Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
John bursts into 221B looking frantic and rather worse for the wear.
"SHERLOCK!" He calls breathlessly. The detective glances up at him in alarm.
"John?"
"Sherlock," John says, "I've just met your sister!"
The detective's face wrinkles in confusion. "I have a sister?"
"Yes," John says, "and she's absolutely lovely," he adds sarcastically, moving to peer out the sitting room window. "She's the woman you thought was Faith Smith, the girl from the bus, was impersonating my new therapist..."
The detective's eyes widen in shock and he stands there, frozen.
"Sherlock," John soothes, "I know this is hard for you, but you have to keep it together-"
Sherlock cuts him short with an accusing glare.
"You sent dick pics," he says slowly, "to my sister?!"
John balks, fidgeting slightly. "Er, um... that's not really the point here, is it?"
Sherlock appears ready to reply, presumably with something scathing, when his eyes suddenly widen in realization and he grows frighteningly pale. John catches him by the arm, and carefully lowers the detective onto the nearest sofa.
"Oh, John..." Sherlock moans feebly.
John squats down in front of him, brows furrowing in concern. "Sherlock? Sherlock, what's wrong?"
The detective peers up at him, looking absolutely horrified.
"... so did I!"
John mouth forms the shape of an 'o'. He sits back on his heels.
"... ah."
Sherlock buries his face in his hands. John pats his friend's shoulder awkwardly.
"'It is what it is?'" He offers. Sherlock groans.
On the bright side, John is fairly confident that the detective won't try stabbing himself anywhere near this 'problem'...