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John enters the next room. He immediately doesn’t like it; it’s too prefect, with the almost glossy white paint slathered across the walls and shelves upon shelves of specifically organised equipment. He walks slowly, glancing around him with mild interest, while secretly thinking about Sherlock. He’s worried about his detective. He’s never seen Sherlock so terrified, like he did just the day before concerning the “hound”. Something shiny and grey catches his eye from where it’s mostly hidden, up by the cupboards in the top left corner of the room.
He misses the almost silent clicking sound, the invisible-to-him switch sliding closed, flicking every gear within the room to on. The screeching begins first, a shrill siren that hurls itself at his ears, sending sharp knives to pierce his eardrums. He gasps, clamping his hands over his ears as his entire body freezes in shock.
Then the light arrives. In reality, the blinding blaze is only coming from directly above him, though to him it feels like it’s everywhere. He squeezes his eyes shut, groaning as the shape of the light sears behind his closed lids, imprinted there. His head begins to hurt.
He has to get out. Stumbling forward, he half runs half slides to the door at the further side of the room. The light is so blinding his eyes begin to water, blurring his vision. He clutches at the door handle, yanking at it with all of his might. His fingers slide off of the surface and he falls to the floor, crying out as the screeching intensifies, assaulting his ears and causing his head to throb. He makes another pathetic attempt at opening the door, stumbling to his feet in one shaky motion. But it’s locked. Why would it be locked? He just came through the door! Why-
The siren and lights cut off abruptly, plunging him into almost utter darkness and silence. He closes his eyes, but the light still remains within his brain, burnt painfully into his retinas. “Shit,” he gasps, removing his palms from his ears tentatively, afraid that the horrors will start up again. It’s probably just a power cut, he assures himself, it will be over in a minute.
Only it isn’t. He remains by the door for what feels like ages, trying to calm his breathing as the darkness crawls with the unknown around him. He sighs, taking out his phone, preparing to call Sherlock.
A growl echoes throughout the room, vibrating through the air waves and causing John to jump, his phone slipping from between his trembling fingers and onto the floor. He claps his hand over his mouth, preventing any further sounds from exiting him. The hound. Oh, god. He backs into the door, pressing himself against it as he trembles, every choked whimper that escapes him mostly muffled by his hand.
Another growl, closer to him, utterly vicious and utterly terrifying. He jumps again, knocking his head against the door and wincing in pain. Every particle of him is highly strung, on high alert and buzzing with anxiety packed electricity. He slowly bends over and picks up his phone in his left hand, trembling fingers fumbling over the buttons as he locates Sherlock’s contact and presses ‘call’.
Another growl, even closer this time. He can hear it’s footsteps, thump, thump, as it slowly progressed towards him, hidden within the blackness.
He darts under a cluttered desk, his heart hammering in his chest as the phone in his hand rings and rings and rings. Goddamn it Sherlock, answer, he begs, leaning against the inside of the desk, phone cradled against his ear and palms slapped across his mouth. He has to calm down, slow his breathing, be quiet. But he can’t; he’s too scared.
Sherlock picks up but John’s too panicked to really notice. His breathing quickens, and he’s forced to remove his hand from his mouth in fear of suffocating. He can’t get enough air in his lungs. His chest is too tight.
“John, can you hear me?” Sherlock’s voice comes through the speaker in the phone, slightly tinny but there, familiar, a rock to cling onto in order to not get swept out to sea.
“Mhm,” John mumbles, resting his head in his knees and wrapping his arms around himself until he’s curled into a tight shaking ball. He can still hear the growling. It’s so close. “The hound,” he gasps, breathing hitching,”It’s in here, Sherlock, god,” he bites his lip, willing himself to calm down.
“John, don’t worry. I’m on my way. Just stay where you are,” Sherlock tells him, his voice amazingly calm.
“O..okay,” John stutters, squeezing his eyes shut and trying his best to ignore his surroundings. But it’s never been so hard. Every sound, every change in lighting around him has him trembling, whimpering, tears burning and beading in his pressed closes eyes.
“John,” Sherlock begins, voice gentle. But John doesn’t hear him, doesn’t register him. Only-
He’s younger again, recently-become-adult, lanky form dressed up in military uniform as he crouches behind a boulder, half open medical kit hanging from his belt and gun rested in trembling hands. Shots go off around him, exploding in the dirt, sending soil spraying everywhere. Some lands on him and he huddles further in on himself, breathing erratically. He’s completely and utterly terrified. So scared he can’t breathe, oxygen evades him, skirting last his lungs and slipping away from his grasp. His vision blurs, distorts, and blind terror rips into him, splitting him into multiple disorientated sections.
Sherlock doesn’t know what to do. He’s just entered the laboratory room he’d previously locked John in. He turns the lights on with the flick of a switch, located on a pad in his pocket. His entire body freezes up as soon as he spots John.
The petrified doctor is curled in a ball under the desk furthest from the door, his face buried in his knees as shudders wrack him. He’s wheezing, hyperventilating, as series upon series of pain filled noises escape his lips.
Sherlock forces himself to move, reaching the side of his only friend. “John,” he begins,”The hound is gone,” he tells him,”It’s not real. You’re okay,” he manages, internally cringing at how odd the words sound coming out of his mouth.
John slowly lifts his head up, unfocused glazed over eyes slowly fixing loosely on Sherlock’s. “Sh’lock?” He mumbles, choking the slurred word out in between panicked gasps,”I c’nt breathe..” he whimpers, eyes wide.
Sherlock frowns, concern and guilt chewing on his insides with razor sharp fangs. He gently slips an arm around John, a little shocked when the other man immediately leans into his touch, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck as he wheezes and sobs.
John is crying, everything inside of him aching and working on overdrive. He’s still shaking, but he doesn’t feel as if he’s about to pass out anymore, which has to be good.
Sherlock hugs John close, the unfamiliar action causing something beautiful and primal to burn deep within him. “I’m sorry John,” he whispers, touching a fleeting kiss to his friend’s forehead,”The hound isn’t real,”
“But- I heard it.. I-“ John gasps, squeezing his eyes shut as he tries to catch his breath, forcibly pushing the images of war from his brain,”It was here, Sherlock, I swear.”
“No,” Sherlock replies, voice soft,”That was me. I had to make sure my theory was correct. I’m really sorry, John. I didn’t think you’d react this way,”
John frowns, attempting to pull away. But he’s still weak from the panic attack so it only results in a half-hearted struggle lasting less than 10 seconds. He sighs in frustration, allowing Sherlock to hug him. He kinda likes it, despite how mad he feels.
“I'm sorry, John. Forgive me,” Sherlock pleads,”I’ll make you tea,”
John nods slowly, winding his arms around Sherlock’s waist, clutching him close as if he were a huge teddy bear. “Okay..” he mumbles,”I forgive you,”