A/N: You can follow me at my tumblr ( .com) for previews and to see what I'm working on! Next update is going to be on 6/15. This chapter was a beast to edit, though. Thanks to Dreig for the beta!


Sherlock did not come back. Despite looking into the nooks and crannies between his daily activities, John didn't catch a glimpse of him. It was worrisome. Some of the scars were recent. Although none of them appeared deep enough to nick an artery, those who were addicted to self-mutilation often continued to cut longer and deeper the more they cut. John pushed the thoughts out of his mind. He had to focus, to convince the horde of therapists that Asylum had him face that he was fine and that he knew what he was doing. That he didn't need to be there. The war messed everyone up - no one was spared from its grasp.

John had discovered that Asylum was broken down into several houses. The houses generally housed four to six people and were commonly referred to as 'pods'. John lived in pod B with Sherlock and two other men. He didn't remember their names. A short conversation with them had, however, showed John the ropes when it came to acquiring food and other resources he'd need at Asylum. Asylum had its own mart just a few hundred feet from their flat. There was a leisure centre next to the mart, and even a pool. John's eyes had nearly popped out of his head at the pool. What kind of - whatever in the hell Asylum's official title was - had a pool?

John didn't bother exploring much beyond the super market. He had been hoping that Sherlock would be back in the flat when he returned. Having spent the afternoon at the mart, John had returned laden with enough food to feed both Sherlock and himself for a week. He was also careful to purchase a more in-depth first-aid kid. After thinking for a few seconds he purchased more antiseptic. If one of the cuts ever got infected, it could have disastrous consequences for Sherlock. The next task was the hardest - braving their kitchen again.

He frowned as he opened the refrigerator door. Someone - Sherlock - had put in the effort to tidy it up a bit. It was still emitting the funny smell that had been present that morning, but it wasn't strong enough to actively induce vomiting in anyone who happened to encounter it. He peered closer at a container on the top shelf before realizing that there were eyes floating in what was presumably formaldehyde staring back at him. This time, however, the container was sealed carefully and marked in some gibberish that John assumed made sense to Sherlock. There were a few other meticulously sealed containers containing various bits and pieces that John didn't really care to take much time identifying. Carefully he picked up the sealed containers, moving them to the top shelf. Sherlock could store his experiments there without disrupting the rest of the kitchen.

It took a far shorter amount of time than John had been anticipating to stock the kitchen with food. He didn't cook often, but sometimes he enjoyed throwing things together from scratch. Sherlock didn't seem to eat much of anything, so John was determined to get what food he could into him and have it be at least partially nutritious. The remnants of takeaway he had noted in the depths of the refrigerator prior definitely didn't fall into that category.

Rearranging the knives on the counter sent a chill down John's spine as the memory of what he had seen the night before flashed to the forefront of his mind. The white scars, barely lighter than the skin they decorated, mingled like lovers with the dark red of the healing scabs. Contusions surrounded some of the deeper lacerations, the brown-green of healing bruises interrupted by the scars in their depths. Underneath the mass of scars, cuts, and bruises were puncture wounds and the remnants of old track marks. As a GP John had encountered both drug addicts and those who cut themselves for a variety of reasons but he had never met one who combined them. He snorted at the thought. He had never met anyone like Sherlock, whether they cut or not. He was most definitely one of a kind. Thank god, for humanity's sake.

"I presume you'll want a new room assignment." Sherlock's voice was like ice, the words staccato, void of emotion. John crossed his arms over his jumper, taking the time and the focus of the deliberate action to get his racing heart beat under control. He had not even heard Sherlock arrive, had not heard the door open. Frightening John rarely ended satisfactorily for either party, yet there was something about Sherlock that set off impulses more protective than deadly.

"Why would you say that?" John inquired, his tone mild.

"You seemed quite distraught earlier." Sherlock's mouth twisted on the last word into something John would call a sneer on someone far less attractive. Sherlock resembled a sullen child who felt they had been wronged rather than an angry adult. John shrugged.

"It's only expected you'd have some baggage like the rest of us, or you wouldn't be here." Pausing to survey the fully stocked kitchen, he let a smile show at the corner of his mouth. "Besides, without me, all this food would go to waste. Hungry yet?" John walked to the sink and crouched down, pulling out the first-aid kit and placing it on the counter with a single, fluid motion. It was then that he realized his leg had allowed him to do that and he gripped the counter, his knuckles pale. He was thrown out of his contemplation when he heard Sherlock move. "I got a first-aid kit. A good one," he clarified. "I want to look at the cuts."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock was avoiding his direct gaze, his hands unconsciously balling into fists.

"I just want to make sure they're clean, Sherlock," John cajoled.

"I already cleaned them." Sherlock's eyes flickered towards the bathroom. John followed his gaze, limping slightly yet determined to ignore it. Below the sink there was a partially-used bottle of antiseptic and John smiled in relief.

"If you run a fever or one of your cuts shows signs or symptoms of infection, come to me, please." John looked at Sherlock, willing the stubborn man to at least look at him. If Sherlock said yes John would be surprised, but any answer indicated a sign that they were moving in the right direction.

Sherlock stared at him for a few long seconds. It was heady and nearly arousing, having all of Sherlock's attention focused in John's direction. It was like John was being stripped naked, all of the thoughts he had ever had laid bare for Sherlock to see. Sherlock let out a derisive snort, stalking over to the sofa and throwing himself down upon it. Yet it wasn't a no.

