John tries his best to pull his jacket around him against the cold. His hands are filled with shopping bags, making it difficult to accomplish. The shop had been a nightmare. Long lines and fussy pin machines only added to his frustration that he was the only one who ever went out to retrieve the shopping.

Finally, 221B came into view, as did Lestrade standing in front of the door smoking a cigarette.

John smiles in greeting. "Greg, what are you doing here?" he asks, lightheartedly, grateful for the man's presence. It had been awhile since he had come to Sherlock for a case and the man was starting to drive John insane. Sherlock was practically crawling up the walls with boredom, John barely able to stop him from shooting them again.

"Ah, got a case I need Sherlock's help on, of course," Lestrade sighs, crushing the cigarette between his fingers and pocketing the stub.

"Thank god for that," John states as he set down one handful of bags and pulls out his keys to unlock the door. "He's been dreadful lately."

Lestrade laughs, following John through the door and up the stairs.

"I'll grab him for you," John says, once they are inside the flat, setting down the groceries on the kitchen table. From the kitchen, John can hear the shower running. Lestrade settles himself in a kitchen chair as John walks to stand in front of the bathroom door.

"Sherlock, I'm back," John says, knocking on the door and then halting it to wait for a reply before mentioning, "Greg's here."

Even if Sherlock was in a mood and is giving John the silent treatment for whatever reason, letting him know that he might have a case would surely pull him out of it.

Silence is all that answers him. It wasn't uncommon for Sherlock to get lost in thought, but John couldn't remember a time when it had ever happened in the shower. Sherlock is already annoyed with the daily needs of his transport. He wouldn't waste time with the necessary things to keep him alive if he could help it. That's what he had John for, apparently.

A pit of worry begins to grow in John's stomach and he fights to push it down. Maybe Sherlock is just ignoring him, but the last thing John needs was a pneumonia-ridden detective on his hands because the shower ran out of hot water.

He tries knocking again and barely notices Lestrade walking over to stand by him. "Sherlock?"

Nothing.

He starts to bang on the door. "Sherlock!" John yells, no longer questioning; instead, he is demanding now because fear began to rise, threatening to come pouring out. "Answer me!"

"Probably just being a prat, John," Lestrade sighs.

John ignores him, knowing that at least Sherlock would normally shout at him to leave him alone after hearing the worried tone of his voice. He was a prat, but he wasn't nefarious.

"Answer me, or I'll break the bloody door down, Sherlock." No response.

John thankfully has enough sense try the doorknob first. Thankfully, because Mrs. Hudson probably wouldn't have been too happy about the door being broken. The knob turns easily in his hand and John gently pushes the door open.

John would look back and wonder if he wishes that he wouldn't have opened the door, left Sherlock alone and wait for everything to be normal again.

"Sherlock?" John inquires quietly as he pokes his head into the room.

Steam from the shower envelopes his face, blurring his vision for a moment. He half expects to see Sherlock in his mind palace beneath the spray, maybe staring off into space while absentmindedly shampooing his hair.

He does not expect to see the fully clothed man curled into a ball in the corner of the bathtub, eyes blank.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John cries and slides the half closed shower curtain to the side, momentarily getting rained on by a hot spray before he managed to turn it off. The sight is so foreign to John and he stops, taking it on.

Rivulets of blood mixed with water spiral towards the drain. John stares at it before his eyes drift over to Sherlock, quickly trying to find the source of the blood before he becomes distracted with his face.

Sherlock is staring straight in front of him with a blank expression, but his look in his eyes is the most surprising. To John, he looks terrified. A bruise has begun forming on his cheek, a small cut in the middle of it.

John's mind doesn't even register the ache in his knees as he falls to the tile next to him. "Sherlock?" he tries again, cautiously. Sherlock made no sign to show that he was aware anyone was speaking to him or was even in the room with him. But John swore he saw the slightest flinch run through the man's body.

"Can you hear me?" John asks quietly, aching to reach out to him. 'Are you okay?' was the instinctual question, but it's useless right now as Sherlock seems to be anything other than ok.

John settles for shedding his jacket and wrapping it around Sherlock. The material clings to him on contact with how soaked he is. The water had been burning when John shut it off, but not hot enough to do any damage. The jacket is hopefully providing some sort of comfort. It probably won't do much good at all, but the effort makes John feel like he isn't completely useless.

