Author's Note: Hey all. Sorry this update took a little longer but I had a lot of stuff going on so I didn't get much of a chance to write. However I've spent all day on it today and it's a little longer than usual so that's a bonus, right? Also the plot really starts moving on in this chapter so I hope you like.

Warnings: Minor mentions of torture, a little angst (but there is also fluff), some mentions of homosexuality. Don't like, don't read. This is, after all, a SLASH fic.

Chapter Fourteen

Returning to Normality?

The early morning sun starts to filter through the crack in John's curtains. He lies supine on the bed, tangled in the covers. As the light creeps up over his face he groans and turns over, burying his face in the pillow.

It's too early. And he's hardly had any sleep. Not really surprising, considering the events of the previous night. Well, it could hardly count as events but John feels like he's just been hit by something large, solid and very heavy. What on earth could have possessed him to behave like that?

It's the stress, he thinks to himself. And the relief of having Sherlock back. Then his mind flashes back to Sarah and the conversation they had in the coffee shop.

'... there's something different about you and Sherlock. You care about his wellbeing far beyond what is normal for people who are simply friends.'

'Shut up,' John groans, clutching at his hair, face still enmeshed in the pillow. He remains there until he needs to breathe. Silently he agrees with Sherlock, breathing is boring. He would have liked to stay buried in his pillow forever. It would save him having to face Sherlock for a start. Sherlock had been through hell and back and the sort of comfort John offered had been to eye him up. He swings his legs out of bed and checks the clock with bleary eyes. Half past six. Jesus. Well, there's no way Sherlock is going to be out of bed at this time in the morning.

Cheering himself with this thought John pulls on his tattered dressing gown and heads downstairs to make himself a morning cup of tea.

He is not prepared for seeing Sherlock sitting on the sofa, staring blankly at the wall, although perhaps he should have been. A hot flush of embarrassment surges through him and he can feel his cheeks colouring as he stares at the man he has spent the last night having increasingly erotic thoughts about, despite himself. Swallowing hard he clears his throat.

'Morning.'

Sherlock doesn't respond.

'I'm making tea, d'you want some?'

Still no answer. Slight irritation now taking the place of the embarrassment, John moves over to the kitchen and starts preparing his usual morning beverage. The silence grows as John pours boiling water over the teabag in the mug. It is almost suffocating by the time he walks into the living room and sits down in his usual armchair. John drums his fingers on the armrest, wondering exactly how to say what's on his mind.

'Listen, Sherlock, I'm really sorry about last night. I didn't want to make you feel... uncomfortable.'

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Uncomfortable. Of course. Sherlock should have known. It is typical John. Apologising for a perfectly usual human reaction. Anybody would have been repulsed by seeing his injuries. John, being the sweet caring soul that he is, is worried that he made Sherlock feel self-conscious. Well, job done. But not by John. No, it is Moriarty who has made Sherlock like this. Constantly doubting himself, ashamed of his own body. Time was when scars would have made absolutely no difference to his psyche. But the memory of how he came by the ones on his back will haunt him forever.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

John coughs and scratches at his hair. The silence is really starting to unnerve him. Sherlock is a statue on the sofa, a sculpture of marble. All flawless white skin and wild dark hair. His gaze hasn't shifted from the wall, although when John mentioned the word "uncomfortable" he could have sworn he saw a muscle twitch in that icy cheek.

'Listen, at some point I'm going to have to look at your fingers. I'm sure they're healing fine but I just want to check to make sure. If you're not comfortable with me doing it,' (which I completely understand) 'then I can make an appointment at the surgery for you.'

'No.'

The word is quiet and for a moment John doubts whether Sherlock actually spoke.

'What?'

Sherlock does not turn but his body tenses visibly. 'I said no, John. Did I not speak loudly enough for you?'

'I, well, no actually but... look you need to have them looked at Sherlock. I understand if you don't want it to be me, but...'

'God, you really are stupid sometimes. I have given you my answer. Why can't people just listen?'

