Chapter 2.

Sherlock gazed out of the window, he didn't know for how long or whether he had even, in fact breathed since his last moment of surfacing.

The only thing he knew was that a significant amount of time had passed before he became aware of the steady drone of the television of which john had just turned on, he zoned slightly in to the sound of the television, National Geographic, excellent, at least this was not one of the usually programmes john would waste his time listening to.

John had carefully chosen this channel, he knew it would spark Sherlock's interest, as little as Sherlock would actually care to admit it. The truth was that, john was very worried about Sherlock, he spent even more of his time alone now days, and he spoke only to correct the radio or perhaps Mrs Hudson every now and then. He never ate, and as far as john was aware he didn't sleep, for john regularly came down in the morning to see Sherlock in the same window seat he had been in the night before, perched on the ends of his toes just staring at the miserable street below, he never went out and he never took up any cases. This was perhaps the most worrying thing of all. What a world he must live in, inside that funny little mind of his john frequently thought, although such a hope of ever entering this world for even such a moment was an infinite impossibility.

Sherlock got himself out of the window seat and walked into the kitchen, John followed, thinking of attempting to engage with the detective.

John tried to catch Sherlock's eye, as the low and steady voice of David Attenborough continued in the background.

'Sherlock will you look at me please', John had said sternly, the half-heartedness of Sherlock's attitude to any attempt of conversation, though not particularly enthralling, was begging in to bug him.

Sherlock grunted, still not looking up.

John spoke again, more irritated this time. 'I said, will you look at me when I'm talking to you! Jesus Christ Sherlock after everything you have put me through, have a bit of respect won't you, at the very least!'.

This was when something much unexpected happened.

Sherlock looked up, directly at john, for perhaps the first time since his return, he looked him straight in his face. John stared back expecting a look of anguish and fury in Sherlock's eyes, but what he saw back was, was shocking to say the least.

The look of utter loss in Sherlock's eyes gripped john like an iron hook, he looked away almost instantly, and Sherlock shrugged, breaking free of his trance in complete silence and turned his back to john. Trying his best to appear busy with the kettle. John looked down and pretended to check his phone, this moment that had just occured chugging away in his mind.

John didn't know how long they kept this deathly silence, but suddenly john became aware of the fact Sherlock was trembling, john looked at Sherlock's back, while Sherlock continued to fill pointless mugs with tea bags.

'Sherlock?' John spoke quietly, not sure what to expect next.

There was no reply.

Sherlock rounded the kitchen counter to have a better look at the man of whom stood silently trembling in front of him.

John looked at Sherlock and became suddenly aware of the tears that were pouring down Sherlock's face, rivers of tears ran down his cheeks and his nose, his eyes screwed up, clearly making great effort to be silent.

John stared in complete stunned silence, this emotionless rock of a human was crying, like a child that thought there was no hope left in the world.

John reached out to put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, supposing a sign on comfort.

Sherlock wielded round instantly at the moment of contact, torn Johns arm from his shoulder and sprinted out of the kitchen, without a word, and down the hall, he slammed into the bathroom and John heard the bolt being rammed into the join.

'What the hell what that',

John thought as he dashed down the hall towards the now bolted bathroom door.