A/N: Set shortly after "The Persistence Of This Illusion". I do not own, nor do I profit from (but I kind of wish I did... ;) Enjoy!

Oh, John thought bleakly as he awoke. So it's going to be a bad day.

He felt heavy, weighted down, as though the duvet and the sheets had suddenly increased in mass. It wasn't because Sherlock was wrapped around him – he wasn't even in bed anymore. He had folded himself around John in the middle of the night, one arm around John's waist, one leg neatly pinning John's hip and knee, his chin resting on top of John's head, so that John felt he'd been covered with a blanket called Sherlock Holmes. He'd half awoken when Sherlock did this, but Sherlock hadn't awoken at all. He could perform this complicated combination of their bodies while asleep, making sure not to hit John's bad shoulder accidentally, and fitting himself perfectly around John without even being aware of it.

But he'd already got up and John could hear him moving about in the flat, talking to someone, probably the skull, since the conversation was one-sided in a way that indicated he wasn't on the phone, and there was no second voice in the flat.

John shifted slightly, drawing one hand up on the mattress in front of his chest, pressing his face into his pillow. He didn't bother opening his eyes; it was still early, he could tell that from the faint chill in the bedroom. He dragged the duvet up past his shoulders, trying to convince himself to go back to sleep, but it was useless. He wasn't in the mood to take his own advice.

He'd woken with that same snake-coil of numbness in his stomach that he was growing used to now, although it had begun to recede somewhat in the past several days. But, like the pain in his left shoulder that flared up when the weather changed, this crept back on him when he wasn't expecting it, and sometimes when he was.

He should have been expecting it this time.

The day before was the first time he'd gone to the storage unit Sherlock had rented to store all of Harry's possessions. The movers Sherlock had hired had packed everything up with rapid efficiency and hauled it all away. Out of sight, out of mind. John had left it for almost four weeks.

He'd gone alone, although Sherlock had offered to go, willing to postpone some experiments at St. Bart's, even when Amanda had rung over that morning to tell him they had two new bodies on which he could work. John had declined in part because he couldn't deal with a Sherlock who was antsy to be in the morgue and not wanting to be in a dusty storage unit. He appreciated Sherlock's effort, but he knew Sherlock better than that. He was doing a very good job of being patient and supportive, trying very hard to do whatever John needed him to do, but there was also only so much of that John could take before he began to feel guilty. He knew this guilt was unnecessary, but he also wanted some normality to return to his life, not to feel like Sherlock was constantly watching out for him, making changes for him. It was too strange. Part of him really needed the Sherlock he knew back, one who would blow him off without thinking about it, then not understand why John was annoyed. One who would lecture him about not-moving-the-tea-sugar-again-thank-you-very-much-John-I-know-you-do-that-on-purpose. Even though John didn't (always) do it on purpose. One who wouldn't hesitate to drag John out for a case at all hours and berate him about not seeing all of the myriad clues Sherlock could see, for not deducing all of the things Sherlock could.

He hated the walking-on-eggshells feeling and had begun to push back about it recently, although he hadn't quite got to just telling Sherlock straight out yet. This was mostly because on the days or during the times when he needed Sherlock to be careful with him, John didn't want to have to explain it. It was a frustrating and exhausting balance he was trying to keep.

So he'd gone alone yesterday and sorted through some boxes, took stock of Harry's furniture, which was in decent shape and it didn't appear she'd ever thrown up on it from drinking too much – no bad smells. John had then called around to a few charity places to find out about donating, if they could pick it up. He didn't have a vehicle of his own, and he supposed he could rent a truck, but it seemed like a lot of effort. To his relief, a lot of them could send a truck of their own, so he took down some numbers, not wanting to decide just yet, and he had more things to go through.

