Author's Note: Hello everyone and welcome back to my story Are You Feeling Okay?. Sorry for the long wait but this chapter took longer than I thought it would, but I wanted to make it the best it could be! Thank you again for continuing to read my story. It means the world to me that so many people read my work. Enjoy the story!

"Did you make…breakfast?"

Sherlock glanced back at the cooker and noticed the oatmeal was starting to burn. Damn it, he thought as he grabbed the handle of the smoking pot and threw it on the counter.

Sherlock fumbled with the oatmeal, his nose crinkled in disgust, "I was just trying to make you breakfast so you wouldn't have to do it yourself…" he trailed off as his eyes locked with John's. His flatmate's blue eyes shimmered in the little morning light that the clouded sky provided.

He was grinning like a mad man. "I never thought I'd see the day Sherlock Holmes attempted to cook edible food." John started laughing and Sherlock just stared at him with annoyed squinted eyes. He just burned their breakfast; John was being ridiculous.

John contained his laughter by clutching his lips tightly together, "Stop," John said as he playfully shoved Sherlock's shoulder, "Don't be so down about it. So what? You burned some shitty oatmeal." He continued to laugh and Sherlock couldn't help but smile at his flatmate.

John seemed fine like nothing had happened at all. The only evidence that remained were the fading bruises. His eyes were bright and his lips were soft and smooth. Sherlock just wanted to kiss him. He could do it now. Just grab his face and connect their lips together. He could almost feel John's face blush against his own and he could feel his hands in his hair and…

"Sherlock? You there?"

Sherlock was jolted back from his fantasy and violently placed back into reality. The oatmeal was still burnt, the rain was still falling and he still hadn't kissed John, but he sure as hell wasn't going to do that now.

"I was just thinking." Sherlock flicked on the kettle and let the water start to boil as John dumped the burnt oatmeal in the waste can.

"Not surprising. You're always thinking." John settled in at the table and picked up the newspaper Mrs. Hudson had brought in.

Sherlock poured the tea and adjusted the two cups to their own taste. He sat across the table and placed John's mug in front of him.

Sherlock watched John as he drank his tea and read the paper. His face was scrunched as he read the opinion column. Occasionally, he would make a noise of distaste and flip the paper around and continue reading.

They sat in silence and enjoyed the quiet morning. The sun started to rise behind the blanket of grey covering London, but the light rain continued to fall. Sherlock brought his feet up from the floor, placed the soles of his feet in the chair, steepled his hands under his chin, and retreated back into his own head.

He sorted back to the day John went missing. He thought about everything that had happened and tried to find something that would lead to Moriarty. Everything was a mess and he couldn't seem to sort through the pit of information. Instead, he let his head retreat even farther into the abyss. The pool scene filled his head; Sherlock could practically taste the chlorine on the tip of his tongue. Moriarty's words slithered through his mind and he could feel the consulting criminal's breath glaze against his skin. He could feel his body shiver and the hairs on his neck stand up.

Slowly, he progressed further and further back. Back to the days where his head was always soaring. Back to when he had suppressed a violent urge. Back when he lived with the guilt.

Sherlock found himself standing in his brother's apartment, his hair unwashed, his eyes beady from the high, his head swimming in information. He could hear his brother's name leave his mouth and a much younger Mycroft paced down the stairs in confusion. As his brother came closer, Sherlock turned around to a slightly cracked open door. He peered at the inside and a green, open field lay before him. He pushed through the door and saw his younger self and his father standing before a target. His hands were extended and a black gun was pointed out towards the never ending field. He fired the gun and his aim was dead on. Sherlock turned around before he could see what was to happen next. He ran towards the door and dove back into the hallway of his brother's apartment as the bullets ripped through the wood of the door. He could hear the voices softly murmur in his head. They got louder and louder and soon Sherlock could feel himself screaming.

Before he could go any further, Sherlock opened his eyes and returned to reality. He was still sitting in the kitchen, but John had his hands clasped around his face, his eyes wide with worry. He kept repeating his name, but Sherlock shoved him off, confused at what he had just experienced, and leapt for his bathroom.

He slammed the door shut and fumbled with the water faucet, trying to summon the water from inside the pipes.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what are you doing?" There was a long pause and then the doorknob squeaked as John opened the door. "Sherlock, what happened?"

