Everyone has had a bad day. Doesn't matter who, what or where you are, some days you get home and you wonder why you even got out of bed in the first place. You think, "Why do I care anymore? What's my motivation to keep going, when in reality I'm just walking on a treadmill?"

For me, it wasn't just today. Or the day before. Not even the week before. It had been the whole goddamn month. And now, after a long, exhausting day of me hating myself more than usual, I finally did what Sherlock undoubtedly predicted—

I came home in tears.

No, I didn't cry on the way to the flat. I wasn't some snivelling wreck trekking across the streets of London; quite the opposite, in fact. I stuck up my chin, walked with stiff shoulders and marched, a soldier to the core.

It was when I reached the flat that I crumbled. I entered, quivering with all the bottled emotions trying to leak out. Hung up my coat. Shook. Took off my shoes. Shook.

"Ah, John! Did you happen to pick up some—"

Turned my back. Shook. Tried to walk into the kitchen. Shook.

"John?"

Ignored Sherlock; shook; felt like I was being ripped I half; shook; let tears drip down my face, shaking and shaking and shaking and—

I made it to the refrigerator, then giving up in defeat, slamming my back against its firm exterior. I've heard before that it's considered manly to cry, to have the strength to admit your feelings. I don't feel like a man, though, more like a once magnificent beast slain by a delicate creature.

I fold my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. Everything's still, and the world around me is perceived through the veil of tears; colours melting and swirling together like they've been left out in the rain.

"John?"

A Sherlock-shaped outline, leaning against the table.

I tip my head up just enough to say, "Go away," like I've hit puberty all over again.

Sherlock is silent, and then he peeps out with a quiet, "No."

"Why not?" I ask, feeling angry at him suddenly. "Am I in your way? Sorry, the second I'm having a break-down in the kitchen you decide you're a bit peckish?"

Sherlock tips his head slightly to the side, the fluorescent light catching on the edges of his strong jawbones.

"I'm here because I am concerned. I feel you are drastically overreacting to the amputated tongues in the fridge."

"No, Sherlock, no. I'm sad. People cry when they're sad. All I'm doing is being human."

"If I had known you would've had this reaction, I wouldn't have—"

"This isn't about tongues!"

A pause.

"Would you like to tell me what it is about, then?"

"People. Society. The whole damn world."

"Understandable."

"It's just…this girl. At work."

"Sarah?"

"Sarah dumped me last week. I figured it was time to stop moping—I don't exactly have all the time in the world. So I talked to this other girl."

"Named?"

"Trillium."

"I find it very unfortunate for her sake that her parents were heavy drug users in the era she was born."

"Heh. Nonetheless, all she did was remind me of how I'm unattractive, short and boring."

"John—"

"Don't pull the, 'You're perfect the way you are' crap, Sherlock."

"I won't."

"Oh. Really? You won't?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Well, you aren't perfect. I wouldn't deceive you to make you feel better."

I frowned at him. He continued: "I fail to see why you are upset. Frequently people call me 'gangly, hideous and a freak'."

"Doesn't it bug you?"

"No."

"Did it ever?"

"Yes."

"Really? Why'd it change?"

"I met you."

"Me?"

"Correct. If I was a gangly, hideous freak then why would someone like you spend their time with me?"

"Wait, wait. So you're saying I wouldn't have you in my life is I was unattractive, short and boring?"

He shrugged. "Looks don't matter to me—even though you don't lack in that department—although I couldn't stand you if you were dull."

"Hold on a sec—did you just compliment me? In some weird, twisted way?"

"I don't fit into your, 'real world', John. Everything in it exhausts and bores me—and yet, somehow, I live with you. If you were unattractive or boring, do you really think that would work?"

"What about the short bit?"

"…"

"Sherlock?"

"I said I wouldn't lie to you, John."

"But, Trillium—"

"Should you really be taking the word of a girl named Trillium?"

"Still, Sherlock."

"Still what?"

"I don't…I don't want to die alone."

"You won't."

"I was referring to love—"

"As was I. I 'love' you."

An awkward pause filled the room.

"I, uh, love you too, but um…"

"Relax. I simply mean that I care about your wellbeing. Technically, we have all the aspects of marriage and love in our friendship, right now."

"Umm…"

"Minus the sex, of course."

"So, you're saying… that you love me and want to spend the rest our lives together?"

"I never said THAT. You make me sound like I came from a vampire romance novel."

"Thanks, Sherlock. Thank you."

"People are stupid, John. You aren't. What that makes you, I don't know. But don't fool yourself into thinking that you are one of them—you're mine."

OoOoO

Meh… this is what happens when my own insecurities overlap with a man like Benedict Cumberbatch; pep talks in front of the fridge. First sort-of chapter. Not really funny or anything, but made me feel much better about myself.