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He woke up panting, with his hand on his heart and breathing heavily. He waited for the panic to pass, then went to get a cup of tea.
It was his first panic attack in nearly a year and a half, for after moving into 221B they had gradually abated. Within the first month in Baker Street, he was pleased to discover that the only things that woke him up were all his flatmate’s fault: the violin; the clanging of experiments at night; or Sherlock bursting into John’s room, yelling “We have a case John!” and dragging the groggy ex-soldier out of bed, while ignoring all his protests.
He walked downstairs, and it was empty for once probably because Sherlock had not slept for three days, and was likely to be fast asleep by now - it was 3 o’clock in the morning after all.
The skull leered down at him as he made himself a mug of tea. Unfortunately, while waiting for the water to boil the images from his nightmare appeared once more. It was only when the kettle whistled impatiently that he realized he was gripping the edge of the sink so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.
He sighed, then moved into the sitting room and lowered himself into his chair, holding his cup of tea as if it were a lifeline. He must have lost track of time, for the next thing he knew, Sherlock had emerged from his room. John could hear him as he stumbled over to the makeshift lab. He was mumbling at his experiment, and scratching notes in the soldier’s ex-army diary. He didn’t even look at John. This was for the best, because John really didn’t know how he would react if his flatmate attempted to talk to him.
John was angry. He was angry that Sherlock didn’t know the difference between a harmless experiment and torture and he was furious that his own mind was betraying him. He got up, moved over to the sink and tipped away the cold tea. Still ignoring the detective, he went to his room to get dressed and get his coat.
It was only as John was about to open the front door that he felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He stopped, rubbed the spot, then turned to the right just enough to see his flatmate standing at the top of the staircase, like a statue. He was only wearing a dressing gown and pyjama bottoms.
Sherlock’s piercing gaze ran over him from head to toe, but for once the genius said nothing. John could almost hear Sherlock asking him to help with an experiment just to keep him in the flat, or even deducing John’s mood for the fun of it. However, were Sherlock to speak, the doctor feared his control would snap.
With a slight limp, John opened the door. He left without a backward glance.