trashchildren | For Joan

"Perry something, at the pub, he agreed with me. Agreed that something had to be done, that you needed taking out. And that no one else had the stones to do it."

"Bloody hell, he did it," Sherlock murmurs, duly impressed. "We need to find this Perry."

"Way ahead of you," McCoy says, heading out to begin the hunt.

"Oh yeah? Too scared to do it himself, huh? Probably a skinny little dude, not tough like you," Ted answers. Trying to goad him into saying more, maybe describe him a little. He knows if he asks directly, Turner will just get defensive, but if he gets something to contradict or elaborate on, he's more likely to say.

And now Sherlock is starting to respect this man as an investigator. And understand a little more why Watson is so taken with him. He's not some simpleton sports jock. He's also intelligent and even cunning.

"Well done Ted Lasso," he murmurs to himself.

"Skinny, yeah," Turner confirms. "And short. He would have fucking done it himself had he been able."

"Mmm," Ted answers noncommittally, hoping that's enough for them to go on. He's starting to reach his limit with this situation.

Part of him wants to spitefully point out that Turner wasn't able to either. Rub it in his face a little. He failed, and Ted is going to go back to work and continue to do his best. But he doesn't. It won't make anything better. He's already been far more manipulative and aggressive than he likes to be. Something he knows he's capable of, but he doesn't like himself when he does it.

"You know, Turner," Ted says, leaning to the side to pick up his crutches. "I think if you took all that energy you spend on being angry, and you used it to protect or help people, you could do something real good for the world, you could be a great guy." He gets to his feet, using the crutches to support himself. "And no matter what you think of me, I'm going to keep on doing my best to help our team."

He intentionally says 'our'. Not 'my', or even 'your'. But theirs.

He looks over at the one-way mirror and jerks his head towards the door.

Sherlock sees that jerk of his head.

A second before Turner explodes out of his chair, grabbing the cup of water he had been ignoring before this and throwing the water into Ted's face. Again the chain of his wrist shackles dash against the ring.

The ring holds.

The chain doesn't.

The leg shackles keep him from fully attacking Ted, but he has enough reach to shove Ted against the wall, hard.

"IT'S NOT YOUR FUCKING TEAM!!!"

"Shit," Sherlock swears, rushing out of the room.

The bucket of ice water rushes down him, soaking him, making him freeze, stunning him. Ted doesn't realize it's just a cup and he's barely wet.

Then he's thrown back against the wall, spikes of pain shooting through his midsection as his crutches clatter to the floor. He barely keeps himself standing.

He reacts purely on instinct, because he's not chained, he's not sitting curled up in a ball, he's taller than Turner, and he shoves him right back, as hard as he can. Just to get Turner away from him.

Turner grabs Ted as Ted shoves him, so he's propelled backwards but drags Ted half over the table. He punches Ted with a hard right hook, screaming at him.

Then the door bursts open and cops come rushing in, two tackling Turner and slamming him down on the table while two others pull Ted back.

Turner cries out in anguish as the cops twist his arms behind him and cuff his wrists.

Ted is so dazed, the world a blur of pain and fear, for a moment he almost tries to fight off the cops, before he realizes they're not who's attacking him. Then he just lets himself be carted off by them, almost collapsing in their arms.

The cops carry him out and to a first aid station, one of them barking on the radio that they need EMTs. They sit Ted down, staying with him to steady him. He can doubtless hear Turner screaming and cursing as he's dragged out of the interrogation room.

Then Sherlock is there, crouched in front of him, his expression one of alarm and concern and guilt.

"Talk to me," he says, searching the man's face, looking for signs of mental compromise.

Ted's already started hyperventilating by the time they sit him down. He can hear Turner, but it's fuzzy and distant, like someone filled his head with cotton balls, pierced by a high-pitched whine.

He's clenching his fists, struggling to breathe, feeling like an elephant is sitting on his chest. He's also crying, but he doesn't even really realize that.

He looks up when Sherlock appears, though it takes him a moment to focus and realize it's him. "I can't breathe," he struggles out, voice strained and weak.

