Thank you for attempting this little tale of mine.

Before beginning, warnings are due. If you are triggered by anxiety, depression, rape, abuse, or suicide, be very careful with this fic. Dark themes are laced tightly throughout, increasing in intensity as the plot progresses. You have been warned.

Hysteria is set directly after another fic I recently published, titled Asphyxia. Reading Asphyxia is not necessary to understand Hysteria (the plotlines are not dependent on each other), but if you're interested in reading more about the relationship between Sherlock and John or about John's current mental situation, Asphyxia might just fit your fancy.

That being said, please enjoy Hysteria.

You bolted down the alleyway, your coat flashing out behind your ankles as I struggled to keep up. Adrenaline blurred everything around us. The man was getting away; we both knew it. He had slipped from Lestrade's web, but you weren't about to let him get away. Not this time. Not after going through so much to smoke him out. This time, we would get him. We picked up pace, flying low between the tall brick buildings, our minds narrowed into one coherent goal.

He dashed out onto the sidewalk of Regent's Street, blowing through a pack of tourists and shouting until the rest of the crowd parted for him. You zoomed in, gliding through the path he opened, while I shouted sorry at the top of my lungs, my arms swinging violent back and forth to try to keep your speed.

"Come on, John, we're going to lose him!" You bellowed.

"I'm not built for this, I'm a bloody doctor!" I shouted back.

Two police cars screeched around the corner, and the man kicked left into another alley, racing deeper and deeper into the belly of London as we tailed him. You were running and deducing and trying to figure his course, but he always seemed to be ten feet ahead of us. Your teeth were gritted with intensity. Sweat poured off your forehead, sticking your curls to your forehead.

We saw our chance when the man hesitated. It was a split second, just a fraction of a step, but his confusion gave you an extra bound, and he couldn't make up the distance. You jabbed at his ribcage and pushed him off to the side, where he fell into the mouth of an adjoining path, and the man quickly bolted again, leaving you and I panting for breath at the crossway.

"What good did that do?!" I shouted.

"Fear, John!" You sucked in a breath and started off again. I followed with a half-muttered, half-spat curse.

The yellow-gold streetlamps began to fade as we went deeper, replaced by the faint light of the moon and the scampering of little paws on pavement. The dark shadows swallowed you and I up with the man himself. But we kept running, blind as bats, following the footsteps of the man ahead of us. By the time our eyes had adjusted, we had nearly reached the end, and I understood why you had pushed him down this way in the first place.

A wall. A huge brick wall, black with night, loomed over us, blocking out the moon. There was nowhere else left to go. We came to a stop, all three of us gasping for breath, but there was a grin on your face, standing just outside the curtain of darkness.

"Caught you," You hissed.

You walked forward to seize the man while I squatted over to balance myself. The man was just as exhausted as we were, I was sure, and it wasn't hard for you to get a grip on him. You had him with his face on the ground in front of me before I had enough air to talk.

"Now what?" I asked, squinting my eyes. "Where the hell are we?"

"Just off Caledonian Road, I think," You answered, looking around. "Oh."

"Oh, what?"

"This was a bad idea."

I heard several distinctive thumps, and then you shouted. I jumped and turned just as two bodies descended on you. I rushed over, adrenaline kicking in again, and drove my fists into one man's temple while his friend bashed his knee into your skull. The man we had been chasing scrambled up to his feet and pushed me to the ground, my head hitting hard cement with a force that blew sparks in all directions.

By then, they were already off and running. I resurfaced and pulled myself onto my knees, wobbling a bit, shaking the fog from my head and bracing myself for another chase. I struggled to my feet. "Sherlock, Sherl, c'mon, let's go. Let's just go. They can't-"

You made an awful moaning noise, and my blood went cold. I turned back, my eyes searching the darkness for you. There was the lip of your coat, the only part of you outside the shadows. The rest was buried in the dark - you, sprawled on your side, both hands clutched to your stomach and shaking with shock.

"Oh, Jesus." I fell to your side, putting one hand on your shoulder and the other on your forehead. "Sherlock! What happened?!"

"John-" You gasped, choking on your words. "T-The- The kn-n-"

"Knife? What knife? Their knife?" I put my hands on your hands, and to my horror, pulled them away sticky with hot, red blood. "Oh, oh my god, Sherlock."