"Sherlock." John's voice is more direct now, but he still isn't getting a single sign that Sherlock can hear a word he is saying. "You're scaring me."

He'd almost forgot Lestrade is here and looks back to shoot him a worried glance. Silently, he asks have you ever seen him act like this?

In return, Lestrade shrugs clearly understanding what John was conflicted with, looking just as lost as John is.

Turning back, he swallows as Sherlock's teeth started to chatter audibly. It was the first change in his state since John had entered the room. John attempts to get in front of Sherlock's line of sight, but he looks as if he's staring straight through him. He brings his hand up to Sherlock's shoulder and squeezes gently.

The reaction is instant. A hand wraps firmly around John's wrist, the grip tight, but not painful. Sherlock's eyes finally connect with John's.

"John," Sherlock whispers. His voice sending chills through John's spine. He sounds weak and shaken.

"Are you ok?" John asks; he can't help it, Sherlock looks almost catatonic and John will ask him anything right now in an attempt to pull him out of his head.

Sherlock releases John's wrist and it takes John a moment to notice the bloody handprint that has been left on the sleeve of his jumper. So the cut is on his hand, John realizes. Thank god it's nothing worse.

"No, John-You never ask-the right questions." Sherlock states, taking a shallow breath between every few words and then starts giggling, hysterically, "Where is he?"

John looked back at Lestrade in question, who had come fully into the bathroom now and was leaning against the bathroom counter.

"Who? Sherlock, it's just us." John says gently but Sherlock wasn't listening and now he was panting heavily. He's panicking and John has to calm him down and fast or he might just fall into a full on panic attack.

John moves closer slowly, giving Sherlock every opportunity to move away, trying not to spook the already panicking man. As he gets closer John can see that Sherlock's eyes are unfocused and a keen sweat is building up on his pale skin, clearly the man isn't all here right now.

Sherlock's eyes focus on John for a moment before a panicked glaze falls over them and his breathing becomes short and raspy. "John," he grits out.

John slowly reaches out and lays his hand softly on Sherlock's chest causing him to flinch. "You need to slow your breathing down."

"Can't," Sherlock says and John feels his heart clench because that one word sounded way too close to a whimper. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, a few tears making their way down his cheeks. His hand comes up to cover John's own and grips it tight and digging his nails into it before letting out a pained sob.

"Look at me, Sherlock," John demands. Wet blue eyes catch his and John's heart breaks once more at the pleading look in them. "Good. Try and slow down your breathing. In through your nose and out your mouth."

The first intake is shaky and looks goddamned hard to accomplish, but he is listening and John isn't sure if that makes him feel good or even more worried. A consenting Sherlock isn't always a good thing.

Sherlock squeezes John's hand impossibly harder, trying desperately to follow his instructions.

He opens his eyes again, and this time they are slightly more focused. He keeps his gaze on John and mimics his breathing pattern.

John begins a whispering mantra of 'You're safe.', 'I'm here.', 'It's alright.' and most importantly 'Come back to me, Sherlock.'.

Time passes slowly and bit by bit John can see Sherlock calming down, twenty minutes have nearly passed before Greg's voice breaks the silence of the room. "What can I do, John?"

John shamefully tries to hide his jump of surprise at the man's close presence. He is grateful that Greg hadn't tried to help earlier. Two voices telling Sherlock to control his breathing may have been a bit too overwhelming. Greg is a calming presence for both John and, though the man would never admit it, Sherlock.

"First aid kit, under my bed; can you grab it?" John attempts to look grateful and in truth, he is. Moments like this with Sherlock are rare and terrifying, daunting when dealt with alone.

Lestrade turns around like a man on a mission and starts off to John's bedroom.

"Can I see your hand?" John asks quietly, feeling as though anything above a whisper will startle Sherlock.

Sherlock offers his hand and John grimaces at the bloodied cut running across the whole of it.

"Doesn't look too deep. Just need to clean and bandage it," John says, knowing full well he is probably talking to himself. Sherlock has fallen completely silent, still focusing on his evening his breathing.

