The door slammed shut with a window rattling clamor, "Mrs. Hudson!" The deep baritone rang out followed by fast lithe steps on the staircase and the billow of a coat as Sherlock Holmes swept into the flat like a winters storm.

Not even bothering to look in John's direction the man spun himself out of his coat, "Well, that was pointless and tedious. I really have to question how normal people even manage to feed themselves. Does the constabulary like to make my life miserable by offering me these dull games to play? A five year old could have figured out the…" the detective paused almost imperceptibly as he hung his coat over the hook on the back of the door. "…clues."

Sherlock reached out to unnecessarily smooth his favorite piece of clothing. "You've had a bad day at the hospital," he offered without turning.

John sat still as a statue. He'd had almost an hour to think it through. Was he still mad as a wet cat? Oh yes. Still murderous? No. Being anything less than completely rational would not serve him in this. Sherlock would have to be made to understand and it wasn't going to be easy. "Mmm," he acknowledged. "Yes, a very bad day."

Sherlock nodded and turned, "Been waiting for take-away too. What are you in the mood for?"

The detective's eyes didn't quite meet his own. It was very subtle. But John was good at reading Sherlock. He already knew he'd been found out. Of course he did, this was Sherlock Holmes. In the end, maybe it just made it easier, no fumbling for words.

John leaned over and took a pen and pad from the side table next to him. "I'm good with Chinese." He poised the pen to paper, "I need dosage and the frequency of administration."

"Excuse me?" The detective shoved his hands in his pants pockets. He really could feign guileless quite well when he tried.

John's eyes cut up to Sherlock's face, "You heard me. If I'm going to recommend a proper treatment schedule I need to know what I'm dealing with… but I've pretty much already decided to cut your dosage by half out of the gate, so it probably won't be pleasant regardless. Dosage?"

"Really John, I'm sure…"

"Don't. Just don't. You're busted, plain and simple. It was a stunningly crafted plan, really. A perfect Sherlockian masterpiece but in the end you can't control every variable, all the time. Shit happens. So…" he wiggled his pen over the notepad.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. His lips pursed tight.

Yeah, this was going to go as well as he thought it was, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"This will go a lot faster if you stop dancing. You know I'm your friend and that I will do everything I can to make this as easy on you as possible. I'm only trying to help." There, that was reasonable and tactful.

"I don't recall asking you for any help," Sherlock snapped back.

"Maybe not, but you obviously need it." Ok, so maybe not as tactful but it needed to be said. The man was a great bloody idiot at times.

"Is that so?" Sherlock drew out the syllables in a disdainful hiss.

John's took a slow breath. Patience. "Sherlock, you have a problem and you know you have a problem. So let's just address it and move on."

"It's not a problem." Sherlock swept across the room and grabbed his violin. He began plucking idly at the strings.

Deep breaths. "So Inspector Lestrade never found you half dead from an overdose once? Because I would say that's a problem."

"That was five years ago and has nothing to do with this." Plink. Plink. Plink.

"I don't know why I'm explaining this to you." John shook his head. He already had a headache.

Sherlock's icy gaze locked on his own, "Frankly, neither do I."

John stood slowly, his hands clenched at his sides. "All right, then let's not talk about you, let's talk about me. You are my friend, my family, and I'm not about to stand around and do nothing when you're putting yourself in danger... rather it's on a case or because you're being a self-destructive idiot. You're injecting narcotics into your nicotine patches to get high and I'm not willing to stand idly by while you do that to yourself."

The ice in Sherlock's expression cracked slightly as he answered, "I'm not doing it to get high. I'm doing it to stay sane."

John's anger fell away with a sigh. His hands relaxed at his sides. "Sherlock, there has to be a way to control your mood swings without resorting to this. A proper medical diagnosis would help. Things like manic depression or…"

"I already know what I am John, so do you. You just don't like hearing it."

"You're not a sociopath."

"Body parts in the fridge notwithstanding."

"You make it sound like you're the one that killed them. You may have a less than healthy attraction to death and your empathy is just shy of nil but that you're a…"

"Freak?" the detective offered.

"Don't ever say that," he took a step towards the man he called best friend. He didn't know who he was more angry with, the people that said things like that to Sherlock or whoever had made him think that of himself.

"Why not? It's accurate enough." He sounded genuinely curious now, the plinking momentarily forgotten.

"It's not and I don't like that term. It's derogatory. And even if it doesn't bother you, which I'm not so sure about, it bothers me. A lot."

"Oh John, you're not still holding out some ridiculous hope that I can become some kind of force for good in the world are you? Because it's just not going to happen. I know you don't want to hear this but I simply don't have the emotional capacity. I have my own reasons for doing what I do but they will never be altruistic."

