Sherlock walked into the room he shared with John to see his roommate just stepping out of the bathroom, toweling his hair. He was wearing flannel pajama pants and a white ribbed tank top, dressing gown gaping open.

"Oh, I saved you some hot water." Sherlock looked John up and down and nodded. John's eyebrows quirked. "Everything alright?"

"Fine." Sherlock answered immediately, putting a small smile in place - a meaningless gesture he told himself. Just following social protocol. John watched him closely. Did he see through it all, see what was bothering Sherlock, the things Sherlock wanted to share but couldn't quite say, couldn't quite admit to? Meaningless indeed - I'd swear he could see into every corner of my being with that look.

"So, got your visitor list sorted, then?"

Sherlock nodded and sat down at his small desk, opening his laptop. "You?"

"Yep." Interesting. Clipped tone. Unhappy? Why? Sherlock typed in his password and the screen blanked out for a second. A few more keystrokes and he was in his email. Nothing of real importance, just a message from Mycroft asking if he would be welcomed this Sunday or if he should wait a bit longer. Sherlock frowned and told him he didn't care. There was also a message from Lestrade, telling him if there was anything he could do to let him know. Sherlock rolled his eyes and closed the browser.

"Who was it?" He turned to look at John, who was pulling out a pair of jeans and a simple button up shirt.

"What?"

"Who was it that you wanted to put on the list but didn't, or who you put on without wanting to?"

John was quiet for a moment. "My parents. They... well, they don't..."

"They won't come see you." Not a question - a fact. "They stuck you in this place and refused to visit."

John nodded. "My father shoved the pamphlet into my hand and told me I was a disgrace. Said he didn't want to see me or talk to me until I was through rehab. My mother never said anything. I haven't seen her since the first morning in the hospital, after I woke up from surgery and they were there. She stared at me... like I was some kind of freak show. Like she'd never seen me before in her life. And..." John stopped, looking away. Two deep breaths. This is hard for him, being away and outcast. "She told me... that she couldn't believe I had let The Makeover Queen die on my table."

Sherlock frowned. "Who?"

John smiled bitterly. "Connie Prince?" Sherlock only stared at him. John shook his head. "She had a makeover program, supposed to help you look your best regardless of age, weight, income... Well, she came in for a routine lipo. Said she chose my group because if her fans knew the truth about this, she'd be ruined, and keeping things confidential was much easier when you're in a small, crappy generic surgery than when you go to the biggest and the best. I was assigned the surgery. Ten minutes in, she goes into cardiac arrest." John looked at his jeans. "We couldn't get her... she just... she was gone." John laughed slightly, but in a way that Sherlock would never have believed was humorous. "My own mother, told me I was worthless as I lay in my own hospital bed after an attempt at suicide, because I let her favorite crap-telly personality die on my table. Like I hadn't tried..."

John turned away, his voice breaking on the last word. Sherlock's eyes were wide, and he felt confused and uncomfortable. Was he supposed to go comfort John? How would he do that? He wasn't good at any of this. He could memorize the most complex pieces of music ever created, could transpose chords back and forth and up and down the scale all day long without so much as a second's notice, could compose music that moved people to the brink and brought them back again. But he could not for the life of him figure out what he was supposed to do when his friend - the word still felt odd, weighty and stiff and unused but ready to be used, to be useful - when his friend was standing there, trying not to cry. He stood up and walked over to John.

His left hand reached out slowly, finally falling onto John's right shoulder, squeezing once, firm and supportive but not too hard he hoped. John looked over at him, eyes a little red but mostly dry now, then down at Sherlock's hand. Sherlock thought for a moment that John was angry, unhappy with the contact, until John's left hand came up and clasped over his own. Electricity seemed to dance through their hands, and Sherlock took a deep breath.

"Your mother isn't... she's..."He took another deep breath, steadying himself and focusing his thoughts. "She's wrong, John." Sherlock put force and meaning behind the word. John closed his eyes.

"Thank you." His voice was so low, Sherlock almost missed it. "Thank you, Sherlock." Sherlock nodded.

"You're welcome."

John's hand fell back after another moment, and Sherlock took that as his cue to let go as well. "I should go shower."

John nodded. "I'll just get dressed, probably watch some telly until they come to take us away again. I'll give you your privacy when you're out."

Sherlock nodded and walked into the bathroom. There were several unused towels stacked neatly in the small linen closet, and he grabbed one, hanging it up next to the bath. He turned the water as high as he could, stripping down and stepping in. The heat felt good and painful and unbearable and familiar.

This new feeling inside of him - compassion, maybe, or caring, concern, whatever it was - was terrifying, and he wondered - not for the first time - if he would ever be able to comprehend emotions properly and completely.