John grinned, already planning the dinner. It felt like the first victory he'd had all day. It felt even better when Sherlock ate some of the soup that John had thrown together. John had watched him eat closely over his own bowl, seeing what Sherlock seemed to savour and what he seemed to leave behind. As a doctor, John had grown up taking care of people. It was his identity, who he was. Taking care of Sherlock just felt like another step in the same direction - like coming back into his own skin.

After all the chaos of Angelie, after all the drama, John Watson finally felt like he was himself again. He snorted, wondering what the various therapists that populated Asylum would think of that. He wasn't (as they would say) healed. One part of him, however - one part of the shattered little John Watson figure was finally able to glue itself to a sister piece to begin the process.

Cleaning the dishes, John stacked them up and tidied up the mess he had made throwing the soup together. There were various sets of scientific equipment littering the farther counters and the table, but John gave those up for lost. Sherlock needed his space, after all, just as John did. That Sherlock's need for space demonstrated itself in a way that was different from John's was of no consequence.

John walked over to the small bookshelves littering the sides of the room and surveyed them, looking for something good to read. The store had a small bookstore attached and John had picked up a few that had sounded interesting, but Sherlock had several bookshelves lining the walls and John was always interested in finding something new to read. Sherlock seemed like the quiet type and a book would keep John from wanting to break the peace that lingered in the air.

Reminded of Sherlock, John looked up as the man leapt up from the couch and stalked over to a small stand near his bed. On it was some kind of instrument case and John watched Sherlock, curious. The long, pale hands were tender and nearly reverent as Sherlock pulled out a violin from the case, resining the bow quickly before settling the violin on his shoulder. John tore his gaze away from the ethereal man and focused back on the bookshelf. The books were mostly classics, he noted with interest, several of them old editions.

"There are newer ones over on the other side." Sherlock jerked his head towards another bookshelf, his eyes oddly flat. The bow was perched on the strings of the violin, his hand holding it deftly in the correct position. John nodded and smiled his thanks before he walked over, the majority of his attention focused on his unpredictable flatmate. For some reason, John didn't doubt that Sherlock could handle a violin. He was rewarded seconds later when rich, beautiful music emanated from the strings as Sherlock began to play.

John gave each book a cursory examination and picked one that sounded interesting. John settled down on his bed, his back against the wall and legs spread in front of him, able to easily see Sherlock with just a small turn of his head. This way he could listen and read at the same time. The book was interesting - some old time murder mystery written by an author John had never heard of. He liked mysteries. "It was the Pope." John looked up at Sherlock, not having heard the music stop. "The murderer. It was the Pope. Obviously."

John sighed, tucking a slip of paper from his bedside into the book to hold his place. "I should have known you'd read the book before."

"I haven't." Sherlock shrugged elegantly, a lithe ripple of muscle. "I haven't read any of the ones on that shelf. They're boring."

"Then how did you know?" John looked a bit puzzled, then closed his eyes briefly, exasperated. He opened them to face Sherlock once more. "It doesn't matter, anyway."

"You're not angry." It wasn't a question. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You pity me. The scars."

"You're not making any sense," John pointed out. He settled the book on his lap, his hands resting on top of it. "I don't pity you. The scars are none of my business."

"Yet you want to know." Sherlock's gaze was ice cold. John watched the taller man, this time with a clinical scrutiny. There was something else going on, something John had only seen a hint of. He knew it was likely he would never see more than that with how closed off Sherlock was. If he took out his emotional scars on his physical body, he likely had a host of bad memories to draw from to provoke whatever emotions he wanted to. Yet the fear John saw was real.

John exhaled slowly, his body deliberately casual. "I'm human. But." He raised a hand, stopping Sherlock before he could open his mouth. "I don't want you to tell me." Sherlock's lips twisted into a sneer and John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Not for the reasons you're thinking - do you always think so negatively about yourself?" demanded John, leaning forward slightly. He hadn't moved off of the bed.

Sherlock's scowl hadn't left his face. Savagely he forced his expression to straighten out into its normal blank caricature, grabbing his bow, lifting the violin to his shoulder and attacking the strings with the well-resined bow. This time it wasn't the gentle melody John had heard him play, but something dark and painful. John watched him silently, lost in his own thoughts. Sherlock didn't stop playing. John wasn't able to finish what he had said. Finally, he laid down under the covers and sank into a restless sleep.

John woke up on the floor again. This time he had stripped his bed bare, the covers twined about him like a lover. He had soaked the sheets with his sweat and they clung damply to his body. Groaning, he realized Sherlock was watching him from the other side of the room. This continued for over a week - the same routine. John would wake up, the covers either twined about him or spread across his half of the room. John was uncomfortable to discover that he often woke up after a nightmare expecting to see Sherlock watching him. The light blue eyes had gone from frightening to comforting.

Between the two of them they fell into something resembling a routine. John would cook breakfast and then go to the rubbish they called therapy. Next John came back for lunch, always with his favorite tea. Sometimes Sherlock would be there. Sometimes he would not. John wasn't sure what he got up to when he wasn't at the flat. It wasn't his place to ask. Despite that, John always kept an eye out when he was moving between buildings, hoping for a glance of his silent flatmate.

