Everything was fine. Everything was all earth-shatteringly, mind-numbingly fine. So why is John Watson sitting on the edge of his bed, in the hazy, fog-like light of the very early morning, eyes stinging faintly? There's hardly a solid thought in his head. He had woken up suddenly – not from a nightmare, not from any dreams at all; he had simply opened his eyes with a slight start, pulled himself from under the covers and stared blankly at the wall.
John tries to blink away the unpleasant prickling sensation, but it only intensifies; he takes a shaky breath and his chest tightens, working the breath into a small, thready sob. It shocks him, and before he can register what's happening, there's something moist at the corner of his mouth. He flicks out his tongue and tastes salt; raises his fingers to his face and they come away glistening.
He supposes he shouldn't be so surprised. This has happened before – he'll be standing by, watching Sherlock work, giving his feeble observations when his breath suddenly shudders the barest bit and his body goes empty, mouth goes cold. But he always snaps out of it quickly enough, when he's asked to give his opinion on a cause or time of death. He's never actually cried from it before.
Somehow, though, it's nice. John wonders what his therapist would have thought of that, him sitting there weeping almost silently for no reason at all and thinking that it was nice. She would blame Sherlock, certainly; shortly before he had decided that her services were no longer necessary, Ella had expressed concern over his friendship with Sherlock - when he finally started writing extensively about him in the blog she had insisted he start up, she told him that running round London to look at dead bodies wouldn't do anything to reduce the risk of post-traumatic stress.
Maybe John is overwhelmed. But it doesn't feel like it; it just feels like a much-needed release, a gentle purification. He lets his mind wash white and sits there for what must be an hour, until his eyes have exhausted their moisture and he's left with twin trails of dry salt along his cheeks. He gets up and slowly walks out of his room, stopping in the bathroom to splash some water into his dry eyes before roaming down the stairs.
Sherlock is standing in the middle of the living room, rosining his bow. He flicks his eyes up when John settles into his armchair and pulls the newspaper carefully out from under a mug of tea. John is about to ask if there were any crimes mentioned in it that day, when Sherlock says his name softly.
John looks up. Even if his eyes weren't tinged with spidery lines of red, he knew that Sherlock would still know that he had been crying.
"It's all right," the detective states almost questioningly, then leans down to retrieve his violin.
John relaxes into his chair, turning his gaze to the words in front of him. "Yes. Everything is all right."