A/N: Got a bit bored the other night so here's John's side of the whole encounter. Not edited as heavily as my usual stuff, so please forgive any typos or stilted prose.

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His leave was up in a few days. Ostensibly he should have been taking advantage of his last bit of free time before deployment to catch up with friends and spend time with his family, but instead John found himself wandering alone through the crowded streets of central London. All his real friends were back at base camp, and he didn't want to hang around his family. Harry was drinking again for one thing, and Mum wouldn't stop shooting him these sad little looks like she was expecting him to get his head blown off the second he touched down on his next tour. Clara of course was being practically insufferable with her constant coddling questions after his mental health and Dad kept boasting about his son's lengthening service record to anyone within earshot like it was a personal badge of honour. John was really getting a bit sick of it all. So he'd joined the army, who cared? Thousands of other people his age had done the same thing, it was a career path just like any other. He didn't see why everyone had to kick up such a fuss.

He was meandering aimlessly around Westminster, having somehow made his way to the Charing Cross area and debating whether to bother taking the tube somewhere, when a rather out-of-place black towncar nearly ran him down as he was crossing the street. Flipping it off was severely tempting, but it wasn't likely to do much good so he stifled the impulse. Instead he continued along to the other side of the road and resumed his leisurely stroll. The station was just up ahead, maybe he would take a tube after all.

The light crowd of mid-afternoon commuters around Charing Cross bustled along in shifting patterns of faces and bodies and instead of heading directly for the gates John let himself be carried along by the current. On second thought he might just find a takeaway and bring it over to Harry's. Clara was away on that overnight trip for work, and it would probably be a good idea to make sure his sister ingested something besides liquor while her girlfriend was out. With this in mind he turned toward the kerb, intending to cross the street again, and practically tripped over some kid curled up under a lamp post.

Alright, well, that was a bit of an exaggeration. More like he stopped just short of trodding on a rather distraught-looking teenager sitting half-slouched under a lamp post. The particulars didn't really matter though, as none of them changed the fact that the young man was fairly obiviously having some sort of anxiety attack and could do with assistance.

Instantly John's medical training kicked in and he crouched next to the youth, who appeared to be focusing very hard on not hyperventilating. It was difficult to place an exact age - the boy was definitely in his late teens (or perhaps very early twenties at a stretch) but even hunched over John could tell he was quite tall, and he had a thin, aristocratic face that seemed to make him look both older and younger at the same time. Pale, spindly musician's hands were clutched protectively over his head, fingers getting tangled amongst a bird's nest of shortish black curls while he stared fixedly at the pavement with his face tucked between his knees.

Panic attack, John identified quickly. Easy enough to treat. Just had to get the patient to a safe place and provide reassurance.

"You alright there?" he asked. When the teenager didn't respond he reached out and gently tapped the boy on the arm to get his attention.

The young man flinched violently and whipped his hands off his head to scuttle back into the lamp post, going faintly green with what John assumed to be vertigo. Grey-blue eyes snapped up to stare at him with a sort of blank, feral look.

"Hey, it's alright," John said, trying to sound soothing and authoritative at the same time. "I'm just making sure you're okay." The boy kept staring, a slight edge of wariness creeping into his expression. "It's alright, I'm a doctor," John added quickly, hoping to ease any mistrust concerning his motives. All he got for his efforts was a savage glare.

"P-piss off!" the teenager sputtered, practically snarling up at him. "I'm f-f-fine!"

Well obviously he wasn't, if he was stuttering like that. John pointed this out as kindly as he could but the kid was having none of it. He bared his teeth like some sort of wild animal and visibly struggled to haul himself into a standing position. John straightened up as well in preparation for... yep, there it was. Predictable as anything the boy pitched forward, unable to keep his balance between the vertigo and muscle tremors. John reached out and caught him lightly by the biceps before he could collapse onto the pavement.

"Here, let's just get you out of the walkway," he said, glancing around with what he hoped was a reassuring expression as a few passersby shot them curious looks.

"I don't need your pi-" The teenager's sentence choked off as he went green again and swallowed. John made a concerted effort to keep the exasperation out of his voice as he began leading the stubborn kid over to one of the wrought-iron fences by the station where there was less chance of their being trampled by the mid-afternoon foot traffic.

"It's not pity, it's common sense," he quipped, thinking the boy would probably respond better to a bit of mild sarcasm than any sort of sugarey platitudes. "Leaving someone out on the pavement who's having a fit's potentially dangerous. Someone could've tripped over you and then where would we be?"

The teenager didn't respond, and John managed to steer him into a sitting position against the concrete moulding of one of the fences. Once seated the young man immediately grabbed at his hair again and tucked his knees up against his chest in a protective ball. John noted with alarm that his breathing was becoming dangerously erratic.

