It was after—the rush had passed, the tension burned out of their bodies and left in the air like smoke.

Sherlock lay beside them, eyes half-lidded, but his mind still moving. Not racing, not spiraling—just aware. Aware of the shallow rise and fall of their chest. The way their breath caught slightly at the edge. The way their fingers still curled faintly, not yet relaxed.

Sherlock reached for the blanket first. Drew it gently over their bare skin. Not out of habit, but instinct. He knew how moments like these could crack open the strongest of people. He'd seen what silence could do if you didn't fill it with something kind.

He shifted closer, pressing his forehead gently against their temple.

He ran a hand slowly down their spine, firm enough to anchor, soft enough not to startle. Just touch—grounding, reassuring. His fingers lingered at the small of their back, then moved to stroke their arm, their shoulder, his thumb brushing idle circles into skin.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low but careful. “Anything hurting?”, His eyes flicking over their expression. “Too sore? I can get something—an ice pack, Do you want water?” he asked softly. “Or something to eat? I think there’s still that lemon tart you like. I could warm it up.”