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It started out so incredibly simple. It was stupid, really. A scent, a bottle, and a butterfly. In Sherlock’s defense, how was someone of his specific set of circumstances supposed to react to such a combination of senses? The sight of a butterfly, flitting about his face. The scent of beeswax overpowering his nose. The sight of a bottle of blood-red Bordeaux spilt on the cobblestone street. This specific combination all but throws him right back onto a cliff in Constantinople. Sherlock’s brain is a torturous gift, and his vivid imagination is certainly not helping him out in this case. The sights and sounds of the bustling London market fade away, and are replaced by the sights and sounds of his sister turning her sight on his father, and the feel of his father’s hands gripping his shoulders.
“Nononononono,” Sherlock rambles, whipping his head around to look into Silas’s grinning face.
“This is all your fault,” Silas whispers, just before the fall. He hears it, over and over again, overlapping with calls of “I always knew you loved me, my boy” in Silas’s choking rasp, and the sound of James’s voice brokenly yelling his name after the blast in the mountain. Cordelia pleading with him to stay, Mycroft pityingly explaining to her why “Brother dear has to go to the asylum”. Six-year-old Beatrice and eighteen-year old Beatrice in overlapping calls of “Come play with me, Sherlock” and “All your fault”. Sherlock’s breaths grow ragged and frantic. What good is he if he can’t even do something as simple as accompany Mycroft and James to the market without having an episode? Speaking of, what will Mycroft and his mother think? He can’t help but picture their disappointment. He doesn’t know the woman Beatrice has become well enough yet to gauge her reaction, but it can’t be anything kinder than mockery. Not even to mention James. Sure, James has been subject to a fair few of Sherlock’s episodes, but never in a place as blasé as this, over such little stimuli. Every time, Sherlock wonders whether this will be the one to make James finally realize he should leave.
Dimly, in the back of his mind, he realizes he’s spiraling somewhat, but that realization is in the far, far back of his mind. So, in the much more immediate part of his brain, it’s telling his lungs to exhale too quickly, and lead him into a hyperventilative state. His hands shake embarrassingly, but he can’t find it in himself to care about dignity in this state. Or anything, for that matter. He can faintly hear Mycroft trying to speak to him, but the words don’t get through the sound of his blood rushing in his ears. Black spots start to appear in his vision, which is how he knows it’s getting bad, and he squeezes his eyes shut with as much force as he can muster. Before he can spiral further, however, he feels a warm hand settle onto his shoulder.
“Hey there, Shirley, I’m gonna need you to open up those beautiful blue eyes of yours for me, alright?” James instructs, his lilting Irish accent oddly soothing Sherlock. Sherlock forces his eyes open, trying to follow James’s instructions, and is greeted with the view of James’s soft brown eyes looking steadily into his.
“There we are. Alright, name for me four things you see. Can you do that for me?” Sherlock nods, swallowing thickly.
“Um, the stones in the street, my shoes, a carriage, and, ah, your freckles,” Sherlock says haltingly. The corner of James’s mouth twitches up into a little smirk that doesn’t quite match the soft concern still in his eyes. Sherlock’s breathing begins to come out in shorter bursts, and the black spots are coming back, so he squeezes his eyes shut again.
“Good. Good job, love,” James says comfortingly, “Now give me three things you feel or touch, okay?”
“My waistcoat, the rock in my shoe—” he hears James chuckle at this, “—and the sun.”
“Nicely done, darlin’. Lovely job,” James compliments. It gives Sherlock a warm feeling of reassurance in his chest, the rushing in his ears and the spots in his vision subsiding somewhat. He breathes out shakily.
“Can you tell me two things you hear?” Sherlock inhales, exhales, inhales.
“The paper boy yelling, and, um, your voice,” he replies. He feels James’s hand moving in comforting circles against his shoulder.
“Good. Last one. Give me one thing you smell.” Sherlock breathes in through his nose, and then smiles despite himself.
“Mycroft’s pomade,” he says. His eyes are still shut, but his breathing is easier. James chuckles softly.
“Tell me about that,” he says. Sherlock grins.
“It’s bergamot and lemon, but he fancies himself an individual, so it’s got hints of thyme in it as well. He gets it from a vendor in this very market. He thinks it does wonders for his hair, since the vendor insists it’s the best and most natural in London, but it’s just beef marrow.” he explains, slowly opening his eyes. James is still gazing at him with an easy smile.
