Sherlock does nothing, at first. He waits until Billy leaves.

"It is getting late," he says softly. "You are tired."

The white walls of my room are darkening into a twilight blue. My white skin glows in golden streetlight. I know it is only a few hours before the dog walkers emerge into the bright morning, nodding at the joggers passing them and perhaps, if one sees her, the old woman posting letters. She might nod back.

"I am tired," I agree. "Where are you going to sleep? Where have you been sleeping?"

He shrugs and I know he barely has. This hasn't occurred to me before.

"I'll sleep on this chair."

I glance at the hard, wooden-backed, outrageously expensive chair he sits in.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock."

"Why not?" he asks, as if I'm the one being stupid.

"It's a chair! Doesn't Mycroft have some kind of king-sized, stupidly soft bed you can sleep?"

"Yes. He has seven. But I'll sit here, John."

I close my eyes.

"You are such an idiot," I say.

"That's right." His voice is fading. "You just sleep."

"Such an idiot, Sherlock."

I am gone.

Morning is slow. I am forced to eat half a scone by Mrs Hudson who says she has baked two hundred since she learnt I was in hospital.

"I had to start storing them in your bedroom, Sherlock," she says. "I'm sure you don't mind."

Sherlock's face suggests he does.

Mycroft hadn't let her past the front doors when he saw the boot-load behind her. But she had got in anyway.

"How?" Mycroft is saying repeatedly. "Was it him?"

Sherlock, who is still sitting on the chair, and looks worse for wear - white-faced, dark-shadowed – groans. "I've been here the whole time."

"That's your own fault," I mutter.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth crease and it's almost a smile.

"None of your business, Mycroft Holmes," says Mrs Hudson, leaning under my bed to find space to store a Tupperware bursting with scones.

Her head pops back from up from under the bed to look at me. It is like I'm in a dream. "I could bake more, dear?" she says.

"No, no, no Mrs Hudson. Er, no."

She dives back under, just as Billy – the same nurse from yesterday - enters the room. Sherlock and Mycroft stare at him.

"Ah," say Mycroft and Sherlock at the same time.

It feels nice, being out the loop again, in a way that will be resolved. Not just unanswered questions: Why is this happening? When will it stop? Will it ever stop?

Billy stops walking; the tray of pills begins to shake. Mrs Hudson emerges from underneath the bed. She winks very obviously at Billy. I begin to understand.

"You get paid off in scones," says Mycoft harshly, staring at his employee. "Scones."

Billy squeaks. "How did you know?"

"Crumbs," said Mycroft, his nose wrinkling. "Everywhere."

Mrs Hudson tuts. "They were very nice scones Mycroft. I am sure you wouldn't be able to resist."

She actually pats Mycroft's stomach, then. Sherlock's eyes glaze with pride; Mycroft bucks like a horse.

"Mrs Hudson!"

Mrs Hudson grins.

"Scones," Mycroft says again, spluttering. "You are meant to be a highly trained professional."

"Sorry, sir," says Billy. "They smelt so good though-"

"Billy!"

"She is just their landlady! She's harmless!"

Mycroft's expression turns dark. "That woman is anything but harmless."

I almost snort. I am speaking before I realise I am not the same man anymore, someone who can smirk at the Holmes brothers, be protected by Mrs Hudson, protect her.

"Oh, come on," I say. "You've dealt with masterminds before. Moriarty-"

I am burnt before I realise I've set alight a wildfire. The word is flames on my tongue. I feel my breaths start to escape me.

Sherlock is in front of me, blurry, as if he is far away.

"John?"

I say nothing, concentrating too hard not to run out of breath, for my head not to swim, for my head not to fade.

"John!"

Arms are on my shoulders and I want to throw up.

"No!" The word leaves my lips and I don't know who I am talking to, who I want to leave me. "Go away!"

The hands leave my shoulders, fast.

People scuttle from the room like ants.

"John. You're safe. You're in Mycroft's hospital."

The words are fast, urgent, an emergency. Eyes are so close to mine; for a moment, I think they are Moriarty's. But they are icy blue. Calm. Familiar.

"That's it, John. Deep breaths. In, out, in, out."

I try to copy his words, control my lungs, control the air passing through me and burning my insides.

"Good, John. Good."

I return to reality far quicker than I ever have.