John flinches, slightly stung. He knows he was out of order looking at Sherlock like that last night, and yes, it was bound to have made the younger man feel uncomfortable in his presence, but surely there is no need for Sherlock to treat him so... viciously? Yes Sherlock has called him stupid before, on many occasions in fact, but it has always been in a warm way, teasing and affectionate.

'Sometimes stupid people don't listen when other people are being complete idiots,' he forces himself to say. The words don't sound right coming out of his mouth. He wants to say something else but his brain won't let him.

There is silence for a moment and then, against all the odds, Sherlock starts to laugh. It's laughter that John hasn't heard in a very long time and his heart glows. Tentatively he smiles back at his flatmate. It seems that Sherlock isn't completely lost to him after all. Now, if he can just batten down these odd feelings that seem to be growing in him everything will get back to normal. Sherlock will heal and they will get back to solving cases, the crime fighting duo like they've always been.

'Here.' Sherlock, a smile still present on his face, extends his hand graciously towards John. The little finger and the one next to it are plastered and bandaged, having been rebroken and set again at the hospital.

John crosses to the sofa and kneels down beside Sherlock. Carefully he takes the fingers in his hands and runs his own fingers over them. It is hard to tell with the bandages and the plaster but they seem straight enough and in time should heal perfectly. He tells Sherlock this and is rewarded by a beaming smile.

'So I'll be able to play again?'

John grimaces and then grins, thinking of the late night violin concertos and how much he missed them while Sherlock was a captive of Moriarty.

'Yes, you will. And the first thing you play had better be a song dedicated to me. For your information I love Mozart and Beethoven.'

Sherlock's eyebrows quirk upwards into his hair. 'Noted.'

XXXXXXXXXXX

The rest of the day passes fairly peacefully. Sherlock occupies himself with shouting at the television (John will never forgive himself for introducing the detective to the Agatha Christie adapations) and John tidies the apartment, making tea that Sherlock drinks reluctantly and meals that Sherlock doesn't eat.

Around mid-afternoon there is a knock on the door and Lestrade tentatively pushes it open. Sherlock leaps up from the sofa immediately, his eyes alight.

'What is it? Is there a new case?'

Lestrade pauses in the doorway. 'No, sorry. I just...' he trails off slightly and then takes a deep breath. 'I just wanted to see how you are. And I also dropped by to give you this.' He reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws a card, simply addressed to "Sherlock Holmes".

Sherlock takes it, an unusual look of bewilderment on his features, and slits it open with his mail knife. John, interested despite himself, peers around at them from his position cleaning the kitchen counters.

Sherlock withdraws what looks like a card, glances at the front and then flips it open. John sees his expression change. He suddenly looks even paler than before and the card drops from his nerveless fingertips.

John drops the scrubber he has been using and darts across to his flatmate's side.

'Sherlock? Sherlock, what is it? What's wrong?' He casts an angry glance to Lestrade who looks a little confused but also somewhat smug. John reaches down for the card and picks it up. He glances at Sherlock and is horrified to see tears trickling out of the corner of his eyes. John glares angrily at Lestrade and flips open the card to see what torment could possibly have upset Sherlock.

His eyes widen in astonishment and he looks again at the Inspector who is smiling. John opens his mouth to ask a question but Sherlock gets there first.

'How much did you pay or threaten them to do this?' he asks hoarsely. His features are miserable as he stares at the floor. Lestrade swallows.

'I didn't do either of those things. Everyone at the Yard knows what you went through. They all know how much you help solving cases without pay, despite the fact they don't admit it. All I did was buy the card and pass it around. They did the rest. Listen to me, Sherlock,' the detective continues staring at the ground but Lestrade continues anyway, 'you know that you unnerve them. You're rude, condescending, arrogant and cold. Most of them can't understand you at all. Hell, I barely understand you and I've known you for five years. But they're good people, all of them, at heart... and I reckon they know you're good deep down too.' Lestrade pauses and rubs at his chin. 'Some may not like you much, and I assume you know who I'm talking about, but that doesn't mean they don't wish you well. I did offer the card to Anderson and Sergeant Donovan, but as you can probably see they didn't sign it. If it helps I think they're looking forward to you coming back if only to start trading insults with you again.'

