Author's Note: Hello! Long time reader, first time poster. This came about from a conversation with a friend about applying the end of the Pixar movie Inside/Out to Sherlock. It's not a crossover by any means: just using Sherlock's POV as a way to examine the role sadness and grief. We know this might be a bit OOC, and would not happen on the show, but it was fun to write and we hope you enjoy! Not beta'ed or brit-picked. Please leave comments-we'd love to hear from you!

Sherlock and John were at a crime scene when the call came in: Clara had found Harry unconscious, and they were on their way to hospital. John had wanted to leave immediately and Sherlock, knowing he wouldn't hear the end of it otherwise, left alongside.

Harry had been taken to Bart's, and once there, Sherlock waited patiently for John to see his sister, comfort Clara, and speak to the doctor. Early stages of liver disease, Sherlock deduced, given the symptoms he'd overheard and what he knew of Harry's history with alcohol. But, he knew the doctors liked to make their own diagnosis. Once Harry was settled, the detective stepped out to the street to call Lestrade about their current case and do some quick research on his mobile, but mostly to give John some space. Roughly an hour later, and no sign of John, Sherlock decided to see if Molly was in: he might be able to leave with some body parts for experiments if he was lucky.

He found Molly in the morgue, but was surprised to see John had already beaten him there. More surprising was that if Sherlock didn't know better, he would believe he had just walked in on an intimate moment between the two.

Cracking the door open, Sherlock could see that Molly and John were locked in an embrace, arms wound tightly around each other. He couldn't see John's face, and Molly had her eyes squeezed shut, so neither noticed his arrival. Were they...? Sherlock wondered. But a moment later he realized no, that was not the case at all.

As Sherlock watched, Molly ran one of her hands up and down along John's back and up to his head. John's arms tightened around Molly, and Sherlock could hear a muffled, pained noise come from him.

While John had been relatively calm and collected when Sherlock last saw him, he was clearly falling apart now.

"It's all right," Sherlock heard Molly whisper. "Everything will be okay."

She can't possibly know that, Sherlock thought indignantly, and John responded with another strangled noise.

The detective didn't understand this display, and thought it best to leave quietly before anyone noticed him. He went back outside and waited, pondering the riddle of sentiment and emotion until John arrived a bit later. His eyes were a bit red and his face puffy, but he seemed to be back in control. Sherlock sighed to himself in relief.

However, the moment he'd witnessed stayed at the front of his mind until a few days later, when John returned from seeing Harry. Though she would face long-term health challenges, her immediate wellbeing had improved. John acted more like himself, and if he cried during that time, Sherlock didn't see it. Which made him wonder about the scene with Molly all the more, until he finally had to seek answers from the source.

"You were crying," Sherlock said out of the blue as soon as John walked into the flat.

John stared at his friend, blinking in confusion. "Crying? No, I wasn't. What on earth are you talking about?"

The detective shook his head. "I don't mean just now. I mean before, when Harry was first taken to hospital. I saw you with Molly and you were crying."

John's face reddened a bit. "Oh, yes...that. I, er, I didn't realize you'd seen that."

John crossed the room and sat in his chair opposite Sherlock. The detective observed his friend: he seemed embarrassed, but not overly so. Likely a result of the lingering exhaustion, Sherlock assumed.

"I walked in and Molly was…holding you, and you were crying."

John ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, that—that was a rough day."

"Why were you crying?"

John frowned. "You honestly have to ask? My sister was found unconscious. They were still running tests and we didn't know anything—"

"Well, I suspected—"

"Sherlock." John sighed. "I know you don't really 'get' emotions, so it's hard to explain it. But she's my sister, and I care about her, and it's hard seeing her like this." John thought for a moment. "Plus, Clara was a wreck so I had to be strong for her and give comfort instead of receive it. That's emotionally exhausting when you're upset anyway, so one speck of concern from someone else is enough to break you."

"But why cry in front of Molly?"

"Well," John said slowly, "I was looking for you. Thought you'd be at the morgue and found Molly alone instead. I must've looked terrible, because she immediately asked what was wrong. I told her what happened, and she told me about her brother's alcoholism and her Dad's illness." John shook his head. "I don't know. We're friends, I trust her, she understood the situation, and I knew she wouldn't make fun of me for crying or bring it up later. I just needed a quick emotional release so I could go on."

Sherlock considered this from a scientific point of view. "Did it work?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I felt loads better." John paused. "I mean, I'm no regular crier, Sherlock, you know that. But in situations like that, when you're stretched so thin and feeling so guilty and remorseful and sad, yeah, it helps a lot."

