It was odd and every variation of wrong to need to be told to breathe—he could do that himself, he wasn’t daft; this was a panic attack and at the moment he’d very much like everything to stop moving. Maybe the entire city at this rate, given the people and the noise they brought. His senses weren’t adjusted yet, he hasn’t been blind long enough for compensation to begin. So for now he was clumsy and downright disgraceful. Breathing could come later.
"This isn’t a limp, John." he snapped for the second time. "I can’t just grab for support and be on my way. Reassurance is meaningless."
It took a moment for Sherlock to realize that their conversation sorely lacked an important component. He couldn’t see John’s expressions; he couldn’t watch and determine whether or not his words hit like a nudge or a slap. He couldn’t tell if John was lying to him or hurt or scared the same as he was—he couldn’t tell if John was tired or annoyed unless he spoke and even then his voice would take deciphering whereas observing remained above the seeds of doubt and rechecking.
He could no longer get by with simple talk, already knowing the answer to a question or having information without asking for it. He was utterly trashed. Sherlock took a few deep breathes and tried to block out all other noise. Throughout it all John’s hold on him never wavered—he was far too loyal, this man.
"Sorry." He started, reaching for what he assumed to be John’s arm—forearm, before nodding once. "I’d be lost without my blogger."
Finding their way back to Bakers street was a little less of a breeze considering cabs became a hassle for his sanity, but he never once tore away from his friends hold nor did he question his direction. After a considerable amount of silence—Sherlock managed a smile.
"Now people will definitely talk." Linked arms, Sherlock was also holding onto John via his free hand, steadying himself and trying to mimic the movements he could feel—but to anyone else it appeared as otherwise. John and his ongoing battle to be seen as a heterosexual male would now be fought atop a slope.
Sherlock was very grateful that by the end of the day they were within a hallway of familiar scents. Mrs Hudson’s cooking, the sound of Baker Street outside the now closed door as they situated themselves before a set of—
"Stairs?" Sherlock asked for confirmation before stepping carefully until his shoe hit a lift in the ground. Yes, yes—they made it home. Just one more obstacle stood in their way.
Many nights of bounding up these steps resulted in a fine muscle memory of how to climb them, though he hardly wanted to test that at the moment. He could only afford one embarrassing mistake per month and he was already over his quota with the events of today. He instead eagerly awaited for the guidance of his friend—there was a first for everything.