Sherlock could feel his flatmate's nervous energy rolling off of him. He took a deep breath and squeezed the sink, feeling as if he could shatter it with his force. Suddenly, John's hand rested in the middle of Sherlock's back. He tensed at the sensation of his touch and John quickly pulled his hand away.

"Just," Sherlock started to talk but his voice faltered, "Just leave me alone." He tried to soften his voice but the words still seemed aggressive.

"Sherlock, I-", John said before he was cut off.

"John. Please just…leave me alone." Sherlock could feel John hesitate. He could feel the concern and pity in John's voice. After thirty seconds of hesitation, the floorboards shifted as John left the bathroom. He could feel the cold air suffocating him as John's warmness left.

Sherlock had never been "frightened" while he was in his mind palace. Although some of his memories had always haunted him, he never allowed himself to retreat back into those dark places. What was happening to him? Ever since Moriarty had resurfaced, he had no control of what happened in his own head and it scared him. He was scared for himself. He was scared for John. He was scared for anyone that got in the way of Moriarty. He would try again while John was still healing and weak. Sherlock could feel himself panicking. He could feel his heart racing and he could feel his hands shake. Calm down. Calm down, Sherlock. John's soft words ricocheted through his head and suddenly Sherlock's hands weren't shaking and his breath wasn't shallow.

He stood in the front of the sink for a little while longer, refusing to look at himself in the mirror. Sherlock walked out of the bathroom and quickly dressed himself. He paced in his room with his coat swishing behind him before he braved the inevitable confrontation waiting in the lounge.

Sherlock opened his door and peered at John's chair, which was empty. He walked into the kitchen and John wasn't there either. Their flat was oddly quiet.

Instead of dwelling, Sherlock leapt down the stairs of their flat and dashed out into the streets of London. He had to do something and he knew just where to start.

John heard Sherlock leave, but he did nothing to stop the consulting detective from walking out of the flat. Sherlock had made it clear that he didn't want to be bothered. It was eerily quiet and John felt unsettled by the stillness of their flat. The rain had stopped earlier and London seemed to have fallen silent.

John picked up his mobile and started to type a message to Sherlock, "Where did you run off to?", but deleted it instead.

John had never seen Sherlock so rattled. His hands had trembled and he froze up when John touched him. He didn't know what Sherlock had seen in his own head, but if it made him freak out that much it must have taken Sherlock somewhere he had avoided for a long time. Normally Sherlock had a heart of stone, unbreakable and untouchable, but something inside him had snapped.

This was all because of Moriarty. He had done something to Sherlock; made him think about something he didn't want to. He had played with his head and Sherlock couldn't escape. What made it worse was that John couldn't directly help his friend. It was internal and John had no power over Sherlock's own head. It was complicated and raw. It was his hidden side that no one saw. Sherlock wouldn't let anyone access his hard drive, but somehow Moriarty had woven a tight web through it.

But what really bothered John was the fact that Sherlock was hiding something from him. That's what John was really scared of. Not of Moriarty and his network, but whatever Sherlock was hiding. It ran deep and it wasn't pretty.

Instead of running his head in circles, John decided to go downstairs and make a cup of coffee and write something on his blog. The flat smelt of old books and Earl Grey tea and John instantly missed Sherlock. It felt empty without him prancing around the room, shouting accusations, staring off into the distance, Sherlock just being there. John could feel a slight worry crawling in his chest. Images flashed through his head of violence and death, all revolving around Sherlock. He's at the dark house, but instead of being tortured he was watching Sherlock, a knife held to his flatmate's neck slowing slitting his skin.

He pulled out his mobile and opened a new message, Where are you, Sherlock? He was worried about his friend. Sherlock was not in a state to be gallivanting around London. Why hadn't he stopped him when he had the chance? Then John's phone chimed.

Here. –S.H.

All of the sudden, the door clicked open as Sherlock waltzed into the kitchen and set down a paper grocery bag. John peered into the entryway, stunned. Had he imagined everything that happened earlier? Sherlock looked fine. His nose was slightly pink and he had his usual smirk spread over his face that hadn't been there this morning.

"Sherlock? Where did you go?"

His head shot up and he pulled out a gallon of milk from the brown bag, "I got milk."

John's mouth fell slightly open and he could feel his head trying to process what exactly was going on. "You never get milk."

