Remembering to Feel Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven
To Whom it May Concern,
The doctors just gave Sherlock a sedative to help him sleep, and I'm thanking God. His panic attack has died down now, and he's awfully quiet; not asleep yet though. The man needs rest, and frankly so do I. I haven't realized how wiped out I truly am until today. Sherlock is my best mate, and I'm happy to stay here with him, but at the moment I'm sorry to say that he's more trouble than he's worth. It seems I have to be extremely cautious when I'm speaking to him, because I never know what will set him off. I think the next step is figuring out how to help him through these terrible anxiety attacks. I think I'll just start there and take baby steps--that's what I'll have to do to keep up with Sherlock.
"John," I heard Sherlock moan. It was surprising that he hadn't passed out yet, but I wasn't about to ignore him. "John--" he repeated, drawing out the length of my name that time.
"What is it, Sherlock?" I asked him, placing my words down very slowly and very carefully.
His eyelids had begun to droop sleepily, and I could tell by the strained muscles in his face that he was struggling to stay awake. I gave him a few moments to ponder what he was trying to say, then I finally piped up:
"Sherlock, can you talk to me?" I asked him, leaning forward and looking him square in the eyes.
"Yes," Sherlock said, a look of frustration on his face. He then sighed and said, "Words, John."
I could tell he was rather upset that words weren't coming to him like they used to. With a steady voice,
I reassured him, "It's okay, Sherlock. Slow down and take your time."
I watched him swallow, seeing the difficulty in his eyes. My words were still trying to register in his head, but they were dragging their feet. His face was so scrunched up in his puzzlement that someone might have mistook it for a crumpled up paper bag from a distance.
"John," Sherlock started, a look of brand new determination on his face. "Pirate." After saying this, he closed his eyes, and I stared to believe that he was going to fall asleep. I took my list of words that were significant to Sherlock and started to write down "pirate", then suddenly his eyes opened again and my peace went flying out the open window.
"John," he breathed, looking slightly alarmed.
"Yes, Sherlock?" I replied, trying not to sound annoyed.
He hummed behind closed lips and stared to bat at me like a cat. I knew he had something to say, but no words seemed to want to leave his lips. Deep inside his scrambled up mind, he knew what he was trying to convey, and he tried tirelessly to say it, but more often then not, he'd fail. It was times like these when I wished to God that I could read minds, but when I thought harder about it, I realized that probably wouldn't do any good. Sherlock's mind was buried beneath miles of confusion. I probably wouldn't be able to read a damn thing.
"Sherlock, are you tired?" I asked him, trying to fixate on yes or no questions for him.
He nodded.
"Yes."
I exhaled heavily and said, "Then, you need to sleep. Can you go to sleep, Sherlock?"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows wearily and made a pathetically exhausted expression.
"Nighttime?"
The thrill of hearing him say a new word distracted me for a moment, and I couldn't help but praise him for it. That seemed to make him happy, but he was still incredibly exhausted.
"John, nighttime?" Sherlock asked again, this time sounding a bit frustrated.

I determined that he was asking me if it was nighttime, so I glanced out the window. The sun was setting, but if I were to answer him honestly, I'd have to say no.
"Not nighttime yet, Sherlock, but you still need to sleep," I told him firmly, feeling as though I was speaking to a five year old.
Sherlock tightened his lips and lowered his eye brows, glowering at me angrily. It was almost humorous how childish he looked in that moment.
"John, not nighttime!"
I laughed, then had to collect myself before reprimanding him again.
"Sherlock, that's okay. You can sleep during the daytime too."
Sherlock relaxed his face and started petting Chewy Bear's head. I tried not to smile at him because I didn't want to condescend, but it was hard not to. I really did feel like I was caring for a toddler, and on a good day it wasn't too terrible. I wasn't real thrilled when he'd scream at me, or when he demand I stay even though my bladder was going to explode. But, I didn't mind these moments of innocence. The innocence that he would normally deny he possessed. If he were to ask me my opinion (which he never will), I would tell him that I believe that everyone has some amount of innocence in them, even if it is buried deep down. Sherlock's was probably so deep down that it really did take a head injury to trigger it, but it was there. It definitely wasn't crossed out in red ink; it was still around.