'By which I assume you mean I observe them and make observations and in return they splutter and hurl predictable, derogatory comments at me?' Sherlock's face is still downcast but a light has begun to return to his eyes. Lestrade pauses and then laughs.

'Yeah... something like that.'

John flips the card back over to look properly at the front. It shows a large, rather garish bunch of flowers being clutched by a sickeningly cute teddybear. Emblazoned across the top in pale pink letters are the words 'GET WELL SOON'

'It's, um, a nice card Lestrade,' John mutters trying not to laugh. Lestrade has the decency to look slightly embarrassed.

'Sainsbury's garage's finest. There wasn't a lot of choice,' he adds apologetically.

'Obviously,' Sherlock drawls but underneath the facade John can tell he has gotten over his shock and is clearly really quite touched that officers at the Yard have bothered to sign a 'get well soon' card for him. John wonders if he's ever received one before.

'I'll put it on the mantelpiece shall I?' John asks, already moving across the room.

'If you like,' Sherlock says. 'That's what people usually do with such things isn't it?'

'Usually,' John says, smothering a smirk and scratching at his head. 'I'll put some more tea on. D'you want a cup Lestrade, are you staying?'

The Inspector pauses and glances at Sherlock, as if unsure whether his continued presence in the flat will be welcomed by the detective. Sherlock shrugs as though it is of no matter to him whether Lestrade stays or goes and flings himself onto the sofa.

John wanders over to the mantelpiece and carefully places the card in prime position in the centre before going into the kitchen and setting the kettle on to boil. As he does so he glances back and sees that Sherlock's eyes are fixed on the card. Almost as if he senses him looking, Sherlock flicks his gaze over to John, rolls his eyes and turns his head to face the back of the sofa. John grins.

'So, how are you doing?' Lestrade asks gamely, trying to ignore the fact he's talking to a man with his head buried in sofa cushions.

'Bored,' comes Sherlock's muffled reply. This time it's John's turn to roll his eyes as he the kettle boils and he pours the water into three mugs.

'Sherlock's under doctor's orders to stay in the apartment and get plenty of rest to let his body reboot, as it were,' John calls out to the Inspector. 'He's not taking it too well.'

'I can see that,' Lestrade replies, taking the tea gratefully as John returns to the living room and hands him a mug.

'I am still here you know,' Sherlock mutters petulantly into the cushions.

John smiles. 'If you insist on acting like a child we'll treat you like a child, Sherlock,' he says reasonably. This is fine. This is much better. Things are back like they used to be now that Lestrade is here.

So essentially what you're saying the little voice mutters is that as long as there's somebody else around you're fine with spending time with Sherlock because you don't get uncomfortable? Well, that's realistic.

John shakes his head a little and notices Lestrade glance at him quizzically. He mouths the word 'headache' and sits down in his chair, blowing on his tea and taking a sip.

'So, how are things with you, John?' Lestrade asks, clearly giving up on the idea of getting anything other than monosyllabic replies out of Sherlock.

'Oh, fine. You know, the usual. I've got a couple of weeks off work so there's not much to do really.'

'Ah well, a couple of weeks rest never hurt anyone and I've got to say, you look like you could do with the break. How's Sarah doing?'

John clasps his mug a little tighter. 'She's... okay. I met up with her for coffee yesterday actually.' Across the room Sherlock huffs into the cushions and draws his legs up against his chest so he is lying in the foetal position. John glances over at him and sighs. Well, there'd be one person who would be thrilled to know he and Sarah and broken up. Sherlock never liked her.

Suddenly another flash of their conversation occurs to him.

'Jealousy... He was jealous of me. Extremely. Added to that there were all the lingering looks at you when you weren't looking.'

John scratches at his head and sips his tea in what he hopes is a calm and casual manner. He doesn't want to give any indication to Lestrade, and of course Sherlock, of the turmoil in his mind.

