John debated with himself for a few minutes before he began to take the sheets off Sherlock's bed; it wasn't an altogether pleasant thing and he really tried to not think about it as he did it. Sherlock was so closed in on himself; this might be the only way that he could help him.

John left the dirty sheets in a pile on the floor before walking down the hallway to the closet where the extra linens were. When John passed by the bathroom he heard the water of the shower on and didn't think much of it as he went to get the new sheets. But when he passed by on the way back, he heard something else that made him stop; as he stood by the door and strained his ear he could swear he almost hear Sherlock…..

But no, it couldn't be.

John knocked on the bathroom door. "Sherlock? You okay in there? You need anything?" He called out unassumingly.

"I'm fine" Sherlock called out. John could tell that Sherlock was trying very much to sound like normal, but John knew him well enough that he could tell his tone was different. Sherlock was crying.

John opened the bathroom door and walked into the steam filled room. He could see Sherlock's shadow dimly behind the shower curtain, not standing, he must be sitting. John could see the outline of his head close to the edge of the tub and John sat down on the bathroom floor by the tub, close to where Sherlock was hidden behind the curtain. "You're not fine, Sherlock." He said. "You know, its okay to admit that"

There was a long pause in which John could hear muffled sniffles. " No" was all Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, listen" John said with a sigh. He knew the only way he could possibly get through to Sherlock was if he was completely honest with him. "I know that you don't want to talk about whatever it is that's going on. You'd just go on normally if it wasn't for me saying something. But that isn't healthy and that isn't going to fix anything. I know that I don't know exactly what you went through when you were gone, but I do know what it is like to have nightmares, flashbacks. To be afraid of your own mind, your own head. When I came back from Afghanistan it was like that; I had nightmares all the time; I still do sometimes, though its pretty rare now. I know after a while it wreaked havoc with my mind and my spirit. That's what it was like before I met you." John paused, not really knowing why he added that part. He hoped that Sherlock might say something, but he didn't. "There were times I even thought…..about just ending it all." John turned toward the shower curtain, whishing he could see Sherlock's face, get some idea of what he was thinking. " And that's precisely what I don't want to happen with you."

There was a long pause and John thought for a moment that Sherlock wouldn't say anything. Eventually he spoke. "I'm not going to kill myself, John" he said. His voice was steadier this time; he had gotten control of his emotions again.

"I'm not saying you are" John said "I'm just saying…..I'm worried about you. I want you to be okay."

There was no response from Sherlock and John knew that he needed to do something. He was not a psychologist and he really had no idea what to do in situations such as these. But he knew something drastic might have to happen. John had some ideas what he could do, but Sherlock wouldn't like any of them.

"Please don't worry about me" Sherlock said with strained normalcy. " I really don't want you to."

"Then let me help you" John said. He could see Sherlock's form behind the curtain and thought about reaching out to it but then thought better of it.

"You are helping me" Sherlock said. "Just by being here"

…

When John had come in the bathroom, it was all that Sherlock could do to not lose it and tell him how he felt; how desperate and lonely and scared he was. It scared Sherlock how strongly he was feeling over everything and he just wanted to hear someone tell him that it was going to be okay. But he knew that that was desperate and Sherlock didn't want anyone, especially John, to see that.

So as John had spoken, he had sat curled up in the tub and let the water and John's words wash over him. It made him feel worse that John was so worried about him; that wouldn't solve anything and he didn't want to cause John any pain.

John seemed satisfied, or at least persuaded to drop the subject after Sherlock told him that he was helping him. Sherlock turned off the water in the shower as he heard John leave the bathroom. He dried himself off and put his dressing gown on, wincing at the pain that he felt in his arm where the cut was now agitated from the water. Sherlock walked to his bedroom but paused in the doorframe when he saw John putting sheets on the bed. He felt a blush cross his cheeks, remembering the reason John was doing this. Sometimes he really believed that he didn't deserve to have John around.

Sherlock turned and left his room without John noticing him and went to the living room. He felt inexplicably tired; his body ached and his eyes burned. He was not used to having this kind of fatigue; he could go days without a thought of sleep if he had to and yet the past few days he'd slept most of the night and he was still tired. He'd even tried to fight the fatigue tonight so he could avoid a nightmare and yet he hadn't been able to. Knowing he was too tired to fight it this time, Sherlock sat down on the couch and stretched out across it, feeling his body succumb to the fatigue almost immediately.

….

When John had gotten Sherlock's bed situated, he went looking for him throughout the flat. He was surprised when he found him passed out on the couch, his hair still wet and still wearing nothing but his dressing gown. John thought about waking him, but he was having what appeared to be peaceful sleep for once and John didn't have the heart. John got a blanket and draped it over Sherlock before going back to his bedroom and tried to attempt to sleep again.