Dinner would follow. Sometimes he would stay in. Sometimes the other men in their house would invite him out to chat in the main hall of the leisure centre while others played table football or air hockey. Whether or not John went depended on not only John's mood, but Sherlock's as well. Frequently John didn't feel safe leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts. He didn't know what went on in the recalcitrant man's head, but he doubted much of it was good.

John rubbed his thigh absentmindedly and then stopped. The pain in his leg was slowly easing up. While he would still use the cane after his nightmares, he often forgot the cane when he left for the day. John had noticed a correlation he wasn't completely comfortable with. The more he thought about Sherlock, the less his leg hurt. Focusing on Sherlock was helping him take his mind off of his own problems. Or the problems everyone assumed that he had.

John had been at Asylum for nearly a month the night he got a visitor. Sherlock had been absent nearly the entire day and John was starting to worry. Although the man rarely spoke and was curt and rude most of the time, John had gotten used to his naturally acerbic personality. It was who he was. John guessed, deep down, that Sherlock had been hurt - badly. He seemed so unconcerned about what had happened, but John was uncomfortably familiar with defence mechanisms. It was a natural response to retreat like he had.

There was a knock at the door. John frowned, thrown out of his thoughts. Sherlock never knocked. John wondered if he knew that people did it as a common courtesy. John figured that Sherlock knew all of the human idiosyncrasies but ignored them in favor of appearing mysterious and untouchable. He walked over and opened the door. Narrowing his eyes at who stood there, he left his hand on the doorknob. "Can I help you?" he inquired politely of the suit-clad man standing at the entrance. The man's ghost blue eyes took in John's pyjamas and mussed up hair, eerily reminiscent of Sherlock. There was none of the warmth that Sherlock tried so hard to hide. This man was pure ice.

"Dr. John Watson?" The man's eyes held John in place. It took an uncomfortable amount of time for John to break himself out of their spell.

"Who wants to know?" John shifted into his army demeanour, his posture as threatening as it could be while still glued to the door. He felt his shoulders tense up and he lifted his head fractionally, his gaze sharpening.

"Mycroft Holmes." The auburn-haired man extended a hand in greeting. John stared icily back and eventually the hand dropped onto the handle of the umbrella. "I am Sherlock's brother. Since he is not currently here, I was hoping we could continue this conversation inside. I do not desire the entire world to hear what I have to say, much less the other members of your charming residence." Mycroft looked expectantly at John, who was merely willing his brain to catch up to the current conversation. Slowly John let go of the door and walked a few steps back into the room. Mycroft walked in and closed the door behind him, a polite smile on his face.

John automatically headed towards the kitchen. "Tea?" he asked. Mycroft nodded and John scrounged briefly for an appropriate blend of tea before settling on something he felt would soothe the inevitable headache brought on by a Holmes. At least this one appeared to talk, he thought with a slight grin. That was an improvement. John filled and flipped the electric kettle on, placing the tea bags into the mugs he had pulled down from the cupboard.

"So what is your relationship with Sherlock?" Mycroft was blunt, his fingers laced together in a way that reminded John of Sherlock. John's mouth twisted slightly in recognition. The Holmes brothers physically looked very little alike. Sherlock was all gawky and angles, like a puppet who had been played with too much. Mycroft looked as if he had never allowed anyone to play him a day in his life. Prim and proper down to the tips of his extremities, he oozed authority and wore power as if it was sewn into every thread of his clothing.

"We're roommates. Flatmates, if you prefer." The kettle went off and John poured water into the mugs, letting the tea bags steep for a few minutes before walking them over to the table.

Mycroft smiled thinly and John's expression remained flat. His motives so far were a mystery to John, and when it came to Sherlock, John was far less fond of mysteries. He owed this man nothing, Sherlock's brother or not. Sherlock had gone through enough. John didn't know if the stubborn man would consider him his friend, but John was Sherlock's friend, whether Sherlock wanted him to be or not. Sherlock needed someone willing to stand up for him and to put his best interests first, even when Sherlock didn't consider it a necessity. "I could compensate you for information, if you wish," Mycroft offered.

John sipped his tea, his darker eyes not leaving Mycroft's clear ones. "I'm not going to spy on him," he said flatly. "I'm not going to give you any more info than you already have. If you want some, you can ask him yourself. Otherwise, I would like you to leave." He paused. "You can finish your tea, if you want." Mycroft's eyes narrowed, yet he continued to sip the tea, John noticed. Perhaps a conditioned reflex?

"If you haven't noticed, Sherlock doesn't take politely to direct inquiries," Mycroft pointed out over his mug.

"No, he doesn't," John agreed. He didn't care what this man thought. "I wonder why that is." Mycroft put down the (mostly empty, John noted) mug of tea and stared at John. His eyes bored into John's.

"I am not one to be trifled with, John Watson." Mycroft's tone was ruthless. John merely crossed his arms and stared right back. "You haven't told him why you're here, have you?"

"That's none of your business, what I have or have not told him," John snapped.

"I saw your - hmm, what is her name." Mycroft checked something on his phone. "Angelie, her name was? Your pretty young lady, just a few days ago. She seems to be doing fine."

John said nothing and merely glared at Mycroft's thin smile. "I wonder what Sherlock would do with that information," the Holmes brother continued.

"I will tell him what I want to. When it matters. It doesn't." John uncrossed and recrossed his arms, visibly agitated.

"Then what does matter, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft's voice was even now, baiting John.

"Someone needs to put Sherlock's needs and wants first," John snapped back. "Going behind his back because he won't talk to you does nothing."

