"Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his trouser pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the glowing embers."
- Charles Augustus Milverton, The Return of Sherlock Holmes, Page 185

I knew each and every one of Sherlock's moods. I once made it my own personal study to observe the way he changed under the influence of different emotions, and once I had read the signs it was easy to tell how Sherlock was feeling. I could tell exactly when he was excited, agitated, when he was bored. This mood was none of those; this was a mood I had only seen Sherlock in twice before: this was despair.
For more than ten minutes I watched him staring at the fire in that way: unthinking and unseeing. I remember thinking that he looked absolutely broken, and as if nothing would remedy his pain. I watched the flickering flames in his eyes and through them I could see clearly the anguish that he was experiencing.
I was shocked to my core when a tear emerged from the very eyes at which I had been looking, and before my mind had processed what my body was doing I had crossed the room. As I sat on the sofa next to a sobbing Sherlock I could feel his emotions as if they were my own.
After a moment of hesitation I wrapped my arms around his frail shoulders and pulled him closer to me so that I could try and comfort him. He rested his head on my shoulder and his dark curled hair brushed against my neck. He laid his arm across my waist in a gesture that suggested that I hadn't made him feel uncomfortable; something that constantly plagued my mind: causing him to feel uncomfortable.
Gradually his sobs began to slow in pace and become more irregular and his breathing slowly returned to normal; or as much as was normal for Sherlock.
"Thank you" He said as I gently stroked his hair
"You're welcome" I returned.

It was in this position that we sat for the remainder of the night: me holding him, he: with his arm across my body ensuring I kept holding him. After some time Sherlock, exhausted from crying, drifted into a deep sleep upon my shoulder, and as his breathing deepened I felt that I really had made a difference, and helped in some minor way. My train of thought, however, was interrupted by Sherlock mumbling in his sleep. This was something I was very aware that he did, but I was never able to make any sense of his unconscious ramblings. This time however was different as Sherlock has just said my name. At first I had thought he had woken, but I realised after a string of incoherent mumblings about chemical reactions that he was still sleeping.
Just one more thing he said in his sleep that night, and it was a thing I had never dreamed I would hear Sherlock say, conscious or not.
"John" He whispered. "John, I need you"
And as I kissed his forehead I could have been sure that I heard him sigh with contentment.