(Untitled)

[notapsychopath]

It's been quite some time since Sherlock's hands have shaken this badly. He feels cold, but curiously numb, the world seeming to move slowly and then too quickly to catch- nothing is connected to anything that happens around it, and he is most disconnected of all

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[drpsychosomatic]

It's been days. John's lost count of how many- that's Mycroft's job, or Lestrade's. Someone else's. His seems to be checking his phone every two minutes until the sight of it makes him feel sick, sending endless emails to Mycroft (the man has the whole of London if not the observable universe under surveillance, why the hell can't he find Sherlock?) and making cups of tea endlessly, leaving them to go cold on the side or the coffee table, wherever he is when the urge to tug on his coat and go look for his missing...
...for Sherlock hits

Oh John ;_;

[notapsychopath]

For a moment, all Sherlock can feel is a wave of relief, so bright and pure and sweet that it's almost a drug in and of itself. The very sight of John seems to reassure him that something in the universe is right, at least- even though he can tell, even through the haze he's in, that John hasn't been sleeping, has been searching frantically. That hurts, in a dull, hateful, angry (guilty? No, how stupid) sort of way, though he's not sure why.

His eyes close for a moment.

Eventually, he manages, "Yes, good idea," and slips inside, though he doesn't take John's hand- he's fine now he's here, really fine, never better. He's not some sort of invalid. Just one more injection, something to clear this horrible haze out of his mind and make things make sense- damn it all, he can't stop shivering...

T_T

[drpsychosomatic]

"Sherlock..." he starts to say, his mouth completely dry, pulse racing- but what is there to say? Sherlock's alive. Ill, yes. Drugged, starved, suffering from an advanced infection- any number of things like that, but it doesn't matter. He's alive, and John knows where he is. He can touch him.
He does. Gingerly, just resting his hand on Sherlock's trembling arm- and then he smiles, a little shakily. Just get Sherlock safely sitting down on the sofa that's been so shockingly, horribly vacant, and find out what needs to be done to make him better.

"Tea?"

[notapsychopath]

Sherlock flinches.

It's completely unintentional, and completely stupid, but the sudden pressure sparks his over-stretched nerves and he jerks back- such a stupid, stupid thing to do, he berates himself. He's not that bad, he knows he's not, just- on edge.

"...Another good idea," he says numbly, and he realises he sounds exhausted. If he can just escape up to his room- but John would never understand, and he needs him just now anyway, though he barely even admits it to himself.