Sherlock tapped his fingers on the chair's arm rest, deep in thought but apparently agitated. Abruptly, he stopped drumming and observed his fingers stilled. He brought his hands together in a preying position, and leant them against his mouth, letting out a dramatic sigh and closing his eyes.

Soft footsteps approached from the door behind Sherlock, but he didn't bother to get up. The scratchy wool of her slippers told Sherlock it was Mrs Hudson, and she wasn't in any sort of hurry. There was a gentle knock before the door squeaked open.

"Sorry Sherlock," She said apologetically when she found him deep in thought. He rolled his eyes, but did not respond. "I had some spare goodies from the bakery, thought I'd drop them off for you two."

Sherlock sighed and squeezed his eyes shut further in annoyance as he heard Mrs Hudson exclaim angrily.

"It's hardly the first time." He muttered, knowing she was about to scold him for another scratch on the kitchen's table.

"Yes, well, it shouldn't keep happening." Her tone was terse, and the fridge's shelves rattled more than was needed as she placed the muffins inside. She chose not to comment on the various plastic containers full of human teeth and tongues that littered the inside. Sherlock cringed at the noise.

"Let's agree it'll come out of my rent and be done with it." He stated angrily. He craved solace as his emotions continued to confuse and frighten him.

"Where's John tonight?"

Sherlock twitched at the mention of the subject of his torment and bit the inside of his cheek.

"Out." He said simply. Knowing she would push him, he elaborated. "On a date."

Mrs Hudson smiled, forgetting her anger at the kitchen's messy state.

"Oh, good for him!" She said good-naturedly. "I'll leave you to yourself, then." She continued when Sherlock didn't respond. He made a vague 'mmm' sound as she left, but he was aware of the fact his fingers had begun to shake. He inhaled a shaky breath and screwed his face up sourly.

For so long, his emotions had never bothered him – never distracted him. He used to be comfortable sitting further away from John, but lately, he had a need to be closer to him. Sherlock cared deeply about him, and he was beginning to realise it wasn't in a plutonic sense.

Sherlock's eyes snapped opened and he brought his hands away from his face, placing them carefully on the leather arm rests of his chair. He had to distract himself from his childish thoughts, his stupid and disturbing fantasies. He concentrated on stilling the shuddering of his nerves, focusing on his shivering fingers. He couldn't help but think it was interesting how his emotional discomfort not only affected his normally ordered and strict mind, but his physical body was punished also. His heart rate had definitely picked up, his breathing ragged and his obvious shaking – all symptoms of something that Sherlock had avoided his entire existence, and something he refused to accept.

He shook his head and searched again for something to distract himself. His eyes wandered to the newspapers sitting on the timber coffee table in front of him, but he knew he'd already scanned them for possible cases. He reached for his Blackberry but stopped, knowing full well it hadn't gone off the past half hour, and probably wouldn't at all tonight. New Year's Eve wasn't exactly a busy time for new clients; everyone was celebrating with friends and family. He thought about getting his laptop, but sunk deeper into his arm chair when he realised it was in his room, on the other side of the flat.

What's the point? He wondered, straightening his back but allowing his head to loll back and his eyelids to droop shut. No matter what I do, it'll always come back.

Confusion was a terrible thing for anyone, and for Sherlock it was absolutely infuriating and depressing. It was almost worse than being bored, though he preferred his mind being occupied rather than looking for occupation. Even if the occupation was draining his very soul.

Sherlock's mind continued to search for distraction around him. He tried focusing on the dust particles floating through the dim light flitting through his window from the street lamp outside. The novelty eluded him eventually; all it caused him to feel was something of a metaphor for his wellbeing - the dust beginning to float but sinking, continually recycling but beginning to dissipate completely. He growled at the poetic justice and turned his head to the messy mantelpiece above him.

He hated Mrs Hudson dusting, though at this very moment he would have appreciated the removal of any reminder of his sunken mind. The thick layer of dust was enough. He concentrated on his skull, but the emptiness of its eye sockets staring into him only pried further into the recesses of his heart.

Sighing heavily, Sherlock leaned forward and placed his face in his palms, elbows resting on his knees. The darkness was a comfort, but short lived. Nothing seemed adequate in escaping his torment. He thought of smoking, but as he flexed the muscle in his forearm, the tight nicotine patches stretching his pale skin reminded him of his doing well on that front. He didn't want to disappoint John…

He snorted into his hands and dragged his long, slender fingers through his dark, curly hair, squinting pale eyes slightly at the bright living room light. He even began to consider heroin or opium, until he realised he'd paid out his trusted dealers.