“Yes?" Sherlock yawned, nestling himself down into his blankets. He seemed irritated, and at first
I couldn't figure out why. Then, I noticed that he was struggling to take hold of his blankets, just like he had been struggling to do any normal task. Normally, a nurse would be there to assist him, but no one was there but me. When he started to whimper in his frustration, I intervened and helped him pull his blankets up to his chin.
He instantly quieted.
"Is that good?" I asked him.
Sherlock looked at me blankly for a moment, then his lip trembled and he said, "Yes, John. Good."
His eyes finally closed, his eyelashes finally rested on his cheekbones, and he was finally asleep. As soon as I was sure he was asleep, I slouched back in my seat and released the longest, loudest sigh I had ever mustered up.
"God, Sherlock," I whispered, "You need to get well soon, mate..." Tears started to build in my eyes. "...I miss ya."
To say that I missed him was sort of a silly thing to say. He was there with me, but he wasn't him. He was broken and disabled. The way he was acting before was not like him, but now it was like he was a completely new person. Not different, new. People had to help him eat, they had to help him get dressed, he couldn't speak properly, and he could only really express himself by crying. He was literally like a brand new child. Like a helpless infant. When I thought of it positively, I thought that maybe he'd been given a second chance, and that made me want to learn more. It killed me that I knew nothing, but clearly he was suffering tremendously. What Mycroft said the day I retrieved his Chewy Bear about repression caught my attention. I knew the basic idea of what repression was, but what did that mean for Sherlock? In a moment of weakness, I took out my laptop and decided it best to look into this a bit.
Into the search bar, I typed in "repression". Instantly, I got thousands of results, so I thought it best to start from the top. I clicked on the first link and read out loud quietly to myself:
"Repression is the act of unconsciously excluding painful memories, fears, or desires from ones conscious mind. Repression normally occurs after traumatic events in ones life. The victim will essentially 'forget' about whatever traumatic event(s) and attempt to live without the pain it causes..." I rubbed my face, yawned, then continued, "...Traumas can be anything moderate or severe, and vary from physical traumas to deep emotional scarring. Repression is a very common defense mechanism, but normally will not last a life time..."
After reading the last sentence, I had to shut my laptop and set it aside. Those words were practically the exact same words Mycroft had said to me before. When I looked at Sherlock's sleeping face, I heard Mycroft's voice in my head. "Repression only lasts so long". Did Sherlock's head injury crush every wall of repression in his mind? That was a scary thought. What could have possibly happened to him that was so bad that he had to put it away?
"Erm, hello?"
I heard a small voice come from the doorway, and I smiled once I realized who it was.
"Come in, Molly," I said, waving her in. "It's good to see you!"
She chuckled bashfully and gazed down at Sherlock's slumbering face. He shifted a bit, making a face as though he was in great pain. She frowned and sat on his bed next to him, then she took out an envelope with Sherlock's name on it.
"Since he didn't seem too thrilled about the flowers," she sighed with a grin. She then placed the envelope on the pillow next to his head and stared at his closed eyes longingly. I could see the desire in her face. Desire on so many levels of the word. Romantically, yes. But, also in a very odd maternal sense. Her face was glowing, and she looked as though she could stay there forever and take care of him.
"He's lovely, isn't he John?" Molly said to me brightly, "They all are when they're asleep, huh."
I wasn't sure whether or not to agree with her, so I simply smiled and pointed to the envelope.
"I-is that a card?" I asked, cringing at how obvious the answer to that question was.
She laughed, "Yes, John, it is. Like I said, the flowers weren't a winner with him, but maybe he'll like that a bit better." She then turned to look at me.
