"Well, that was stupid."

"What was?"

Sherlock didn't raise his head from where his chin rested atop his knees. "Reacting so violently." He frowned. "I thought I was having a heart attack."

"People mistake panic attacks for heart attacks sometimes," John replied gently. "Especially if you're not used to the sensation."

Sherlock blew out a breath through his nose. The panic attack had come and gone in the process of what seemed like only minutes, but getting out of the hospital had been more trouble than it had been worth. Sherlock understood why John had called the ambulance, he had been legitimately wondering if he was having a heart attack, but it didn't help his dignity nor his patience after the panic attack had subsided and he wanted nothing more than to go home.

"That's why it can be so dangerous," John continued. "I wasn't about to risk it."

"I know," Sherlock replied dully.

Now they were finally back at the duplex, sitting side-by-side on the front stoop. It was single-handedly the only thing that Sherlock liked about the country: he could enjoy nature without the bustle of the city. It was humid out, and Sherlock wished for a cool breeze, but had resigned himself to suffering in exhausted silence.

John had tried to persuade him to go to bed, but sleeping was fraught with nightmares. After the panic attack, Sherlock hadn't been in the mood. He had been exhausted, but unwilling to sleep, so with that, he had taken to the front steps and John had followed after.

"We shouldn't have gone back," Sherlock continued listlessly. "That was stupid, too. Why am I making such stupid decisions?" he muttered.

"You're allowed." John leaned back, propping himself up with his hands. "More now than ever. You don't have to perfect all the time. You're allowed to lose control."

A sudden burst of pain swelled in Sherlock's chest again. He was about to rightfully be alarmed when his vision clouded over, obscured by wetness that collected in his eyes, and he understood: this wasn't another panic attack. He closed his eyes and raised his head, looking away.

Unlike John thought, Sherlock wasn't happy unless he was in control. And, when he did lose ever so precious said control, it usually ended badly: drugs, sex, or jail. Forgive him if he was little hesitant to break up over something, no matter how big of something that might have been.

"I've had panic attacks, too," John said, startling Sherlock back to reality again. "You know that. After Afghanistan. Surprised they haven't come back now, really." He sighed. "It's a mess. Your body and mind just makes it even worse. I get it."

"I know," Sherlock replied.

"It could be worse."

The strangled little laugh that broke free of Sherlock's lips was accompanied by tears that he dashed away immediately. He was not doing that. No. "How?" He was repeating the same sentiment from earlier.

John glanced at him - Sherlock could feel his eyes on him, but he didn't look around - and said quietly "We could be dead".

Sherlock didn't reply. He wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously, but, seeing as how either of those would lead to the other, he remained silent. Neither would help.

"Come on," John said shortly, "let's get in. We'll put the telly on and make some tea." He stood up.

Sherlock didn't move. "I think I'll stay here awhile longer."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

John nodded slowly. "... Okay. I'll make a whole pot, though, so try to come in before it gets cold. It'll do you some good."

Sherlock just nodded absently. It was only after John had left that he let himself slump forward and bury his face into his hands, tangling his fingers into his hair. He hated emotion, he hated being unpredictable, he hated being uncontrollable. He tugged on his curls, hoping the prickles of pain would distract him sufficiently from the burning his eyes. Crying. The last time he had done that... well, it would have been Mary, but before that, he couldn't remember. And certainly not crying in front of John. Never that. Rational. Calm. Collected.

He took a deep breath, and it out slowly.

He knew it was stupid, but he got to his feet and strode away from the house. He knew John would chew him out for it later, but it didn't matter. He just wanted some distance from the here and now and, with any luck, he'd be able to find it in the tranquillity of the land surrounding them.

They had about an acre of land surrounding the duplex. It was a nice place, Sherlock had to admit. It was too quiet and there was a vast amount of nothing surrounding them, but... it was nice. All things considered.