"Lestrade, John-" You steadied yourself, breathing in sharply through your nose, only exhaling to speak. "Call Lestrade. Lestrade."

I fumbled for my phone, my heart pounding and head spinning, my fingers slipping across the keys.

The beginning was the worst. I let the nurses know right away that there was no way in bloody hell I would last two minutes in the waiting room and that I would wait outside the operating room until there was news. Molly heard the story and came upstairs from the mortuary to keep me company. Mrs. Hudson came, too, but she was already teary-eyed by the time she got there, and it didn't help her much seeing me. Molly took her down to the cafeteria, but it had been almost an hour, and there was still no news from the surgeon.

I shouldn't have been panicking, but I was panicking. There was so much blood, my arms were covered with it. What if there were complications? What if you bled to death? What if you were already dead? My hands trembled, and horrible pain throbbed in my leg. I knew I was in bad shape, but there was nothing I could think about except you. I felt sobs starting to build up in my chest. I couldn't help it. I couldn't stand it. I needed to be in there with you, I needed to see you, I needed to know you were going to be fine.

Greg had stayed at the crime scene to finish the bust, but he came up around eleven, and there I was, still sitting outside the operating room. He burst through the stairwell, a bit out of breath. "John," He huffed, "Any news?"

I shook my head.

He cursed and moved over to me. At first, I thought he was going to pull me up and send me away. But he just sat down beside me and put his hand on my shoulder, letting his eyes move over me carefully and closely.

"Are you doing alright? How are you feeling?"

"Bit shitty," I answered, keeping my hands clutched in my lap to keep them from shaking.

"You look it too. You need some water? Xanax? Are you panicking?"

"No." I shook my head, letting it fall toward my lap. "I just want the damn doctor to tell me what's going on."

Greg glanced toward the door. "How long has it been since he's been in there?"

"Fourty-five minutes, I think."

"Damn. Still nothing?"

"Nothing at all."

"Well, I'm sure they're doing their jobs."

"They had damn well be doing their jobs," I snapped back. "I'll break a few necks if they aren't."

He chuckled, but I was completely serious. I was lightheaded I was so angry. Angry at the doctors, angry at the situation, angry at you, but most of all, anxious. Did you need me? Were you hurting? I put my head in my hands, leaning forward onto my knees and pressing my palms against my eyes. Greg ran his hand reassuringly along my back. "It'll all be fine, John. Just wait."

Ugh, this whole thing was so stupid. I was a bloody doctor, I should've been there beside you the whole time. Instead I was sitting outside, reeling from the worry and nearly caving in on myself. I wasn't a teenage girl, I shouldn't have been feeling as horrible as I felt. I was an adult, I was mature and I could control my own emotions. Except, of course, when you weren't with me.

I cursed at myself. I thought I had been improving, too. I hadn't had a panic attack in almost two weeks. My limp was almost gone and I barely even noticed the tremor anymore. All that progress, out the window. I should've known better than to go out to crime scenes again. It wasn't easy for me, not anymore. Since I had moved back in with you, nothing had been easy. There was too much stress, too much damage, and it took its toll. This was the result.

Thankfully, within the next twenty minutes or so, a nurse pushed through the double-doors, and we bounded up to meet her. She seemed a bit surprised, but smiled at the two of us, still drying off her hands from the scrub. "Oh, were you two here for Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, we are." Greg said answered.

"His surgery went well, he's in recovery right now. They're preparing him for a room."

"Recovery?" I collapsed back in my chair. "Jesus Christ. Recovery."

"What happened in there?" Lestrade demanded. "It's been an hour and a half!"

"Well, due the angle and depth of the wound, the blade did not puncture the lung or stomach, but did damage the spleen quite badly. It caused the spleen to rupture, and the surgeon found it necessary to remove it."

"A splenectomy? You need consent for that!" I exclaimed.

"We had consent, sir." The nurse smiled.

"Consent from whom? Sherlock couldn't have possibly been awake."

"His brother, Mycroft Holmes, is his registered consentee. When the surgeon found the damage, Mr. Holmes was promptly called, and gave consent to the surgery."

"Dammit, why didn't he phone me?" I growled, pulling out my mobile.

"Can we see him?" Greg asked. "Sherlock, I mean."

"Our typical visiting hours have already past, sir."

"It's important that we see him, ma'am."

