I'm super sorry this one's late, but it's longer, so there's that! Also, this was beta-ed by my sexy lover Nicola, or ifearnofish.

Books were strewn about the room as if a mad ape with something against literature had torn through the room, with ripped pages littering the floors and shelves. What was left of a newspaper lay in pieces in the doorway. Sherlock's phone, having apparently been thrown against the wall it sat next to, was now a pile of splintered plastic and rubber. Worse still, his violin lay shattered on the hardwood floor. John cringed slightly. He'd grown begrudgingly fond of it, and seeing it this way was akin to hearing that his favourite author had died. To say he was confused would be an understatement. Being in the army had not prepared him for being woken at a god-forsaken hour by the sound of a string instrument being bashed against something unforgiving repeatedly. His eyes searched the room for what he knew to be the source of the noise, and sure enough, Sherlock lay on the sofa, his head pressed tightly into the space between the cushions and the backboard. The position seemed familiar, and John remembered performing a similar act when he'd been in grade school and Harry or his Mum had yelled at him for something or other. He didn't move at first, afraid that if he stepped on one of the papers carpeting the floor, he'd alert his friend to his presence.

"John, I know you're there." Sherlock's tone was low and dark, although it lacked some of his usual bite. John cleared his throat.
"Did it-uh-did it call you wrong?" He tried to keep his tone light. He wasn't sure why he was nervous. "Your violin, I mean." Sherlock gave him no response. "Sherlock?" John sighed, and sat down next to his friend's feet on the sofa. "Are you alright?" A noncommittal grunt that rose from the cushions was the only response he got. John leaned into the cushions to wait. Sometimes, with Sherlock, silence was the best way to deal with his tantrums. Sure enough, a few minutes later, he pulled his curls from the cushions and sat up.
"It didn't work."
John looked up from his phone. He'd been responding to an email from Mary, his latest girl de jour.
"Hm?"
Sherlock turned to face him. His eyes were bloodshot and red, and his usually immaculate silk shirt rumpled.
"The violin. You asked about its' current condition."
"It didn't work?"
Sherlock sighed.
"I play the violin when I need to think. It didn't work this time." John looked at his friend, worried. He'd never seen him so not-Sherlock. His doctor instincts were itching at the back of his mind.
"It's not drugs." Sherlock's tone had turned cold, and he wasn't looking at John.
"I wasn't-I didn't think it was, Sherlock. I'm just…worried. Are you alright?"

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed slightly.

"Nothing is as it should be. This isn't how I'm supposed to be-" Sherlock's voice broke slightly and uncharacteristically. "I can't make sense of my thoughts. It's all-it's all so loud. I can't turn it off. My mind is shouting at me in a thousand voices, and I can't do a thing." His eyes glazed over slightly, and he continued avoiding John's gaze.

John was dumbstruck. He stared at his hands, at the tiny scars, separating the rugby ones from the shrapnel ones. He had no idea what to do. This man, this fantastically brilliant, cold, unbreakable prat of a man, had fallen apart in front of him, and he didn't know what to do. It was 3 am. He could pat Sherlock on the back, go upstairs and fall asleep again. In the morning, he'd be back to his calculating, cold self, and they'd both pretend nothing had happened. That's what ordinary flatmates would do. One sideways glance at Sherlock's shaking hands and John knew he'd never be able to do that. They'd crossed the 'ordinary flatmate' boundary a long time ago, and he could never leave him like this. Sherlock heaved a shuddering breath next to him, and John decided.

He closed the distance between the two of them, and wrapped one arm around his shoulders and the other around his shaking front. It was the strangest sort of hug John had ever given, but then again, he supposed, any sort of hug would seem strange to Sherlock. At first he tensed, and John thought he'd messed up, but then his trembling subsided and he relaxed into the good doctor's arms.

John pulled them both back against the couch cushions. At the change, Sherlock seemed to crumple even more into his arms, burying his face in John's t-shirt. John felt his hot breath slow, and he watched Sherlock's back rise and fall. He pulled him tighter when he started up shaking again, until eventually his breathing slowed
He wasn't sure how long he laid there watching Sherlock sleep, but the combination of a warm body pressed to his and it being three in the morning meant John slowly drifted off to sleep as well.
John woke the next morning, or, as he checked his watch, afternoon. For a moment he didn't know where he was or why his back was aching, but then black curls brushed his chin and he remembered. Before he had the chance to do anything, Sherlock woke up, and, seeing his position, promptly turned bright red.
"Tea, Sherlock?"
"That would be marvellous."

Well, that's that!
Alsoooooo it's my birthday on Tuesday and so, as a birthday present, you guys should definitely leave me some reviews. *shamelessly begs for feedback*