A breeze was the first indicator that the weather was changing over, but he ignored it in favour of rounding through a thicket of trees in the middle of the property. It was a cool breath on the back of his neck, chasing away the taste of soot and ash and the feel of fire singing his flesh. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath, to then breathe in the fresh, cool air. He opened his eyes and kept moving.

The gray clouds moved in not ten minutes later. His phone vibrated in his pocket but he ignored it in favour of absolutely nothing else. It was just John. Just John worrying, but Sherlock was more or less fine. He was still working through some things, but he was fine.

Right, his mind supplied sarcastically. That's the best argument you've had with yourself all day.

Frankly, he wanted to tell that part of his mind to bugger off and leave him be, but he also knew when he was losing an argument, even if said row happened to be with himself. And so, he let the thought float by idly, and ignored the second text message that John sent him.

When the rain started falling, it was almost like a blessing.

He knew it was pointless to hope that it would wash all of this away. It wasn't that simple. It would have been nice to entertain the whim of fancy, but he wasn't going to give in to such childish impulses. Instead, he took comfort in experiencing each individual drop of rain pelting against his exposed skin, to the point where he couldn't feel the individual drops for the downpour, or the water dripping from his hair down his neck. The press of his coat wasn't an oppressive one as it slowly absorbed the rain, but the raindrops stinging his eyes wasn't a pleasant sensation.

Not raindrops.

Shut up.

He had no trouble arguing with himself this time. It didn't really matter, though, this time.

He stopped outside what had once probably been a storage shed, although now it was more just a broken down building. The skeleton of something that it used to be. Sherlock twitched himself out of his thoughts, noticing a bee's nest looming in one of splintered corners. He stopped and squinted at it, narrowing his eyes. Life in the midst of destruction. Was he getting too sentimental?

"There you are."

Sherlock jumped, glancing over his shoulder.

John shoved his hands in his pockets, hunkered down in the rain.

Sherlock looked back at the beehive. "Look, John. Bees."

John completely dismissed the statement. "You can't stay out here."

"... Right." Sherlock turned away from the shed, turning his attention back to his flatmate. "Back to the house, then."

John looked up at him intently.

Sherlock resisted the urge to rub his eyes. Instead, he turned away and head back towards the house. "How did you find me, anyway?"

"I've got an app on your phone, connects to mine. In case I need to find you."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, looking down at him. "You've got a track on my phone?"

"I don't use it. Generally. Unless I think maybe something's happened to you," John muttered. His shoulders were slumped, back stiff, eyes averted. He was oozing uncomfortableness. "Or if you won't answer your bloody phone," he added, glancing up at him.

Sherlock sniffed. "I didn't notice it'd gone off."

"You're a horrible liar," John retorted.

Sherlock huffed. "Not generally. Did you make tea?"

"I did, but we've got a ten minute walk back to the house in the pouring rain, and it's going to be cold by the time we get back."

"Huh." Sherlock shook water from his hair. "That's unfortunate. Think it through next time."

John seemed to laugh slightly, but it could have been a scoff, too. Sherlock wasn't certain, but it made him smile slightly nonetheless.

"I call the bathroom upstairs," John said, startling Sherlock out of his thoughts.

"What? No!"

John laughed - it was definitely a laugh this time, something strange, but comforting - and picked up the pace.

"No, the upstairs is the one with the bath, I want a bath," Sherlock argued, lengthening his stride to keep ahead of him.

"First one back, then," John challenged.

"Oh, please."

"You'll choke on your own overconfidence one day, mate."

"Well, not today," Sherlock announced, taking off at a jog.

John was quick on his heels and Sherlock found himself chuckling. Just like the old days. The very first days, even.

At least until his foot slipped in the mud and he went down face first.

And indeed a panic attack it was, for those that thought so. The boys are still having a hard time, but at least they're getting there.

Needless to say; I'm a writer, so there's another tragedy on the way.

I do not own Sherlock. Stay tuned and, as always, I adore your comments and thoughts! ^^