Chapter Text
“You okay? John asked, anxiously following Sherlock as he paced the length of the hotel room.
“Fine.” He snapped, with an uncharacteristic venom.
“Sherlock, it’s okay if you’re nervous,” John said, “This isn’t easy and–”
“Do you ever shut up?” Sherlock demanded, spinning around to face John, who was taken aback by his outburst.
“Sorry…I’ll…” John slowly sat down on the bed, giving Sherlock space to continue pacing as needed. And it certainly was. He wasn’t panicking, but it was a near thing, and his insides seemed to vibrate with each exhale. He glanced at John, who was staring at the ground. Hands tense. Eyes unfocussed. Avoiding eye contact. Shit, he was upset.
“John,” He began, relying on the familiarity of the name to guide him. He needed John to understand that his anger was not personal, and that he needed support, not an argument. He took another steadying breath, in the hopes of suppressing as much emotion as possible, “I am trying quite hard not to panic right now.”
“Okay, I figured.” John said immediately. He slowly looked up from the floor, voice uncertain, cautious, restrained,“Can I–?”
“Can you what?” Sherlock asked, checking the door once again, despite knowing that it would be at least a half hour before Mrs Trillton would enter. The room was booked under Madison’s name, but Sherlock and John were posing as family friends. It was amazing what one could do with access to an email address.
“Try some things? To calm you down?” John asked, fiddling with his hands. He was nervous too, Sherlock realized. Why was he nervous?
“...yes?” Sherlock guessed, not sounding at all certain of his response.
“Okay, sit next to me,” John commanded. Sherlock very slowly lowered himself onto the bed, keeping a bit of space between them. He bounced his leg, knowing it was the last “socially acceptable” form of stimming that could keep the awful pressure at bay.
“Was that a sound at the door?” Sherlock asked, knowing he couldn’t possibly have imagined the slight click.
“No. That was my teeth. Sit.” John commanded, putting a hand down on Sherlock’s knee before he could launch himself off the bed. For some reason, this simple motion sent a jolt of burning panic through his core, and he gasped to control his breathing. “Okay, Sherlock. You’re panicking a bit, but you will be alright.”
“Dammit,” He huffed, lowering his head down and resting in between his knees. John was breathing irritatingly loud, and took a few seconds to realize that was likely for his benefit. As if he was meant to subconsciously follow.
He choked down a wave of nausea, knowing there was no going back now, he had no choice but to ride out the attack.
“I want you to try and describe to me what you’re feeling right now,” John said softly, keeping his tone low and even.
“Awful,” Sherlock muttered, “Like a complete idiot-”
“What do you feel in your body?” John clarified.
“Awful again,” Sherlock answered, “Um. My feet? They’re numb, and my knees are kinda pins-and-needles? My stomach hurts, obviously. Somewhere between nausea and just being sorta…gassy?”
“Hm,” John tried to disguise a chuckle, “I get that too. Go on,”
“Uh,” Sherlock said, feeling his breath pick up again as the horrible wrongness built in his chest, “My chest is t-tight? And I…oh shit,”
“Keep going when you can,” John said softly.
“I can’t do this, John.” He said, suddenly leaping to his feet. It was so clearly true, how could he have been so stupid to try and deny what he felt in his gut to be true since that day at the pub months before? It was over. Mariana knew it, and he knew it, and deep down somewhere John had to know that too. His mind had finally failed him, and he couldn’t keep playing this role of the genius detective any longer–
“Woah, yes you can,” John said, still seated on the bed as Sherlock scrambled to find an exit, with hands clammy and gipping at his hair, trying to gain a hold on something solid that didn’t hurt.
“John– stop-” He cried, actually cried, , with tears welling up and blurring his vision as he stumbled towards the only possible exit point–the door to the hallway.
“Sherlock. SHERLOCK!” He yelled, voice rising as he left the microphone discarded on the bed, chasing after his friend.
“Fucking–shut up, John!” Sherlock cried, throwing the door open and feeling the edges of the wall. He imagined sweaty handprints creating a trail as he desperately tried to find air.
“Are you going to let a fucking panic attack stop you from delivering justice?” John demanded, as the hotel room door swung shut, locking them both outside.
“Yes, apparently I am, John!” He shouted.
“Bloody hell–the mic was in there!” John cried, “I’m going to have to go down and ask to be let back in you know,”
“Not like you have a podcast anymore,” Sherlock muttered.
