I was asked why I italicize some parts of the the chapter or certain words in a conversation.
The italics are supposed to differentiate between what's happening in the "real world" and what's happening in the "story world"
As the lines between the two start to blur for John, I will reduce the amount of them I use.
It's my hope that eventually we won't know what's "real" and what's not.
-

Possible triggers: Mentions of a panic attack and very brief thoughts of suicide, though not detailed.

Please note that I don't pretend to understand the things a person who has these disorders goes through. I tried my hardest to approach the subject in a delicate manner that would still convey well in the story. It's not my intention to offend anyone who suffers from PTSD, or agoraphobia.
I personally have panic attacks and can only write about my first hand knowledge and experiences with it. Everyone is different and it's not my intention to belittle the significance of such a disorder.

Nothing has changed in the last day. Alas, I still do not own Sherlock or any of the characters, and I still have a crap ton of student loan debt.

By the time Doctor Thompson was due to come around for their next appointment, John was in better spirits. He and Sherlock had spent nearly every day together since her last visit and the author was in a pleasant mood when he answered the door.

"Hello, John," Doctor Thompson greeted as she crossed the threshold and came inside.

"Doctor Thompson," he greeted in kind.

The two made their way to the sitting room and each went to their chairs.

"So, John, how have you been this week?"

John wasn't much of a talker, especially during these sessions, but he politely smiled and answered, "Fine, um, good."

Ella raised her eyebrow at that but said nothing.

"Have you had any attacks since our last visit?"

John felt his jaw clench and the familiar feeling of embarrassment crawled through his body. He lowered his gaze to the floor and studied the doctor's shoes.

"She has a date tonight."

John snapped his head up and glanced around the room.

Ella waited patiently as John cleared his throat and finally answered her.

"Three," he admitted.

She smiled kindly at him from across the room, "that's one less than last week."

The author scowled at her, it was still three more than he wanted.

Doctor Thompson sensed John's displeasure at this and tried to encourage him. "It's going to take time, John. You have to accept these small victories as they come."

Instead of answering her, he just leaned back into his chair and listened to the doctor ramble on (again) about breathing techniques and coping mechanisms.

"Dull."

His lips twitched when he heard the voice again. Of course Sherlock would find this boring, there was nothing for him to figure out, no puzzle for him to solve. His focus shifted back to the doctor when she started writing something down in her notebook.

"Tell me, John, have you started writing anything new?"

"No." The answer was short, sweet and an outright lie.

He wasn't really sure why he lied, he just knew he wasn't ready to share Sherlock just yet. He wanted to keep him for himself for just a little while longer.

Ella didn't seem pleased with his answer. "John," she started. "We've talked about this, remember? Writing will honestly help." She paused long enough to look him over. "Have you given anymore thought to putting down your experiences overseas?"

At the thought, his body went rigid. His chest instantly felt as if it was on fire and he was having trouble getting enough oxygen.

"John, breathe. John…John? Joh-"

He could no longer hear the doctor; her voice was disappearing, swallowed up by the deafening noise of bombs and gunfire.

In the midst of all the chaos and confusion, he finally heard it, the deep baritone plea for John to come back.

"John," he called. "It's not real. Inhale."

John did.

"Hold it."

He counted to three.

"Exhale."

He let out a shaky breath and repeated the process several times.

When he came to, Doctor Thompson was kneeling in front of him. Her hands were clasped on her knees and she looked up into John's eyes.

He could see all of the pity she felt towards him, and in that moment he hated himself. He hated that his once able body now betrayed him and he hated how powerless and weak he felt.

Dropping his head in utter defeat, he placed his palms on either side of his face and gave it a firm shake before returning her stare.

"Alright?" She finally asked.

He wanted to shout at her, no, he wasn't! He wasn't alright! He wanted to throw in the towel and call it quits on this whole shitty existence of his. He was just about to say so when it happened.

It was small at first, just a slight pressure on his shoulders. The feeling grew quickly after that, a comforting push against his skin, the warmth reminding him that he wasn't alone in this.

"I'm alright," he answered. "Thank you, he whispered.

It was Sherlock who he was thanking, but Doctor Thompson didn't need to know that.

After she made sure that he was indeed okay, the doctor got John a glass of water and brought their session to a close.

Alone again in his flat, John wasted no time in retrieving his laptop from under the chair and made quick work of locating the file he wanted to open.

Inside 221B the author found Sherlock waiting for him. He was standing in the middle of the sitting room, elegantly dressed in a pair of simple black trousers and matching jacket over a tight white shirt.

"Sherlock," John choked out, and walked over to him without another word.

He buried his face in the taller man's chest and let the tears come.

Sherlock, though still not entirely comfortable with the contact, allowed John to cling to him and weep.

The author could feel Sherlock's long fingers threading through his hair, and the sweeping pressure of the detective's other hand on his back.

It didn't take the world's only consulting detective to figure out that this is what his friend needed and John melted into the embrace.

Only when the tears had turned into dry whimpers did John pull away. He was embarrassed now and looked down at Sherlock's bare feet.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"John," Sherlock started, "don't make a big deal out of it. It's fine."

The author just nodded his head and went to sit on the sofa. He had expected Sherlock to follow, but the detective walked over to the window and peered down at the streets below.

After a long silence, John finally cleared his throat.

"You were in the flat today." It was a matter of fact statement that held no questioning tone.

Without turning his head away from the glass, Sherlock calmly responded, "you needed me."