There is silence for a few moments, and John notices Sherlock grasping at his chest with one hand as if every breath he takes pains him. John sends him a concerned look. "You're safe, you know."

"I know I'm safe!" Sherlock snaps, his nose scrunching up in irritation. His whole body must be aching but that doesn't stop him from pulling his knees closer to his chest and wrapping his arms around them tightly. "Sorry."

"Can you tell me what happened?" John inquires, just as Lestrade set down the med bag next to his knees. "Thank you, Greg."

Greg nods, looking slightly uncomfortable. "I'll just..go and make some tea, yeah?"

"That would be great, Greg, thanks," John replies, managing a smile, before rummaging through the bag and gathering the supplies he needs.

Sherlock stays quiet once more as John cleans and bandages his hand, which makes his worry grow anew. He normally can't get Sherlock to shut up. Right now he misses the banter, the whining. Sherlock seems...Well, empty.

John turns to clean up and put away his supplies, "Well-" He starts.

"I'm sorry-"

They speak at the same time and Sherlock looks down with a frustrated face.

"What could you possibly have to be sorry for?"

"You shouldn't have had to see that." Sherlock grunts.

"Sherlock, you have nothing to be ashamed of, it's perfectly natural for you to-" John tries but Sherlock interrupts him.

"Not for me."

John sighs, running a hand through his hair. "What happened?"

It was the wrong question to ask apparently because Sherlock visibly starts to shake and John watches as the wall comes up and he stares back at him blank eyes. The vibrant blue that usually answers him with a childlike curiosity is gone.

"Sherlock, I want to take your bedroom and get you dry. Can you help me?" John asks, cautiously, but it is to no avail. The shaking begins to increase, coursing through Sherlock's whole body. He is hyperventilating.

"Sherlock!" John shouts when suddenly Sherlock's eyes roll back and he slumps down.

Consciousness floods over Sherlock like a tidal wave. He tries to take a deep breath, but it catches in his chest, refusing to rise to the surface. Voices flood his ears and the overwhelming sensation to cover them becomes unbearable. Instead, he puts all his energy in trying to focus. The words sound calming, or maybe that's just what they want him to think. Wait, not voices. Just one. Focus.

Stern, calming and patient. All add up to. John.

"Sherlock." John's voice cuts through the air and finally, the buzzing sound falls from his ears. "Hey. It's alright."

Sherlock can feel one strong hand on his shoulder and one on his chest. Words float around in his throat to tell John 'Of course, I'm fine. I'm always fine', but unwelcome panic chokes him and he swallows it back, tasting bile in his throat and managing to draw in only one good breath.

"That's good," John says. The praise shouldn't send warmth through his chest, but it does. "Can you do that again for me?"

The warmth fades as he realizes he's being soothed. Sherlock wants to punch him for that, but he finds his limbs stiff and unresponsive.

"Fuck. You." He rasps, wincing at how weak his voice sounds and shaking his head.

"Nice," John states patiently and Sherlock can't help but notice the worried tone of his voice.

Hateful.

Sherlock pries his eyes open and attempts to clear his throat, but it must be obvious how much it hurt because a fresh wave of concern falls over John's face.

"What happened?" Sherlock asks because this situation is becoming unbearably tedious and he just wants it to be over.

"You passed out." John rubs slow circles on his chest and Sherlock can't decide whether to tell him to fuck off, or never stop. "Scared the shit out of me," John smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Probably because you're not getting enough oxygen."

Oxygen. In. out. Inhale. Exhale. Carbon dioxide. Exhausting.

Sherlock starts to reply, but his next breath catches in his throat and his vision begins to swim as he chokes on it.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Slow down," John says. His voice soothing again and this time Sherlock can't find it in himself to care.

Sherlock glares at John, but decides to do as he's told. If anyone can fix this, John can. He tries, he really does, but the next breath he attempts to take is just as weak and useless as the former. And really, this is becoming tedious. Failure washes over him. What good is he if he can't even control himself enough to breathe? "I…can't."

"Yes, you can. Try again."

What good is John if he is just going to sit there demanding Sherlock to do something that he obviously cannot?

John closes the hand lying on Sherlock's chest into a fist and rubs his knuckles over his sternum, hard. Sherlock snarls and tries to twist out of his grasp, but his limbs are still unresponsive.

