A/N:

Hey guys! Just letting y'all know, this is the last chapter I'll be able to put out for a bit, I'm moving across the country for college and I don't know how long I'll be offline. Enjoy this chapter, I'll be back when I'm settled! Thank you for staying with me this long!

-Hannah

***

John

He had seen a lot of panic attacks in his day. Working at a hospital meant that many patients with mental illnesses would be checked in, and panic attacks were a weekly occurrence in his profession. He was always very clinical about it, not allowing himself to react emotionally, even though watching someone's mind and body rebel against them to the point of convulsions wasn't exactly relaxing. He could handle pretty much anything thrown at him.

But watching Sherlock, the love of his life, break down so completely and thoroughly? It hurt his heart. Luckily he knew how to handle a panic attack, but if it weren't for the fact that he dealt with it regularly, John would have broken down himself, unable to cope with seeing his boyfriend in such distress. He hadn't ever seen Sherlock have a full blown panic attack; the worst thing he saw in that regard were his minor anxiety attacks that would leave him frozen for a minute or two. Sure, that was difficult to watch anyway, but watching the great consulting detective reduced to a pile of tears and fear in front of him shook him to his core.

It was around 8 in the morning, and Sherlock was still asleep next to him, his clothing having pressed creases into his face and arms during the night, and John was propped up reading a book. He didn't want Sherlock waking up alone, not after last night, and he enjoyed his early morning company anyway. 

Focusing on the book was difficult; the image of Sherlock convulsing and sobbing on a hospital room floor kept flashing across his retinas, and he couldn't help but feel a deep and profound sadness. He felt a little helpless as well. There was only so much he can do for Sherlock in that state; nothing he could say or do would make the panic attack cease. His chest aches at the thought of his boyfriend suffering from these regularly, alone and afraid, with no one to hold him afterward and tell him he's loved and that he'd be okay.

Sherlock stirs next to him, and John pushes the upsetting thoughts away as he closed his book and turned to face the detective. 

"Good morning, love," John says with a smile, reaching out to brush his thumb over his boyfriend's sharp cheekbones.

"G'mornink..." Sherlock replies indistinctly, his mouth still tied up from sleep. "What time is't?"

John glances at his phone. "8:13. You were out for awhile."

Sherlock turns to face John and buries his head into his side. John puts his arm around him and pulls him closer, smiling fondly. 

"What would you like for breakfast?"

John felt Sherlock's breathing still for a moment, and he briefly regrets asking him so suddenly after last night. Still, the man had to eat something, yesterday all he had was tea with honey.

"Uhm..." Sherlock mumbles into John's side. John can practically hear the gears turning in his mind. He was obviously still exhausted from the night before. "I don't know...whatever you want..."

John smiles, stroking the side of his boyfriend's face. "Alright, love. You stay here, I'll be back shortly." Sherlock makes a noise of vague agreement, then another of irritation when John disengages from him and leaves the bed.

John begins to putter about the kitchen, turning the coffee maker on and opening the blinds before stopping to think hard about what he would make. Cooking for Sherlock was always hit or miss, and it felt like a losing battle at times. Serving him healthy, low-calorie food seemed to go over best with the detective, but there's only so much energy and needed weight a fruit salad can give to a person. Breakfast is usually the easiest. Coffee and toast, or a bagel. It wasn't much, but Sherlock tends to feel ill if he eats too much in the morning, and it sets a bad pace for the rest of the day. John remembers serving him a full English breakfast once, and Sherlock had spent the morning crouched over the toilet, unwillingly getting sick. The rest of the day he refused solids, and John was ready to tear his hair out in frustration by the time night fell.

So, blackberry jam toast with coffee it is.

When John returns to the bedroom, he sees Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched as he blinks blearily, trying to wake up. John has never seen Sherlock so reluctant to wake up; usually he was up and ready to go by 7:00am. It was also increasingly common for John to wake up to violin music at 5 in the morning when Sherlock couldn't sleep for fear of nightmares. So, watching the detective struggling to wake at almost 9:00am was a tad concerning. He knew it had to do with the panic attack, but he's never actually stuck around after a patient panic attack to see the long term effects of it.

"You alright, Sherlock?" he asks softly, still hovering in the doorway.

