine bandages. I wonder whose fault that is.”
“You’re the so-called doctor. I’m hardly to blame for your lackluster medical supplies.”
“Well you’re the one about to have a train with a face all over your face.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
John rolled his eyes, unpeeling the paper from the band-aid.
“You’re sure you’re not hurt anywhere else?”
“Yes, just some bruises. He focused on punching me in the face, the rest of me is relatively covered.”
“Your hands aren’t.” John examined the cuts on Sherlock’s hands.
“It’s a scratch, Watson.”
“Hey, you take care of me, I take care of you. That’s the rule.”
“I don’t recall that being a rule.”
“It is now.” John tilted his head to the side, smiling and squinting his eyes. As much as he liked being on cases, his heart-rate appreciated the downtime he often got with his friend. He drove him crazy most days, but he knew he really cared.
“You’re okay now?” Sherlock’s eyebrows dipped down in a way they didn’t often.
Watson sighed deeply. “I think so, now. Thank you for being there.”
“It wouldn't make me a very good flatmate to just leave you there, would it?”
“I hardly believe you’d do anything in the world out of obligation.”
“Then I fear you know me well, John.”
—-