(( Can I just say that I really love mentallyfragile!Sherlock? I do. I hope you guys like this chapter. I'll be heading off tomorrow, and I'll be gone for two weeks. No guarantee on if I'll be able to post anything or not. Either way, leave a review if you want!))

"I'm not done, Lestrade." Sherlock looked up at the grey-haired Inspector. Greg had inclined a finger towards him – clearly an indication for him to get out of the interrogation room. His expression was somber and resolute. As Sherlock remained stubborn, Lestrade's expression didn't change. He only let out a small sigh.

"Look, Sherlock." Oh, there it bloody was. The 'concerned father' voice. It made Sherlock's nostrils flare. He kept his voice quiet, as if John wasn't listening to everything that he was saying. "Nobody's happy with how this turned out, but you can't pitch a fuss about it. Now, if you don't come out, I'm going to have to arrest you for obstruction of justice. I'm sorry, but-"

Everyone in the room knew what Sherlock was going to do next. Sherlock had smoothed his pyjama trousers, leaned back in his chair, and put his feet on the table. His eyes were narrowed at Greg. For all the world, he looked like a slightly rebellious teenager. He opened his eyes, ready to give the word for Greg to arrest him. After all, he wasn't done here.

Sherlock didn't expect John.

John had reached over the table with the kindest look in his eyes. His hand settled on Sherlock's shoulder and he looked at him intently for a few seconds, as if he was judging what he was going to say. Sherlock stared wordlessly at his friend, and for a second, Lestrade could have been a dozen miles away.

It wasn't a romantic gesture in the slightest. No, if Sherlock could have put words to it, he would have termed it a sentimental gesture. The look they shared was one between two people who completely understood one another, and who, despite knowing the other's faults, failures, and fallacies, still loved one another. Or, at least, that was what it was in Sherlock's mind. For all Sherlock knew, John was wondering why on Earth Sherlock was staring at him with such intensity.

He supposed this strange closeness had all came about after the Fall. The Fall, of course, had been the one single gesture that Sherlock loved people. Not just cared, no, but properly loved people. And loved John most of all. John knew it, deep down, but Sherlock would never admit it. Sherlock had seen John after the Fall, and was surprised by how much John had grieved over him. Sherlock had never been missed before. Perhaps people missed his intellect, or missed his sarcasm, but never him. So Sherlock had resolved never to hurt John again, just as John had resolved never to drive Sherlock to that point again.

Sometimes, it still felt as if it were he and John against the world. In some ways, it was.

"Sherlock." John told him, his voice the same pitch as Lestrade's was. "It's not worth it. You getting locked up. Just go off."

Sherlock didn't argue. John, of course, brought a startling clarity to Sherlock's life. Sometimes, Sherlock felt as if he weren't living in reality, but of a drama of his own creation. That there were no consequences, because soon, the credits would roll. John reminded him that consequences happened.

"Uh, Sherlock?" It was Greg's voice, breaking the contact John and Sherlock had shared. "Sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to go. John needs to be interrogated by a proper-"

Sherlock stood up with such a force that the chair was knocked over. Such a display of drama even made John snort. Pushing past Lestrade's shoulder, Sherlock headed out from the Yard. Much to his dismay, it had started to rain. That ruined any chance Sherlock had of heading back to the crime scene. Soon, Sherlock's pyjamas were soaked through. He went home.

At home, Sherlock had resurrected the case board. A giant pin-up board was placed on the top of the fireplace. Pictures were printed out and placed on the board. He had taken a photo of John and pinned it up there, as well as computer records of his military service, doctoral service, and various other achievements John had made. On the other side were pictures of the victim, pictures of his fiancé, and pictures of his own achievements. Sherlock had put it up and stared.

The retreat into his Mind Palace had occurred when Sherlock felt backed into a wall. Nine theories. Revenge, PTSD, Romantic Betrayal, Hired Job, Partial Credit, Previous Interaction with the Crime Scene, Drugged and Brought to the Crime Scene, Innocent Bystander, Knew Beforehand. They all swirled about in his head and Sherlock felt like he was drowning in his own mind. It was too much to handle at once. And he couldn't even go back to the damn crime scene to check.

Very well. Had to eliminate them one by one, then. Sherlock mentally discarded Previous Interaction with Crime Scene. The body was fresh, the marks were even fresher, and there was no way a murder had occurred there days before. It was too much of a coincidence. That left eight.

Partial Credit was eliminated next. There were only two pairs of footprints, and the alley was narrow. If John had committed this with another person, then that person would have been there. Unless the other murderer had walked in John's footsteps, literally, then John would have been there. Alone. That left seven.

Romantic Betrayal was the next. He had to search heavily in his Mind Palace for that one, but he couldn't remember John having a girlfriend recently. Certainly not one that would have made him lash out in such a brutal manner. Besides, and he received a decent amount of pride from saying it, John cared far more about Sherlock than any of his twittery little girlfriends, and wouldn't kill because of them. Six.

Revenge was blasted from a similar vein. John was not one to get jealous, or competitive. He seemed thoroughly contented with his lot in life – or rather, he didn't want to do anything about it. For that, Sherlock was pleased. Only one ambitious sociopath per household. Besides, John didn't care enough about his job to kill for it. That didn't mean he wasn't passionate about the subject – oh, no, John was a doctor to his very soul. But he had left his job enough times for Sherlock's silly whims. Five.
John's PTSD had never brought out violent tendencies in him. He had yelled, yes, sometimes he screamed fit to wake the dead. And, of course, there'd been that one night where he had sat up in his bed and yelled out Colonel Moran, get down! at Sherlock. Beyond that, though, Sherlock didn't see it as dangerous. Sometimes he twitched at loud clatters, but he had always had full control of his conscious. Besides, his symptoms manifested themselves while he was unconscious. So unless John had woken up in his sleep and had maneuvered his way across London, all the while in a flashback, Sherlock struck that off. Four.