“Yes, I do.” John huffed, “And unless you want the next episode to be the Case of the Coward Detective, I suggest you shut up.”
“John, I don’t know how else to explain to you that I can’t do this.” Sherlock said desperately, lowering himself to the ugly carpet of the hallway. His legs were numb, and the faster he breathed the worse it became. He screwed his eyes shut, and listened to John’s footsteps as the walked away.
Well, he’d finally done it. John wouldn’t be forgiving this anytime soon. Not that he particularly felt like apologizing.
But John wasn’t–he couldn’t be actually…leaving? For good? Could he?
Obviously, he was a grown man who absolutely could leave if he wished, but he…John wouldn’t, would he? A horrible dread was settling into Sherlock’s stomach. How many times had they argued about this? And how many times had John considered this might be the final straw, and wanted to pick up his podcast and leave?
He leaned his head against the wall, hearing his own heaving breaths echoing in his ear.
“Sir?” A woman’s voice asked.
He slowly raised his eyes, expecting someone on the hotel cleaning staff, but instead he saw a pale, white woman with dark sunglasses and a long denim skirt. Could it be…?
“H-hello?” He managed to say, hoping he wasn’t about to have the police called on him for crouching in the hallway breathing like a bloody maniac.
“Are you alright, sir?” She asked, “You’re having trouble breathing?”
“Uh,” Well, he couldn’t exactly deny the obvious, “Yes-?”
“Right,” She said, “Do you have asthma? An inhaler?”
“No, I don’t-” He said, “Just uh,” Well here he had a few options. If she really was Mrs Trillton, it was ideal to keep her talking in case she spilled something that could be useful to the case. Then again, she was anything but trustworthy.
It was imperative that she was concerned enough to continue speaking, but not concerned enough to call the hospital.
“I’m just feeling quite anxious–” He decided. He better be right.
“What’s your room number?” She asked.
“It’s–” Sherlock hadn’t been prepared to answer, “Two floors up? I think? I got a bit turned around–”
“Okay, my room is right here, I’ll get you some water” She said, clicking open the door with her key card, “You can come in for a minute if you’d like.”
“Thank you, uh,” He said, attempting to drag himself to his feet. Was he actually doing this? He gulped hard.
“Ramona,” She answered. If he hadn’t already confirmed her identity he certainly had now. RK Trillton.
“I’m uh,” He racked his brain for anything he could possibly give instead of his actually bloody name, “John.”
“Alright John, you’re having a bit of panic attack, huh?” She asked, as he stumbled into the room. She was getting a glass in the bathroom just as he noticed that the microphone was still in plain sight on her bed.
He practically launched himself across the room to get the device off the bed and into his back pocket. When she came out with a little paper cup of cold water, he was sitting on the floor with his back against the edge of the bed.
“Sorry-” He huffed, as he took the cup.
“You can stay here for a few minutes, then I’ll help you find your room, okay?” She asked, pulling off her sunglasses to reveal deep, round eyes, not unlike Madison’s, “I have a son, he’s 15 now, but he’s had panic attacks since he was a little kid. Do you get them a lot?”
“Yeah, pretty often,” Sherlock said. At least that wasn’t a lie.
“Mm,” She replied, putting down her suitcase and tying up her hair, “Well, at least you know you’re not dying. What brings you to London?”
“Visiting,” He answered, “My brother…”
“Aw, I’m visiting my daughter.” She replied, “She’s always late, so I’ve probably got some time. Are you up to getting up to find your room?”
Shit, he needed to keep her talking. He took what was likely an exaggerated gasp and held his head in his hands for a moment.
“Oh dear, it’s okay, take another minute,” She said, “Would you like more water?”
“No, it’s okay–” He said quickly, “Um, it might help if you…kept talking…what’s your daughter like?”
God, he was terrible at this. Had his ability to perform undercover completely fallen apart in a matter of months?
“Oh well,” She sighed, “She’s lovely but…things have been tense lately, since the divorce it’s all so complicated.”
“Oh?” He asked. The actual panic had waned to the point where he needed to focus to keep up the act.
“We had a whole, silly plan,” She admitted. He was so close to getting information from her. So. Close.
His pocket buzzed. She tilted her head, indicating he should probably check his messages.
He pulled out the phone, checking his messages.
“Ah, sorry, my brother,” He said quickly.
John–Sorry I yelled, can I meet you at the front desk?
John–We’ll talk, I’m sorry I promise.
John–I just want you to be okay
“Your brother’s name is…also John?” She asked.
