[Sherlock almost envied how calm the other man was - even if it did raise his hackles at the sight - he's shaking on the inside, breath quickening. He held a hand up, focusing as the brown robe flutter in the draft in the hall - easily mistaken for a monk if it weren't for the glittering gold gauntlets on his hands.

He opens his mouth, to answer - but the words died in his throat, swallowing, before he tries to speak again, a low, croaking sound escapes as he tries to steel him.

...He did it before, he should be able to do it again - he needs to - he has to. There can't be a repeat of last time]

There's little anyone can do to be prepared for it....