"You've been in his company for a month." Mycroft's eyes flashed. "Please, attempt to educate me on how to handle my own brother."

"Blood relations mean nothing." John glared. "Obviously. If you two won't even speak to each other and you have to attempt to bribe people to spy on him, there's something wrong. Is that why he doesn't keep a roommate long? How long has he been here, anyway?"

"Oh, he hasn't told you why he's here, then?" Mycroft's tone was triumphant, his eyes reflecting his voice, steel-grey melded with ice-blue.

"I don't want to know anything from you." John stated, his commanding military voice echoing throughout the room. "You finished your tea. I'd like you to leave now, before Sherlock comes back and you upset him. I won't give you any more information."

"He does not want your protection, John Watson." Mycroft stood. John tilted back in the chair, his gaze dispassionately focused on the taller man.

"No. No, he doesn't. That's why he needs it." John smiled suddenly, polite. "Goodbye."

Mycroft returned the countenance, tight-lipped, and walked out the door, closing it behind him as John sank back into the chair. He mimicked Sherlock's usual posture, his fingers twined underneath his chin.

The door opened tentatively a few moments later, as if the person behind was afraid of what they might find. John glanced over, ensuring that it was not Mycroft returning, then closed his eyes. Slowly the door clicked shut, and John looked over a second time. Sherlock was standing there, watching John as if he was a creature from a foreign land. The eyes were hesitant, cautious - like a wild animal. John sighed and let his hands drop into his lap, leaning back in his chair. "I take it you heard that." Sherlock nodded, tentative. He stared at John hungrily, as if he was an apparition that was going to disappear at any second. John averted his eyes from Sherlock's gaze. It was making him self-conscious.

Sherlock eyed him a few moments longer. John was taking deep breaths, trying to force the extraneous neurotransmitters out of his nervous system so that he would be able to shake the flight or fight response that was hampering his attempts to calm down. He listened quietly as Sherlock undid his scarf and hung up his jacket, settling back into his normal routine. John shifted positions so he could watch as Sherlock walked around the flat, checking his various experiments. He seemed to have acquired several new bits of scientific equipment, including a new microscope, various toxic chemicals, and some vials that John didn't recognize. John smiled slightly. Soon there would be no room on the table for them to eat. Not that it ever bothered Sherlock. He mostly ate on the sofa. Slept there, too. John found it ironic that Sherlock even had a bed. He never used it.

John soon became conscious of the fact that Sherlock would, periodically, stop and eye John for several moments. The looks were varied. A handful were puzzled, others seemingly attempting to deduce. There were more that John had no idea how to identify. John sighed inwardly. He didn't know how much of the conversation Sherlock had overheard. The fact that Sherlock was acting so oddly indicated to John that he had probably heard a fair amount. Despite that, John had not expected him to go to such lengths and apparently put some thought into John's motivations.

It was a difficult question, since John did not know exactly why he had done what he did. John didn't like those who danced about a problem, or included those who had no business dwelling in someone else's matters. If Mycroft wanted to know how Sherlock was doing, he needed to ask Sherlock himself. Not drag John into it, much less attempt to bribe John with money. He scowled into the mug of tea he held balanced on his lap in front of him.

"You're about to break the handle of your mug." Sherlock's voice was cautious, as if John would disappear when he spoke. John forced himself to relax his grip, nodding his thanks. Sherlock examined his face again before turning back to his experiment.

"What do we have today? Toes? Fingers?" John craned his head in Sherlock's direction, trying to see the man's focus at the bottom of the microscope.

"Ears, actually." Sherlock adjusted the focus ever so slightly, not turning towards John as he made a face into the scope. "The toes are resting in the freezer. I'm using them tomorrow."

"We can't let the toes get exhausted," John snorted, getting up to grab a book and to settling not far from the taller man. There was a spare chair facing the table so he sat in that. He didn't want Sherlock to think that he was running away, or ignoring him, or any kind of doomsday scenario the intelligent man might come up with. He was brilliant, that was for sure, but he wasn't very smart when it came to people. John couldn't help but think that it was how Sherlock had ended up at Asylum in the first place. He didn't allow himself to dwell on that thought for long. The past was irrelevant. It mattered more what they did at Asylum than how they got there. John was slowly able to move forward, his nightmares more about the war now and less about Angelie. For that, he was grateful.

In the past, previous girlfriends had told him he talked in his sleep. John had discovered this was exacerbated by the nightmares. He didn't want to know what Sherlock might have heard. John knew that Sherlock didn't sleep much, so it seemed likely that he had overheard several of John's sleep-rants by now. The thought made him cringe. "Do I talk in my sleep?" he asked before he could stop himself. Sherlock paused, a pipette held in his hand. He finished adding whatever the chemical was in the pipette to the ears under the microscope.

"A bit," Sherlock answered. Peering closer at the ears to see if he could see any differences from where he was sitting, John waited for Sherlock to elaborate. Predictably, Sherlock didn't. John shrugged, deciding he probably didn't want to know. He was able to focus on his book for a few seconds before Sherlock spoke again. "You didn't have to."

Sherlock's voice was so quiet and unsteady that John nearly missed it. As it was, he shifted slightly, looking at Sherlock, confused. "Pardon?"

"What you said." Sherlock stoically refused to look at him, instead focusing on the ears underneath the microscope in front of him. He continued adjusting the knobs, dispensing a few more ccs of the fluid into the petri dish holding the flesh.