There was really nothing he wanted to keep. He'd thought to ring his mother and ask her if she wanted anything, and she'd asked for the photo albums and whatever else he thought she might like. After a pause, she'd asked him to check Harry's jewellery, to see if any of it might be sold at a decent price. John could tell how much she hated saying that, but she was right. There was no sense in giving away something that might be worth some money. He hated the practicality of that. His mother wasn't likely to wear any of Harry's jewellery though. So he'd gone through it, but it was all junk, nothing nice, which wasn't much of a surprise. If she'd had anything good, she'd probably sold it off for drinking money.

He'd had several minutes then of black rage at and hatred for his sister then and had to leave the unit and walk it off, moving along the narrow driveways, past the rows of identical orange doors that hid other people's treasures or junk or both. Finally, John had returned and gone through some more boxes, all kitchen items, none of which he and Sherlock needed. When he'd found a corkscrew and bottle opener, he'd thrown it at wall and wished he had a crowbar to hit it with, so he could break it.

Maybe, he thought, he'd just donate the lot of it and let the charity organization sort it out. It seemed easier.

Easier.

Such a simple word, one John wished he understood now. It seemed like everything Harry had done made his life so much more complicated. He had been half waiting the husband of the woman and girl who'd died, or the family of the man from the other car, to find him somehow and accuse him, or start ringing him at all hours, screaming at him. This had not, of course, happened, and if it had, Lestrade would have come down on it with all the combined weight of the London police force, but John still worried about it vaguely. They were out there, after all, and his sister was responsible for the loss of their family members.

Not him, though, he'd reminded himself.

He'd lain down on Harry's couch and taken a short nap, though, worn out. Ironic, he thought to himself, that he was using his sister's couch to combat the exhaustion she was causing him.

It seemed utterly unfair that she could do this to him while being dead.

After that, he'd given up and gone home, taking only the photo albums his mother had requested. When he arrived back at the Baker Street flat, Sherlock was home, back from the morgue, and Tricia was there with Josephine, who was being entertained by her eccentric uncle.

John had worried for a minute that this was some kind of gang-up-on-John moment, but Tricia didn't seem more concerned about him than she normally was, and Sherlock was thoroughly distracted with Josephine, pausing to kiss John and welcome him home before his attention was redirected. This actually came as a relief; John was used to being second fiddle when Josephine was in the flat, and had Sherlock paid more attention to him, John would have known something was afoot.

Tricia chatted with him, asking about his foray into Harry's things, which John had answered briefly before saying he didn't really accomplish much and that he was considering donating it all. He expected some resistance from his old friend, but she said that it was unlikely Harry had anything he would need, and that other people could find a lot of use for it. John was glad, in a way, for this sanction. He didn't think he could have handled if she'd advised him to wait. He felt he could wait all he wanted, the rest of his life, and not want or care about Harry's belongings.

Tricia had stayed awhile longer, then bundled Josephine up and taken her home for dinner. Sherlock busied himself with some work and John was glad; he had a book he was reading he wanted to finish, and he didn't really want to talk. The evening had passed without much incident, and he'd felt fine, other than annoyed with his deceased sister and her complications, but no more so than usual, after awhile. When he'd gone to bed, he'd slept well, without much in the way of dreams he could remember.

But sometime during the night, the heaviness, the numbness, had come back. John lay in bed, resigned to it. It was Sunday, at least, so he didn't have to work, but that also meant he had nothing to keep his mind focused on other matters. He supposed he could get Sherlock to do that for him, but John wasn't particularly in the mood. He just wanted to lie there until the sensation went away, or until he fell back asleep.

He didn't want to think about Harry or the people she'd killed.

Damn damn bloody damn, he thought to himself, screwing his eyes all the way shut, covering his face with a hand. He wished, really wished, he hadn't thought of those three other people. That was always the worst part. Losing Harry had been bad, but John had often felt he'd lost her his whole life, to the alcoholism. It was the memory of what she'd done on her last day, her decision that ended three other lives, that was unbearable. It pressed down on him, burning guilt, even though it wasn't his doing. She had left him with the ashes of three other lives, left him listening to the sounds of the collision over the phone, left him with the knowledge and the guilt of what she'd done.

