[Sherlock's staring accusingly at the mess, his communicator still gripped tightly in his right hand, buzzing and turning on and off as the detective looks like he's very much trying to control his breathing to avoid some kind of meltdown. Not unlike the one he had after he thought he'd seen the Hound.

This was real, it was really happening, waves of fear gripped his chest--blast, he was back in the cell, back in solitary where he couldn't stop his mind from racing, where he couldn't stop it from telling him how much of a failure he was, or he was back in Serbia on the run against Moriarty's men, or he was up there on the roof with Moriarty himself and--]

John?

[The sudden appearance of his friend managed to snap him somewhat out of his increasingly panicked state. Not that Sherlock would admit he was ever panicked, but the obvious signs were there. Dialated pupils, rapid pulse and breathing, sweat beading across his forehead.]