A/N: Alright, I'm still not completely satisfied with this one, but I probably never would have been anyway. Seriously, thank you all so much for your continued interest and support in this story. Once again, TW for past mentions of child abuse.

FALL OUT

In the week following Sherlock's big reveal, there had been a hailstorm of casework to do, involving a high-profile kidnapping, the arson of a pet store and a murderer that seemed to be obsessed with the American show Happy Days. God only knew what the criminal class of London had been smoking. Par the course, Sherlock hardly slept and barely ate anything except what John could force down his throat. It was more than clear to John that Sherlock was headed for a crash, and soon. Fuelled only by coffee, nicotine and adrenaline, John wondered how on earth Sherlock was still on his feet… or, rather, foot.

On the cab ride back from a case solved John's thoughts were racing, and as usual, Sherlock's were slowing. He hated to do it, but he had to continually shake the detective to keep him from passing out in the cab. Too many times he'd pulled a muscle trying to drag Sherlock up the steps of their flat, and the most recent memory of his attempt at waking the comatose detective was still high in his mind.

There hadn't been a moment to breathe this past week, and he was surprised that the information that Sherlock had been abused as a child hadn't lingered in the back of his mind as he'd expected it to. Between his day job at the surgery and trying to keep track of just what the bloody hell was going on in this nightmare of a case, he had been preoccupied enough that there hadn't been space in the back of his mind. But here, in the cab, with Sherlock slumped against him on the razor's edge of consciousness, it flooded back.

It had almost been as though the entire conversation hadn't taken place at all. John had only noticed one marked difference. Sherlock hadn't said a bad word to him the entire case. He'd been doubly rude to the Yard, and he'd had to hold Anderson back from punching Sherlock in the face (Sherlock had been remarkably understanding about the detour back to the flat so that John could shower directly afterwards). John hadn't noticed until Sherlock had made a comment to the entire room. "Everyone in this room must be suffering brain damage apart from John and myself."

John hadn't been particularly helpful in solving this one at all. He'd made no shrewd insights, had barely been able to keep track of the names of the suspects, and at one point, in his exhaustion, had even taken a cab to the wrong pet shop in the complete wrong part of London.

Nothing he had said had been able to convince Sherlock to stay off his feet, though watching the man manoeuvre on crutches made John wonder if Sherlock was actually better on them than some people were actually walking. "Bed rest? You expect me to stay horizontal while Scotland Yard cocks up the most exciting case this year? Don't insult me, John."

As a result, the limb was swollen to the point where John could see it bulging from the top of his boot. He hadn't returned to the hospital to have it set in a cast despite particularly dogged strong-arming on John's part, so he had had been forced to go out of his way to procure a perfectly fitted boot that would have to do for the time being.

They pulled up to 221B and John nudged Sherlock repeatedly as he paid the driver. Sherlock bounced out of the cab on his crutches and hopped up the steps, not even waiting to see if John would follow.

John found him upstairs, already in bed asleep, fully clothed and above the covers. Sighing, he set about getting Sherlock's jacket out from under him, his ankle elevated and iced, and the covers over top of him. He had no worry that Sherlock would hurt himself further in his sleep. After-case sleep was always the same; Sherlock, still as a statue, asleep for a minimum of 12 hours, more likely a full 18 hours. It was disconcerting, really. The man looked like a corpse, only paler. He had hoped to get a proper meal in him before he conked out but what was he to do? Wake him up?

He got himself fed and showered and fell asleep sometime around 11 O'clock, slumped on the sofa with a newspaper over his face.

At 2, he was awoken by the sound of struggling. He was immediately on his feet, his attention pulled to the sounds coming from Sherlock's room. Was he being attacked? With his leg, he'd never hold up in a fight. John was torn for a moment, whether to grab his revolver from his room upstairs or face the attacker armed only with a newspaper. Without thinking any further, he grabbed a spark lighter sitting on the kitchen table and rushed into Sherlock's bedroom, welding it over his head.

His eyes darted around the room and he relaxed slightly, understanding there was no outside danger occurring here. Sherlock was having a nightmare, and a particularly nasty one from the looks of it. He had squirmed to the edge of the bed and John quickly caught his elbow to prevent him from going over. In response, he gave a heart-breaking sob and laid still, his face stuck in a flinch, and his body quaking with fear and anticipation.

John rushed to the other side of the bed, kneeling beside the detective and thought for a moment on his approach. The man was dreaming about violence. Shaking him awake or screaming in his ear would probably leave him pissing himself with fear, and he had no interest in traumatizing the poor man any further. Instead he gathered him gently in his arms and just held him, unsure whether this approach would help or hurt, but prepared to take the risk.

He felt the tenseness in his best friend down to his very bones as he called his name softy, and John checked to see whether he had injured his ankle any further. Thankfully, he didn't seem to have hurt himself. He hugged him a bit closer and rubbed his arm up and down slowly, feeling the ever-so-slow release of stress in his body.

"J-John?" there was a terror lurking in his voice. Soul-crushing terror that seemed to John the most horrible noise he'd ever heard. "John?"

"Right here, mate. You're fine. You've just had a nightmare," John said. He had attempted to sound soothing, but it came out croaky and shaky and wrong.

Sherlock laid there, allowing his breathing to return to normal, and then in a fluid motion, ignoring his injured leg, he curled into a small ball and buried his head beneath his arms.

"Sherlock?"

"Look at me, John. I'm useless. Utterly useless. I couldn't help myself then and I can't help myself now."

"Don't you think you're being a little hard on yourself?" John asked, gently rubbing his arm. Emotional reasoning only went so far with such a stubborn man. Appealing to his logical side generally wielded better results.

