Hold me." He said, and that was all he said. His pale blue eyes felt as if they were boring holes into my soul and there was nothing I could do to drag my eyes away from his face. I did as he said, sitting down on the sofa next to him and dragging his thin form into my arms. He laid his head on my shoulder, something he didn't usually do. He didn't really like being held, either most of the time so there must've been something going on in his head that night. He pulled his knees into his chest, and I felt his body shaking. He was crying. The great Sherlock Holmes was expressing emotion like he had never done before.

"Sherlock?" I said, pulling away from him and taking his face in my hands. His eyes were puffy, his pale skin red and blotchy. I wiped away his tears with the sleeve of my sleeve, as he did everything he could not to meet my eyes.

I pulled him back in and he laid there in my arms for what seemed like a million years, his head on my shoulder and his body racking with sobs. It wasn't like him, he almost never cried, in fact I don't think I've ever even seen him cry before. I combed my fingers through his brown curls, between stroking his back and wiping his tears. I could hardly believe that I was even experiencing this at all, but I was. The hardest, most emotionless man I knew was in my arms crying like a scared child. I couldn't imagine what triggered this, but it must be huge.

"Talk to me, Sherlock? What's got you so upset?" I asked him again, this time hoping for an answer.

Slowly he sat up, lifting his head from my tear soaked shoulder. He turned away a moment, straightened his hair out, rubbed his eyes furiously, as if he thought he could erase the last two hours. Eventually he turned back around, I could see the words forming on his lips but it was taking him everything he had to get them out.

" I- I need... I want... I-" Sherlock stumbled through his words, and I could see how hard it was for him, choking through tears and trying to explain them at the same time.

"Spit it out, man." I said gently, wiping away the tears he'd long since given up on.

"I don't know." He finished, and I really believed him. I could see how trapped inside his own mind he was.

There he was, lost and crying into me like a frightened child. He didn't know what was wrong, and neither did I, so all I could do was to hold him. And hold him I did.

I picked him up, and he didn't protest. Surprisingly he wasn't all that heavy. He clung onto me, as if he were afraid of falling, like I might drop him. He rested his head in the crook of my neck, and was totally silent, apart from a few choked back sobs. It was so obvious how hard he was trying not to cry.

"It's alright, Sherlock." I told him, as I laid him down on his bed, pulling the covers up around his neck as he curled up tightly, facing the wall.

I walked out of his room, pausing at the door to turn of the light.

"John?" He murmered somewhat desperately, drawing me back in.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"Please don't leave me," He said breaking into sobs once again. "Please don't go..."

"I'm not going anywhere." I told him, and crawled into bed beside him, holding him in my arms and rocking him back and forth.

"What's wrong, Sherlock. Please, just tell me."

"I think I love you."