When he woke up again it was late morning and the flat was quiet. John went to the living room and found Sherlock's spot abandoned and he was not to be found anywhere else. John went back to the bedroom to get his mobile to call Sherlock but found a text from instead:

Lestrade called for a case. You can come whenever you wake up-SH

John shook his head; the last thing that Sherlock needed to be doing was working on a case. John had had it in his mind to tell him so this morning, in a delicate way, when he woke. He didn't expect that Sherlock would run off before he had the chance.

John dressed quickly and made for a taxi, hoping he was wrong about Sherlock and that he would be okay at the crime scene.

…

Sherlock was glad but apprehensive when he awoke the next morning and saw a text from Lestrade. He was glad for a case, a distraction from the issues that he'd been having. But the crushing feelings from last night; the loneliness, sadness, fear, were crushing down on him again. His stomach burned painfully and he felt slightly lightheaded, but he wrote it off; he must simply be tired. The emotions were overwhelming and alarming strong and Sherlock was tempted again; he put his hand to the still sore spot on his arm but fought the urge. No; he'd gone so many years without doing this, he didn't need to make it a habit again. He decided instead on cigarettes.

He arrived to the crime scene within ten minutes and was anxious to get to work. He had found that the couple-or several- cigarettes he'd had had that opposite effect he'd hoped for; rather than calm him, he found himself more wound up than he'd been before. His stomach ached so much he resisted the urge to wretch and his hands shook so badly he feared they might be noticeable His slight lightheadedness was so bad now he wasn't seeing completely straight. He was considering turning around and leaving when Lesrtade noticed him. "Sherlock, glad you're here" he called as he walked over. Dull….now he would have to stay.

"Morning" Sherlock said tartly, following Lesrtade to the door of the small flat where the forensics team was working. Sherlock walked into the sitting room where two bodies were lying face down on the carpet, their heads badly damaged, clearly beaten to death.

"What do we know so far?" Sherlock asked. His head was beginning to pound and there were little dots of light in his vision. Sherlock rubbed his eyes to make the dots go away but they wouldn't. His ears were beginning to ring.

Lestrade became to explain the situation to Sherlock thus far but Sherlock didn't hear anything. As Lestrade began to speak the ringing in Sherlock's ears got louder, fazing in and out. Sherlock just caught snippets of what he was saying and none of it made any sense.

As Lestrade finished his dialog and trotted off toward the forensics team, Sherlock saw John coming toward him through his hazy vision. John…..

"Hey, how are you doing?" John asked as he joined Sherlock. There was clear concern on John's face, even with his hazy vision."you okay?"

"Of course, let's get to work" Sherlock said. But he wasn't okay; he wanted to grab John and hold on for dear life. The ground under him seemed to move, his ears wouldn't work, his vision was blurry at best and his head hurt so badly he couldn't hardly stand. But not here; no, he couldn't lose it here.

Sherlock walked over to the two bodies on the floor and began to examine them as John looked them over as well. Sherlock's stomach rolled at the sight and smell of the bodies and blood, and he forced his shaking hands to move as he examined them. Sherlock didn't remember any of the details that Lestrade has provided and as he looked the bodies over he deduced…..nothing. He could figure out absolutely nothing…..

Without warning, Sherlock's legs buckled under him as the room swam. His head felt like it was splitting in two and he was aware he'd fallen to the floor. He felt so dizzy he didn't even attempt to get up; he knew people were staring at him alarmed through his fuzzy vision and he was relieved when he saw John's form beside him in an instant. "Oh my God, Sherlock, you okay?" he asked quietly, to which Sherlock was thankful.

No….no he wasn't okay. Sherlock finally had to admit that. When he had looked at those bodies he'd seen nothing, and that was not okay. His extraordinary mind had deteriorated completely and he was lost. "John" he called out, shooing other people away from him that had come over to attend to him.

Thankful, John understood. Like he always did. "Move back, give him some air" John said, shooing people away from Sherlock. Once they had moved away from him, John leaned in. "Okay Sherlock, they're gone….what's going on?"

Sherlock could feel tears moving desperately to his eyes but he wasn't going to cry. Not here, not now. " I can't see anything John" he whispered. His voice was so quiet that John had to lean in to hear him. Sherlock's hands shook and even when he held them together he couldn't stop the shaking.

"What, your eyes?" John asked, almost hiding his alarm.

"No…I mean, I can see but…." Sherlock's voice didn't want to seem to work right. It strained and his throat hurt. "I can't tell anything….about the bodies. My deductions…..I don't know anything"

Sherlock had to admit that John did very well at hiding his worry this time. "That's okay, Sherlock. Lets just get out of here, okay? Go home and rest" he said.

Normally Sherlock would argue. But now he was too tired, hurting too much to argue. "Okay "Sherlock said. He leaned in toward John to whisper. "Don't let anyone know, okay?"

"Of course I won't" John said encouragingly.

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