"It took me a week to solve that last case. I should have solved it in two days."

"We hadn't half the evidence by the second day. Even if you had solved it, it wouldn't have held up without the culprit leaving footprints outside of the second family's home."

"Lestrade would have gotten a confession out of him. We could have saved those animals, John, if I had been quicker."

"Yes, well, then I suppose it's my fault as well, isn't it?"

Sherlock removed his head from under his arms and shot him a glowering look. "Don't do that, John. We both know what ploy you were about to use. This has nothing to do with me breaking my ankle. My thoughts have been elsewhere…"

"I should have just let it be…"

"I told you not to do the self-deprecation routine. This isn't about fault, John. These memories were long buried, and now they're dominating my every thought!"

John had had no idea; there had been no indication. "I've always been good at hiding my emotions, John. Even from you. There was no indication because I didn't allow there to be one." Sherlock had barely glanced at him, reading his expression to the letter.

"Have you thought perhaps that that's the problem, Sherlock?"

"What do you mean?"

"You keep all this holed up inside your mind; of course it's going to haunt you. This isn't some bloody puzzle to solve; this is something that happened to you! Something that can't be reconciled with logic, as we've already established. You should be seeing someone to work through this. You need to talk this through; come to terms with it." Sherlock rolled over to look at him, too weak and exhausted to do anything more than lay slumped against his pillows.

"You think I'm going to see a psychiatrist? Why on earth would I pay a stranger to talk about my problems? It didn't work for you, did it?"

"No, but that's because…" because Sherlock had fixed him. John didn't have the slightest clue how to even begin to repay the favour. "If you won't talk to a professional, you'll at least talk to me, Sherlock. This isn't exactly a problem that'll go away on its own."

"I keep replaying it over and over in my mind. I haven't thought of it in so long, hadn't let myself. Now I can't stop myself. At the time, it had been horrible, but it was all I'd ever known. I became accustomed to it. Now that I know better, it feels even worse. The brutality of it all, John! He threw me down a flight of stairs for failing to make my bed. Purposely broke my collarbone because I spoke out of turn.

"Tell me, John, why on earth would I want to dwell on something so horrible when there's absolutely nothing I can do to change it?" The pain in his voice was palpable, and it hurt John to hear it. At the same time, it meant something that Sherlock was even allowing him to. That he trusted John enough to witness his vulnerability. John knew without a shadow of a doubt that no other person alive was worthy in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes of seeing that. Which meant that there was no one else that would be able to help him if John failed.

"It's like a bone that didn't set right, Sherlock. You can ignore it for the rest of your life, but it's always going to bother you. If it's ever going to heal, it needs to be re-broken and set correctly. And I'm sorry to say, it's going to hurt mate. But you'll be a better person for it in the end."

Sherlock didn't say another word the rest of that night, just sighed and got himself settled a bit.

"Would you like to change?" A shrug was the only reply he got, but he climbed to his feet and got him a soft cotton t-shirt and silky bottoms that clashed horribly. He tossed them next to his friend and after receiving a head shake to his offer of help, went out into the kitchen and clicked on the kettle. He made a cup of tea just the way the younger man took it and fished a few digestives out from behind the washing-up liquid. To the best of his knowledge, Sherlock didn't know they were hidden there because John knew if he did he would have eaten them in lieu of an actual meal.

John wasn't sure if he imagined a look of relief on his best friend's face when he reappeared with the tea and biscuits. He grabbed the defrosted ice pack and exchanged it for a second, propping up the swollen ankle once again and tutting his disapproval of its state. He would have to wait for the swelling to go down to see if he had exacerbated his injury any further, but decided to leave it alone for now. It could probably do with another x-ray and a permanent cast, but for tonight at least, he let it alone.

He met Sherlock's eyes and watched his face go purposely blank. He could take a stab at what that meant. "At least eat the damn biscuits and have a few sips of tea. I don't think even you can remember your last proper meal."

After doing as he was told, John pulled the sheets and blankets up over him and watched him adjust onto his side whilst keeping his foot elevated, but Sherlock neither closed his eyes nor made eye contact. Finally, he stopped with the pretence, flipped the light off and got in beside him. He didn't know if Sherlock wanted him there or would ask, but he doubted the man would protest to his presence.

It finally struck John, really hit him as he was getting in besides him that Sherlock had never had anyone in the course of his entire life that he could depend on and trust. No one that cared about him, or had his best interests in mind. Perhaps his brother had attempted to look after him in a sense, but their relationship was strained at the best of times. He hadn't grown up with the immense luxury of simply having someone that was there for him to love him unconditionally, or help him with his problems and while John couldn't imagine such a thing if he tried, he wanted nothing more than to give that back to his best friend. Sherlock needed someone now, and John not only knew he had to help, but wanted to as well. But would Sherlock ever accept it?

He got his answer almost as soon as he'd gotten himself situated beside his friend. Almost unconsciously, Sherlock scooted closer to him and he felt a feather light touch on his arm. John smiled to himself at the unspoken request between them and swung onto his side, pressing his chest against the bony shoulder blades of his best friend and pulling him in close. He reached up, running his fingers a few times through his friend's inky black hair and waiting for the tension to leak out of his body. He spoke reassuring words against his neck, reminding him that he was loved and that it was all going to be fine, remembering that Sherlock had never had anyone to do this for him before. It took some time but eventually, at the mention that John wasn't going anywhere and never would, he could feel his friend melt back against him. I cannot fail him, John thought to himself, lying awake and praying for answers.