Sherlock shrugged as he opened the fridge and placed the milk inside. He didn't need to say anything for John to quick understand Sherlock's motives. John rolled his eyes, "You really thought buying milk was going to make me forget what happened earlier?!" He had to be kidding, right?

Sherlock's eyes suddenly shifted with his turn of perceivable emotion, going from pleasing and naïve to sharp and cunning. He stopped what he was doing and quickly approached John; he was so tall that John had to tilt his head up to look his friend in the eye or he would be practically staring at the consulting detective's crotch.

John remained speechless as Sherlock's razor sharp eyes devoured his own. He could fell his mouth fall open and a slight heat growing in the pit of his stomach. They stood there for a lot longer than what would have seemed normal, but honestly what was normal in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes?

"That's what I thought," Sherlock said as he took a few hurried steps backwards and swished his coat around him. He brushed by John and retreated back into his room. Once John heard the door close shut, he let out a breath that he had been holding for what seemed like an eternity.

What the hell was that? Sure, Sherlock had acted erratic and menacing before, but never while he wasn't on a case. Everything his flatmate did had a purpose, but that seemed unnecessary. He barged in the flat acting as if everything was fine and then once John confronted him his personality changed. John stood there stunned. He fiddled with his phone for a few minutes, not moving an inch before he sat down in his chair. He opened up a new document and started writing.

It was two in the morning and John couldn't sleep. His chest hurt like hell and he had an awful headache and he was pretty sure he just overdosed on his painkillers. He moved his hands over his chest, feeling his beating heart. His fingers ran over his spider-like scar that spread across his skin. John closed his eyes tightly, blocking the tears from rolling out. He could hear the bullet rip through his flesh and he could feel himself seize up as his body hit the dusty soil. He could hear the echoes of his name rattling through his head. He could feel himself being placed upon a table and he could feel another doctor pulling at his skin. He wanted to scream, but his vocal chords seemed to have been demolished.

Suddenly, John lurched in his bed. His breathing was short and heavy and sweat glistened above his brow. He must have fallen asleep, dammit, why couldn't he stay asleep? John threw himself back into his pillow and shifted himself around his bed trying to find a comfortable position. Just as he settled in, his phone chimed.

You've got to be kidding me, John thought as he grabbed his mobile from his nightstand.

He clicked it on and was instantly showered in a harsh ray of light, Are you still up? –SH

John rolled his eyes, No. Trying, though.

Me too. –SH

John huffed. Sherlock, sleeping? What had the world come to, Sherlock Holmes didn't need sleep; he was a machine made to deduce the world's most sensitive problems in one go.

Oh really? The great Sherlock Holmes is trying to get some shut-eye?

John's phone hadn't chimed for several minutes and he found himself clicking on the screen and checking his inbox even though he knew there would be no new messages.

Can I come up? –SH

John's eyebrows furrowed, Sherlock come up to his room? It was an absurd idea. Why did he want to come up here anyway? It was cold and small; Sherlock had it much better downstairs. Before he could reply back, John's door creaked open and Sherlock stood in the doorway. His eyes were droopy and he looked sad. His hair was sticking out every which way and his night gown was slipping off of his left shoulder. He looked like a little kid.

"What are you doing? I was trying to sleep."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took two steps towards the foot of the bed before he hesitated. A look of uncertainty spread across his face, but before John could say anything, Sherlock climbed into his bed.

"Sherlock, what the hell?! We aren't having a fucking sleepover!" John said as his propped himself up on his elbow.

Sherlock's back was facing John as he uttered, "Language, John."

"Oh shut up." The air in the room suddenly became a lot warmer as John stared at his flatmate in his own bed. His slender frame seemed to sink into his mattress and his dark, curly hair spread across the pillow. Sherlock's breathing was even and deep; he seemed as if he was about to fall asleep. John rolled his eyes, Bastard, as he slowly sunk into his own pillow.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time before he finally rolled over, "Sherlock, what's going on?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock said with sleep laced through his words.

"What's been going on with you? You've been acting strange lately and I don't know why."

Sherlock sat up quickly and whipped around towards John, his eyes sharp like knives. "John, I am not some sort of broken toy you can put together and write about on your blog. There are some things I don't feel a need to share and this just happens to be one of them. For goodness sake's John, you were the one who was tortured but do you see me asking you about that?!" Sherlock shot out of the bed and turned back around to yell at John some more.

