This day was different. John could feel it. Sherlock had been lucid for a relatively long period that morning, and he'd been discussing with John the significance of quotes.

"They're pointless," he'd argued.

"Not everyone is as eloquent as you," John pointed out.

"Yes, your blog is proof of that," Sherlock smirked.

John tossed a pillow at Sherlock's head. "Oi! Watch it! Some people just aren't capable of finding the right words, and that's when they use someone else's. There's nothing wrong with that. It's like... taking advice from a friend."

Sherlock snorted. "Because any of my friends ever give good advice."

"I suggest you shut up before I throw something heavier than a pillow at you."

Sherlock didn't respond to that.

"Good plan," John had said.

Sherlock had fallen back asleep shortly after that, but John was left pondering what he said.

He'd woken up again around lunch, but wasn't as coherent then. John tried to get mouthfuls of soup in him around the muttering about monsters not being real, but created by our minds.

He'd gotten half a mug into him before he fell silent and unresponsive. He wasn't asleep, because his eyes were still open, but rather he seemed to be deep in thought, though about what John couldn't be sure.

John sat back on the couch with his laptop. He'd gotten halfway through reading a news article about a suspicious death, wondering if he should bookmark it for Sherlock to look at later, when he spoke.

"We make up horrors... to help us cope with the real ones."

John nodded, and with that approval, Sherlock sighed and rolled over, falling asleep.

He typed the words into google shortly after, amused to find it was a quote.

"And you said they were pointless..." John muttered to himself. He smiled.