"Interesting," Sherlock concluded. "I can't say I understand it, but your perspective may be beneficial for a case someday."

John gave Sherlock an amused look. "Or it could be beneficial for, I don't know, you as a person. When you have to go through something similar someday."

Sherlock smiled patiently. "John, I am in complete control of my emotions. You said yourself you were emotionally overwhelmed: I simply do not allow myself to reach that point, therefore I do not require any release from it."

With that, Sherlock stood and made for the kitchen to check on his thumb experiment. He missed John's eye-roll and muttered response, "well, good luck with that. Don't know why you'd want to be so human."

Months went by, and though Sherlock filed away the information John had given him, he didn't think about it anymore. These were responses people had to emotions. He didn't have emotions, at least not vulnerable ones like what John had experienced, so he didn't need to keep it too fresh on his memory.

And then, just like before, a call came in when Sherlock and John were at a crime scene. But this time, it was for Sherlock.

Hours after the call, John trudged up the stairs to the flat and unlocked the door. Sherlock was behind him, moving slower for once.

It had been an exhausting day for the Holmes family. While in London, Sherlock's father had had a fall due to a dizzy spell, so he'd been taken to hospital. Sherlock's mother had called first, and then Mycroft, so both Sherlock and John had left and taken a cab to the hospital on the other end of the city (Sherlock wasn't patient enough to wait for Mycroft to send a car). On the phone, both Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft had seemed calm: probably Mr. Holmes only had a drop in blood sugar, or maybe an inner ear infection, or possibly he'd simply overheated from working in the garden that morning before coming into the city. Probably nothing to worry about.

But once Sherlock and John arrived, they found the situation had clearly changed. The more minor possibilities were already ruled out, and tests for other possible, more serious causes were being ordered. Upon hearing this update, Sherlock felt as though ice had flooded his veins. How could this be possible? His father potentially facing a serious illness? Judging by the looks on the pale faces of both Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft, the feeling was shared.

They'd stayed for hours, John slipping in and out to do what he could as a doctor, and to also presumably give the family some privacy. Sherlock didn't realize how much he appreciated John being there until he would step out. He wasn't sure why, but he felt better when his friend was nearby. If anything, it gave him a reason to ensure control over his transport. Sitting in hospital, and not as the patient for once, Sherlock noted his heart rate and respiration had both increased, and his hands trembled imperceptibly. Stress, he thought. Once I get home it'll be fine.

Only it wasn't. Upon returning to 221B Sherlock felt worse, because now he had no idea what was happening. Anything could happen while he was away. He logically knew his being in the hospital room with his father wouldn't change a thing, but being away was making him more anxious than before.

Once inside the flat, John turned towards the detective, but Sherlock averted his eyes. He knew John would want to talk, to make sure Sherlock was all right, but he just couldn't handle that at the moment. He didn't want to talk, didn't want to address anything that had happened or might happen. He just wanted to try and sleep and forget the events of this day.

"I'm going to bed," Sherlock muttered as he slipped past John. He felt a hand on his wrist, stopping him briefly.

"I'm going to stay up a bit," John said softly. "I'll be right out here. If you need me."

Sherlock pulled his wrist free, keeping his eyes down. "Why would I need you?" he gruffed, and turned on heel towards his bedroom.

Once alone, Sherlock felt his walls starting to crumble. Despite what he tried to tell himself, the day had been horrible. He could get himself under control if he just took a minute: he was sure of it.

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed in the dark. His breathing was coming faster, and he tried in vain to slow it down. He couldn't get the image of his father lying in the hospital bed out of his mind. He looked so old, so frail. When had he gotten so old?

Sherlock pressed his fist to his lips to stop their sudden trembling. He tried to tell himself it would be ok: that likely the cause really was something minor, something fixable. But while that might be true, the problem, he realized, was that it wouldn't be true forever. His father was getting older. So was his mother, so was Mycroft. Sherlock was the youngest by far, which meant he was destined to watch his family age and fade away. The same could be said for Mrs. Hudson, and even Lestrade and John. Someday they'd all be gone.

Someday he would be left alone.

It was that thought which broke him.

Sherlock doubled over, pressing his hands to his face in an attempt to stay as quiet as possible. Silent sobs tore from his diaphragm, nearly choking him in the process. His breathing shuddered as tears poured from his eyes, wetting his palms and trickling down to his trousers. Sherlock's body shook in agony, and he unconsciously rocked himself back and forth in an effort to calm down.

