[ it's cathartic, watching John enact his rage - for all the good it does him. Sherlock sits, mutely spectating. he's right, of course: stupid, bad science, doesn't make sense. but the random incomprehensibility of it does nothing to alter the facts of its organisation, and all the time John's busy going off some gripping, horrible something is busying itself spinning at an anxious knot forming in Sherlock.

got to stop this.

somehow, sometime in this hour, John has to be made to understand that none of that matters now. ]

Better get this out of your system, John. Have another go at the lift, maybe. —Only don't hit it too hard, they'll only accept you at the hospital if there's someone waiting to foot the bill and sign your permission slip.

[ there's an ice to it, a trace of the fury running black in his blood. truthfully Sherlock has no idea how the medical system works here, but he imagines it's much the same as everything else. ]

Or you could treat it yourself. If they'll let you buy the supplies.