Sherlock nods heavily, not looking at his boyfriend. "Yeah...just...just trying to wake up...I become absolutely useless after an attack...this is normal." His voice is husky and cracks every now and then, and John feels a pang of sadness watching his beautiful detective so deeply affected by his own mind. He proceeds into the bedroom and sits by his side, pressing the full length his body against Sherlock, who leans into his automatically.

"Here you go, love," John says gently, handing Sherlock a mug of coffee, which the detective takes gratefully. Then, John notices something off about his boyfriend's face.

"What's on your face, Sherlock?" he asks, pushing Sherlock's hair out of his face. The detective flinches back out of reflex, but allows it after a moment.

Sherlock's face is covered with red speckles, heavily concentrated around his eyes and cheekbones. He turns his face away from John's, and the doctor drops his hand.

"It's just the capillaries in my face, John," he says, rather irritably. "They burst when I have panic attacks and I get the little freckles for about a week before they clear up. They look like hell, but it's normal. My normal, anyway."

"They don't look that bad," John says reassuringly. "Just interesting. I've seen it before, but not very often. It's rather rare, or at least uncommon. I didn't quite twig on what it was when I first saw it, that's all."

The detective nods, blinking hard and shaking his head. Some life is returning to his eyes, and he seems to wake up more with every sip of coffee. He was sitting up straighter now, and his usual sense of regality and confidence returns with each passing minute. It did John good to see him back to himself, more or less, even though he knew it was mostly a facade. John can't help but marvel at how the detective masquerades as normal and functioning almost 24/7, even after being reduced to a heaving mess upon a hospital floor not even 16 hours ago. John doesn't think he could ever have that much strength and courage. Yes, he had been in the military and had seen a lot of shit, but he always was relatively healthy. Fighting tooth and nail with his own mind every second of the day, and then appearing normal to everyone else? His grit had nothing on Sherlock's. But the worst thing? Sherlock didn't even know how strong he was.

"Thank you," Sherlock says suddenly, jolting John out of his thoughts. 

"For what, love?" John asks gently.

"For..." Sherlock begins, trailing off as he stares hard at the wall in front of him. "For being...there...for me. I can't remember the last time I had someone with me during a panic attack...or at least was with me in a helpful, nonjudgmental way. It's...it's refreshing, to say the least." Each word came out haltingly, as if speaking was physically painful.

John laughs softly. "It's because I love you, idiot. I always have."

Sherlock's mouth twitches slightly in what John guessed was an attempt at a smile. "I...I love you too, John. Even if...even if I don't show it well enough."

"Where'd you get that idea?" John asks, angling his body to face Sherlock's, his hand resting on his knee. John felt Sherlock repress a slight shudder, and he pulls his hand back quickly.

"No, it's fine, you can put your hand there. It was just unexpected," Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "I just mean that sometimes, I feel, that I don't show you how much I love you. I've never actually been in love before, I don't know how to show it. So I just...don't."

John returns his hand to Sherlock's knee, rubbing his thumb over it soothingly. Sherlock's hand finds its way to his, and the detective's spindly fingers grip John's more stocky ones. "It's alright, Sherlock. I know you love me. I can tell from looking at you. And you're doing so well, and I feel absolutely honored that you're doing all this now that I'm here. I know you don't love yourself, and I hope one day that will change, but there is never any doubt in my mind that you love me."

Sherlock's mouth twitches again, and the half-hearted smile stays a fraction of a second longer than the last one.

"Of course," John adds, "it was a little rocky in the beginning. I could never tell if you had any feelings whatsoever towards me, all I had to go on were the little things that you did only for me. I never could crack your facade, and when you made me tell you that I loved you, I was bloody terrified. After that kiss the night before you were admitted...I thought I had fucked things up. That I ruined whatever we had."

Sherlock pulls his gaze from the wall, his surprised eyes finally meeting John's. "Are you serious? I thought I was so incredibly, painfully obvious. I hated it. I felt like you always saw straight through me, and that you never said anything of it because you didn't feel the same."

John laughs out loud, surprising himself. Has he always been that clueless? Has Sherlock always been that clueless? The two of them were right idiots with each other.

"It's not funny, John, it was distressing," Sherlock grumbles bitterly.

"No, it really is rather funny," John says, trying to keep himself from laughing again. "You're quite possibly the smartest man I know, and I'm good at getting a read on people, generally, but the fact that both of us were completely unaware that the other was in love with him is genuinely laughable, you have to admit that."