The hands are on my shoulders again; this time I don't mind. Sherlock stares at me and I want nothing more to collapse into his arms and feel nothing.

I do: his arms catch me, rub my shoulders - but, suddenly sobbing uncontrollably, I feel everything, all at once. I try to stop the tears, but they are not under my control; they have been wanting to escape for too long.

We stay there until I, once again, fall asleep.

I wake up to arguing.

"Therapists are idiots. They remove happiness from the world, not increase-"

Sherlock's voice stops barely a second after I wake up. I haven't even opened my eyes, and he's noticed that I am once again conscious. In a flinch of my hand? The quickness of my breath?

As always, everyone facing me. Mycroft is standing in his apparently favourite spot by the window, leaning in a bored fashion. Sherlock is, as always, sitting on the chair.

"Morning John," says Mycroft. "It's only one out of five times of you waking that I can actually say that. Normally it's the afternoon."

I notice he is halfway through a scone.

"I don't want a therapist," is all I can think to say; it's all I care about. Give me one thing, to not be forced to re-examine memories, and I will not complain.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "The victim is always wrong in these things. I don't listen to people who are wrong. If you haven't noticed, John, you are in my hospital and I can do what I want – which happens to be giving you a therapist."

Sherlock is very still. "A therapist won't work."

"Hm. Sherlock, you are not the person I would seek counsel from when it comes to human emotion."

"Neither are you, Mycroft. So let's talk to one out of the three of us that can categorically say he knows what the word friend means. John?"

"I don't want a therapist."

"Oh, what a surprise! Well that solves that problem." Sherlock turns to Mycroft. "Now leave us. Don't you have a war or something to lie to the British population about?"

Mycroft face contorts. "Don't double my job, Sherlock. Tracking the lives of you and Doctor Watson may take up my time enough to put the country in jeopardy."

"Judging by your left sleeve, it already has."

Mycroft ignores him. And then sighs softly, his hands tightening on his umbrella. "You could be John's therapist. In search of a better word. In search of a word that's not an antonym of you."

I raise my eyebrows and, without really remembering what it means, the corners of my mouth twitch. "Are you serious?"

Sherlock's gaze doesn't leave Mycroft. "I see you haven't lost your sense of humour, John."

"You've made John happier before," says Mycroft to Sherlock. "In return, he did the same to you and, by extension, me. It lessens my workload when you have a babysitter, Sherlock."

I can feel Mycroft smirking. Mycroft's smirks almost give off their own body heat. I ignore it, the only cure. Mycroft gives us both one more glance, before leaving the room.

Sherlock hesitates a minute, one of his fists clenching and unclenching, before moving to my side.

"John, I trust you are physically well enough to pack?" He eyes the clipboard at the end of my bed. "Unless the doctor's here are as unskilled as the rest of Mycroft's minions."

"Sherlo-"

"But you're a doctor. I trust you to treat yourself more than them. If you think you're well enough to pack? No? I'll…" He grabs my nightshirt from the dresser, and stuffs it in his coat pocket. "What else will you be needing…"

"Sherlock! Look! Stop

"We can go anywhere, somewhere safe. Away from Mycroft. I'll hire a-"

"Sherlock! I need you to answer me first! Will you be my therapist?"

"In want of a better word?"

"A much better word."

"An antonym? Something that involves eventually running round London?"

"One more like that, yes."

Sherlock grins. "I did tell you were anything but ordinary."

Sherlock stands up, and we both glance down as my nightshirt falls out of his pocket. A snort escapes one of us. I'm not sure which.

"I pack my own things though."

"Yes," says Sherlock, staring at my nightshirt, as if willing it to pick itself up.

"I think you as my um…therapist might be the only thing that will work," I say and I think, for a moment, we both believe it. Sherlock's expression is not quite a smile, but it could be mistaken as one.

A/N: Thank you for reading and sticking with me through this fic. I know it's not the most consistent.

Sorry again for the time between updates - this time though, I have an excuse traumatic enough to be legitimate. My laptop crashed - I'm sure you can all imagine the pain - and, even worse, on it had the next few chapters of this fic...So I've pieced together something roughly similar, though it's annoying because there are moments I know I was pleased with that are lost but oh welllllll.

Thank you, all of you - and please let me know what you think! :)