"I'm sorry, I don't think I can-"

"Look." Greg stepped closer to her. "I'm Detective-Inspector Greg Lestrade from the Scotland Yard. This is Dr. John Watson. Heard of him? In there's his fiancé, the big Internet detective Sherlock Holmes. Now, this man's been through way too much in the last year for you to keep him waiting out in the hall away from his partner. So unless you want me to get out my shiny badge and make a scene, you can show us where he'll be."

The nurse looked at us with big eyes, then led us down the hall.

You were unconscious for several hours afterward, but just being within arm's reach of you helped me calm down. I brushed my hand across yours, letting the soft beep of your monitors reassure me. Molly and Mrs. Hudson came in for a little while, but left around midnight in favor of sleep.

Lestrade promised he'd stay, but he was asleep in the corner of the room most of the time anyway. He did his best to try to stay awake for me, but I knew he was exhausted. Hell, I was exhausted. We had a long weekend weeding out suspects and preparing for this bust, and now we were going most the night without sleep. I let him know that he could go home whenever he liked, but he insisted that he'd stick around, at least until Mycroft could get there to keep an eye on us.

In a way, I was a bit relieved. I didn't like being alone, and although I knew I had you, you couldn't really do much in an emergency if you were unconscious. I twisted a few strands of your curly hair around my fingers. Greg was an excellent comfort, but I still missed having you, and my chest ached to see you hooked up to the machines. You would wake up soon, I kept reminding myself. But I still missed you.

Both of us ended up drifting off, him slumped in his chair, and I bent over your bed. As six o'clock approached, Greg woke up, stretched a little, and decided to get coffee for the both of us. The smell of it stirred me awake, and while I stretched my back, he sipped at it, his back to the window.

"Mycroft said he should be in soon," He mentioned.

"He texts you?" I asked, rotating my arm.

"Just when it has to do with his brother." He answered. "He doesn't text you?"

"Never. If he wants to talk to me, he kidnaps me."

Greg chuckled. "Sounds like him."

"Why is it taking him so long to get here?" I grumbled, sitting down. "You said he was on his way hours ago."

"He's been real busy lately. I think there's been some foreign stuff going on."

"So you do text him."

He raised an eyebrow at me.

As we spoke, the door opened wide, and the familliar tap of an umbrella against the tile floor made us both glance up. Mycroft stood in the door, his expression even more cross than usual, his coat bent over his arm. He walked in without saying a word, standing at the foot of your bed but not bothering to as much as glance at you. Instead, he stared Greg and I down. I set my coffee on the table, but Greg kept sipping, as if he was avoiding something.

"Would you please inform me as to why I was called from an important foreign dignitary meeting to oversee my brother's splenectomy?" Mycroft growled.

"Your brother was stabbed," Greg answered.

"The wound was not mortal. I was in a meeting." His flashing eyes fell on Greg, as did mine.

He kept the coffee cup close to his lips. "It was important."

"Important enough to risk the security of Great Britain."

"Important enough for you to care. It was a major surgery."

"You told me it was urgent."

"It was urgent."

"You thought it was urgent."

"It was urgent when I phoned you."

"Do we need to have another discussion on the meaning of urgency?" Mycroft snapped.

Greg turned to grin at Mycroft. "Mr. Holmes, I've gotten eight hours of sleep in a seventy-two hour period. I would love to discuss urgency with you."

The two of them exchanged a long look, and I didn't feel the pressing need to get involved, so I picked up my coffee and started to drink. After a moment Mycroft broke the stare and strode toward the door, opening it wide and motioning with his umbrella for Greg to follow him. He gave me a quick glance. "If you'd excuse us, John."

Lestrade stood up passed him without so much of a nod. I could physically see the tension wavering between them. Mycroft closed the door behind him with the handle of the umbrella, and the room was quiet again. I decided right then and there that if I heard shouting from the hall, I would climb under your bed and pray until it passed. I had never seen anyone argue with Mycroft except for you, and he typically took your arguing as a joke. I had no idea what he was capable of fighting with Scotland Yard.

You stirred within the next few minutes. It stared slowly, with your head bobbing back and forth across your pillow. As you resurfaced you groaned, reaching down to pull at the cords in your arms. "Dammit," You croaked. "Stop beeping already, we get the point."