"You know what, Sherlock, I was the one who was tortured and it would have been nice to talk to someone, but I guess that's too much to ask of now isn't it?" John slowly walked over to his flatmate, fire still building in his voice. He wanted to punch him in his perfect face. God, he could be so dramatic.

"You're the one who refused to see a therapist! Said you didn't 'need' one and it was 'fine'."

John was fuming now, "I didn't want to talk to a fucking therapist; I wanted to talk to my best friend who was there, who saw what it was like, who understood! That's all I wanted, Sherlock! Was that too much to ask?"

Sherlock's defensive features slowly melted into a look of shock. His grey eyes locked onto John's and his pink lips were slightly parted open. He looked like he wanted to say something, but no words came out of his mouth.

Before any more offensive words were uttered, Sherlock walked out of John's room and quickly fled to his own. John heard the door close behind his flatmate, loud enough to let him know that Sherlock didn't want to be disturbed.

John's room felt empty without Sherlock's loud presence. After a few minutes of wondering if he should go apologize, John decided to just go to sleep. Sherlock Holmes had already caused him enough pain, he didn't need any more rejection.

Sherlock shut the door behind him and sunk onto the floor, his head pressed against the door. My best friend. That's what John had said. Sherlock wasn't supposed to be anyone's best friend, let alone John Watson's. Sherlock put his hands on his face as his guilt riddled itself through his head. He hadn't even realized John may have wanted to talk to him. Of all of the things Sherlock was, he was not someone to talk about other people's feeling. He would be a terrible therapist. What really punched Sherlock's buttons was how John addressed him; he was a friend and nothing more. Part of Sherlock wanted to believe that somewhere inside of John there was a bigger place for himself. God, he sounded ridiculous.

Sherlock sat beneath his hanging coat for hours. Before he knew it, his clock read six in the morning so he got up, pranced into the kitchen, and put the kettle on. He pulled down two mugs; one for himself, one for John.

When he turned back to retreat into his black chair, John was standing in the opening. He was wearing a white t-shirt, his black night gown, and boxer shorts. Sherlock froze in place. His flatmate's mouth opened wide as he yawned and his eyes glazed over Sherlock's.

The two men stood in silence as the events from last night washed over the two to of them. The yelling, the harsh words, all of it fueled the tension in the room. John walked to the opposite side of the kitchen, not uttering a word to Sherlock.

Sherlock turned back around as the kettle clicked off and poured himself a cup of tea. He could hear John behind him. He was being obnoxiously loud and Sherlock had to refrain from turning around and telling him to be quiet.

The toaster dinged and John pulled out his toast. Sherlock watched his flatmate out of the corner of his eye as he bobbled his tea bag in his mug. John violently plopped in his chair and started eating his toast. Sherlock stared at John's light blonde hair, his stupid blonde hair.

Sherlock dumped an absurd amount of sugar in his tea.

"You know that will kill you, right?" John said in response to Sherlock's preferred amount of sugar as he read the paper.

Sherlock strode over to his chair, set his tea down, and adjusted his night gown before flopping in his own chair. He crossed his legs and stared back at John, his eyes ripping through his flatmate's. John squirmed a little in his seat as the two locked eyes; Sherlock smirked.

John leaned back in his chair uncomfortably without breaking eye contact. Something was wrong; his face was pale white and his eyes were dazed over. John seemed to seize up in his current position and he let out a small, sharp breath of air.

"John?" Sherlock stood up quickly as his flatmate slowly lifted himself out of his chair. He was only able to stand up for a few seconds before his knees buckled. He caught himself on the arm of the chair and let out a scream.

Sherlock rushed to John's side and placed his hands against his flatmate's shoulders. John gripped Sherlock's hands and their eyes locked together, "I'm fine, Sherlock."

John didn't blink as his body shook uncontrollably. Sherlock quickly backed away and watched as John's body tightened and shook. He fumbled with his mobile and dialed the emergency line.

A woman picked up and Sherlock told her the situation, their address, a small bit of John's medical history and an ambulance was on the way.

Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading Chapter 4! What about that fight, huh? Please leave a review to let me know what you like about my story. As always, thank you so much and follow my story if you want to be notified when I update!