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After Sherlock discovered that there were two ancient tea pots shining, he knew where he would find Soo-Lin Yao. They would return later, as he figured that she was coming out at night to take care of her work. The next time she revealed herself, he would be there. For now, though, John had been whining about needing sleep, so Sherlock figured they could return to Baker Street and John could get the nap he desperately sought. Sherlock wouldn't rest, but he would go into his mind palace, since sometimes that can be its own form of rest.
It was chilly for late-March and though they tried to get a cab, everything around Trafalgar Square was packed with people. Sherlock had no luck hailing a cab. John knew that Sherlock was too impatient to wait for a bus so he tugged the sleeve of Sherlock's coat to encourage him towards Regent Waterloo Place which would lead them to Regent Street, then Oxford Street, which would eventually lead to Baker Street. Sherlock probably knew a faster way, but he did not seem interested in doing anything but trying to hail a cab. It was about two miles home, but John figured if they got out of the busier part of Central London, they would have better luck finding a cab and would not have to walk the whole way.
John's problem was he did not know London as well as Sherlock did. With Sherlock being less than helpful, John felt sticking to the major roads would be the best and quickest way. He tugged on the sleeve again, “Come on, it's too crowded here, no one is going to stop.”
With that, he kept a hold on Sherlock’s sleeve and started to lead them toward Regent Street. The further along they went, the busier it became. John knew that his area could be a right mess of people during the Christmas holidays, but even he was surprised at how busy it was even now, in the middle of March. Sherlock seemed to be collapsing more and more into himself. John thought Sherlock was just escaping into his Mind Palace and paying no attention to anything else.
When they got to Oxford Circus, John noticed that Oxford Street was packed with people and it seemed impossible to move three feet without running into someone. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was being exceptionally quiet. A quiet Sherlock is rarely a good thing, especially with so much stimulus around. John was shocked at what met his eyes. Sherlock seemed to be almost hyperventilating. He was not sure what was going on, but he knew he had to get a good look at Sherlock and soon. Ahead he saw Harewood Place, a small side-street that leads from Hanover Square to Oxford Street. It was still packed with cars, but at least there were fewer people.
John pulled Sherlock into an unused doorway and looked him over, “Sherlock, what's wrong?”
Sherlock shook his head and tried to wave John off, “I'm fine.”
John rolled his eyes, “When you said that yesterday, someone had tried to strangle you. What's wrong.”
Sherlock just shook his head and waved John off again. John nodded slowly, “Okay, fine. Breathe with me, all right?”
John knew he had to get Sherlock calm enough so they could get home. It took a few tries, but finally Sherlock seemed to be breathing better than he had been. John nodded and tried again to find out what happened, “Sherlock talk to me. What happened?”
Sherlock took another breath, “People, John. Too many people.”
A look of utter confusion crossed John's features. He could not believe what he was hearing. Was the Great Sherlock Holmes claustrophobic or more so did he have anthropophobia? That would explain quite a bit actually, even his own assertion of being a “high-functioning sociopath.” Sherlock noted John's looks and deduced what the doctor was thinking. He shook his head in answer to John's unasked questions.
John sighed and took his sleeve again, “Let's get you home and you can explain there.”
When John started to lead Sherlock back towards Oxford Street, Sherlock tried to resist. But, John knew there was a bus stop a few steps from the corner that would be at least a little less congested. Luckily, the number 13 was passing just then. John got them aboard and moved them upstairs. He made Sherlock take a window seat, and he sat on the aisle, hoping to create a sort of barrier around Sherlock.
It did not seem to help much, as Sherlock wrapped his coat tightly around himself and tucked his chin as far into his coat as he could. The upturned collars helping to shield his face a bit. When they got to the Dorset stop, John pressed the button and he and Sherlock moved off the bus. Once the bus pulled away, Sherlock turned to walk into the Dorset Square Garden, rather than heading home to Baker Street. John followed Sherlock, unsure what might happen, but knowing he could not leave the man alone.
Sherlock paused in front of one of the trees and just stared at it for a few minutes. John watched him in silence, figuring that speaking would not be helpful just now. Finally, Sherlock took a breath and wordlessly started back towards Baker Street. When they arrived home, Sherlock took off his coat, scarf and gloves. When John entered he turned on the lights. Sherlock covered his face with his arms, “Too bright!”
The tone indicated it should have been a shout, but Sherlock's voice was very hoarse. John turned the lights back off and went to turn on one of the lamps on the side tables. He looked over at Sherlock, who was still hiding his face in his arms, “Sherlock?”
A slight whimper was the only reply John received. He sighed, not sure what was going on. He gently touched Sherlock's arm, to guide him to the couch, but Sherlock tensed in such a way that John would think he might have burned him. John then used his “doctor's voice,” calm and quiet, “Sherlock, I can help, but you have to tell me what's going on.”
Sherlock nodded, but John could tell even that small movement took an effort. John ordered, “Come on, let's go to your bedroom.”
John knew something was very much 'not good' when Sherlock did not protest. John helped Sherlock to sit on the bed, but Sherlock resisted laying down. In the darkened room, Sherlock finally lowered his arms. He took what seemed to be a cleansing breath, though it was clear he was still in pain, “I was overstimulated.”
Sherlock then rubbed his head and slowly John began to understand. He sighed softly, “Migraine, then?”
Sherlock shook his head. John sighed, “Close enough, though? Let me get some tea and paracetamol.”
Again, Sherlock did not argue. A couple minutes later, John returned with tea, two pills and a flannel, “Here. Take these, then lay back.”
Sherlock did as he was told. Once he was laying down, John took the flannel and draped it over Sherlock’s forehead. John sat on a chair that was in the corner of the room and watched over Sherlock until he was sure the man was asleep. But, even then, John could not sleep – he knew he should try to sleep while Sherlock did, but he could not bring himself to leave his friend.
Sherlock woke a few hours later, a bit testy, but seemed to be doing better. Neither he nor John talked about what had happened, there really was not time, as they both knew they had to get to Soo-Lin before the killer did.