"I can't make reality connect.

I push 'til I have nothing left.

But if we want to wake up,

Why we still singing these lullabies?

I run in circles 'til I crash.

One day these steps will be my last

But if we want to wake up,

Why we still singing these lullabies?"

(Icon for Hire, "Iodine").

When John stumbled downstairs the morning after his bar fight, trying to ignore his hangover long enough to find some painkillers, but finding Sherlock blocking his path to the kitchen instead.

"We need to talk," he said, giving John a stern look and pointing to his chair.

John smiled slightly, wincing as it made the pain in his head worse.

"You going to break up with me or something?" in truth, he had been dreading the day Sherlock would tell him to just move out and leave his life forever, but he tried to hide this fear behind sarcasm.

Sherlock waited until John was sitting, a cup of warm tea already waiting for him next to his chair, before beginning.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing to yourself?" he asked, sitting in the chair across from John and glaring at him.

John was surprised, but used to Sherlock's angry outbursts by now.

"What does it matter, Sherlock?" he asked, looking away.

Sherlock tried desperately to control the anger in his voice, but after last night's events he was failing miserably. "You've been drinking every night and last night you could have gotten yourself fucking killed!"

"How do you know about that?" John asked, astonished. He barely remembered the fight, but he had plenty of bruises to remind him. Sherlock had most definitely not been there, had he?

"I was there, you idiot. I've been following you, trying to keep you alive, since you don't seem to care anymore if you live or die," Sherlock shouted.

John paused, trying to process this new information through the thick fog of hangover that obscured his thoughts. Sherlock had followed him? Why? He had, of course, noticed certain inconsistencies lately: waking up clean after a rough night, being miraculously saved from a mugging by a stranger, being deposited back in his bed after he passed out in a darkened ally. But he hadn't been able to find the energy to examine these events more closely, so he had simply ignored them. They were beginning to make some sense now, but he couldn't fathom why Sherlock had done it.

"I...I didn't think you cared either," he said after a long pause. "We both know I'm not going to get any better. What's the point of pretending?"

"Of course I care about you, you idiot. How could you not know that?" Sherlock was shocked. It was so obvious! "I refuse to believe you can't get better. By god, if I have to tie you down every night to keep you from hurting yourself I fucking will. But I can't do anything unless you are willing to help yourself!"

John was shocked into silence. Sherlock still cared, still believed in him. He thought he could see a glimmer of hope, still far off, but now visible.

"Oh," was all that John could manage. He was confused and foggy and couldn't grasp what was happening.

Sherlock stared at his friend, taking in the circles under his eyes, his gaunt form, his trembling hand, and his clouded eyes.

"Please," he said, his voice breaking, "don't do this to yourself anymore. Don't do this to me anymore. I can't take it."

"Okay, Sherlock," John replied, "I'll try harder. I promise"

Over the next few weeks, John put an honest effort into finding his way back to sanity, but it was a constant struggle, which he always seemed to be losing. Even the small accomplishments he achieved were quickly overshadowed by the seemingly insurmountable obstacles placed in front on him each and every day. He did, however, stop drinking, which seemed to make Sherlock happy.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to eat (except when Sherlock absolutely insisted) or to go back to his therapist, who now knew his story, as Sherlock had carefully informed him. He felt, if possible, more ashamed and guilty than before for not keeping his promise to Sherlock. He wanted to get healthy, but he felt he had no control over his own mind anymore. Still, he worked tirelessly against himself, wanting more than anything to make Sherlock happy, as that seemed to be the only thing that could sooth John lately.

Then, one (otherwise completely inconspicuous and normal) night, John's phone vibrated and his world collapsed around him.