"How've you been, John?"
"Terribly worried," I sighed, trying to decide whether or not to tell her anything I had learned. "There's a lot to this, Molly. A lot more than I expected."
Her smile vanished from her face slowly and she examined the details of Sherlock's room. The man was still attached to a few IVs, and a breathing tube was still lodged in his nose. A heart monitor beeped in a continuous, ambient manner behind the sounds of our voices. Glancing down at the floor, she saw the random photos and drawings that I had left scattered around Sherlock's bed earlier.
"He's made this place his home, hasn't he," Molly giggled, looking at the mess of pictures on the floor.
"Well, I have," I replied, "He probably feels more comfortable that way."
Molly cleared her throat, then said, "Excuse me, but does the man really feel anything? I've never known him to have emotion."
I thought back on very recent days, recalling every look on Sherlock's face, every time I saw him cry. I thought about his anger, his pain, every single time I knew he was so upset, but couldn't form words to tell me. He had had so much emotion lately that I was having a hard time keeping up, and it was only getting harder it seemed.
"Oh yes," I scoffed, "He feels everything."
Nobody said anything for quite some time after that. Molly went to get us some coffee, then returned and we drank together in silence. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, it was actually quite calming for me. Sherlock had not woken yet, so that instantly turned the volume in the room down. It gave me time to sit and read the paper for the first time in a while. I became rather nostalgic after a while though, because I was so used to Sherlock hovering just over my shoulder while I read. Now it felt like I was hovering over his shoulder. For once, I was doing the deducing and it was a little odd considering I was attempting to figure out Sherlock Holmes.

After only just an hour of peace, Sherlock began to stir in his wakeful slumber. Molly had left, so I was again all alone with Sherlock. He started to moan, then his body formed a little tremor as he stretched it out drowsily. He then rubbed his sleepy eyes and let out a big, long yawn before fully waking. He didn't look real thrilled upon waking, in fact he appeared rather grumpy.
"Are you alright, Sherlock?" I asked him.
He blinked, then he sort of tumbled on to his side and moaned loudly. I couldn't quite figure out what was wrong with him, but this was a common trend in recent days. It seemed like it took an eternity plus one to figure out each of his physical needs as they came; not to mention his emotional needs.
"Alright then, Sherlock," I said with a smile, "We'll try this. Are you still tired?"
Sherlock shook his head and said grumpily, "No."
I nodded and went on to the next question.
"Are you not comfortable? Do you need..."
I didn't even finish speaking before Sherlock cut in with a hearty, "No."
I tried not to get too frustrated with him, and reminded myself that it wasn't his fault. Normally, if he was going to be a dick, or if he was being impossible, it was on purpose. This time, however, he wasn't trying. It was just happening.
"Okay, are you hungry? Do you want something to eat?" I asked him calmly.
Sherlock rolled over on his back and smiled up at me, and I knew I had asked the right question at last. For emphasis, Sherlock made sure to tell me "yes", then I took his buzzer.
"Let me just buzz the nurse in then..." I started to press the button, then Sherlock swatted the buzzer out of my hand. I looked at him in bewilderment, trying not to grow angry, and he stared back at me with such a scowl on his face.
"No, John," he snapped.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek, trying hard not to yell at him, then, after a moment of deep breathing, I said, "Do you want to eat or not, Sherlock?"
Sherlock gave a little whimper, then he replied miserably, "Yes, John."
My heart started to soften for him, and I felt it easier to be patient all of a sudden. It was hard to look him in his pathetically frustrated eyes without feeling both guilty and just responsible for his needs.
"Okay, I need to call the nurse then," I said gently, "She needs to help you, Sherlock."
His eyes were shimmering with a longing for something I could not quite discern. This longing was extremely strong, though, and it was upsetting to me that I could quite place my finger on it. With every second of sitting and staring that passed, the emotion in Sherlock's eyes got increasingly stronger, and I felt more helpless.
