Author's Notes: Now I've got you all excited, and I hope this lives up to the hype! I don't know how many ways to thank you for all your support and reviews, but just keep 'em coming! Let me know what you think, and what you want to happen next!

Anthony, Chapter Twenty-Five

John walked to the kitchen as Sherlock dried his face, and turned the kettle on while he prepared two mugs. Tonight was a coffee night, not tea. He leaned against the counter listening to the screams of the boiling water next to him and tried to figure out what he was going to say when he re-entered the living room. It was quite clear to him what Sherlock had meant when he said he'd hurt himself, and John didn't want to get angry at his friend. Going to get coffee was as much a way to give Sherlock some privacy as it was for John to calm himself down. It was as if the kettle was mimicking John's blood pressure. Boiling. But, as the water heated up, John cooled down. This wasn't about him. This was about Sherlock.

He mixed instant coffee in with the bubbling water and stirred the two sugars into Sherlock's mug before adding some cream to his own. Then, taking in a deep breath, he walked back into the living room and sat down opposite Sherlock, this time on the couch rather than the coffee table. He didn't want to put the distance between them, but perhaps it was better to give Sherlock that space. The man's eyes were still red, but they were dry, and his gaze was focused on John's face, waiting for his response. John gave the only one he could think of:

"Okay." Sherlock took a sip of his coffee, his gaze leaving John. The guilt was written all over his face, and John didn't know whether to scold him or forgive him. There were answers he needed first. "How long?" he asked, simply.

Sherlock let the mug rest on his knees. "It was just once," he said, as if he was trying to justify it. John bit his lip. "I swear it was. Before Christmas."

"But?"

"But..." Sherlock trailed off. Then: "It brought all of it back. I feel it's as if I can think of nothing else."

John nodded. "You were acting off before then, too. Anthony noticed."

"Does he know?" Sherlock looked as if that was the worst possible thing that could happen.

John shook his head. "Of course not. How could he?" It seemed to calm Sherlock, but not much. His forehead was shining with sweat. "You want some now?" John asked.

"Always."

John took in a few more sips of coffee. He needed to be alert for this, needed to clear his mind. "Why'd you do it, Sherlock? You knew this would happen." He couldn't hide his disappointment.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, a pained expression on his face. He opened his eyes, but could not look at John. "In Ireland, I was thinking about the things people would do the sake of drugs, the lengths to which they were willing to go. It had been so long, and I wanted to...to understand what made them do it. But then, I was distracted, what with Anthony going back to school and Mary...well, that only lasted so long."

"So, you did it out of...curiosity?" Again, the disappointment.

"It was at first, but then I started to remember. I started to feel that...that need, again." Sherlock's hand was clenching in front of his chest, as if that was where the 'need' lived. "I was trying so hard to avoid it, to ignore it. It was...overwhelming."

"You could have come to me."

"I know." Sherlock stared into his mug. "I know, but...it wouldn't have solved it. I needed...a seven percent solution." Sherlock's terminology made John's stomach churn. "I just felt so..."

"Lonely?"

Sherlock finally looked up. "What?"

"Anthony thinks you're lonely. Are you?"

Sherlock's mouth fell open slightly, as if he were gasping in slow motion. His eyes darted around the room, as if one of the photos on the walls would give him a proper answer-anything to respond to John's questioning. The silence was so consuming that it was practically tangible, filling their lungs and spilling out into the room as if it were a haze of smoke. John could see Sherlock's hands shaking, and the coffee in his mug was dangerously close to spilling over the edges. Sherlock placed it down on the table and clasped his hands tightly, massaging his thumbs together. "Why would he think that?" The question was genuine, but John couldn't understand why the detective couldn't see what everyone else had.

"He just thought...what with Molly's wedding, and all." John leaned in a bit, trying to coax Sherlock into looking at him again. "Mrs. Hudson told me you stopped taking cases."

"I do! You and I-"

"-Cases without me, Sherlock. Why?"

Again, Sherlock closed his eyes, and John watched his eyebrows furrowing as he searched for his feelings on the matter. His mind was clearly jumbled, and the coffee hadn't helped his alertness. This was not the Sherlock Holmes that John knew. He opened his eyes. "It is not fair of me to live through you quite so...vicariously, John." Sherlock leaned back in his seat, his head turning towards the doorway. Was he planning to escape? John readied himself, but then he realized that Sherlock wasn't looking at the exit, he was looking at the stairs. "What you have is something that I could never acheive, something I could never even wish for."

"What d'you mean, 'what I have?'"

Sherlock looked back at him, a sad smile on his pursed lips. "I'm not like you, John. I don't-feel-the way that you do. We both know that."

