This isn't how things are supposed to be

For once Sherlock accepted the assistance, he knew his limits even though he liked to pretend that he had none. It would have been unlikely that he could make it down the stairs without his legs collapsing under him if he had no help. The whole ordeal had left him shaking and no matter how hard he tried to exert some sort of control over his body he could not seem to manage it. The more he tried the more he shook and therefore the worse he felt. In the end he simply allowed himself to be led down the stairs slowly. Everything screamed at him for attention, the mud on Lestrade's shoes, the scratches on the wall by the stairs, the cigarette ash abandoned on the steps and the blood stain on the collar of one of the police officer's shirts. He tried to ignore it all but it overwhelmed him, normally he could control it but the sudden emotional vulnerability left him unable to fend off the onslaught of observations and deductions. It wasn't long before there was too much information for his mind to process and moments later he collapsed into Lestrade's arms.

When he regained consciousness there were voices all around him and he could feel a strong body behind him, supporting his fragile frame. Desperately he tried to claw back the solitary calm of his unconscious mind but found himself, instead, dragging his eyelids open. He flinched as the bright light assaulted his retinas but he felt a comforting hand brushing through his curls. This brought him back to the present. Who was the man behind him? More importantly, were John and Mycroft ok?

The second time he opened his eyes the light was much more bearable but unwillingly he allowed a groan of pain pass through his lips. "Shh, its ok." Sherlock would recognise that voice anywhere; it was in fact the only person who was allowed to make physical contact with him.

"John," he whispered groggily. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. You on the other hand…"

"I'm ok, really John, I'm fine. Just could do with a little air."

"Ok, do you think you'll be ok sitting up?"

"Yes," snapped Sherlock, annoyed by his fussing but he instantly felt bad. His logical mind, the part of him which normally dominated everything about him, told him he did not need all of the fussing and the attention. His undeveloped emotional part told him John was trying to help and he knew his emotions were right, he just had no idea what to do about it. The detective looked down, half expecting his friend to stand up and leave but no such thing happened.

It was as if the doctor could read his mind. "I'm not going anywhere, come on, we'll sit you on the back of the ambulance." Sherlock's pride prevented him from accepting any help beyond getting into a sitting position. After that he manoeuvred himself so his legs were hanging off the back of the ambulance and he was sitting on the ledge, John sat next to him and the remained in a comfortable silence. Someone draped a shock blanket over Sherlock's shoulders and instead of shrugging it off like he normally would he hugged it tighter around himself, an action which did not go unnoticed by John. "Hey, you mind if I give you a once over, he wasn't exactly gentle with you?" Sherlock shook his head vigorously, drawing the blanket closer to his chest wincing as he was reminded of the wounds on it. His shirt was very damp with blood and John had definitely noticed. "Where's Mycroft?" he asked trying to change the subject.

"He's gone to deal with Moriarty; he only gave us a mild sedative so we're over it now. Please Sherlock, I just want to make sure he did no lasting damage. If you don't want me to do it let me call another doctor. Please." Sherlock shook his head again.

"All I want to do is go back to Baker Street and get some sleep. Please John, don't try and stop me." The doctor nodded his head in consent.