Was John an innocent bystander? Sherlock sincerely doubted it. One, John would never have been there at that time. The murder had been placed at late in the evening, and John would have been home from work. Was supposed to be home, anyway. Either way, he had no good reason to be where the murder was, unless he was doing something illegitimate. And, Sherlock reasoned further, if he had been doing something illegal, would he have stopped to investigate a murder? Doubtful. Three.

From there, Sherlock was done. He stepped away from the board and looked over all his theories. Nine index cards had been tacked up on the board, and six had been ripped away. They littered at his feet, as if mocking him. Three left and Sherlock couldn't eliminate any further. He needed to talk to someone. His skull wouldn't do it, Mrs. Hudson was asleep, Lestrade wouldn't pay attention, hell no to his brother. Sherlock could feel his hands start to shake, and with one angry yell, he slapped his hand across the board. It came loose from its bearings and fell against the floor. The entire flat wobbled for a second, as if afraid of the detective.

Not good.

Hired Job, Knew Beforehand, Drugged and Brought to Crime Scene.

Hired Job Knew Beforehand Drugged and Brought to Crime Scene

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Sherlock's mind was eating away at himself. He flung himself from his Mind Palace, but had only delivered himself in the shadow of John's tower. It hung over him, and for a second, Sherlock felt the worst emotion that a detective, a sociopath, a human could ever feel.

Doubt.

Perhaps Sherlock had been wrong to place his trust in John for all these years. Perhaps John hadn't been entirely on his side. Perhaps John had been laughing at him, all these years. Perhaps John really was Moriarty. Perhaps every murder that Sherlock had investigated had been orchestrated by John, who had just sat back on his heels and laughed when he thought Sherlock couldn't see. Perhaps-

Now paranoia was being added to the fuel, and Sherlock knew that he was shaking.

He needed a hit.

It wasn't an entirely new thought. Every time Sherlock felt his mind start to do this, he felt like he needed the drug. Everything became clear with that in hand. Because, oh, this doubt was going to kill him. Sherlock Holmes's worst fear was being exposed as a sentimental fool, and now, he became dangerously close to having that realized.

It was stupid, he told himself. He had one theory where John was guilty. He had two where he was completely innocent. And yet, that one theory frightened Sherlock more than any gun, knife, or needle ever did. Then again, that theory also shattered everything that Sherlock knew.

Oh, no. No no no no no. He needed a hit. He couldn't progress without a hit.

Or an assistant.

That thought hit him harshly, and Sherlock's shoulders fell. Perhaps John was a murderer. Perhaps John was everything that Sherlock was against. However, John would also be an assistant, and something that Sherlock very much needed. Besides, the back of Sherlock's mind told him, if John was a murderer, then he would fight to keep Sherlock thinking he was innocent as long as possible. That entailed being a good little assistant.

There was just the tiny little dilemma of getting John out of the obvious overnight cell they were holding him in.

When he said 'tiny little dilemma', it wasn't sarcasm. Sherlock wasn't unduly worried by that fact. In fact, as he looked at the clock (bordering on five AM, now), he felt just a tad bit energized. Something for his mind to chew on, while the real problem simmered on the stove.

Clothes did make the man. Sherlock had changed into something a bit more befitting a detective, and had gathered a few articles together to help him. John wouldn't approve of this, not by a long shot. Then again, if it came between scouting out his old drug dealer or finding John, Sherlock was fairly confident as to what choice John would make.

With everything gathered, Sherlock hired a cab. He didn't worry about his movements being tracked in the slightest. Soon, he was nearly waltzing up to the Yard. Lestrade would have been home at this point – even he usually got home before the sun rose. A few of the graveyard shifters were still there, unfortunately enough, but too weary and too exhausted to notice Sherlock Holmes slinking through the Yard.

"John?" Sherlock whispered as he approached the holding cells, running his gloved fingers along the bars. A few of the overnight drunken blokes made soft groans. John's head shot up immediately, and his voice was chiding.

"Sherlock? What the hell are you doing here?" John got up and moved his way to the front. Getting to his knees, he stared at Sherlock with a groggy, angry expression. "You're not doing this. No. Sherlock, I swear to God-"

"It's a danger night. " Sherlock whispered quickly and without a trace of humor. His fingers found the lockpicks and he began to make swift work of the lock. "It was either find my assistant again or find my drug dealer, and you'll permit me if I'm actually rather keen on keeping my sobriety."

John was silent. For a few seconds, the only thing that remained was the occasional click from Sherlock's tools. When he spoke again, it was a small attempt at humor, but his voice remained too deadpan for it to come off as such. "You know how much I bleeding hate you sometimes, yeah?"

Sherlock didn't know how to respond to that. Part of him wanted to joke with John, but another large part of him couldn't. The debilitating doubt was beginning to overwhelm him again – was he breaking out his friend, or a murderer? Or both? If a murderer, how long would John carry on the charade of being his friend? If a friend, how long before John realized Sherlock's doubt and would feel hurt?

The cell door swung open with a click. John stepped out. "We should be getting out of here, then. Are you…okay?"

Sherlock nodded wordlessly. His hands snapped out to grab John's shoulders, and to move down his arms. John managed out a muffled 'What are you doing?!' before Sherlock had turned away and marched out.

When they were sitting in the flat again, John was awkwardly leaning against their sofa. Sherlock was pacing back and forth, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. John raised a finger. "Uh, can you remind again why I'm now running away from the law?"

"Assistant." Sherlock hissed, whipping around and facing him. One finger was pointed towards John. An accusatory finger. "Your story. Now."