A/N: I do not mean this as slash, but if that is how you would like to read it, be my guest.

Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes. Nor do I own John.

Comments and criticism are very welcome.


It had been a long day, and John Watson was very glad to be home. Locking the door behind him, John shuffled into the flat, draping his coat and hat on the hat stand Sherlock had finally allowed him to get. Speaking of Sherlock, where was he? Grabbing his laptop and heading toward his room, John made a cursory search for Sherlock. Just because you can't see him doesn't mean something's wrong, John reminded himself.

That was wishful thinking on his part: Sherlock was sitting on the couch, left sleeve rolled up past the elbow. A syringe rested on the table, surrounded by a mass of papers. Sherlock was in a dangerous mood. He was bored, as there had been nothing to distract his acute mind.

This didn't really worry John. He hated Sherlock's drug abuse, but it was normal (for Sherlock, anyway). What scared John was the razor blade next to the syringe. He suspected Sherlock was in the habit of self-harm, but to see clear evidence of it first-hand like this shook John to the core.

Fortunately, Sherlock seemed to be sleeping. John left him there and continued to his room. He opened his laptop and tried to distract himself with that, but he couldn't get Sherlock out of his mind. Finally, with a soft frustrated cry, he closed his laptop and checked on Sherlock.

The moment he set foot in the sitting room, he froze. Sherlock, eyes wild, pointed a loaded gun at John, a strange, twisted smile marring his face. John's heart lurched. He had seen this side of Sherlock only once before, and it had terrified him. Whatever it was that held Sherlock back from becoming the brilliant serial killer he easily could be occasionally snapped.

It was tread carefully or die, John knew. Always keeping his hands in Sherlock's line of sight, John crept closer, moving slowly. "C'mon Sherlock," he said softly. "Give me the gun." Sherlock laughed, a demented cackle.

"Why?" he asked in a light, airy tone.

Mentally, John cursed. Sherlock could just as easily turn the gun on himself. Somehow, this scared John a great deal more than the idea of being shot himself. "Please, Sherlock," he repeated. "Please, let me have the gun." John carefully extended a hand, not taking his eyes off the gun. When he did dare take his eyes off the gun, he was shocked at the change that had come over Sherlock.

The gun, still aimed at John's heart, now hung limply in Sherlock's loose grip. "John?" he whispered. "What… what…?" He had gone several shades paler.

"Easy," John said. "Easy. Please let me have the gun." He reached for the gun and pried it gently from Sherlock's grip. John unloaded the gun and threw it aside.

Sherlock's scared grey eyes bored into John as he cautiously approached him. Sherlock didn't resist as John took him by the arm and led him back to the couch. John gently pushed Sherlock down and sat next to him.

"What was that all about?" John asked, not unkindly. Sherlock didn't answer; instead, he rested his head on John's shoulder with a sad sigh. "Okay," John said. Sherlock didn't want to talk about it, and John was in no place to drag the truth out. He took Sherlock's long, thin hand in his own. "It's okay," he repeated.

Shifting closer to John, Sherlock thought, Of course it's okay, John. You're home.