"Fair enough. But this isn't about labels it's about your health, physical and mental. You're self- medicating and that's dangerous. If you want me to act as your physician in this I will. But the first thing we need to do is get you off the narcotics and then we can decide the best course of treatment."

An echo of sadness played across Sherlock's features and then was gone. "I thought you were different," his voice so small it was almost a whisper. He nodded and a frost seemed to settle in his artic eyes. . "So you want me to change then."

"Change? I want you to stop doing illicit drugs. What kind of change are you talking about?"

"Oh, I don't know. Everything," his voice had taken on a hard, flip edge. "You're too abrasive, be nicer Sherlock, can't you try to make friends Sherlock, I know you could feel something if you tried Sherlock, why can't you be like everyone else Sherlock. Just throw away everything you are so that you can become like all the rest isn't that what you're asking of me, John!"

"No! No, it's certainly not. I would no more want you to change than… well, there are a couple of things I wouldn't mind, like would it kill you to buy milk or cereal once in a while? I mean seriously… it's called compromise, Sherlock. People do it every day of their lives. It allows us to live and work together without killing each other. It doesn't mean you have to change who you fundamentally are."

"In my case, it rather does."

"You listen to me Sherlock Holmes, the world would be a sadder place without the likes of you. Just as you are. This isn't about changing who you are… but if this is just some technique to try and dissuade me it's not going to work. The drugs have to stop."

"No."

"No? Just like that? You're not even willing to compromise for the sake of your health and safety?" John was exasperated. Why couldn't the man just understand?

"It's for my health and everyone's safety that I occasionally avail myself of pharmacology. You know my mind won't shut down, not ever. I have to keep the boredom at bay. And I need to sleep sometimes."

"I understand that, so let me help. Let me find an alternative that everyone can live with."

"Not necessary. I fail to see how it's anyone else business. I'm perfectly able to handle my own needs. And might I remind you, if you hadn't fallen victim to your own need you wouldn't even be aware that I was medicating. You're starting to sound alarmingly like my brother." He turned and stalked off to the kitchen.

"Insulting me won't work either," John trailed after him. "And just because I never found anything before doesn't mean that I wasn't aware. I just couldn't prove it. Let's try and remember that I'm a doctor and I do notice things like dilated eyes or shaking hands. Not all reactions are controllable. You are still human no matter how much you like to deny it."

"Well, we are at an impasse in this discussion because I have no intention of changing my routine," he dismissed. Sherlock pulled up a chair and started fiddling with the microscope set up on the kitchen table.

"Then yes we are, because I told you I won't stand by and watch you self-destruct."

"Ok, well now that we have that settled make sure you order extra pot-stickers. I feel peckish after all." The detective eyed the specimen slide making a little hm noise.

John scrubbed a hand over his face. He didn't want to do this but the recalcitrant man before him wasn't leaving him any choice. "No, I don't think I'll be staying for dinner."

"You're not staying? But you're the one that's hungry." Sherlock finally deigned to look up, "Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving," the statement sad but resolute.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, we've already established that but where are you going?"

"I'll go stay with Sarah for a couple of nights. I'm sure she won't mind." He could see the gears turning at a breakneck speed in that brilliant mind and yet Sherlock still hadn't grasped the obvious. As far as he was concerned the previous topic was closed.

"You just had sex two days ago. Can't you wait…"

"No! No, no, just stop." John put up his hands. How did he get into these conversations? "This isn't about sex."

Sherlock just continued to stare at him, confusion evident on his face.

"As long as you continue to use narcotics I can't be here. I won't." John turned away. He really didn't want to look into those pale blue eyes anymore. "If you don't mind I'll leave my things here for a few days? Just until I can find somewhere else."

"You won't find anywhere else."

"Excuse me?"

"You told Mike Stamford that no one would want to share a flat with you given your issues. I can't imagine that has changed in the year that you have been living here with me. In fact, I would go so far as to say that you would be a worse flatmate now as your habits now coincide more with mine. Even the most masochistic of personalities wouldn't last more than two point four weeks in your company."

"Thanks a lot," he offered drily. "But I think you're projecting. That's the longest any of your other roomies lasted."

"Irrelevant. This is your home. This is where you are flourishing. To leave over a simple difference of opinion is foolish."

"Simple difference of opinion? Did we just have the same conversation? Are you…" John took a deep breath. "Listen to me very carefully Sherlock. I am moving out. Do you understand? I care about you too much to ignore what you're doing to yourself. You won't stop and you won't let me help you. This is not what I want but you leave me no choice. I'm sorry."