She'd never suffer for it, beyond what pain she may have felt in the short time between the crash and her death. She'd never have to atone, never wonder why she'd made the decision. She'd never know what those families were going through, asking themselves why it had happened, why them, why the people they loved, why, why, why.

She'd never know she made John ask the same question of himself.

Why, Harry? Why? He asked her this over and over in his mind and got no answer, because she couldn't answer. Because there was no answer. John had lost a sister he hadn't got on with, and the other families had lost loved ones. He had no idea what those families felt about their deceased members. Had they liked them, loved them, got on with them? What were the relationships like? Good, bad, indifferent? Even if they'd been bad or indifferent, those people were still gone.

John felt like he was mourning for four people, not just one.

It was exhausting. Heart wrenching. Some days, debilitating.

Like today.

And he'd been looking forward to a nice Sunday off, too.

John rubbed his eyes, then curled down under the duvet even more. He wondered if he just lay there long enough, if he could actually fall back asleep. He could still hear Sherlock moving about, but at least his husband wasn't playing any of his ridiculous music, even if he were still carrying on a conversation with the skull. He said it helped him think. Playing the violin did, too, but he was better at not doing that when John was trying to sleep. John had landed that victory quite early, but pointing out that if Sherlock wouldn't let him sleep when Sherlock wasn't in bed, then John would have to sleep when Sherlock was in bed. Since Sherlock often had different interests in mind, he relented, and kept his violin playing to when John was awake or out of the flat. He talked more to the skull as a result, but John could sleep through that easily.

He heard footsteps coming to the bedroom and wondered if Sherlock would just assume he was still asleep. Probably not. His husband was astute with telling when John was awake.

"Tea or coffee with breakfast?" Sherlock enquired. John could tell from the sound of his voice that he hadn't come into the bedroom, but was stopped in or just outside the door.

"Tea is fine," John replied, trying to keep his voice normal, to keep the heaviness in his stomach out of his words.

The immediate footsteps and then change in pressure on the bed told him he'd failed. John stayed on his right side until Sherlock put a hand carefully on his left shoulder and rolled him onto his back. John didn't fight it, but draped his arm over his eyes so he wouldn't have to face up to reality fully.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked. "Are you unwell?"

John's lips twitched. He almost never got sick; being a doctor had strengthened a naturally healthy immune system. Then the dull feeling in the pit of his stomach made the ghost of a smile fade.

"No," he said. "It's just a bad day."

Sherlock was silent and John opened his eyes a crack, looking up. His husband was watching him with an odd mixture of concern, exasperation and confusion. It seemed like a lot to hold on one face, but Sherlock was good at expressing himself without saying a word.

"I'll be okay," John murmured.

"I'm more concerned with you dismissing a bad day as 'just'," he replied.

"Well, that's what it is," John replied. "It happens. My sister died. I can't be all right all at once." Now he felt annoyed, as if his grieving wasn't following some set schedule Sherlock had drawn up mentally. Probably wasn't, John thought. He'd probably looked up grieving stages on line and was charting John's progress – or lack of progress – through each one. He probably had some idea of when this was all supposed to end. John latched onto that last thought – could Sherlock really figure that out? Because John himself would like to know.

"That isn't what I'm suggesting," Sherlock said.

John sighed and rolled onto his left side, putting an arm across Sherlock's hips and resting his face against his thigh.

"Then what are you suggesting?" he asked. Sherlock shifted, lifting his left side slightly from the bed, so John could feel the movement against his arm and the slight pressure on the top of his head when Sherlock's torso pressed against it momentarily. Then he settled again, handing something down to John.

"What is this?" John asked.

"My phone."

"And what would you like me to do with it?"