“And there you are. In all your glory,” he says softly. Sherlock smiles back at him, feeling exceedingly better.
“Right you are, James.” James barks out a laugh, slightly taken aback.
“Yup, certainly right as rain again, aren’t we,” he snickers. Sherlock grins, as though nothing in the world could ruin his good mood now. James still rubs his hand in a circular motion across Sherlock’s back, offering some extra support.
“Well, we are all done here anyway, so why don’t you two wait for me in the carriage,” Mycroft suggests. Sherlock blinks. He can’t lie, he’d quite forgotten Mycroft was there with them. Sherlock looks to James, questioning with his eyes whether James wants to accompany him back to the carriage. He himself isn’t one for looking weak in front of the others, but he can’t lie and say he’d like to stay out here in the market, with all his senses overwhelmed still. So for him, the carriage wins out, but he’s not sure how James feels. James, however, simply smiles in response.
“Good idea, Mycroft,” he says, but his eyes say to Sherlock, “Of course, darlin’, I’m goin’ wherever you do.” He starts to walk Sherlock back through the market, but Mycroft reaches out, putting a hand on James’s shoulder and stopping him just before they reach the carriage.
“James. A word.”
“Just one?” James winks playfully, but he’s serious when he turns back to Sherlock.
“Wait for me in the carriage, won’t you? I won’t be a moment.” Sherlock nods after an inquisitive look at Mycroft, who doesn’t look at him, and steps into the carriage. He does, however, leave the door open just a crack, so he can hear James and Mycroft’s conversation.
“James. Save for my father and I, I have never seen anyone else so adept at coaching Sherlock through one of his—” Mycroft pauses, finding the words, “—for lack of a better term, one of his fits.”
“Think he prefers to call them episodes, Mikey,” James says, and Sherlock can hear the smile in his voice.
“And I’d prefer if you never called me that again, thank you,” Mycroft sniffs. Then he seems to soften, and Sherlock can hear it in his voice.
“But, as much as you are… vexatious and… chaotic, I must concede, you’re good for him. You see him. You understand what’s going on inside that mind of his.”
“And isn’t it a beautiful one at that?” The words are teasing, but Sherlock can hear them ring true and dead serious in James’s tone.
“Incredibly so,” Mycroft says, and there’s a twinge of sadness to it. Then Sherlock hears James climbing up to the door of the carriage, and quickly sits back in his seat.
“What did you two discuss?” he asks once James is inside the carriage.
“Your big, beautiful brain,” James says teasingly, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders as he sits down beside him. Sherlock hums contentedly, settling in closer to James’s side. James smiles, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock looks up from where he’s nestled into James’s side.
“What was that for?” James grins sweetly, taking Sherlock’s hand in his free one.
“For nothing,” he says, dropping a kiss to the back of Sherlock’s hand.
“For everything,” again punctuated with a kiss, this time on Sherlock’s knuckles.
“For my health,” this one to his palm.
“And for yours,” he says, dropping a final kiss to Sherlock’s wrist, right on the bundle of nerves there. Sherlock shivers involuntarily.
“James,” he says, squirming a bit in James’s arms, a flush of heat rising to his cheeks. James’s eyes light up.
“Now that is a truly delicious shade of pink,” he observes, placing a kiss on either side of Sherlock’s face, and another on the tip of his nose. Sherlock smiles and looks down at the floor, but James places a hand on his cheek, tilting his face back up to meet his eyes.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hello,” Sherlock replies, leaning in as James makes up the difference between them, pressing their lips together. It’s a kiss that stays soft and sweet the whole way through, and lasts a long time at that. The hand that James has rested on Sherlock’s cheek moves down to the curve of his waist, staying there even after they pull away. Sherlock exhales softly, not moving far at all, resting his forehead against James’s, completely content.
“Your mouth.” James looks at him quizzically, although he’s smiling, as if he’s confused but not at all upset by Sherlock’s ramblings.
“Pardon, love?”
“One thing I can taste,” Sherlock says, with a coy little grin he’s undoubtedly learned from James. “Your mouth.”
James grins widely, pulling Sherlock in closer to his side, staying like that for the whole ride home, even after Mycroft gets into the carriage (and of course, he just has to sneak in chaste little kisses at Sherlock’s jaw and hair and temple when Mycroft isn’t looking). And he stays right there, like he’d never even consider leaving Sherlock’s side, for even a single second. He stays right there, like it’s right where he was created and put on Earth to be. Like it’s where he was, is, and always will be meant to stay.