"Well, I suppose, but I still hated it," Sherlock admits, still having the remnants of a scowl on his face. "It felt so unnatural, being so completely in love and not able to do a bloody thing about it. I don't think I've ever been in love, actually."

"I have, of course, but not like this," John comments, reaching out and twirling one of his boyfriend's ebony curls around his fingers. "There's something...I dunno, different, about this time, and I don't think it's just because you're a man."

Sherlock had laid back down after John started playing with his hair, and he turns over onto his side to face John at this. "Really? What was it, then?"

John shrugs honestly. "I don't know. It's just...more real, more intense. Like the first time, but with some kind of urgency with it or something, like if I don't act now and love you hard enough I'll lose you forever or something. It's stupid, but that's the best way I can put it."

The detective propped himself up onto his elbow, staring hard at John. "I don't think it's stupid. I felt the same. Like if I didn't do something you would leave me. Everyone else had, and that's why it was so horrid not saying anything, I felt like I had everything right in front of me, but I was too bloody terrified of actually doing anything."

John smiles lovingly at his boyfriend, and brushes his thumb across his cheekbones again. "Well, however awful it was, I'm glad that it led here eventually. Even with all this...mess...that we've been in, I still wouldn't trade it for the world. You are my world, in fact."

Sherlock's face turns a bit pink at this, and he sits up suddenly and kisses John deeply, and John can feel every ounce of love behind his lips and he kisses back with just as much urgency as the detective. John usually is able to keep his hands to himself while kissing; he knows how insecure Sherlock is about his body, but something about the kiss made him want more.

He gently, ever so gently, slides his hands to Sherlock's waist, his fingers barely touching the detective's skin under his day-old shirt, before slipping his hand under the shirt and resting there at his waist. Sherlock's lips stall, and he pulls back a bit, inhaling sharply. John immediately jerks his hand back, already feeling guilty for pushing his boyfriend's boundaries like that without asking for consent.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"It's fine. Keep...keep doing that," Sherlock says, cutting John off mid-apology. His eyes are unsure, and John's hands stay where they are as the kissing resumes.

The kissing grows more desperate, more passionate, and Sherlock's hands find their way into John's hair, traveling down his back and under his T-shirt, and John feels his skin shiver at the welcome touch. He breaks the kiss and Sherlock pulls the shirt over his head, and at this, John pulls back farther.

"You want this, right? I mean, you're okay with this? This is what you want?" John asks breathlessly. He doesn't want to push Sherlock, not so soon after his panic attack. They had never gotten remotely close to this; the entirety of their relationship has been pretty much fully clothed on Sherlock's part, with the occasional shirtless John at night. John didn't know if Sherlock would ever be ready for anything intimate, and he was willing to wait forever if he needed to. He just wanted to make sure Sherlock was on board when the time came.

"Yes," Sherlock answers, a little too quickly. "This is what I want."

John is still a bit unsure of the veracity of his statement, but he goes in to kiss Sherlock again anyway. Sherlock's hands travel his body quickly and desperately, and John slowly allows his hands to return to his waist, moving his hand further upwards delicately, while Sherlock seems to be out of his mind with the urgency to feel every square inch of John.

Sherlock breaks the kiss to pull his purple button-down up over his head, and he crosses his arms a little in front of his stomach, doubt clouding his mind.

"Are you alright, love?" John asks softly, on the brink of ending the rather disconcerting endeavor.

"Yes, I'm fine. It's just..." Sherlock says, not looking at John. "It's just different. Come here, don't worry about me."

With that, they're kissing again, John's hands hesitatingly roaming over Sherlock's body, his fingertips stuttering across the detective's ribs and spine, and John feels a brief pang of sadness at the fact that Sherlock still had bones sticking out against his skin, even after six months of coerced eating.

Sherlock's breath hitches, and he pulls back once again. John's vision is slightly clouded with lust, and he tries to blink away the sexual tension so he can see the situation properly.

"Sherlock, we don't have to do this," John says gently. "If you're not ready for this, we can--"

"I think I'm asexual." Sherlock blurts out suddenly, cutting John off mid-sentence. 

John blinks, not expecting that answer. "What do you mean by that? Asexual, what is that?"

Sherlock inhales, staring at his hands, his fingers curled into nervous fists. "I don't feel sexual attraction. I...I never have. I thought it would be different with you, but it's not. I don't know what's wrong with me, I just...I just don't like the idea of sex."

