He has lost them.
A little girl left parentless, an orphan, because he was too slow to diagnose, too late to treat.
He can see them now as he stands by the window tipping brandy down his throat. They plague his mind, are behind his eyes every time he blinks.
He does not know how long he stands there, trying to forget.
Darkness falls, church bells chime midnight.
It is silent.
The door clicks quietly back onto the latch.
A moment's pause.
"Watson?"
He does not move.
"Watson?"
A bracing hand on his shoulder, pulling him 'round into an embrace that is tense and awkward.
A familiar voice whispering sweet nothings into his ear
He melts against the muscular chest and he sobs silently into a broad shoulder.
He needs to be held, needs to know that it is all alright.
He is seeking solace, and in Sherlock Holmes - he finds it.