'How long's it been with you and Sarah now?' Lestrade muses. 'Six months or something like that must be. Getting serious I suppose.'

John winces and clutches his mug tighter. 'Erm... well, actually, we broke up. A couple of days ago.'

Lestrade looks distinctly wrong-footed. He hadn't been expecting that. 'Oh. Sorry to hear that John. How are you... I mean... are you okay?'

'Yeah, I'm fine. It'd been on the horizon for awhile if you know what I mean.' Out of the corner of his eye John looks at Sherlock. On first inspection it seems that the detective hasn't moved but John notices he's shifted just a little bit so that he is nearer to facing towards them and his breathing has quickened.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade stays and chats inanely for a little while longer. By the time he leaves he and John are on first name terms. Sherlock snorts into the cushions of the sofa, but he doesn't risk turning around. When Lestrade (or Greg) calls goodbye he merely grunts and flutters a hand in the man's general direction.

Only when he hears John walking with Lestrade to the door does he risk turning to face the room. He is certain he has controlled his expression to carefully neutral and bored, although inside he is reeling.

John broke up with Sarah. Sarah broke up with John. Whatever. The point is that they are no longer together. It had been a lot harder to deduce John's mental state about this from his position on the sofa given the fact he couldn't see John's face but his tone of voice told him plenty. Weary. Resigned. Not particularly upset. He had assumed John's meeting with Sarah at the coffee house was a date. But according to John they had broken up a couple of days ago which meant that they were still on good enough terms to meet up and talk, and added to that, Sarah had given him two weeks off work.

With joy Sherlock bends his mind to work unravelling exactly why John and Sarah broke up. His personal feelings about the matter can wait. He isn't ready emotionally to start thinking about that. And considering the problem with his usual abstract intellect makes him feel reassuringly like himself again. Less vulnerable.

He is only vaguely aware of John returning to the living room.

'You okay Sherlock? What are you doing?'

His voice sounds distant and faraway. 'Thinking,' Sherlock responds curtly and leaves it at that. He dimly hears John sigh.

After awhile he has to give up. He has no idea how much time has passed since he started thinking about it, but it is hopeless. He may be brilliant at the Science of Deduction but relationships and all their murky reasoning and emotion-driven decisions are beyond him. He opens his eyes and locates John who is sitting quietly in his chair reading and sipping at another mug of tea. Quickly his gaze darts down to the table next to him where, sure enough, another tea sits. He reaches out a finger and touches the side of the mug. Not hot but lukewarm. Probably brewed in the last fifteen minutes.

'Ah, back with us I see.' John's voice holds a hint of amusement and he flicks a look at Sherlock from underneath his lashes before returning his gaze to his book. Sherlock's breath catches in his throat slightly. That look. No, Sherlock, focus. He ignores how the late evening light entering through the windows creates interesting shadows and planes on John's handsome face, ignores those lips which are currently pursed slightly in concentration.

'Who broke up with whom?' The words are brusque. John starts slightly in surprise and then slowly puts his book and tea down on the table, rubbing his temples.

'Where did that come from?'

'Just answer the question, John. I've been thinking about it for... awhile now and I can't work it out.'

John's eyebrows quirk upwards in surprise. 'Now that's something you don't hear from Sherlock Holmes everyday.'

Sherlock huffs in annoyance and snaps out a reply. 'John you should know by now that emotions and relationships are not exactly my forte. They often follow no logic or reason and I am hardly an expert on the subject as they simply do not interest me,' not quite true, a relationship with John would interest you quite a bit, wouldn't it Sherlock? 'and so I will ask you again. Who broke up with whom?'

'Fine. Sarah broke up with me but I came to see that it was a mutual decision. She just got there first.'

'Hmm. And why did you break up?'

John pauses for quite some time before replying. Sherlock, analysing his face, sees several different emotions flit across it. New as he is to the whole feeling business he cannot identify most of them but what he is certain about is that John is thinking very carefully about how to reply and that would indicate a certain censoring of his thoughts.

'A lack of chemistry,' he replies at last.