"No," Sherlock moaned after several seconds of intense staring. He pawed at me helplessly and said, "John."
I sort of smiled uncomfortably at this. He had never asked me to help him eat before, and that would be a little trying for me. I was finding it hard to look at him in a different light, even though that was clearly necessary. At least for now, Sherlock was not the same man I knew. For the time being, he was more like a little child, but treating him that way was incredibly awkward for me.
"Y-you want me to help you eat?" I asked him, pointing to myself.
Sherlock's pathetically miserable expression had evolved into a weary smile. He took a deep, relaxed breath and said, "Yes."

I adjusted myself in my seat and took a moment to think about awkward this would be. The atmosphere in the room had drastically shifted, but I wasn't about to refuse his request. What kind of friend would that make me? I took a leap of faith and opened up his refrigerator. The nurses insisted he eat all of this soup and mushy apple sauce and such, and I frankly pitied the man, even though I actually had no clue what he enjoyed eating, considering I had only seen him eat probably one other time.
"Okay, well..." I started, examining the contents of the fridge. "You have some of that grotesque looking banana shit...you still have some soup from earlier, and some apple sauce...Some mashed potatoes..."
I looked back at Sherlock and instantly picked up on his confusion. He looked into my eyes for a moment, then he squinted his own.
"Huh?" He breathed, his face all wrinkled up.
My body wilted.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," I sighed, feeling very disappointed in myself. "This isn't as easy as it looks."
I decided it would be easiest to just pick his food for him, so I took the soup out and didn't bother warming it; I knew he wouldn't notice. Sherlock wriggled around until his head was propped up against the wall. He winced a little, then groaned out loudly, "Ooowwcchh!"
It took me a second, but I finally came to the conclusion that his head making direct contact with the wall was very painful, despite the cushioning of his bandages. A bit hysterically, I took his pillow out from under him and carefully moved his head away from the wall with my hand, grimacing at how much noise he made. Clearly, he was in a lot of pain, so I quickly slipped the pillow under his head, then let it rest down on it. He whimpered a bit more, but then when he noticed the bowl of soup in my hands, he smiled and gasped with delight.
"Good!" He exclaimed, pointing at the soup.
I felt a flutter of relief in the pit of my stomach and I let myself relax. I let out a small chuckle and scooped a bit of soup into the spoon.
"Yes, Sherlock, good," I said, showing him the spoon. "Eat?"
He nodded and I helped him situate the spoon between his fingers. His hand started to turn at an awkward angle as the spoon reached his lips, and there was a look of sheer determination on his face. His tongue was hanging out of his mouth and he was biting down on it, pondering how he was supposed to accomplish this task. His wrist sort of turned upward and the soup began to drizzle out, instantly causing Sherlock to drop the spoon and start to sob dryly in his frustration. I frowned, looking at the soup stain that had just been made on his blanket, and the terribly helpless expression on my dear friend's face. The spoon sat motionless, forgotten in his lap, and he seemed to have no intention of trying again, knowing or at least believing that he would fail.
"Sherlock, do you need help?" I asked him sadly, trying to disregard how pathetic his dry sobs of frustration were.
"Yes, John," he sniffled, batting the spoon toward me.
"That's okay," I reassured him kindly as I picked the spoon up out of his lap. "I'll help ya, mate."
I had what I thought to be an amazing idea. I took his hand and closed it around the spoon. I then steadied his hand as it traveled up toward his mouth, then I guided the spoon between his lips and felt a wave of satisfaction roll over my body when he smiled.
"Good, Sherlock!" I exclaimed happily, "Ya did good!"
Sherlock's eyes were so bright. I could see my reflection in them again, but this time they weren't shimmering with despair. They were smiling. They were proud.
"Yes?" He stammered behind grinning lips, "Good?"
I nodded and helped him take another bite, repeating the same process as before.
"Yeah, Sherlock," I said, "You're good."
