If a person were to stand in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, for no reason and with no prior knowledge, that person would still feel the pain that could be heard in the sobs of the man sitting alone in a bedroom that wasn't his. John Watson sat on the edge of the bed, Sherlock's bed, where the detective had left him. Except now the ex-army doctor was doubled over, choking out sobs for the last family member he had left. He still couldn't believe Harry was gone. She was just getting back on her feet after alcoholism rehabilitation, and was going to start working as a secretary for a life insurance company.

Why does he always lose the ones he loves? His mother took her own life when John was only 8, and his father was involved in a drunk driving accident and died when John was in training for Afghanistan. He and Harry were then put under the care of their mother's foster father, but when John was fighting abroad, he received a letter stating how his Grandfather had died of a stroke.

There was absolutely no one left. No one except poor invalided John. He realized after god knows how long, that he couldn't cry anymore. He felt sick, embarrassed, tired and pathetic. Get yourself together, he thought. You've been through worse, haven't you?

"Haven't I?" He whispered out into the unwelcome darkness of his flatmate and friend's bedroom. It had started raining at last, when that was John didn't know. He took a deep breath, or tried to, and shuffled into the downstairs bathroom to get himself together. His shoulder and leg were acting up again, so he took some of his stronger pain meds before looking himself over in the mirror.

John looked too pale and too old to be himself, with red and puffy eyes still wet from crying. His hair was sticking up in odd directions from holding his head in his hands for so long. God, his back was killing him.

"You shouldn't hunch over like that if it hurts your back so much."

John jumped in shock at the sound of a very familiar baritone voice. Sherlock was home. How long he'd been home and how much he'd seen, or heard rather, John didn't know. Sherlock turned a bit pink, embarrassed.

"Sorry, I just, um..." The detective cleared his throat. "I wanted to uhm... To see if you're alright?"

John was flattered by the fact Sherlock cared about him so much. They'd grown close over the three years they'd lived together, and were very comfortable around each other. They'd been through a lot; cases and otherwise.

"Sherlock, I..." John cleared his throat and tried again. His voice was hoarse from the sobbing. "Sherlock, I don't think I'll be alright for awhile." He forced a tiny smile for his friend and had to try very hard not to start crying again. He might have imagined it, but John thought he saw Sherlock wince at his words.

"It's almost after one, now," the detective remarked, feeling horrible about this all but trying to make light conversation. John's eyes widened at that; Sherlock had left to the... the scene, at a little after ten that morning. Sherlock continued speaking. "If you like, you can shower and then I'll make you some tea? Or you can sleep if you want. Up to you."

Sherlock was acting very out of character, and John realized why. Sherlock felt guilty about being angry with John right before receiving the news of his sister's death. The ex-army doctor could have cried again at that, Sherlock had absolutely nothing to be sorry for.

"Sher-," John was cut off by a sob, oh god, crying again. "You don't have t-," another sob. John felt like an idiot, embarrassed to be seen so vulnerable in the eyes of his friend. He drew in a shuddering breath and was about to start again when he became suddenly engulfed in a hug from Sherlock. It was awkward, the detective being quite a bit taller than John, but it was comforting and so unexpectedly kind that John couldn't help but wrap his arms around Sherlock's thin frame and sob into the taller man's chest.

The consulting detective tightened his arms around his friend and rested his chin on the top of John's head, closing his eyes and fighting off his own emotions that were trying to force their way through his emotionless facade. It didn't take long for the smaller man to tire himself out, but Sherlock did not let go of him until the ex-army doctor pulled his arms back and scrubbed his hands over his face.

"Sorry about that, Sherlock, I just-," John's apology was cut off by Sherlock.

"Don't. It's alright," Sherlock could never have said anything more firm or sympathetic in his life, as far as John was concerned. The consulting detective let out a heavy sigh, and gave his friend a small smile. "You get yourself cleaned up and I'll go make the tea."

With that, he left, not even thinking to change into a non-tearstained shirt. He made his way briskly into the kitchen, filled the kettle and waited for it to boil. Sherlock waited until he heard the shower turn on in the bathroom before letting his emotions crack through to the surface. He didn't sob the way John had, but let only a few tears slide down his face. He wasn't crying for the loss of Harriet, he was crying for John. Sherlock had to tell him that he would be the next target, but he was scared. A feeling that Sherlock Holmes could never feel for anyone else but John.