John pressed a hand to his forehead, rubbing it unconsciously. He didn't feel like explaining it. "You need looking after," he said finally. "Besides, I can't imagine Mycroft braving the various refrigerated body parts to make you breakfast." John snorted at the idea. "Much less the ones in the microwave." He shook his head disparagingly, a slight grin on his face.

Sherlock lifted his head from the microscope, his light blue/grey eyes focused on John's. A slight smile danced about his lips, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. After a few seconds Sherlock's gaze returned to the microscope and he launched into an enthusiastic description of his experiment, complete with hand waving that ended up sending a piece of acid-riddled ear flying far too close to where John was reading for his liking.

After some shouting, John had gotten Sherlock to get the neutralizer to get the acid out of the carpet. Sherlock had not even had the decency to look sheepish and John rolled his eyes. He doubted it would be the last time they would ever have this kind of row. "Have you eaten?" It was late, but John doubted the other man had eaten all day. Sherlock shook his head.

"Up for something simple?" John asked. Sherlock grunted evasively, his head buried back in the microscope and a different experiment. John smiled. It was the closest he had come to assent in the month he'd known him. "I'll take that as a yes." John noticed a grin tug very slightly at the corner of Sherlock's lips and he chuckled to himself, already going through the cupboard and the fridge for a simple dinner. The two sat and ate together on the sofa in a comfortable silence. Sherlock stared into space, apparently lost in thought, while John read a book, the plates balanced on their respective laps.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. John gaped, wondering if Sherlock had been replaced by an alien. Sherlock got up and deposited the empty plate on the edge of the sink, ignoring it when it clattered to the floor moments later. He stripped off his shirt and walked to his dresser, gathering his pyjamas and walking into the bathroom to change into his night clothes. John watched, mildly perplexed, as the curly-haired man walked over to his bed and crawled into the covers and curled up in a ball. Going about his own bedtime routine John glanced over occasionally, his doctor senses alert. Something just felt wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

About 2am, John was awoken by a low moan. Having been awoken from the middle of his own nightmare, John was disoriented, his senses on trigger alert. Sherlock, he thought, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes so he could see what was happening on the other side of the room. Sherlock was having a nightmare, John realized. He forced himself to focus on the thrashing body before realizing there was nothing he could do. Climbing out of his own bed John flipped on the light, startling a moan of surprise out of Sherlock. He shuddered before his movements came to a halt, his eyes blinking open.

"Mm…John?" Sherlock turned to look at John, standing not far from Sherlock's bed. "Why are you up?"

"You had a nightmare." John crouched down to Sherlock's level, a few feet away. He knew from experience to never crowd someone who'd been having a nightmare. He couldn't claim to have any idea as to what Sherlock had been dreaming about, but he knew it wasn't good. Trying to touch him or startle him in any way would end badly. It was better to stay out of hitting range.

"No I didn't. That's absurd." Sherlock frowned at John, disbelieving. John smiled sadly, the corner of his mouth crooked up in faint amusement.

"You may think yourself immune to normal human things," he teased gently, "but what I witnessed was most definitely the beginnings of a nightmare. You can trust me, I'm a doctor." John winked. Sherlock looked down at the blankets wrapped around him before looking up at John, his normally clear blue eyes hazy. John stared back, solemn and present.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said finally, experimentally. John blinked - he had gotten both please and I'm sorry in the same day. Aliens, then. Sherlock reached out, gesturing for John to come closer. John stepped close enough that, fumbling, Sherlock grasped his hand and squeezed it briefly. John responded in kind, communicating his understanding and offering comfort in whatever way he could.

"For what?" he asked. Sherlock withdrew his grasp, sorting himself back into his curled up position on his bed. This time, however, he was facing towards John. John stood where he was, not wanting to leave Sherlock if Sherlock still wanted him there.

"For not thinking to wake you up," Sherlock said, so quietly that John had to crane closer to hear him.

"It's good you didn't, actually. I might've hurt you." He thought briefly of patting Sherlock on the shoulder and decided against it, ignoring Sherlock has he scoffed at the thought of John actually being able to hurt him. The man wasn't big on physical contact (or human sentiment, for that matter), and probably wouldn't understand the gesture. John also didn't want to run the risk of upsetting him in case the gesture triggered something from the nightmare. Walking back over to his bed and flipping off the light, John crawled back under the covers and settled in. His mind wandered over what Sherlock could have been dreaming of, and he shoved the thoughts away.

Possibly, to Sherlock - could his day to day existence be worse than anything he could dream about? John shuddered at the thought, turning over and taking deep breaths until his mind emptied. He was nearly asleep when Angelie's face popped up unbidden. John sighed. He had learned a lot about relationships in the past couple weeks at Asylum. It had been a slow shift in perception, and would continue to be one.

There was a lot to think about. How to classify his relationship with Angelie, to begin with. How to classify their interactions - both hers and his. Understanding that although he was stronger and could have stopped her, not stopping her did not mean that she was right. Things would be different next time, John assured himself. He knew what to look for.

Or he was learning, anyway. Closing his eyes, he turned over again to face Sherlock and curled into a ball, mimicking the position he often saw Sherlock sleep in. Maybe it would help. He laughed. Nothing helped. It was an hour of tossing and turning before John let himself slip away, afraid of what would come. The calm had been shattered when Sherlock awoke.