"Wait, Sherlock, keep still!" John shouts. "I'm just trying to help."

Hands. Hands all over him. Too much. "Don't touch me."

John sighs, but refuses to pull his hand away. "I know it hurts, but- just let me help you."

He isn't helping. He has done absolutely nothing to help except sit there and tell Sherlock to breathe. "Why—can't I—breathe?" Sherlock asks and then regrets it because John suddenly looks terribly sad.

"You're having a panic attack. Again." John sighs and rubs Sherlock's chest a little more gently now. "But you're talking. That's a good sign."

Sherlock shoots him a look between questioning and a glare. "This is ridiculous."

"Will you let me help you?" John practically begs and Sherlock can see the desperation in his eyes.

Sherlock nods.

"Inhale through your nose slowly for three seconds and then out your mouth for five."

Sherlock does as he's asked finding it halfway successful and John smiles at him.

"Again? That's it. Now count to five as you breathe in."

Sherlock follows John's ministration, surprised to feel it working. The knot in his chest is beginning to loosen a little and each breath comes easier than the last.

"Good," John says moving his hand to press two fingers beside his trachea to feel for a pulse before returning it to rub gentle circles on his chest.

Sherlock keeps breathing, watching John in fascination. Not useless. Never useless.

Sherlock suddenly realizes his surroundings have changed, chastising himself for it having taken him this long. The uncomfortable cold tile of the bathroom shower is no longer beneath him. Instead, a familiar, comfortable mattress has taken its place.

"There was someone else here," Sherlock slurs, the words grazing over his tongue as memories flood through him. Now that he can breathe a little better he needs information. He needs to get rid of this feeling of being lost.

"Greg," John says, sighing at Sherlock's confused glance. "Lestrade. He helped me get you into bed."

Sherlock hummed, eyes dancing around the room.

"He went home. Figured you'd be pissed about being seen like this," John huffs, a small smile appearing on his face.

Sherlock can't get rid of the sensation that something is missing, something important and fire spreads through his chest as data, way too much data flood his memory. "Mycroft!"

John pulls back with a surprised look on his face. "What about him?"

Sherlock presses his hands against his eyes and rubs hard. "I need to talk to him."

"Why, Sherlock? What's happened?"

Sherlock sighs, taking in another deep breath to steady himself before explaining. "The man who attacked me tonight-"

"I'm sorry, what?" John exclaims, his body tensing.

"He thought I was Mycroft," Sherlock continues, ignoring John's outburst. "Must have heard my last name while I was speaking with a client. He tried to stab me and I blocked him with my hand." Picking up his hand, Sherlock stares at the bandages. "Not my best move, but it had the desired effect."

"He ran off," Sherlock continues, presses his fingertips against the cut on his cheek before he takes another deep breath in and finally it washes through him easily. "It's happened before."

The confusion painted on John's face falls instantly. "Someone's attacked Mycroft before?"

"Obviously," Sherlock states. "Not much now since he decided to give up leg work, but it's not hard for him to get on the wrong side of enemies."

Sherlock braces his arms to push himself up only to be gently pushed back down. Sherlock huffs in annoyance. "I need to speak with Mycroft."

"No, absolutely not. You've had two panic attacks in the last hour, Sherlock," John expresses, throwing his hands, palms up, in exaggeration. "I will call him."

A buzzing sound breaks out into the room and light emanates from John's pocket. Pulling it from his jeans, John smiles and faces the screen towards Sherlock.

Threat has been taken care of. Let Sherlock know, will you? –MH

John stares hard into Sherlock's face, probably looking for some kind of emotion and Sherlock steels himself to keep his face blank. "Feel better now?"

Sherlock sighs and leans his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Dull. My body has betrayed me once more."

"You're exhausted, Sherlock. You've been running yourself ragged for a week now even without cases. It's natural for your body to react to stress when you haven't been taking much care of it."

"This is Mycroft's fault," Sherlock concludes, rolling over on his side.

"And I thought the Holmes brothers didn't have hearts," John laughs.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock turns his head to glare at him.

"Someone was trying to hurt your brother and it scared you." John smiled. "Sounds like sentiment to me."

"Shut up, John."