He focused on my face, his eyes wilting with emotion, and a bit of cold soup came trickling down his chin. I had somehow alarmed him, but what had I said?
"M-me? Good?" He asked, nodding, yet looking very unsure.
"Yes, Sherlock, you are," I chuckled, trying to brighten the mood, "Don't you know that?"
Sherlock's chin quivered a little, then he let out a tiny, "No."
Oddly enough, that was not the response I was anticipating. Sherlock was normally a very proud man, or at least that's how he appeared. But, more and more lately, I had grown to assume that everything I had seen of Sherlock Holmes was just an outer shell, protecting his apparently incredibly fragile insides.
I decided to investigate a little.
"Can you try and tell me why?" I asked, "Did someone tell you that you're not good?"
I was diving into the snake pit and I knew it well. Sherlock seemed to have no regard for his soup anymore, so I put it aside for the time being.
"Yes," he answered sorrowfully.
I painfully wanted to laugh this off, but it could possibly be another piece to the puzzle, so I held it together. I sort of lost myself for a moment however, searching my mind for possible people who would have said this to him, other than Sally Donovan or Anderson or any lot like that. It didn't register how upset Sherlock was until I heard him gasp for breath behind a very heart wrenching sob.
"Sherlock," I uttered pensively, "It's alright. Who told you that you're not good?"
What he said next would stick to me like a leech and hold on for a very long time. In his moment of sheer hopelessness and emotional agony, Sherlock said behind his tears, "Me."
My first instinct was to do the one thing I never thought to do. It was the one thing that most friends do upon greeting or departing, or during a time of trouble. More than ever lately, I felt like he wanted this--like he needed this. A split second after he said "me", I hugged him. That's right. I hugged Sherlock Holmes.
"Don't you ever tell yourself that," I said behind my teeth, "Don't you ever say that. You are a great man." For some reason, I joined in with his crying at this point. Trying to keep my voice steady, I said as sternly as I could, "I know you can't understand what I'm saying, but you can still hear me at least. Sherlock Holmes, you're my best friend. Truly, you are, and it pains me to know that you feel that way. I don't understand, Sherlock. This contradicts everything I know about you. Hell, I might be just as confused as you are."
At first he didn't, but after I said all that, Sherlock actually hugged me back. His crying had ceased, and I felt him nod.
"John?" I heard him say.
I answered, "Yes?"
He took in a quivering breath and muttered, "Friend."
With that, I released him and wiped my own tears away. This was the last word I was expecting Sherlock to say. Lately, relevance had meant nothing to Sherlock, and I was pretty certain that he couldn't understand 90% of what I had just said. But, perhaps the ten percent of what he heard was the only crucial part to him. Maybe, the rest of it meant nothing at the time, but somehow us being friends was the one thing he latched on to. I had said it once myself. Sherlock Holmes was like a computer on some degrees. Anything not relevant to him at the time was deleted. Then, as that thought crossed my mind, it hit me.

"Computer!" I blurted out uncontrollably as I sprung up out of my seat. "That's it! That's brilliant!
"John?" Sherlock questioned, sounding rather concerned.
I looked at him, beaming, and cried, "You! You're brilliant!"
Sherlock's eyes suddenly darted at the door, and I ignored his pointed expression in order to revel in my moment of elation. Sherlock Holmes really was like a computer, but so many things have been thrown into the recycle bin that now it's over flowing, causing the entire hard drive to crash. Plus, a hit that hard would be enough to break old computer; mutilate it and leave it with only a very small chance of ever running the same way again. Not only was Sherlock "damaged", but his hard drive was crashing too. It all made sense when I thought of it that way, not that it helped me to know how to fix it.
"John!"
I turned to look at Sherlock and saw that he suddenly looked both happy and insecure all at the same time. His lips, the way they smiled, told me he was very happy, but his eyes were wide and sort of slanted in a very unsure manner.
"What is it, Sherlock?"