John finds this difficult to process; as a man in his late forties, sexual attraction is a long-since established facet of his life. How could someone not feel sexual attraction? Isn't that a basic fact of biology, the urge to reproduce?

"Why do you feel like that?" he asks, trying to understand. "Is it...do you just not like your body, and you don't want sex because of that? Is it the medication? I don't really understand that."

Sherlock's hands tighten into deeper fists, and he keeps his eyes downcast. "I don't know. I've just never been interested. I thought I was aromantic for awhile--not feeling romantic attraction either--but that changed with you, and I thought maybe I would want to be intimate with you, but...I guess not. I still love you," he adds hastily, "but I don't feel anything sexual for you. It's not you, it's just how I am."

John still isn't sure he comprehends this correctly, but he knows better than to shit on someone's identity. "I know you love me, and it's okay if you don't want sex, I'm not going to force you to do anything you don't want to do. Is kissing okay though? I mean, what is the line that we can't cross? What constitutes as sexual for you?"

"Kissing is okay," Sherlock says, appearing relieved that John wasn't making a big deal about it. "And so is cuddling, and holding hands, just not anything to do with sex. Making out is kind of pushing it, but as long as we don't have to have sex, I'm okay."

"Of course. Anything for you, love. We don't have to do anything you don't want to." John says softly.

"Thank you," Sherlock says, almost a whisper. "It means a lot to me. More than you ever know."

John just smiles kindly, and lays back down on the bed, pulling Sherlock down with him and locking him in a warm embrace.

"Do you...do you think that will be okay forever?" Sherlock murmurs into John's neck. "I know you have...urges...and I can't satisfy them. Is that going to be a problem? Am I going to have to...I don't know, share you?" The last two words came out shakily, and John can feel his irregular breathing under his hands.

John pushed Sherlock away slightly, just far enough so he can make eye contact. "Never, my love. I'm yours, and yours alone. I can...make do. The internet is a wonderful place," he says with a wink. "Unless that bothers you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's fine. I never had a taste for it myself, the whole process was rather disappointing, but I understand that you're not like that, and I can't ask you to become completely celibate just for me. It's just a foreign concept, is all."

"Good, then. See? We make things work," John says with a smile. "I would bend over backwards and tie myself into a knot to make you feel loved. And if I have to give up sex with another person, so be it."

"Thank you," the detective says, a definite note of relief in his voice.

"Anything for you, love." John says, trying to put as much kindness and as much love as he could into those four words. Sure, John had indeed fantasized about sex with Sherlock, but if he didn't want it, there was no point in pushing it. If all he got from this point on is a bottle of lotion and some tissues, it wouldn't matter, because he already has more than enough love from Sherlock Holmes.

"Do you want to try that case again?" John asks, rather suddenly. "We don't have to, I just thought you might want to try to get back into the game. Get back onto the horse, so to say."

Sherlock is quiet, seemingly deep in thought. After a few seconds, he replies, "Maybe. I don't like giving up, I never have, but there was something so damn humiliating about that. I have no fucking clue what Donovan is going to say, and if I get one more pitying look from Grant or Gabe or whatever his name is, we might be looking at a completely different murder case."

John nods thoughtfully, trying to find the right words to assuage Sherlock's concerns. "Well, like it or not, people will treat you differently now. And I'm not saying that's right or a good thing to do, quite the opposite in fact, but you know they're not going to forget about this anytime soon, and you're going to need to be able to cope with it. The staring, the patronizing, the sidelong glances. It'll ease up one day, but not for a long time. And I'm sorry about that. I just don't know what I personally can do about it. I hope you understand."

"It's fine." Sherlock says quietly. He was so damn ready to start a new life. That's what moving to London had been about: running from his problems to a place where no one knew how broken he was. But now that was ruined. Now people knew.

"Alright then," John says, stretching a bit before getting up from the bed. "We best be at it, I'll ring Lestrade and tell him you're still on the case. Ready in about 15 minutes?"

Sherlock nods, and downs the rest of his now room-temperature coffee. John exits the room, and Sherlock gets up, his muscles and joints protesting. After panic attacks, he was always left so terribly sore and his muscles ached for days. He was used to it, but it had been awhile since his last full-fledged attack, and the painful tenderness wasn't exactly welcome.