John was momentarily taken aback, but didn't argue. It was true, he realised, he had needed Sherlock. He hadn't known how much until the detective wasn't there. And when John finally felt his presence, he was at peace.

How the hell had he become so important to John so quickly?

The two stayed that way, Sherlock looking out of the window, John sitting on the sofa contemplating the nature of his growing relationship with the detective.

The nice thing about spending time with Sherlock was that he didn't feel the need to fill the room with pointless conversation. John didn't know if he had intentionally written him that way or not, but he was glad and didn't question it.

Sherlock was just… Sherlock. The author had stopped consciously shaping the man and instead let him take on a life all his own.

Deciding he had enough of staring aimlessly into the street, Sherlock produced the violin and bow that had been lying in the nearby chair. He raised the instrument to his chin and started playing a sad melody.

The music filled the air, notes dancing all around them and John sat back in awe. He shouldn't have been surprised, Sherlock was a well-educated, sophisticated man, of course he could play the violin.

Rather than ponder the discovery, John closed his eyes and let the music wash over him. It had been a long day and he slowly felt himself succumbing to sleep. It was something that never came easy for him. Sleep was an elusive creature and whenever she came willingly, John didn't fight her.

He didn't know how long he had been out, but it was the pressure of another body against his that jolted him awake, and when he looked down he was greeted with the sight of unruly black curls lying in his lap.

Sherlock was curled up in the fetal position, no longer wearing his stylish suit. Instead, he sported a worn red dressing gown that draped over his body.

"Go back to sleep, John," came the muffled voice.

"How did you… oh never mind."

Sherlock decided to explain anyway. "Your breathing changed, it was a simple enough deduction. Go back to sleep."

John murmured some unintelligible form of agreement, because honestly, more sleep sounded lovely.

He brought his hand up and let it rest on Sherlock's head. The detective only tensed for a fraction of a second before relaxing again.

Content that the man in his lap wasn't going to flee, John started stroking the curls. They were softer than he imagined they would be and they moved through his fingers with ease. It was relaxing for him, and John found himself drifting again, absentmindedly running his hand through Sherlock's hair as sleep came once more to claim him.

The sound of his mobile ringing is what woke him up for good. Harry, his sister, was calling to check on him.

He and Harry didn't get on, but he welcomed the connection to the outside world. She didn't understand his condition, but after several months had stopped trying to force him into social situations.

The two of them weren't close enough for it to make any huge difference to her, and didn't object to coming to John's flat if she wanted to see him. Thankfully, those visits were few and far between.

Harry wasn't like Sherlock at all. She couldn't stand air in the conversation and would babble on about anything to fill the void of silence.

John was only listening with half an ear when she mentioned the museum.

"…can you imagine? Keeping live bees there? What happens if they get out? Anyway, Clara and I are going next week, and even though you'll say no, she told me to invite you."

"Ta, but I went already."

There was an uncharacteristically long pause from Harry's end of the phone before she finally spoke. "You went?"

John realised his mistake and chuckled. "Well, no, not actually went, but you know… the website has that virtual tour thing." He finished lamely.

If Harry thought it was odd, she didn't say anything, and John was thankful she didn't push the issue.

The conversation went on for about another ten minutes or so, Harry talking about who's sleeping with who and the new prime minister, and John "mmm-ing" in all the right places.

When he finally hung up, he heard footsteps and his body instinctively went on high alert.

"It's just me," came the deep voice behind him.

John smiled and turned to face Sherlock.

"Hi, I didn't think you'd be here."

"Where else am I going to go, John?" The question was soft, and went straight to John's heart.

He wanted nothing more than to close the distance between them. It was a revelation that took him by surprise. Sure, he had been attracted to Sherlock, but nothing had come of it up until that point.

Sherlock had been his beacon in the night, a stronghold when John threatened to lose his way. Now, John realised, he was so much more than that.

The decision was made for him when Sherlock came to stand directly in front of him in two long strides.

They stared at each other for a moment, neither wanting to be the first to take that final leap.

The tension between the two was nearly unbearable, and when John could no longer stand it, he raised his hand to the back of the detective's neck and pulled his head down so it was level with his own.

John lowered his gaze from Sherlock's eyes and focused on his lips for a second before meeting them with his own. Where Sherlock was all hard lines and angles, his mouth was soft and yielding under John's.

It was a slow buildup of experimentation. John knew Sherlock would approach this like he did everything else and didn't rush him as the detective traced John's lips with his tongue, analyzing every bit of data he could collect.

John gently grasped Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth and gave it a small nip. When the taller man moaned his appreciation, John smiled into the kiss. Their tongues danced together in perfect harmony, as if matching a melody only the two of them could hear.

When they finally parted, John couldn't keep the smile at bay. If it had been anybody else, he would have been embarrassed at behaving like a schoolboy, but this was Sherlock, and the matching grin he was wearing put John at ease.

"I didn't know, I mean, I thought…" John started to explain.

Sherlock smiled even wider, "you didn't want it before, even on a subconscious level. Now you do and I'm amicable."

A laugh escaped John and Sherlock quickly followed.

"Well," the detective cleared his throat. "I'd better be getting back. Have to go put away London's criminals."

"Wait!" John all but shouted. "I…I don't want you to go."

Sherlock touched his forehead to John's and gave him a quick peck on the lips, as if to remind him he didn't imagine it. "I'll be back soon, John."

And then he was gone.