His head lolled back again, but his eye lids stayed half open, staring lethargically at 221b's ceiling. He began to sink once again into a ditch of self-pity. A minute dragged by, and his thoughts began to get out of control. He didn't notice, and let his eye lids close on their own account. It was only when he was shouting at himself in his mind and he couldn't pick apart what each scream was saying that he ripped himself away from his self-dug emotional trench,

"Shut up." He muttered softly. The violent cyclone that was his thoughts did not subside. He clenched his jaw.

"Shut up!" He growled, and when the yelling continued he suddenly sat forward, palms pressed against his temples.

"Shut up! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!" He screamed, letting his head drop between his knees and squeezing them against his face. Slowly, carefully, he brought his head back up again, and with the motion, the familiar rigid calmness settled on his mind. He allowed himself to inhale and exhale slowly, precariously through his mouth before another idea struck him.

The last time Sherlock had chosen to socialise was a Christmas and New Year's party Lestrade had hosted. He'd invited John, Molly, himself and a couple of people from Scotland Yard Sherlock didn't know (or care to know). He'd received a vintage bottle of Scotch whiskey as a present from Lestrade, and now his mind wondered to where it sat underneath the sink…

By around 11.30 at night – one hour later – Sherlock was way past the point of pleasure drinking, guzzling the Scotch only to get drunk. After every gulp of the toxic brew, his empty stomach began to twist more violently, and his headache throb all the more. Not that Sherlock cared – all that mattered to him was the fact that his confusion and uncertainty regarding his best friend was beginning to evaporate with each new thrum of pain ripping through his skull. He couldn't help but giggle every time the image of John with a woman entered his mind and laugh hysterically at the idea of him rejecting Sherlock's feelings.

When he was half-way through his fifth generous glass, he began to feel as if he should make his way to the kitchen sink. He began to stand up, swaying slightly, but that was nothing to how his head spun. Sherlock groaned and stepped back into the chair, almost losing his balance, and grabbed the mantelpiece for support. When he felt he had regained some of his brain activity, he opened his eyes.

As the room shifted continuously around him, he made his slow and laboured way to the kitchen, feeling bile rise up into his throat. He forced it down, until he found himself grabbing onto the counter in front of the sink with one hand. His other was shakily pushing hair out of his face as he emptied much of his stomach's contents down the drain.

Sherlock groaned when he felt that he could not possibly throw up any more, unless his organs were to go, and leant against the bench, his head keeled over the sink. The stench of the vomit induced another retch and a dribble of vitriol dripped down his chin, onto the counter.

"Fu…" He slurred as he felt his head roll back and his feet come away from under him.

John fiddled nervously with his cutlery as Bobby continued to talk about her recent trip to the Bahamas.

"And you should have seen this bird, John!" She exclaimed excitedly, looking expectantly at her date. He continued to stare remotely at his empty champagne glass. Bobby look concerned at him.

John had been very talkative and polite the entire night. It was only after 12 o'clock that he'd seemed distant.

"John? Are you okay?" She asked, worried. John's gaze flickered back to her.

"What? Oh, I'm sorry, I just sort of…" He searched for the right word, eyes darting between Bobby and his phone which sat next to where his hand rested on the thick, white tablecloth. "…zoned out."

Bobby frowned.

"You seem kind of distracted," She said warmly, taking his hand, "Is everything okay?"

John sighed.

"I think my flat mate-"

"The rude one?" Bobby piped up. Memories of Sherlock's deduction that she spent appalling amounts of hours on the Internet embarrassed her as they flew through her mind. John smiled fondly.

"Yeah. I think he might be in danger."

"Why?"

John sighed and shook his head.

"He always replies to his text. No matter what, he always has to have the last word for everything. I texted him fifteen minutes ago wishing him a happy new year." He shrugged. "He didn't reply…and he has a habit of getting himself into trouble."

Bobby quirked an eyebrow.

"Serious trouble, right?"

John nodded. She shrugged.

"It's been a really nice evening," She said, grabbing her hand bag hanging on the chair behind her, "I don't mind calling it a night."

"Only if you're sure Bobby…" John trailed off, but he was only saying it to be courteous. He had a horrible feeling about Sherlock's wellbeing. He couldn't pinpoint how, but he had a violent urge to go to him.

Bobby smiled kindly at him and adjusted her brown bob in the restaurant's windows.

"It's okay, John. I'll be seeing you Friday anyway."