'Interesting,' he responds. 'On both sides?' To his surprise John sighs irritably and leans back in his chair, closing his eyes.

'That's personal Sherlock,' he says.

Sherlock frowns, confused. 'I know it is,' he says, 'otherwise I wouldn't be asking you, I'd have worked it out for myself.'

'I don't think you get it, Sherlock,' John says. 'It's personal. That means I don't want to talk about it. It's between me and Sarah.'

'Why on earth would you have a problem with me knowing whether the lack of chemistry was mutual? I don't understand.'

'Of course you don't,' John mutters, getting up and taking his mug into the kitchen. 'Forget it.'

'But I can't.' Sherlock huffs angrily from the living room. 'It's going to drive me mad not knowing this, John. You know how I have to understand everything.'

John's fists clench at his sides and he fights to keep his temper under control. Snapping at Sherlock will not be beneficial to either of them right now.

'And I'm saying to you Sherlock, that this is a personal matter and that you should drop it right now or I'm going to get angry. You know we broke up and you also know that it was due to a lack of chemistry. That's more than I would have given a lot of people. Lestrade knew to back off just as soon as he heard we'd split. Normal people know about boundaries.' John hears an indrawn hiss of breath from the living room and swears silently in his head. Jesus Christ. That probably came out wrong. So much for not losing his temper.

He hurries back into the living room just in time to see Sherlock turn his face away from him and stand up. The detective is careful not to look at John as he leaves the room and clatters upstairs. John sighs and sits down.

A couple of minutes later he hears Sherlock re-enter the living room and he gets up once more to talk to him.

'Listen, Sherlock, I'm sorry. That came out wr...' he pauses when he sees that the detective is wearing a shirt and jeans and is pulling on a suit jacket. Idly his brain notes that Sherlock looks very, very good in smart/casual outfits. 'Where are you going?' he asks bluntly.

'Out,' Sherlock bites back in response, moving over to the door towards the stairs.

'Sherlock, I don't think that's a good idea. Not on your own. You've just recovered from a serious illness for God's sake! I'll come with you.'

'What do you think is going to happen John? That I'll get scared by a lampost and fall down a drain?' The sarcasm is thick and sharp.

'No, I...' His words fail him. He can't get them organised in his head. He settles for a rather pathetic fallback. 'The weather's horrible, Sherlock. It's going to piss it down in a minute. Just stay in. Please.'

Sherlock treats him to a withering glare, but is that pain hiding behind the icy expression?, and strides off down the stairs.

'Remember your coat!' John shouts after him, feeling like the world's most useless mother. He drops back into the armchair and tries not to think about how now the apartment is empty apart from himself it feels just like it did when Sherlock was missing.

XXXXXXXXXXX

John is right. It probably is going to rain soon. Sherlock glares at the overcast sky sourly and pulls his coat tighter around himself in an effort to stop the biting wind chilling his slender frame. He doesn't know where he's going. All he knows is that he has to get away from Baker Street and all its confusions, feelings and rampant emotions.

Out here, in the cold London air, he can breathe. He can think. And yet it doesn't feel quite right. He has gotten used to having John trotting along at his side, sometimes taking notes as Sherlock fires theories and clues at him as they walk.

Ridiculous. How has he allowed himself to get so dependent on one person? To the extent where he feels lonely if he takes a walk by himself, that he feels hurt when they say something even vaguely cruel? He understands what he did wrong. He just doesn't understand why. He should probably have backed down once John had said it was personal. But Sherlock honestly cannot see the problem with him knowing whether it was a lack of chemistry on both sides or just on John's or Sarah's. It's not like he would have judged John or anything...

Or perhaps he would have. Ignoring his feelings for the doctor isn't working so well for him at the moment as he is reminded of them at every possible opportunity. If John had told him that he felt a lack of chemistry when with Sarah, Sherlock would have been happy beyond belief. However if it had been the other way around, if Sarah hadn't felt a romantic connection but John still had feelings for her...

Sherlock turns abruptly down a side street trying to clear his mind of all this nonsense. Why can't he just be happy that Sarah and John have broken up?