"And yet here we are, you pouring out the heart you don't think you have to your best friend." It was something that John never would have said in any other conversation but the one they were having at that moment. Before, it would have remained a known secret, an 'elephant in the room.' But this Sherlock needed to hear those words, needed to be reminded, because he didn't look like he believed it.

"Don't ever give me so much credit as to say I'm half as much as you are."

"Half as much what?" Now John was getting frustrated.

"It goes without saying."

"No, I don't think it does!" Sherlock bit his lip defiantly, refusing to elaborate. John sighed. "I should call Mycroft."

"You don't think he knows?"

"I would have if he did."

It looked as though the thought had never occurred to Sherlock. "Oh." He raised an eyebrow. "But you won't?"

John shrugged. "Not if you let me help you." John finished his coffee, and picked up Sherlock's mug as well before standing and taking them both to the sink. When he returned, he leaned against the living room doorway, too awake now to sit back down. He decided to re-enter their conversation with humour, his way of easing back onto the topic. "You know, if you want my life so badly, I'm sure Mary has some friends we could set you up with."

Sherlock scoffed. "You think this is about women, John?"

John rolled his eyes. Of course he knew better than that. Then he allowed the serious look to return to his face. "Look, Sherlock: you might think that you're some heartless sociopath, but I know better. I can see you - better than you can see you."

Sherlock looked back at him, his hands still clasped. "And what do you see?"

John folded his arms. "I see the most brilliant man I know, maybe the most brilliant in the world. But you already knew that, so let me tell you what else I see." John paused to take a deep breath. "I see a man with more people who love him than he can accept having. A man who would gladly give his life for any of them - a man who did, for some of them." Sherlock stared at John, his expression desperate. "I see someone who has done more for my family than I think even I have. I see a member of this family. You are a member of my family, Sherlock, whether you know it or not."

"That's not true. I don't deserve-"

"-I see..." John searched for more examples, himself as desperate to convince Sherlock as Sherlock was to be convinced. "I see someone who looked after my wife when I couldn't, who made up for all the things I was doing wrong, and all the ways I didn't realize I was hurting her."

"John-"

"-And I see my best friend: the only person I know deserving enough to be such a massive part of my son's life. And that, Sherlock Holmes, is your greatest accomplishment, because I don't take what you do for Anthony lightly." By now, John felt his own eyes wet with tears, but his cheeks had somehow remained dry. Sherlock seemed frozen to his seat, his eyes unmoving, but his hands having loosened their grip on each other. John took a step towards him. "You may think that you're not worthy of having someone like Mary or Anthony in your life, but you're wrong, because you do have them. And you have me, if that makes any difference, too."

"It makes all the difference," John heard Sherlock mumble as his hands fell apart, rubbing his knees awkwardly, and looking like he was about to stand.

"Stay here tonight," John offered him, worried about the man returning to Baker Street alone.

Sherlock shook his head. "No-" he started, but John pleaded:

"Please. Stay."

"I don't feel as if I could sleep tonight."

"Well, it's a weekend. I'll stay up with you."

Sherlock nodded, affirmatively, and John returned to the couch.

When Mary and Anthony returned to the house late that night, they found John and Sherlock playing cards and drinking coffee, betting with small change. They laughed every time one lost a round, and seemed absorbed in conversation. Mary went to bed quickly after giving each man a kiss on the cheek goodnight, intuitively aware that they needed that time alone together. Anthony was too tired to stay up, but did also go into the living room to say goodnight to his Father and his Godfather. As he turned to go up to his bedroom, Sherlock gently grasped his arm, keeping him next to his seat and observing him. Anthony stared back, confused. Eventually, Sherlock spoke, his eyes level with Anthony's chest:

"I don't want you to worry about me," he whispered. Anthony nodded silently, and then his face softened. He bent down and embraced his Godfather. Sherlock accepted the gesture, holding the tall boy with one arm, the way he always hugged.

The next morning, when Anthony went down the stairs, he found the two men sound asleep. His Father was sprawled out on the couch, a blanket tucked over him. Had his Mother covered him? She couldn't have, since she would have covered Sherlock, as well. Sherlock, on the other hand, had tucked his legs up onto the armchair, still half-clutching his empty mug. Anthony snuck back up the stairs and collected his camera. He was thrilled to find the scene unchanged when he returned, and he snapped the secret photo of the two men sound asleep.

Author's Notes: Okay, so normally I would never place a 'message from the author' here, so I'll try to keep this quick and unobtrusive, but I just wanted to quickly request everyone's thoughts regarding the rating of this story. I don't plan on delving any further into the drug use or using any more graphic language than I already have so far in this story, but I'm unsure whether the mere mention of drug use is enough to give this fic a T rating, or if anything else in it is. Your thoughts and opinions would be greatly appreciated. Thanks!