I walked over with my coffee and took a seat to the right of you, a little smile on my face. "About time you woke up."

You looked at me, your eyes still glazed with sleep, but you were still alert enough to deduce me. "How long?"

"You've been here all night."

"No, I mean how long has Mycroft been in the hall with Geoffery."

"I don't know any Geoffery, but he's been out with Greg ten minutes or so."

"You're a bit smart-ass this morning, aren't you."

I smiled and leaned forward, putting my hand in your hair. "I'm just glad you're alright."

Your eyes met mine. Gently I drew forward, pressing my lips against yours, letting our breath mingle and twist. You murmured, and I kissed your forehead. Something about the way you felt against my mouth made me a little less tired, a little less anxious, a little less nervous. You were still here. I wanted to pull you close, but I knew you still had wounds and cords and little beeping machines hooked up to you, so I left it at kissing.

"You taste like coffee," You remarked, curling your nose. I laughed and sat back.

Mycroft and Lestrade decided to grace us again, neither of them seeming quite happy enough to have won the argument, and neither quite calm enough to ask about how the argument went. Greg, however, was the first to greet you. "Ey, look who's finally back in the land of the living."

"It's not too great a place to be, actually," You quipped. Greg gave you a funny look.

"How does it feel with one less organ, little brother?" Mycroft asked, standing by your feet.

"How does it feel with another pound on your waistline?"

He furrowed his brow.

"That's about right." You grumbled. "How long do I have to stay in this bloody hospital."

"Well, you've only been awake forty seconds," I said.

"The average hospital stay for a post-splenectomy is two-to-four days," Mycroft stated. "And somehow I'm not feeling much like releasing you from hospital policy this time."

"Did I say pound? I meant half a pound."

"You'll have to do better than that."

"And major surgery means that you're going to be off the field for a good long time, too." Greg added. "Lots of rest, lots of staying home. No more running after criminals for a while."

"What?!" You pushed yourself forward to get a better look at Greg. "I can't just abandon the cases now. We were so close to an arrest. We still have to find Maratina and Karzai and-"

He put his hand in the air. "You're not permitted on any more of my crime scenes until you're fully healed."

"But-"

"Final answer, Sherlock, you're not changing my mind. I can hold up the defenses for a few weeks until you get well enough to come back. Don't worry about it." He patted him on the shoulder. "Take some time off."

"I'll go crazy stuck in the flat." You insisted. "What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"Invest in a goldfish." Mycroft turned on his heel toward the door. "Good morning, Sherlock."

He walked out before another word could be said, closing the door behind him. Greg and I exchanged a look, then he sighed and fell back into his chair, letting his head rest against the wall. "I have to say, Sherlock, I am exhausted."

"You both look exhausted." Your eyes settled on me.

"John's been quite the trooper," Greg continued, his eyes closed. "Been here all night waiting for you. Didn't panic once."

"That's good." You reached through the bed to tease my fingers. "And what about you, Lestrade?"

He laughed. "I might've panicked a few times. But I knew you'd be fine. You're not one to be taken down by a knife wound."

You nodded, still watching me with a rare feather of affection. Probably because of the drugs, but I would take what I could get. Greg popped one eye open, noticed us, and chuckled.

"I guess I'll leave you two kids alone, then." He stood up to pat me on the back, then stretched out his shoulders and began a slow march toward the door. "Give me a call, John, if you need me to get you anything. Don't get into trouble while I'm gone, Sherlock."

"I'm fairly certain that won't be possible," You said.

"Oh, it's always possible with you two." He smiled at us. "Good morning."

He shut the door softly, and you turned back to me. "Come up here."

You gently moved yourself over to one side of your cot, motioning for me to climb up and join you. I paued a moment, then kicked off my shoes and complied, careful not to upset the bed too much. You curled your arm around my back and nestled my head against your shoulder, letting your lips gently graze my forehead. My fear steadily melted away as your heart pittered in my ear, your chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm, holding me close to you.

"You really do need to be more careful," I said.

You shrugged, kissed my ear, and everything around us was still.

I really love getting feedback from my readers, and it helps me improve both in writing and in content. Leave me a review if you see something that I should work on or need to correct, or if you just enjoyed the story. I read all my reviews, and it's my number one goal to become a better writer, so I'll take any critique you can give me. I'll even remind you with sappy song lyrics from time to time.

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