Finally, my eyes traveled up toward the door and I wasn't sure whether to frown or to smile. Standing and basking in his own glory was none other that Mycroft Holmes, leaning on his umbrella in the doorway. He smiled, then tapped the threshold once with the golden tip of his probably very over priced umbrella.
"Raggedy old place they've got you in, brother," Mycroft breathed as he strutted into the room. "Wouldn't you agree?"
Naturally, I was anticipating full on war. Sherlock once told me that Mycroft was his arch enemy, and at the time I didn't believe him; but that was before I saw the two interact. It was like watching two robots bicker; it was painfully annoying. I braced myself for a battle, but was completely shocked when I heard Sherlock cry out euphorically:
"MYCROFT!"
If he could do so, Sherlock would have gotten out of his bed and ran to his brother in that moment. He sort of had his arms out stretched, as if he was expecting a hug from Mycroft. However, Mycroft slid his eyes past Sherlock, then they examined the mess of photos and drawings littered all over the floor. The look on his face was somewhat alarming to me. There was much indecipherable emotion in his face that I couldn't keep up, not could I quite read it all.
"Did he make this mess?" Mycroft asked me, clearing his throat.
I shook my head.
"No, I sort of did."
"How?" Mycroft asked me rather urgently, "Those are his. They all belong to him."
Sherlock let out a little moan, then I saw him tug at Mycroft's coat tail to get his attention. Mycroft wheeled around and looked at his brother, then Sherlock pointed to the mess on the floor.
"Me?" He asked, pointing to himself, one hand still closed around Mycroft's coat tail.
Mycroft took a moment to simply stare at his brother, and the whole time he was frowning. He looked sadly into Sherlock's incredibly clueless eyes, and winced when he noticed Chewy Bear secured under his arm. After he was done examining his brother, he sighed and sat down on the bed with him.
"Yes, those are yours," Mycroft said, "Do you recognize any of it?"
Sherlock stared steadily at all the pictures for a moment, then he pointed to one and said, "That, Mycroft."

Hastily, I snatched the photograph up off the floor and placed it into Mycroft's open hand. He then leaned a bit closer to Sherlock, who adjusted himself so he could properly view the photo.
"Look here," Mycroft said, pointing to a small boy with dark curls in the picture, "You know who that is, don't ya?"
Sherlock grinned and said with a little chuckle, "Me."
Intrigued, I leaned in a bit and gazed at the little boy in the photo. He was surrounded by other little children his own age, but he was smiling fiendishly in the back. This was a class photo from 1992; exactly twenty years ago.
"That one there?" I asked, pointing to young Sherlock, "That's you?"
Both Mycroft and Sherlock nodded.
"Yes, that's his kindergarten class photo," Mycroft sighed, almost smiling.
Sherlock chuckled and threw that one aside, then he pointed to a drawing on the floor and said desperately, "That, John!"
Laughing, I located the drawing he wanted and handed it to him, expecting the atmosphere to remain light. However, as soon as Sherlock's eyes met with this drawing, the mood got very heavy. The drawing was of a boy, standing all alone in the rain. It looked like Sherlock must have drawn this as a teenager, because it actually was pretty well done. Surrounding the young man in the drawing were at least ten shadow figures, wearing maliciously creepy smiles, not accompanied by eyes or a nose. It was a very creepy drawing. Above the boy's head, was the word FORGOTTEN written in red ink. As I stared at the picture, I noticed a tear drop fall onto it, then another. I looked up and saw that tears were simply falling from Sherlock's eyes. There was no noise, but I could practically hear his eyes crying out.
"Me," Sherlock uttered miserably, turning to Mycroft, "Me, Mycroft. That."
Mycroft took the drawing away from Sherlock and he grimaced at it. Then, he tossed it aside.
"How'd you get all of this, John?" He asked me, looking into his brother's teary face.
"I-I found them all in his bedroom at the flat," I said uncomfortably. "They caught my eye."