“Um,” He said, “No, it’s–we’re twins, and they’d always get us mixed up in school, so I have him as John, and he has himself as Arthur. Which is him.”
“Ha!” She laughed, “Well then, looks like you need to find your brother.”
No! He was so close!
“Hah, yeah, would you mind uh, walking with me?” He asked, holding his breath in the hopes she would agree, if nothing more than to buy him time.
“Of course,” She said, “Lobby, right?”
~~~
He hadn’t managed to get anything else out of her before they reached the lobby. His heart was pounding as they stepped out of the elevator, and John stood up from where he sat on a lobby chair.
“Sh-” He began.
“Arthur!” Sherlock said, before he could think through the obvious flaw in his plan.
“You’re Arthur?” Mrs Trillton asked slowly, looking between the two of them, “Sorry, you said you were twins…”
“Fraternal?” Sherlock guessed. John’s eyes widened. Typically twins had the same skin color. He was bloody rusty at this.
“John?” Another voice came from the doorway of the hotel. Both John and Sherlock turned their heads as Gregson walked in. Through the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see Mrs Trillton freeze.
“Uh,” Sherlock said slowly.
“Called him in case we needed to hunt you down too,” John said sheepishly.
“Are you-?” Gregson looked at Mrs Trillton who was slowly backing away.
“Yes.” Sherlock said, pulling the microphone out of his pocket, “I think you’ll find her indentity confirmed here.”
“Ramona Trillton, you are under arrest.”
“Bloody brilliant.” John said, enveloping Sherlock in a tight embrace, “I’m sorry for snapping. I’m sorry for leaving. You’re an incredible detective, and I’m so sorry-”
“It’s okay.” Sherlock whispered into John’s neck, “I want to go home.”
“Okay,” John agreed, “Home.”
~~~
“Feeling better, Sherls?” John asked, cracking open the door to Sherlock’s room, and letting crescent of light shine in from the hallway. Sherlock groaned as he stretched out his stiff spine, and turned to look at his flatmate.
“Mhmm,” He confirmed with a nod, arming still wrapped around his folded pillow.
“You up to coming out?” John asked, “There’s someone here to see you.”
Sherlock raised his head higher, searching John for any signs of who it might be. He blinked blearily to clear his vision. John wasn’t giving anything away. Sherlock slowly sat up, nodding.
“Do I need to change?” He asked.
“Just come out,” John answered, smiling.
Sherlock followed him out into the living room where Gwen was standing next to the bookshelf
“Ah,” Sherlock said, folding his arms over his chest, “I hoped I’d see you soon.”
“It’s good to have you back, Sherlock,” She smiled, “The Trilltons have been arrested, and will be tried for their crimes. We have alot of evidence, thanks to you.”
“She was kind,” Sherlock whispered, looking at the floor, “For a moment I found it hard to believe she had really…well, I was wrong. The second she saw Gregson, I knew she was guilty.”
“People are very rarely all bad,” She sighed, “I truly do hope you’re alright.”
“I think I am, yeah,” Sherlock said softly, “Would you…like to sit down? Stay for a while?”
“I can’t,” She said, looking genuinely regretful, “I just wanted to thank you in person when I got the chance. You did well Sherlock.”
“Thanks, I suppose.” Sherlock said, “And call me, if you ever need me. I’m…I want to work again.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” She said, “Watson, you keep him out of trouble, alright?” She called to John who was anxiously hovering in the doorway.
“Y-yes M’am-” He stuttered.
“And take care of yourself, Sherlock.” She said, turning to go.
“Gwen.” Sherlock said, before he could stop himself.
“Yes?” She asked, pausing on the threshold of their flat.
“That didn’t turn out to be a real kidnapping case. You still owe me one,” He said.
“I’ll see what I can do,” She said, closing the door and leaving Sherlock and John alone in their flat.
“Sherlock I’m-”
“For the love of God, stop bloody apologizing Watson.” Sherlock said, “We caught the Trilltons, that’s all that matters.”
“You matter too, for the record,” John said, “And I wasn’t going to apologize. I was going to ask you out.”
“I didn’t know you swung this way, Watson.”
“No! I-I mean, to the pub. With me and Stammo, and probably Nadia, and Mariana if she wants to come, and uh-” John stammered. “Like as friends, as mates, as a group–”
“Hm,” Sherlock said, “I think I’d like that.”
“Really?” John asked, “You sure? I mean, you can leave if it gets too much of course-”
“Really.” Sherlock said, “I want to go.”