He wasn't sure how long he cried, but somewhere in the back of his mind he heard John's voice: "in situations like that, when you're stretched so thin and feeling so guilty and remorseful and sad, yeah, it helps a lot."

This will help, Sherlock told himself. Only after a while, he realized quite the opposite was true. Even though he'd done as John said—had purged his emotions—he didn't feel better. If anything, he felt worse. Now he'd admitted his fear instead of ignoring it, which meant there was no escaping it. And worse, he was horribly congested in the process.

This is John's fault, Sherlock thought angrily. John had said he'd be right outside, so Sherlock stood and stormed out his door. Sure enough, John was sitting in his chair, reading a book and drinking tea. He looked up when Sherlock entered the room.

"Sherlock?" the doctor asked tentatively. "Are you—have you been crying?"

In his anger, Sherlock had forgotten to wipe his face, so his emotions were clear. Not that he particularly cared in the moment.

"You. Were. Wrong!" Sherlock snapped.

"What's happened? Is it your dad?"

John stood and took Sherlock's hands in his own, but the younger man quickly pulled away. "You said it would help!" he yelled, wishing in vain his voice didn't sound quite so broken. "You said you felt better, and it would help me, too!"

"Sherlock I don't—I don't understand what you're—"

"This!" Sherlock gestured towards his face. "When Harry was in hospital you said you felt better when you cried. And you said it might be good for me to remember if I'm in that position." Sherlock stopped to take a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "But you lied: it doesn't feel any better."

John's face melted into a mix of understanding and affection. "Oh Sherlock," he said, his voice so full of compassion that fresh tears welled in the detective's eyes. John reached for his hands again, and Sherlock, far too exhausted to fight, let himself be led to the sofa. The two men sat down, and John kept hold of Sherlock's hand, rubbing slow circles on his callused knuckle. Sherlock kept his eyes on his shoes, unable to face John after his outburst.

"Biologically, crying is good for you, even if you don't feel that way now," John said softly. "But what I meant that day was that crying in front of a friend was what helped me. When you show your emotions to someone, you can let them be strong for you for a moment. You don't have to shoulder it all alone." John continue gently rubbing Sherlock's hand, and the younger man wiped at his nose with his free hand.

"If you go to someone you trust," John added, "someone who cares for you, then you give them some of that sadness and they replace it with love."

Sherlock choked out a laugh. "That's the most ridiculous thing you've ever said."

John smiled and placed a hand on the back of Sherlock's neck. "Probably, yeah. But that doesn't mean it's not true." With that, he tugged Sherlock into his arms.

They didn't hug often; Sherlock usually would have resisted. But he was so tired, and so sad, that he practically fell into John's strong embrace. Sherlock wrapped his own arms around John and buried his face in the older man's shoulder. He was ashamed to notice that his eyes were prickling again, the tears from earlier having not been totally purged.

John kept one hand on Sherlock's neck, which he slowly began to massage, reaching up into his hairline to stroke through the curls. His other hand rubbed slow circles on the younger man's back. John tucked his head down close to Sherlock's ear and whispered, "It's all okay. Everything will be ok."

Molly had said the same thing to John before, Sherlock recalled, and the detective had thought those words silly. After all, no one could predict whether things would work out. He realized, though, what was really being said was, "it's ok, because I am here for you." That's what Molly meant, and it's what John meant as well. And Sherlock realized it was true. He wasn't alone, so it really would be ok, whatever happened.

For the second time that night, Sherlock surrendered and began to cry. Only this time, safe in his best friend's arms, with his face hidden against John's shoulder, he began to feel relief. He stopped trying to be silent about it because John already knew. John held him tightly through it, whispering calming words into his ear and rocking him gently.

"I've got you," he heard John assure him. "Just let it all go. It's just you and me: you're safe here. No one will ever know."

Sherlock clutched at John's shirt as the tears slowly tapered off, his sobs turning to gasps for air. With some effort he eventually slowed his breathing and closed his eyes, drained. John leaned back into the sofa, taking Sherlock with him.

"Close your eyes, now," John encouraged.

"John—"

"Shhh. We'll talk tomorrow. For now, just rest."

Sherlock obliged, relaxing against John and the sofa, closing his tired eyes. John had been right: the physical relief he felt was intoxicating. He felt himself drifting off, feeling safer than he had in years. The last thing he heard before he sunk into sleep was John's promise: "I'm not going anywhere."

End