He slips on his coat and ties his scarf, trying to feel normal again. He needed to get back into his usual mindset if he were going to make it through the case emotionally intact. A few deep breaths, and Sherlock starts to slip back into his old personality again.

20 minutes later, the two were back in Scotland Yard, and Sherlock's heart was about to hammer out of his chest. His grip on John's hand was a bit tight, and he had to force himself to relax his muscles every few minutes. It was so unlike him to be so rattled, but after yesterday, most of his confidence had been shattered.

As they enter the room, the group goes silent, and gives the detective that silent stare of judgement. He glares at them, and they hurriedly go back to their work. Donovan lets her eyes linger a bit more, her eyes carrying a wicked glint in them, making Sherlock's stomach turn uneasily.

"So, has the boy been seen yet?" Sherlock asks, trying to force some authority into his tone.

"No, we haven't," Lestrade says, thankfully speaking to and looking at Sherlock as he normally would. "We were waiting for you. We--well, I put the case on hold until I heard back for sure whether you were still on the case or not."

"Thank you, that was much appreciated," Sherlock says evenly, hoping that Lestrade would take his words to heart. So far it seemed like this bloke was the only one treating him normally at this point. "Let's get to it then. Where did you say the boy lived, again?"

"Fulham. Short drive, but we only have two cars, so we'll just take non-essential personnel--"

"No, John and I can do it ourselves," Sherlock interrupts.

Lestrade stops talking, holding his hands up in surrender. "Alright. You're in charge here, I'll consider this not my division until you get back."

On one hand, Sherlock was grateful for the grant of freedom and agency, but on the other, he didn't want special treatment. He knew Lestrade was trying to be helpful and kind, so he decided he'd take what he could get at this point. After yesterday's fiasco, he was just thankful he had a hand in the case at all.

"Thank you. Let's go," Sherlock says, taking John's hand and turning to leave. So far, no one had said anything about him and John's obvious relationship, but it was becoming apparent that everyone had known and called it before John and he even considered it a possibility.

"You handled it well in there," John murmurs, just loud enough for his boyfriend to hear. "You're going to be back to your old self in no time."

"I hope so," the detective replies, equally as soft. "I'm feeling better now, I just hope it stays that way."

"It will," John says, with a strong note of certainty in his voice. "It's the anticipation that's the worst part, everything else is surprisingly easy once you bite the bullet and dive in."

Sherlock was grateful for John's optimism; it does get so terribly exhausting being a pessimist. Even if he doesn't always believe what John says, it was nice to have a constant positive note in his life, keeping his negativity in check.

The car ride is made with comfortable chatter and joking, and Sherlock feels more and more life and vigor settling into him, and he relaxes into the easy rhythm of working a case. As they approach the boy's house, Sherlock pops his collar and settles his face into his usual expression, and John can't help but find the show he puts on rather hilarious. Always the drama queen, that Sherlock.

The interview with the boy proved to be rather disappointing; all Sherlock could glean was what he had already been told: cat goes missing, and then the cat returns. They had given the cat a bath since it had returned, so Sherlock wasn't able to deduce much from just looking at the cat. It had behaved oddly, shrinking away from people in fear, as well as staring intently into space before freaking out and running to safety. Sherlock wasn't as cat behaviorist, and Cluedo never had fits like that, so he didn't quite know what the significance of it is. The cat had been covered in mud and debris, he had been told, but that could be easily chalked up to having gone missing for 2 weeks.

The case was simple, in theory, so the detective was rather frustrated at the fruitlessness of the interview and at his inner voice chanting failure! useless! freak! at a constant, disheartening tempo.

As they returned to the flat, Sherlock tries to force all his negative feelings away so that he can enjoy winding down with John. It had been a routine with them: after a long day, or any day, really, they would settle down in the living room with a film and Cluedo, and decompress from the day. This always helped Sherlock when he was having a rough metal health day, and today was no different.

"I'm really proud of you, love," John whispers in his ear after they had settled down onto the couch. "Even if today didn't give you the results you wanted, you kept at it, and you kept it together. That's progress."

It didn't feel like progress, but after considering that six and a half months ago he was in a mental hospital with fresh cuts torn down his arms, things are quite a lot better than it used to be.

 And that was, well, progress. Progress he never thought he could make.

But he did. And that was pretty damn special.