Sherlock sighed, taking it back and sliding it to unlocked, then pulling something up on his browser. He settled it back into John's hand and the doctor peered at it.

"Tricia and I found it," Sherlock said bluntly. "It's a support group for family members of drunk drivers."

John nearly dropped the phone, twisting so he could look up at Sherlock.

"You want me to go to counselling?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said plainly. "I do. John, your sister killed three people and died herself. There is plenty of support for victims of drunk drivers, and those two other families have the benefit of that. The police are the first people to give that information but not the last. It is less commonly given for the family members of the drivers themselves."

"But I don't-" John started, then stopped. Didn't what? Didn't need support? "I've got you. And Tee."

"And neither of us is enough," Sherlock replied.

John sat up quickly at this.

"I can't do this, not all of it," Sherlock continued. "Not because I do want to do, John, but because I don't understand. Aside from the obvious that I'm not particularly good with empathy and emotional understanding, I do not know what this is like. Yes, you're going to point out that Mycroft was involved in several murders, and I know that, but this is not the same. Mycroft is Mycroft. And Tricia's brother did kill himself, but again, not the same. He didn't also kill three other people."

John winced; he so much hated hearing that out loud, if only because it made his own thoughts more real.

"Sherlock, I just need time," he sighed. He handed back the phone, which Sherlock didn't take for a moment, then plucked neatly from his fingers. "I appreciate this, I really do, but I just need to work through this on my own."

Sherlock gave him an inscrutable look – even after all this time, he could still be unreadable to John. It was often interesting, sometimes maddening, like right now. Without saying anything, his husband gave a brief nod and slid from the bed, leaving John feeling slightly and inexplicably hurt that he'd withdrawn contact.

"Tea or coffee?" Sherlock repeated his earlier question. It took John a moment to remember what had started the whole conversation initially.

"Um, tea, I suppose," he answered. When Sherlock's steps receded, he rolled back onto his side, staring blankly at the wall. He wasn't sure what to think about this – he'd been right that something had been up the previous day when Tricia had come over, and it said something that they'd decided Sherlock should approach this on his own. How much were they talking about him when he wasn't around, or via text message to one another?

Now he could add a budding paranoia to his list of distractions and complications.

Thanks, Harry, he thought darkly, closing his eyes, fisting one hand around his pillow.

He was surprised when he heard Sherlock coming back, because it hadn't been long enough for the kettle to boil. He was more surprised when he felt a renewed weight on the bed, then Sherlock curling around him again. The warmth and pressure of his body made John relax somewhat.

He kept his eyes closed. This is what he needed. Not some therapy group of weeping people. Just this. Sherlock being right there, holding him, making him feel secure and balanced.

Then he recalled the day before, when he'd wanted things to go back to being more normal.

This wasn't normal.

Certainly, Sherlock held him a lot, it wasn't as though either of them shied away from physical contact with one another – far from. John had never been in a relationship where he touched someone so much, and not because he himself wasn't attentive. But this was different, and had been since Harry died. As is Sherlock was holding him to both protect him from and anchor him to the rest of the world.

He shifted, rolling over, and Sherlock adjusted himself slightly to give John room to move. Then he wrapped himself around John again, a little more thoroughly this time. John snuggled closer, erasing any space between them.

"You and Tricia are keeping tabs on me," he commented.

"Of course we are," Sherlock replied.

John was silent again, for a long moment. Then he tilted his head up slightly so he could somewhat see Sherlock's face.

"Would you go to counselling if I asked you to?"

"No," Sherlock replied.

"But you expect me to go."

"I don't expect anything," Sherlock replied. "I want you to go."

"But you wouldn't."

"I'm a sociopath," Sherlock said, as if this were simple. "It's different. There are very few therapists who are qualified to or capable of dealing with someone like me. I can get around their questions and deductions quite expertly and would gain nothing from it, unless they were of equal intelligence to me, which is uncommon."

