"Of course I'm shaking—" Sherlock did his best to hold as still as possible, both in voice and body. "That'll be the fatigue—but I'm fine otherwise. Fine."

"Uh huh..." John didn't look at all convinced, and hadn't let go of his arm.

The sun outside the windows was beginning to sink, casting the living room in a mass of sunset shadows which, at any other time, Sherlock would have found rather comfortable.

But right now, there was no such thing.

Comfort didn't exist.

There was only cold blood and pounding heart and rebelling nerves.

The more he tried to force himself to calm down, to regain control of his transport, the more he found that it seemed an impossible task, and all that did was send another rush of ice through his veins.

This was such an unfamiliar feeling.

And it was honestly terrifying.

To feel so out of control...

"Hey." John was speaking again. "Hey, look at me. Just listen. Okay? Calm down."

Yeah, as if it were that easy...

It was at that point that it began to seep in through the cracks. Hot and cold, sharp and aching, wordless and screaming, altogether too much.

The feelings he tried to suppress kept coming up, as if in this moment they overflowed their cages and drowned him in his own blood. Every nerve in his transport shrieked for solitude, for silent escape from eyes, from everything—and he found he was holding his breath, unable to will himself to let it out.

All this, and there was nothing he could do.

His body refused to release any of the storm—it was as if he had no tears, as if his body had forgotten how to cry.

So it was trapped there. He was stuck with it. There was no way he could relieve the seething, stabbing... thing.

The emotion.

It was a creature itself, that took over him and held on, getting in the way and driving him to do stupid things to make it leave, if only for a while.

But not even those stupid things would help now, now that it was all—

Sherlock's eyes widened as he found himself drawn in close, his cheek pressed awkwardly against John's ear as the doctor wrapped his arms round him in what was supposed to be a comforting hug.

And as much as Sherlock's instinct wanted him to pull away, to escape—he didn't.

Because for once the feeling of another human being... made it okay.

For once the warmth of somebody else was reassuring, and not just a physical fact. It didn't quell the entire storm-not really-but it helped to melt the ice in his blood. It relaxed his muscles enough to let him exhale, though his heart still thudded in his chest.

John didn't let go, and for once Sherlock let himself be held, there on the living room carpet, in the dark.

He had to.

It didn't have to mean anything. Right then, it meant everything.

Because, for once, he didn't have to control everything. He could relax a little.

Sherlock shut his eyes to match the dark, glad no one had to see the single tear that traced his cheek.

Still an unfamiliar feeling.

But... maybe comfort did exist.