Ted closes the bathroom door behind him then stops and leans his forehead against it, his breath turning quick and shallow. He feels desperately afraid, a looming dread threatening to swallow him.
He knows what this is, but it doesn't make it any easier.
The 'what if's are all that's filling his brain right now, and he turns his back against the door and slides down to the floor, sitting down and curling his legs up, covering his face with his tensing hands.
He tries to hear Joan's voice in his head, her instructions on things to focus on. Rebecca's reassurances, telling him to breathe. It's a lot harder to do those things, to envision himself on a field, to try to draw deeper breaths, without those voices in his ears.
It takes a lot longer for him to calm down without that support. He does, eventually, manage to steady his breathing, to try to relax his muscles. He almost feels worse after than during, a bone-deep exhaustion. His ribs feel sore from the rapid breathing.
Eventually he gets to his feet, flushing the toilet for cover, and splashing some water in his face. He looks at himself in the mirror, and he looks about ten years older.
Sherlock's probably getting more worried the longer he stays here though, so he grabs his crutch again and heads back to bed to try to sleep. He's glad for the low light in the room.
"Sorry 'bout that... Stomach upset," he excuses himself quietly, his voice sounding worn, but hopefully not much more worn than someone waking up in the middle of the night with stomach problems would sound like.
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He knows what this is, but it doesn't make it any easier.
The 'what if's are all that's filling his brain right now, and he turns his back against the door and slides down to the floor, sitting down and curling his legs up, covering his face with his tensing hands.
He tries to hear Joan's voice in his head, her instructions on things to focus on. Rebecca's reassurances, telling him to breathe. It's a lot harder to do those things, to envision himself on a field, to try to draw deeper breaths, without those voices in his ears.
It takes a lot longer for him to calm down without that support. He does, eventually, manage to steady his breathing, to try to relax his muscles. He almost feels worse after than during, a bone-deep exhaustion. His ribs feel sore from the rapid breathing.
Eventually he gets to his feet, flushing the toilet for cover, and splashing some water in his face. He looks at himself in the mirror, and he looks about ten years older.
Sherlock's probably getting more worried the longer he stays here though, so he grabs his crutch again and heads back to bed to try to sleep. He's glad for the low light in the room.
"Sorry 'bout that... Stomach upset," he excuses himself quietly, his voice sounding worn, but hopefully not much more worn than someone waking up in the middle of the night with stomach problems would sound like.