Because he'll find someone new. And that person still won't be you, because he likes women. Not men.

'There's nothing I can do about that,' Sherlock mutters to himself angrily, earning himself a bewildered stare from an elderly lady as he passes her.

The streets are virtually deserted. Sherlock starts to feel increasingly cold and decides it might not be a bad idea to head back to the apartment. John was right. He probably shouldn't be out in this sort of weather having just recovered from near pneumonia.

He is in an empty alleyway about five minutes from Baker Street when it starts to rain. He feels the first droplet on his cheek and glances at the sky which is now pitch black. He speeds up a little but before he gains the main street at the end of the alley the rain suddenly increases. It begins, as John said it would, to 'piss it down', hammering on his hair and shoulders. Blindingly quickly, like lightning, Sherlock is transported back to his cell in the manor house. Icy water is being thrown over him as he sits, unable to escape, stripped to the waist.

He stands, frozen to the spot, in the alley, fighting mentally to escape his memories. But they hold him down. The rain spatters all around him, a veritable deluge now, and once more he is chained and vulnerable.

Sherlock slides to the ground, unaware he has done so, unaware of the moans coming out of his mouth.

XXXXXXXXX

This is ridiculous, John thinks to himself, as he stares at the clock on the wall of the living room. Sherlock is a grown man. He is allowed to go out for walks by himself. You're worrying for nothing.

He hasn't even been gone that long, he reasons to himself. And yet it doesn't stop his mind insisting that something has happened, that John needs to go and look for his flatmate. He drums his fingers on the side of the chair.

Rain starts to splatter on the window, echoing off the glass. John glances outside and sees that what was initially a light shower is quickly becoming heavier and heavier. That decides him. Sherlock shouldn't be out in this sort of weather having just recovered from a serious illness. And he doubts the detective would have the common sense to return to the apartment. John gets up from his chair and almost runs down the stairs to the front door, grabbing his leather jacket from the hook and stuffing his feet into his trainers. He has no idea where Sherlock has gone, no idea at all. But that isn't going to stop him looking for him.

The rain attacks fiercely as soon as he pulls the door to Baker Street closed and steps out onto the pavement. Within seconds it has drenched most of his jacket and his hair is becoming plastered to his face, droplets of water dripping into his eyes.

He wraps his arms around himself to try and keep warm and starts walking, eyes darting to either side as he goes.

After walking for about five minutes he stops suddenly, straining his ears. Over the sound of the thundering rain he is sure he heard something like moaning coming from somewhere to his left. Slowly he starts walking once more and sure enough he hears it again, clearer now. He jogs up the street until he notices an alley entrance to his left. The sound is coming from there. Heart in his mouth and a little unsure as to what he will find, he peers into the gloom.

There is a huddled figure on the ground a few feet away from him. He steps forward and as his eyes adjust to the darkness he recognises the figure as Sherlock.

'Jesus!' John runs the remaining few feet to his friend and kneels down beside him. 'Sherlock! Can you hear me?' Sherlock is curled in a foetal position and doesn't respond to John's shouts. 'Jesus,' John mutters again. He checks his flatmate over for any obvious injuries and doesn't find any. Sherlock's anguish must be in his mind.

'Right, come on.' John slings Sherlock's right arm over his shoulder and gently heaves his friend to his feet. Sherlock sways once upright, but doesn't fall down again. His eyes are blank and unseeing, and that constant moan is still falling from his lips.

John starts moving out of the alley with Sherlock stumbling and dragging his feet beside him. Their progress becomes increasingly slower as Sherlock seems to start finding it harder and harder to move his feet.

When they are about two minutes from Baker Street, John finally makes a decision. He is soaked through and Sherlock has been shivering consistently. He leans away from the detective for a second and eyes him critically.

Sherlock's soaking wet clothes cling like a second skin emphasising just how skinny he is. At any other point John would have been worried but at this moment Sherlock's low weight is a good thing. Bracing himself John slides an arm around Sherlock's back, mindful of the stitched up lashes and trying to be as gentle as possible.