A panic attack probably qualifies as mental compromise.

Sherlock recognizes what this is. He's had his own panic attacks here and there, and there's only one thing he can think of.

"I'm phoning Watson," he says taking the phone out of his pocket.

Ted shakes his head, but he doesn't have the wherewithal nor the physical ability to actually try to stop him right now.

He doesn't want to worry her, just like Sherlock told him, and he doesn't want to disturb her while she's working, and he doesn't want to blow their story. He isn't quite rational enough to realize this is probably something she'd want to be disturbed with.

Sherlock frowns faintly when he sees Ted shake his head.

"She loves you," he says, as gently as Sherlock is able. "She would want to help."

He dials her number.

It's very early in the morning in New York, and Joan is asleep. Her phone rings, and it's a moment before she opens her eyes. Then she sees it's Sherlock, and she sits straight up, scrambling to answer.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?"

"Ted was attacked in the interview," Sherlick says quietly, turning his head so Ted doesn't easily hear him. "I think he's having a panic attack."

Shit. "Let me talk to him."

Sherlock holds out the phone to Ted.

Ted looks up, hesitating for a moment, mostly because he's finding it difficult to move at the moment. Then he reaches out and takes the phone, clutching it tightly.

He doesn't say anything, not sure what to say, and having trouble getting words out to begin with. But his labored breathing should be obvious through the phone.

She can hear his breathing, and it tells her that Sherlock is probably right.

"Hey," she says gently. "Can you hear me okay?"

She's giving him her voice and the question to focus on, and seeing if he's able to answer.

"Yeah," he answers, though his voice is obviously strained, like he's pushing the air out when he doesn't really have a lot of air to spare.

It feels good to hear her voice, though.

"Good," she says softly. "You're okay. You're safe now."

She doesn't know exactly what happened, nor where he is, but she knows that if Sherlock is right there, then he's safe.

"Can you close your eyes for me?"

"Okay," he breathes, doing as she asks with a small sob. His eyes were almost screwed shut already, so it doesn't take much.

That sob makes her ache for him. She wishes she was right there with him, her arms around him, whispering all this to him.

"Good," she says. "I want you to visualize the Richmond pitch. It's before a game, right before the spectators start coming in. The grass is perfect, and you're feeling good about the game. Can you see it?"

Ted tries to focus on her voice. There's things happening around him, he can vaguely hear movement, but he tries to block it out.

He doesn't answer immediately. It takes him several moments before he can wrangle his brain there, trying to see it in his mind's eye.

"Yeah," he answers eventually, trying to calm his breathing, but it's hard.

"Good," she says soothingly. "It's quiet and peaceful, all promise and potential. The grass has just been mown, and it smells amazing. Can you smell it?"

If she can ease him into taking a breath, she knows it will help him calm down.

Ted takes a deep breath in through his nose, or at least as deep as he can manage.

He doesn't answer this time, focusing instead on drawing breaths, as long ones as he can manage.

He's been through this before, and with her grounding him, it's a little bit easier to remember that.

Sherlock can hear the two EMTs as they are coming down the hall, and he stands to intercept them.

"Mr. Lasso needs a moment," he tells them quietly. "He's recovering from a panic attack."

They look at each other, then agree to standby.

Joan can hear Ted taking breaths, can hear them getting longer, deeper.

"That's right," she encourages him quietly. "There you go. You've got this."

He just sits there, focusing on his breathing, focusing on her voice. At some point he stops imagining the pitch, and instead imagines her sitting next to him, holding him, whispering to him.

He takes a deep breath, and he opens his eyes again, and it's like the world opens a little bit too.

"Okay.." he says, his voice gruff but less strangled. "I'm okay.." He feels absolutely wrecked, but he's calming down.

"Good," she says, relieved by the shifting tone of his voice. She wants to know what happened, wants to let him talk through it, but she knows it's a bad time. It would be a bad time even if they weren't minimizing contact, still trying to stick with this story. It would make sense for Sherlock to turn to her even if they had broken up, because she would still love him, and still want to care for him. But they can't do much more.

"I love you," she whispers.

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