"So you're too smart for therapy?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, again as if this were simple. "It's common for sociopaths and psychopaths, John. It's how we get into positions like police work or the military."

John was bothered by Sherlock's use of the word "we" there. But he didn't say anything, because he didn't need the lecture on how it was accurate and including himself in that category did not make Sherlock a criminal or even necessarily dangerous. He'd been subject to the explanation before that many sociopaths and psychopaths were not criminals at all, just incredibly difficult to get along with and caused problems in their work environments and personal lives.

"So the rest of us, we're all right with therapists, then," John said, half asking, half stating.

"Presumably psychologists and psychiatrists would best know how to play the system, since it is their system. However, since they are invested in it, most of them also probably see the value. Anyone could learn to play that game, though, but most people – most normal people – see no benefit in it beyond some initial self-preservation or because of a desire to evade the unpleasant aspects of themselves."

John blinked.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're very strange?" he asked.

Sherlock gave him a disdainful look and John almost laughed. It was so much a gaze Sherlock would have given him before Harry's death had interrupted John's life that he suddenly felt a touch better, like he had some connection past the grieving.

"Of course," Sherlock sniffed.

John nuzzled his face into Sherlock's chest again. He smelled good, clean, like soap. John closed his eyes again, the weighted, tired feeling returning.

"Tricia went to counselling after Jeremy killed himself," Sherlock said, playing his trump card.

Blast, John thought. He knew that, too. Whenever Sherlock needed John to do something that he considered didn't apply to his own life, he used Tricia as an example. John felt this was unfair; Sherlock understood perfectly the relationship John and Tricia had, and used that insight to his advantage. Which he did with everything, John knew. He could hardly hold that against Sherlock; it was just who he was.

"You don't have to commit to anything," Sherlock pointed out then. "But you won't be able to make any accurate judgments unless you try it. You can hardly claim to know the results before beginning the experiment."

"This is an experiment?"

"No, that was analogy. Try to keep up."

At this, John's lips did twitch upward, and he was sure that Sherlock felt it against his chest.

"All right," John sighed. "I'll try it, for you."

Sherlock shifted then, putting a hand on John's face, tilting his chin up.

"No, John," he said, grey eyes serious, focused. "Don't do this for me. Do it for yourself. Doing it for me will accomplish nothing. This is not about me."

John sighed and dropped his head back down.

"All right," he muttered again. "I will try it, for myself."

Sherlock kissed the top of his head and John closed his eyes again. He had doubts, and he knew he was being hypocritical, perhaps selling his own options short, because what Sherlock and Tricia were asking him to do was precisely what he would have recommended – very strongly – for any patient of his who'd come to see him with the same problem. Not so nice to be on the receiving end. The therapist he'd had after he'd been shot had misdiagnosed him with PTSD, so he was reluctant to try again.

But this wasn't the same. This was a group of people who had gone through what he had, who'd had their lives turned upside down by decisions made by others. Part of him didn't want to face the fact that other people had the same experience, that he wasn't the only person in London, or anywhere, to have suffered through this. It was too hard to imagine that kind of pain being inflicted more than once. But a bigger part of him was tired of trying on his own, tired of feeling isolated, tired of having Harry seize control of his life and not let go, despite the fact that she was dead.

He could at least try, he thought. Sherlock was right; he didn't have to make any commitments.

And, he realized, if he didn't try, was he any better than his sister had been, refusing to return to treatment, dropping out of her AA group, distancing herself from the people who actually understood what she was battling and how difficult it was?

The decision made him feel a little better, not much, but enough to at least get out of bed without feeling reluctant about it and shake off some of the numbness that had been threatening to pin him down that day. He had no idea if this would help, but having the option brightened the day somewhat, took away some of the pressure, some of the loneliness, and John was grateful even for that small improvement, and thankful that he had people in his life that cared enough about him to give him this choice, to support him as best they could and find options for him that could support him even more.

(End)