John opened his eyes and frowned. It was dark, still. He looked over. Sherlock's bed - was gone. He used an arm to push himself up. It was just his bed with him in it, alone in an empty, black room. He went to stand up, noticing with distaste that he was naked. What was going on? Disoriented and on high alert, he wrapped a sheet around himself and stepped forward, using his arm as a guide. He walked the perimeter of the square room. He was trapped.

What the hell was going on? John didn't know. It was a room - a locked room. "Hello?" his voice echoed, the silver sound waves dancing about the room at the edges of his peripheral vision. Cautiously he settled himself into a corner. Something was wrong. A nightmare. The room vanished. He was in army fatigues - crouched by a mound of sand. Watching his target, waiting for the moment that his finger would cover the trigger and send off the fatal shot.

"John?" he glanced over, and froze. Sherlock was next to him. Dream Sherlock, John told himself forcefully. Not Sherlock, but Sherlock all the same. His posh shirts, the ironed trousers, the custom shoes, the messy curly hair. He peered at John's target, eyes curious.

"Get down, you git," John hissed, removing his finger from the trigger in order to tug down all six-odd foot of crazy roommate.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, nonchalant as he crouched down next to John. "This is a dream, after all. I can't be hurt. You can't be hurt. She can't be hurt." He nodded his head towards a woman sitting on John's other side.

"Hello, John." John's blood ran cold at the sound, the voice familiar and deadly all at once. Angelie. Why was she in the same dream as Sherlock? The desert vanished, only to be replaced again by the empty black room. This time there was a single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, illuminating the darkness to reveal Sherlock perched on the bed, watching John on the floor in front of him. Angelie stared coldly at the pair of them, her hands held loosely by her side. John froze. It was the same - the same as the first nightmare he'd had after coming to Asylum. The same location. But Sherlock was there this time. John frowned, creating furrows in his forehead. What was going on? He attempted to force his mind into compliance, into making sense of the situation, but it stuttered and failed. Mirthful lines creased about Angelie's brown eyes as she laughed at him, he knew. That much wasn't new.

She leaned forward and jabbed a perfectly manicured fingernail into a scar decorating John's ribs, smirking as he flinched. While most of the bruises had healed, the scars were still tender, and she knew it. The dream-her, anyway. She knew everything. "Glad to see you haven't changed," she taunted. She slapped him this time, and John's head reeled back, losing his balance and ending up on the floor. It got worse when he realized he was naked. He stayed silent. Silence was the only way to take what she threw at him. The smiles, the shouts, the slaps, a writhing mass of contradictions.

"Leave him alone." Sherlock's voice rang out behind him. He stood and calmly walked in front of John, standing between him and the blond-haired woman. Angelie laughed, cold and mocking.

"Make me. You're just as useless as he is," she sneered, a brutal contrast to Sherlock's elegant scowl. "Pathetic. You can't even kill yourself properly." She noticed John's wide-eyed reaction and rolled her eyes. "Obviously part of you noticed, John, if I can torment you with it in a dream. Yes, your brilliant, mad flatmate - how do you think he got all of those scars?"

Sherlock said nothing, standing in front of John, steady on his feet. John's mind was reeling, attempting to process the information. Sherlock - Sherlock had tried to kill himself. The beautiful, broken man. John's heart ached for him. "Leave him alone," Sherlock repeated. John could barely see his face from where he was sitting, yet what he saw chilled him to the bone. Sherlock's eyes were cold, no sign of the fragile man that John saw on occasion. Sherlock's quiet hesitation and flinches were gone, replaced by something as hard and inflexible as steel.

Something glistened in Angelie's hand and John tensed, terror freezing him to the spot. She raised her hand and settled the gun against Sherlock's alabaster forehead. "Make me," she said clearly, her face cruel with its sharp angles as she smiled cruelly at Sherlock.

"I will," Sherlock answered, ethereal, so beautiful John could barely stand to look at him. He closed his eyes. John fought to break the fear that paralysed him, that kept him from telling Sherlock how stupid of an idea this was. Although he knew it was a dream, that nothing would actually happen to Sherlock, he couldn't bear to see the man hurt. The amazing, fantastic, insane man that shared his flat. He couldn't go. His mind stuttered and stopped. He heard a bang and watched Sherlock's body fall over, bonelessly crashing onto the floor. Angelie's cruel grin flashed through John's mind. Sherlock's eyes stared, empty, at the ceiling, no life in them. John screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

He woke up, on the floor, his throat dry as a desert, his voice hoarse, the screams lessened only by the limits of tormented vocal chords. Covering his eyes with an untangled arm he sobbed brokenly, breath lurching as he tried to breathe in enough air, tears streaming down his cheeks for reasons he didn't fully understand. His past. His future. His present. All of it, pain. There was a soft noise not far from him and he lifted his arm, opening an eye to see Sherlock watching him, his face blank. There was something warm about his expression, something John had not seen before. In his hand was a tissue box. He sat it down not far from John, cautiously quiet, offering nothing more than his silent companionship. John drank in his whole image, revelling in the lack of any bumps or marks that indicated damage to his face. He was safe. He was alive. Angelie wasn't there - she didn't have a gun. They were safe. Finally the tears subsided.