Mycroft put a hand over his mouth and stared absently down at the drawing that had made Sherlock cry.
"I never thought I'd see any of this again," he murmured.
This was actually working out marvelously for me, as awful as that sounds. Mycroft recognized these pictures. He was probably there for the making of some of them. He probably knew the story behind each of them. The way he looked at them was so tremendously unsure that it was exciting to me. He didn't even know where to begin.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock cried, suddenly sounding inexplicably happy. "That!"
Mycroft identified the photo Sherlock was gesturing to, then it picked up and showed it to him. Sherlock chuckled, and I leaned over to see it.
"That was his first day of secondary school, that was," Mycroft told me, wearing a faint grin. "He was so nervous."
Sherlock chuckled and said childishly, "No, Mycroft."
Mycroft smiled at the teenager in the photo and replied, "Oh yes you were, Sherlock. You thought for sure you'd leave the house without your trousers on. It was rather odd."
I laughed and asked, "Did he?"
There was a bright moment of light heartedness, then Mycroft said with a smile, "Of course he did."
I stared into Sherlock's young face in the photo and noticed that he wasn't smiling, nor was he standing beside anyone. Though it was just photograph, the emotion in Sherlock's face was alive. I could see it in his frozen eyes. I detected pain. Pain so severe that it could injure anyone for life. I looked a bit deeper and saw an overwhelming sense of hopelessness. He was drowning in it. His self hatred was strong, and I could tell all of this just by looking at one photo of him at age 11. There was so much to Sherlock Holmes that I didn't know. I could see all of his emotion in the photo, but what I didn't know was why he felt that way.
As Mycroft sat that photo aside, I picked one up I now wish I never would have seen. It was sitting toward the top of the pile now, and it caught my eye because it was rather wrinkled up and faded. It was a photo of a little tabby cat, most likely less than a year old judging by its size. There was nothing else in the photo, just the cat, staring with its large green eyes at the camera, it's pink nose shimmering in the sunlight. It was a cute photo, and I thought it would sustain the happy mood, so I showed it to Sherlock.
"Look here, Sherlock," I said with a smile, "That's a cat."
It wasn't until I said "cat" that Mycroft uttered a curse word beneath his breath and turned his undivided attention to his brother. Sherlock's face had gotten rather pale all of a sudden, and he appeared a bit nauseous. Without saying anything, he hastily snatched Mycroft's arm and held onto for dear life. He tried to contain it, but after a few terribly tense moments, he couldn't fight it anymore. Out of his mouth erupted an awful cry of pure terror, followed by hurried, panicked breathing and loud whimpers and gasps for air.
"Sherlock, calm yourself," Mycroft said urgently, wincing as Sherlock's nails dug into his arm. Sherlock's sobs only got louder and his breathing only quickened. It was too late. His conscious mind had been conquered by a state of relentless panic.
"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted, now shaking his brother. This only made it worse. Sherlock cried had turned into wails, and now he was kicking and fighting, and finally he threw Mycroft off of him and curled up in a tight ball in his bed, screaming and yelping and sobbing in sheer emotional agony.
"John!" Mycroft cried from across the room, "This is why I worry about him!"
Not knowing what to do, I took hold of Sherlock's shoulders in an attempt to get him to recognize reality, but instead he jerked away and shouted, "NO!"
I stood back and stared helpless at my friend, and finally when I no longer had the capacity to deal with it anymore, I did the one thing I swore I wouldn't do while Sherlock was in such a delicate state. As he panicked loudly and sobbed miserably in his bed, I joined him in crying. I fell back into my chair, put my face in my hands, and just proceeded to cry. No one knew what to do. Only Mycroft had an idea of what was going on, he was standing against the back wall, only listening to the pathetic gasps and sobs that left his brother's body. Did he do anything? No. He claimed to worry, but when he was faced with it, he froze--this proved to be a common trend for Mycroft.

And that wasn't the half of it.