(Disclaimer: Nothing related to Sherlock belongs to me, but rather to Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, etc. etc.)

The reason I wrote this story is because I was having trouble imagining situations in which Sherlock would show fear. I wanted to explore how he would react to being afraid, and so I wrote out a few scenarios. The first, claustrophobia, is a bit sillier (for lack of a better word) than the others, which get progressively more serious. Enjoy!

Chapter 1: Claustrophobia

The hallway didn't go anywhere but a shuttered window, and the voices were getting closer. His possibilities were almost exhausted, except –

The closet door opened and closed, and Sherlock crouched inside, trying to silence his ragged breathing.

"… the judge isn't a problem."

"But if the case gets to the press—"

He tried to ignore the fact that his still-rapid breathing was not entirely due to the threat of discovery. On one of his first cases, the victim had been found in a hastily-buried coffin, fingernails embedded in the lid – dead. Outstripping the police, close on the murderer's heels, he had been caught and treated similarly, though luckily rescued before he had asphyxiated. He had never been entirely comfortable in small spaces, perhaps a side effect of his stature, but that had been the tipping point. Classical conditioning. For the past eight years, he had been unaccountably nervous in elevators, under beds, in closets… as he was now.

"It won't. The Yard is miles away from finding out what's going on here—"

Sherlock managed a smile. The closet wasn't much of anything, so small he had to crouch slightly, legs already aching from the uncomfortable position. Logically, there was nothing whatsoever to worry about. He thought briefly of John, off with Lestrade, probably in completely the wrong area of London.

He sent a text.

"Don't get cocky. We finish the job and leave the country."

And another text. Where was Lestrade? Probably got lost on the way here.

If he burst out now and took them by surprise, he might be able to disable both of them. Assuming neither drew a gun, and assuming they didn't yell and alert the rest of the house, and assuming they were close enough to the door, and slow enough on the uptake.

He still had enough sanity left to stay where he was – barely.

"If Coleridge is convicted—"

"I told you, the judge won't be a problem."

This was humiliating. Not that he was in a closet, but that he was so upset about it. It was utterly irrational, and as he forced his terror down, he could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead. He sent a third text, fingers tense.

"Hold on – who's that down there, then?"

Sherlock could distantly here the hum of a car engine – standard police vehicle. Lestrade. Finally. By the sound, there could be as many as four cars – but he couldn't hear properly over the pounding in his ears.

"Maybe it's Davies…."

"And he brought his friends?"

There was the slam of a car door.

Hurry up, you idiots.

"How did they find us?"

"We have to go."

Rapid, running footsteps receded, and Sherlock tried the door. For one heart-stopping second he thought it was jammed, but then it turned reluctantly under his fingers and he tumbled into the hallway.

Straightening his coat and scarf, he straightened, took a deep breath, and strode in the direction of the stairs.

As he walked into the entrance, John jogged to meet him.

"Sherlock, we – you look awful."

Sherlock ignored him, pushing the door open and walking briskly into the refreshingly cool night air. Let the police mop it up for once.

He knew without looking that John had fallen in beside him.

"Was… did anything happen in there?"

"No."

"I got your text."

"Obviously."

They made the rest of the walk – and then taxi ride – in silence.

X

John hummed to himself as he poured water into two cups. Picking one up in each hand, he walked into the living room and set one down on the end table. Frowning, he looked around for Sherlock, and finding him absent, poked his head into the bedroom.

"Sherlock?"

"Leave it on the desk, thanks."

John did as he was bid, then walked to the closet and pulled the door open.

"What the hell are you doing in there?"

"Reconditioning," said Sherlock. His hands were clasped in his lap, white knuckles betraying his apparent calm.

"Why?"

"Why do people do anything?" He cracked one eye open and gazed up at John balefully. "I'm eliminating a weakness."

"But… what weakness?"

Sherlock rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling, exuding exasperation. "Go drink your tea, John."

Shaking his head, John began to walk back to the living room.

"Shut the door, please!" Sherlock called after him. Grumbling, John obligingly shut the closet door and settled on the couch, resigned to confusion.

This chapter was rather light, which is nice – but from here on out, they get a bit darker. Don't forget to review!