"Whoa, hey, alright. It's okay. In, out. In, out." The kid didn't seem to be listening to him, so John went for the next best thing and started rubbing small, light circles into his back through the thick wool of what looked like a very expensive peacoat. After an initial flinch at the contact the the boy relaxed somewhat, and within a minute or so his respirations evened out into a more normal rythm. He still didn't seem to want to uncurl from his little ball, however.

John gave him another minute or so, then quietly asked if he was okay. The dull 'no' he got in response was a little breathless, but distinctly sardonic, making John grin slightly in relief. Yeah okay, the kid was fine.

Still, he'd best be absolutely sure. "Fair enough. Can I have a look at your face for a minute?" He wanted to check for any signs of stroke or other neurological symptoms, just in case the incident had been more than a simple anxiety response. Unobtrusively as possible he tried to get a quick gauge of the boy's heartrate (having to make due with the subclavian artery when he couldn't get access to any of the usual pulse points) all the while maintaining the steady circular pattern in case of a rebound episode.

The kid mumbled something about having had a panic attack, not a seizure, and John frowned in concern. If the boy knew what pupil response checks were for he probably had some prior knowledge of brain disorders, which could mean he was a possible epileptic.

"Do you get those too?" he asked, voice coming out more sternly than he'd meant it to. Well, he was used to dealing with soldiers.

The boy's back jerked a little, like he'd tried to snort derisively but was still too out of breath to do more than huff. "Only when I've done an enormous amount of drugs," he muttered in a dull, sarcastic monotone.

John grimaced slightly. Sarcasm aside, the kid didn't sound like he was joking. John hated to think what that meant for the boy's home life - teenagers generally didn't just start up drug habits without good reason, as much as the media would love to pretend otherwise. But all he said on the matter was a vague, "bit not good then, huh?" He wasn't a counselor, and it wasn't his place to try and meddle in the life of some kid he'd just met on the street.

Thinking it might get the boy to lift his head a bit, John turned his attention to very lightly tapping the mop of dark curls with a forefinger. After a few seconds his efforts were rewarded with a stony-eyed glare from under a very messy fringe. He quickly studied the pupils; contracting normally for the ambient light level, nice and equal. Everything looked fine.

He conveyed as much to his patient and got a strange, slightly sardonic sneer in return. Then all at once the boy reached behind him to grab hold of one of the fence bars and physically hauled himself to his feet.

"Whoa, oi! Slow down there!" John admonished. The teenager blinked once and teetered very slightly, then seemed to find his footing and glared with such venom that John very nearly took a step back.

"Thank you for your assistance," the boy bit out, voice a bit husky from what sounded like a pretty heavy smoking habit. "I am going to find a cocaine dealer now, I suggest you allow me unhindered passage out of this alcove to do so."

John raised his eyebrows. Cocaine, huh? Well, that made sense. Expensive coat, posh accent... obviously from a rich family, he'd likely folded under the pressure of too-steep parental expectations and fell back on drugs as a coping mechanism. Definitely an ongoing problem too, if he'd managed to build up enough tolerance to get to the point of inducing seizures.

He met the young man's gaze with a level stare and carefully kept the pitying expression off of his face as he responded. "You think I can't stop you?"

"I know you can't stop me."

Well the kid had confidence at least. John eyed the lanky form, noting the rigid posture and the way the boy was trying to draw himself up to look more threatening. It didn't work, of course. True the kid was a few inches taller than John, but he obviously didn't have much fighting experience beyond schoolyard scuffles and was skinny as a bloody rail besides. For a brief moment John considered incapacitating him - surely it would be better to disable the kid and call an ambulance rather than let him escape into the streets to get high? - but one look at the boy's face and he tossed the notion aside. There was a spark of frightened desperation behind the young man's careful, frigid glare. A tenseness to his stance betraying loud and clear that for all the chilly apathy this was really nothing more than some scared kid having a really shit day.

John didn't like the idea of letting the kid run off to find a dealer, but adding another stressful situation on top of what was obviously already a bad set of circumstances would just exacerbate the problem. He raised his palms in surrender and stepped back, unable to keep the slightly exasperated look off his features as he backed down.

"Alright, alright, but only because I think it would do more harm than good to fight you right now."

The boy shot him a sneer which was tinged with just a faint undercurrent of relief. He hadn't wanted to fight either. "How conscientious of you," he snapped. "Good day."

And without so much as a backward glance the willowy youth stepped past him and stalked off into the crowds, head ducked low and shoulders taut as he shoved his pale hands into the pockets of his peacoat. John watched him go with a morose expression and shook his head sadly. He hoped the boy found help before it was too late.

Heaving a sigh, John turned to head back toward the street. Forget going to Harry's, he'd just keep walking.

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