John sat quietly with Sherlock not far from him. Both men were silent as John fought to get his emotions under control. Finally his breath slowed and he inhaled and exhaled easily. Sherlock's eyes were a kaleidoscope of emotion, bits flashing in and out. It fascinated John. Sherlock offered a hint of a smile, a twitch of the corner of his lips as he stood up and moved away, leaving John to sit there by himself. John watched him walk back over to his side of the room, sitting down cross-legged on the bed with long fingers steepled under his chin. He had no idea what went on in Sherlock's mind. The man talked rarely, and when he did it was often ramblings or rants about his various experiments. John listened with enthusiasm, offering an 'amazing!' or 'brilliant!' when required. He enjoyed it, in a way. He learned something new every time. Sighing, John straightened his legs out of the twined sheets. He didn't want a full disclosure, just a hint about what went on in his mind. He had a feeling that Sherlock was terrible at anything to do with feelings.

Sherlock got up from the bed and walked over to the kitchen, checking a few of his experiments. Restlessly he walked over to where his violin was sitting, shooting a quick glance at the clock that John noted said four AM. "You should sleep," Sherlock murmured. He glanced at John and then away, as if he couldn't bear to look at him. John studied Sherlock's quiet face for a few moments, then nodded, slowly standing up. As was usual after one of his nightmares he had to fetch spare sheets from their supply closet, remaking his bed with its normal, military-neat corners. Smoothing the sheet out unconsciously he crawled under the covers, watching Sherlock out of the corner of his eyes.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock lifted the bow to the bridge of the violin and began to play. John didn't know what it was, but whatever it was, he liked it. It was some sort of lullaby, he thought, fighting to keep his eyes open so he could listen. As much as he fought, he couldn't keep them open much longer, and slowly John felt his body relax.

Morning came. It was a quiet one, the rays of the sun dancing through the open window and lighting up the middle of the room. John laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was just another day. He sighed, not wanting to get up and face it. He glanced over, startled to see Sherlock still in bed, his body lax. Glancing at the time, he frowned - it wasn't like Sherlock to still be in bed. It was unlike Sherlock to be in bed at all. John looked closer, narrowing his eyes. He waited for Sherlock to breathe. And waited.

He was horrified to discover that Sherlock was barely breathing, his respirations far too slow. Jumping out of bed, he ran over, automatically feeling for a pulse and relieved to find a thready, barely-there one. It was better than nothing. He grabbed his barely-used mobile off the nightstand and jammed it to his ear, dialing the emergency service that Asylum provided. They had their own standalone hospital and he hoped it would be enough. A narcotic overdose? Sherlock moaned nonsensically as John shook him, attempting to get some response. John pried open an eyelid to see that his pupils were blown (not reacting to light) and his heart sank. He shuffled a hand desperately through Sherlock's bedside drawer and was horrified to find an empty vial of dilaudid and a depressed, needleless syringe next to it. The needle had been twisted off. Narcotic overdose, then. He checked the dosage that had been drawn up in the syringe and the contents of the vial.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was frantic. He shook the curly-haired man, still unable to get anything other than a vague moan out of him. He couldn't lose him. Sherlock was his friend, the only one he had. They needed each other. He needed him around - to leave fingers in the microwave, to leave toenails in the freezer. Someone John could look after. "Damn you," he choked out, aware tears were starting to roll down his cheeks.

"Dr. Watson?" Someone in medic's clothing came over.

"Probable narcotic overdose. Looks like a vial of dilaudid. Thinking intentional. Past history of suicide attempts, although nothing drug-related that I know of. Narcan should pull him around, but I don't know how long he's been down and his pupils are blown. Not more than four hours as he was alive and well at 4:30am," John rattled off automatically, backing away. "I'm coming with." John shoved his feet into his boots, grabbing his coat as he followed the paramedics out towards the ambulance. He watched stoically as they bagged and then intubated Sherlock when he stopped breathing, maintaining his airway. John's heart faltered in his chest, and only the sheer force of his will kept it beating. Why had this happened? Had John done something? Sherlock had given off none of the normal warning signs - but who was John kidding, this was Sherlock. Even if he had, was John around to witness them? Sherlock was gone the majority of the day. He shuddered.

The ride to the hospital was quiet, on John's part. The paramedics talked quietly to each other, monitoring Sherlock with a quiet competence. Despite that John kept a close eye on the monitors and on Sherlock's condition. John's medical training had taught him something about overdoses and working at an A&E for a while had taught him even more. He just wished he had more information, such as when had Sherlock taken the dilaudid? That kind of information was vital to knowing whether or not Sherlock would be okay. The dilated pupils were another contradictory sign - was it an indicator of brain damage, or was Sherlock instead extremely high?

They were quietly taken to a private ICU room, the medics leaving John alone with Sherlock. He stood there, watching the pale man breathe with mechanical assistance, taking in the ventilator and the beeps and chirps that indicated that Sherlock was alive and functioning. The nurses came in and momentarily removed him from the room. John went without protest, knowing they had tests to do, tubes to insert - catheters and other things John was certain Sherlock would protest about the moment he was awake. The thought quirked a smile on the corner of his lips, a smile that was quickly stilled. He would wake up, he would.

What was he to Sherlock? The thought unsettled him, and he shifted his weight onto his good leg. Sherlock was his friend. That was for certain. At least on John's side. What went on in Sherlock's mind the majority of the time, however, was still a complete mystery. John had a feeling that Sherlock shared very little with anyone. While he had no idea how Sherlock had grown up, he could make an educated guess. Both Sherlock and Mycroft had left clues that John could grasp onto.