Before he can overthink what he is doing he swings his other arm under Sherlock's knees and literally sweeps the taller man off his feet.

Sherlock moans a little louder and his head falls back over John's arm. The doctor is astounded at exactly how little his friend weighs. He was expecting him to be light, but this is ridiculous. It's almost like picking up a child or a slim woman.

John keeps up a fast walk as he makes his way back to Baker Street. Once there he deposits Sherlock back on his feet but only as long as it takes him to fumble his keys out of his jeans pocket and open the front door. He guides the detective inside, half dragging him now, and slams the door behind them.

'Sherlock,' he says again, in a gentle tone. 'Sherlock, come on. Look at me. Focus. You're at home. You're fine.'

Sherlock becomes slightly calmer but his eyes still don't appear to be looking properly at anything.

'Stairs, Sherlock. Can you manage the stairs?' John isn't hopeful and when Sherlock makes no reply he sighs and scoops the detective back into his arms. Breathing heavily he makes his way up to the apartment.

Once inside he carries Sherlock over to the sofa and gently puts him down on the cushions. Sherlock needs to get out of his wet clothes, so does he now he thinks about it, but he feels very uncomfortable with doing it for the younger man. Especially given his fairly recent, increasingly sexual thoughts about his flatmate. He isn't sure whether he'd be able to control his arousal if it came down to him undressing Sherlock, even given the incredibly inappropriate situation. Even just thinking about it now... John can feel himself stirring and he swallows.

'Sherlock, you've got to wake up. Come on, you're okay.' He keeps his voice low and soothing. From the blank expression on Sherlock's face John is guessing he is reliving some sort of torture he receieved at the hands of Moriarty and that gets him to thinking about what might have been the trigger. Something must have happened during Sherlock's walk to get him to react like this.

He wonders about it almost idly for a couple of seconds before something pops into his mind. The rain. During his training in medicine he read somewhere about Water Torture. It involved using water in various different ways to subdue and inflict pain on their victims. For some reason John is absolutely certain that Sherlock experienced some form of this water torture during his captivity and that it had been the rain which had triggered Sherlock's latest breakdown.

'Come back to me, Sherlock. You're fine. Just breathe.' Gradually Sherlock's eyes clear and once again his gaze is lucid as he stares at John. His chest is heaving jerkily as he tries to draw in deep breaths but can only manage rattling gasps.

'John, I...'

'It's okay. Don't talk for now. But you do need to get out of those clothes.' Sherlock raises a delicate eyebrow and John blushes and feels himself stir once more as he thinks about how his words must have sounded.

'Bathroom. You. Go.' He bites out the words and grabs Sherlock by the shoulders, gently pushing him in the direction of the bathroom.

Sherlock does as he asks and soon John hears the click of the lock of the bathroom door. He makes his way upstairs and calls through the wood to Sherlock.

'I'm going to leave some dry clothes on the landing for you, okay? Make sure you dry yourself properly.'

There is no reply but he wasn't really expecting one. He makes his way into Sherlock's room and picks up some tracksuit bottoms, a long sleeved top he's never seen Sherlock wear and a thick woollen dressing gown which will definitely afford the detective more warmth than his usual silken one. A completely pointless garment in John's mind. A dressing gown's primary purpose is to give its wearer warmth and the only thing that silk gown is good for is making John's mind wonder how it would feel under his fingers as he strokes over Sherlock's shoulders and down his back...

No. Stop those thoughts. Right now. But it is too late. He stands in the middle of Sherlock's bedroom and inhales the detective's scent and two thoughts occur to him in quick succession.

I'm hopelessly attracted to, if not in love with, my male flatmate. And the other: I am so, so screwed.

This ended up being a lot longer than I'd planned, but I just couldn't seem to arrive at a suitable stopping point. I didn't even want to stop here, but if I'd carried on this chapter would have ended up probably being about ten thousand words, which, to be honest, is ridiculous. So anyway, hope you enjoyed, and as always I love receiving reviews. They honestly make my day.