"Sherlock?" John called anxiously as he climbed the stairs outside 221b's living room door. No answer was a regular occurrence from the often silent detective, but this particular night it only granted more nervous energy to brew in John's stomach. Carefully and quietly, he turned to door knob to its fullest extent. He took in a deep breath, held it and abruptly swung the door open, striding quickly into the room. It was empty.

"Sherlock?!" John's voice was heightened with concern now. A moan that sounded as if it was coming from the kitchen grabbed his attention, and he strode swiftly past the armchairs in the room.

Sherlock was lying splayed out on the tiled floor, a thin trail of bile sat crusted along his jawline and his normally pale skin was flushed a bright red colour. John sighed and squatted down beside him.

"Oh god…" He muttered, rolling Sherlock over into the recovery position. He stood up and filled a tall glass with tap water, handing it to the barely conscious man below. Sherlock nearly dropped the glass, so John took it back from him and knelt next to him.

"Sherlock, I need you to drink this." He said firmly. Sherlock's eyes rolled open at the mention of his name, and he reluctantly swallowed the water that was forced into his system. "Have you eaten anything tonight?"

"Are you asking me out to dinner, Doctor?" He slurred, chuckling to himself. John grunted, annoyed, and stood up to open the fridge, searching for substantial food. He grabbed one of the muffins Mrs Hudson had brought up. It was the only edible things in the fridge.

"As if you would…" Sherlock said faintly to himself. John frowned at the comment, but crouched down at his level.

"Do you think you can keep this down, Sherlock?" He asked, handing him the piece of muffin. Sherlock squinted quizzically at the food.

"I suppose…" He said, reaching out blindly for it.

As he ate, John ran another glass of water for him and forced him to drink it down.

"How am I going to get you into bed?" John wondered aloud, sitting against one of the counter's cupboards.

"Maybe you can ask Bobby…" Sherlock suggested, and started to grin. "Bobby with the brown bob."

"Hilarious, Sherlock," John stated in a very unamused tone, "And really not helping."

"You asked me… I'm just providing ideas…"

John sighed and stood up, leaning out of the kitchen's doorway.

"Mrs Hudson!" He yelled in the direction of the still-open living room door. "I'm sorry it's so late, but I need your help with something. It's a bit of an emergency!"

"This isn't an emergency, John!" Sherlock cried out, his words still slurring together in his rumble of a voice. "Let her watch the last of her television program."

"Shut up, Sherlock." John shot a quick, deadly look at his flatmate. "This really isn't funny. If you'd had any more to drink and I hadn't come, you could well be dead."

He shook his head and walked to Sherlock's armchair as he noticed the Scotch bottle. He decided to down the last of what was in the glass himself, cringing at the strong flavour. He'd never been a fan of spirits.

As he walked into the kitchen to put away the utensils, he muttered to himself.

"I was having such a good night too…"

Sherlock frowned and clenched his mouth angrily.

"My apologies for ruining yet another night of getting off with yet another woman." He spat. John frowned.

"What are you getting at?" He asked, moving out of the kitchen as he heard Mrs Hudson's footsteps approaching.

"Nothing…" Sherlock groaned, pressing his warm face into the cool floor. John stopped and turned to him.

"Sherlock… Are you jealous?" He questioned, but Sherlock had fallen deep into unconsciousness.

"I thought Greg getting him that bottle was a bad idea…" Mrs Hudson claimed quietly as she and John sat near Sherlock's bed, listening to his loud snoring. "I should have said something."

"You didn't know he would do this." John assured, looking distantly at Sherlock's form under the blankets.

"Oh, I know, but he does drink when you're out sometimes." Mrs Hudson explained, shifting the dark blue, plastic bucket closer to the corner of the bed. "Especially if you're with a girl…"

John frowned and turned his interest to her.

"I'm sorry?"

Mrs Hudson shook her head and, as if deciding she'd said too much, stood up.

"I'm going to get him another glass of water." She stated, shuffling out of the room. John opened his mouth as if to stop her but paused and nodded his head instead.

She returned a minute later with two tall cups of water. She placed one on Sherlock's bedside table and gave the other to John. For a moment they sat in silence.

"What did you mean?" John asked finally, unable to stop himself. Mrs Hudson was quiet, and watched Sherlock in a motherly way as he shifted in his bed.

"He cares about you an awful lot, John." She answered vaguely. He pursed his lips before sipping at his water.

"Happy New Year, Mrs Hudson." He said suddenly, making her smile a little.

"Happy New Year, John."

Written for benedict-me on Tumblr. Feedback is appreciated x