"You can go back in now, Dr. Watson." The tallest nurse jolted him out of his thoughts and the one he guessed was in charge looked him over. John shrugged, aware of what an image he made. He was dressed in tattered pyjamas, feet shoved roughly into unlaced army boots. They hadn't tried to kick him out and for that he was grateful. Mycroft's influence, probably. He had pulled an armchair over to Sherlock's bed and sunk down into it, watching Sherlock sleep. There was a knock on the glass door and he looked up to see Mycroft standing in the doorway.

"How is he?" The pale blue eyes were oddly fragile as they took in John sitting at Sherlock's bedside. John shrugged, shifting unconsciously closer to Sherlock's pale form.

"No change," he answered quietly. "There was a vial of dilaudid next to his bed. I'm guessing that's what he took. The residue in the syringe - looks like he took the entire thing at once." John looked from Mycroft back to Sherlock's still form, pain visible in his eyes. "I don't know why." He mused over the last conversation he had had with Mycroft, where he swore to give no information. This - this was different. It was likely Mycroft already had the information, or he would shortly gather it from a conversation with the nurses. When it came to Sherlock's health, to getting him back, John would do whatever it took.

"My brother is a very damaged man, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, his voice betraying a hint of emotion for the first time since John had met him. Well, non-threatening emotion, John amended. He had gotten quite familiar with Mycroft's threatening tone the night they'd met. John nodded his head in acknowledgement, slowly reaching out and covering one of Sherlock's pale hands with his steady, warm one. It was cold. Too cold. He wasn't sure why the gesture felt right - it just did. The contact was as startling to John as it would have been to Sherlock had he been awake.

Ignoring Mycroft, John sank down into his own thoughts, thumb caressing Sherlock's pale hand as he wandered the tunnels of his own mind. He had done a lot of thinking, the month he had been at Asylum. Had it just been a month? The notion surprised him. It had felt like far longer. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth. Staying at Asylum had helped him think through several things. The relationship with Angelie had been wrong - he accepted that. He accepted that it wasn't healthy. That it was wrong. His therapists thought he'd made excellent progress.

John frowned down at the hand caressing Sherlock's. Progress. There were so many connotations to it, so many different meanings that mingled together. John was still hesitant to classify what had happened as abuse. The situation had been dysfunctional, at the very least. A mockery of a real relationship. John understood far better what had happened between them and why, but the stigma of being a male 'victim' of domestic violence was something John preferred to avoid. Part of his reaction to her behavior was his military past. He felt like he deserved it, somehow. The more rational part of him knew he didn't.

Everyone got irrational at times. Even Sherlock. Staring briefly, pointedly at the bed as evidence, John exhaled slowly, controlling his emotions. At least he had been there. At least he had known Sherlock well enough to know that the man staying in bed the way he had was extremely unusual. His emergency medical skills, unused the past several months, came to forefront and he had been coherent enough to find the cause of Sherlock's comatose-like state. A chill ran through him briefly before he shoved the thoughts out of his mind. Sherlock had not engineered this. He couldn't have. He couldn't be testing John - could he? The other option was a purposeful overdose. Angelie's words from the dream floated through his mind, joining the venemous little voice nagging him from the back of his head.

The near-silent nagging continued on and off for the hours John sat there in silence. Mycroft sat near the entrance to the room, absorbed in his mobile. He was doing whatever he did as a job, John presumed. A nurse came in every hour to check on Sherlock, to report that there were positive signs. His pupils were returning to normal, and his brain waves seemed to be resuming their normal configuration. Whatever was normal for Sherlock Holmes, anyway.

Trust, John reminded himself ferociously. Sherlock was sick. He'd been lashing out at himself, at the world. John traced a finger up the naked inside of Sherlock's pale arm. He hadn't tried to stare too much at the marks decorating the inside of his forearm - it was an invasion of Sherlock's privacy. Sherlock could tell him about the marks when he felt like it. John could wait - he could wait forever, if he had to. He trusted Sherlock.

A low moan from the bed drew his attention away from the marks on Sherlock's arm and turned it towards the man himself. "I think he's waking up." John was surprised at how hoarse his voice was. He had been sitting his vigil in utter silence - he doubted he'd spoken the whole day he'd been waiting, lost in thought the entire time. The mobile disappeared from Mycroft's hand and he was immediately standing at the other side of his brother's bed.

Mycroft must have hit the button that summoned a nurse, as one walked the room, bumping Mycroft out of her way and flashing a penlight to test Sherlock's pupils, John noting with satisfaction as they contracted normally in response to the light. She rapidly removed the tube from his mouth, allowing Sherlock to breathe normally without the mechanical assistance provided by the ventilator. "He should be awake any second," she said quietly. John's hand tightened on Sherlock's briefly, his thumb still caressing the pale skin out of what now had became habit. He was waking up. He'd be okay. Sherlock would be okay. The words were a mantra through John's mind. He felt the tension grow. Despite wanting to relax, he knew too many junkies who woke up with brain damage to be able to relax completely. There was also the matter of his motivation. John couldn't bear to think that he had caused this.

Slowly Sherlock's long eyelashes fluttered open, and John watched with relief as the stormy blue eyes focused on his face. John smiled at his friend, relief coursing through his body. "I knew you'd stay," Sherlock croaked, his voice hoarse from the tube down his throat. John froze.