Over the next few hours John found that his focus kept reverting back to just trying to keep himself from throwing up.

He hadn't felt this nervous since returning home from Afghanistan.

Every little while a nurse would stop to ask him if he was alright, and at last he was approached by a small, professional-looking woman who informed him that she was a "resident mental health nurse," and said that she wanted to speak to him about "the patient." She probably introduced herself by name, as well, but he didn't care enough to remember it.

She escorted him to her office with an offer of coffee or tea, which he refused. Once he had taken a seat and she was settled behind the desk she jumped right in, skimming through her notes.

"I understand that this is difficult for you, but in order to make informed decisions I need to ask you a few questions. Are you family, or at least close?"

"Yeah, I mean... I'm his friend. Close."

She nodded, making a little note. "Alright then. Had you been in contact with him much before this happened?"

"We're flatmates."

"Mmhmm... Can you tell me if the patient had been exhibiting any signs of dangerous behavior toward himself, or anyone else?"

"His name is Sherlock." John's fists clenched in his lap. "And... Yeah. He'd... had problems with self harm for a while."

She nodded again, checking something off. "Did Sherlock ever say anything about having intentions to end it all?"

"...No. Not actively. He told me he didn't want to anymore."

"Anymore?"

"That's what I said. Maybe in the past, but not now."

"Hmm... So this was just a sudden thing? Maybe a spur of the moment decision. Have you ever had him evaluated for depression?"

John sat there for a moment.

Why did it feel so strange to think of having Sherlock 'evaluated'?

Probably because he was always the one doing the evaluations.

Because as erratic and eccentric as he was, he was also in control, or so it seemed, and so self-aware that it had never even come up.

But, with everything considered...

That didn't sound like such an impossible diagnosis.

"Sir?"

"Ah... sorry. No, he's never been evaluated, that I know of." He'd have to remember to ask Mycroft about that later, come to think of it.

"You said you two were flatmates, correct? Then will you be around to keep an eye on him?"

"I can try."

"Okay, then I'm finished here." She straightened her notes and looked up at him. "We're going to hold him for about 72 hours, and then, depending on a small assessment I'll be giving him, we can release him into your care."

"…That's it? That's all you're going to do? My best friend just tried to—" He covered his mouth and took a moment. "Can't you help him?"

She looked sympathetic. "If you would like us to we can admit him to a 30 day stay in the psychiatric wing. They'll keep an eye on him there, and he'd undergo a treatment program with our registered psychotherapist. But we'll only do that if he, you, or his next of kin insist on it, or if we deem him still a serious risk to himself."

John couldn't help but imagine Sherlock in a ward, complaining non-stop, deducing other patients and nurses to tears, and ranting about how inane and dreadful everything was.

He'd hate it there. He'd probably kill himself.

Oh god…

John bit the inside of his cheek hard, repeating a steady stream of 'shut up, shut up, shut up,' inside his head.

All he said out loud was, "No, you're right. That would do more harm than good, trust me. I know him. A bit."

John had almost fallen asleep when something woke him.

He had been sitting in the chair by Sherlock's bed, keeping hold of his hand because he wanted to be there for him and he wasn't sure what else to do.

A returned pressure on his hand roused him from a light doze, and he blinked and lifted his head.

Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but he was stirring slightly, and he mumbled under his breath.

"Sherlock?"

He groaned, obviously still groggy. "…J'hn…?"

"Right here. How are you feeling?"

After a moment of consideration, he muttered, "Numb…"

"Yeah, well, they've got you on a nice cocktail of painkillers. Right up your alley, huh? Sorry, I…"

"John—" He moved to sit up, but John pushed him back down carefully, much to his irritation. "I'm not an invalid..."

"Right now, you are. You've got nearly 36 stitches in that arm, and I don't want you moving it yet."

"About that…" He shut his eyes again and sighed wryly.

John paused. "Yeah. About that. I… uh…"

"It wasn't what it looked like."

"Don't lie to me anymore, okay, Sherlock?! I don't need to hear that right now! I'm just trying to work this all out, and I've had to make judgment calls and have really uncomfortable discussions about this with some quack and I can't even—"

"I'm not lying! I… I wasn't in my right mind, at the time."

"No shit! Do you have any idea what that was like, coming home to that?! I didn't sign up for this!"

"I know you didn't! But if you feel that strongly about it, then go."

John let out a big breath, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "When the hell are you going to understand this? That's why I can't go. Because I care. You're going to kill me, eventually, but I'm not going anywhere."

"That's illogical—"

"Would you shut up, for once? I've had enough logic for a while. I just want an explanation. I want to know why."

"Like I said, I wasn't in my right mind. I had… er… self-medicated. Which, apparently, didn't do wonders for my decision making faculty, and… well…"

"Jesus… What the hell did you take?"

"Medical grade painkillers. Possibly too many."

"You think?! No, wait, let me answer that—you didn't think! Why the fuck would you fuck around with that kind of thing?! That's not safe!"

"John, when have I ever been safe? It's not in my blood."

"Yeah, well, I just… I'm doing the best I can, Sherlock. Don't make this harder for me."

Sherlock leaned back on the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. "Why do you have to act as if this is your responsibility? I can tell you, it's not. I'll take care of myself, and if anything happens then it was my fault and not yours. That's the way the world works. Get used to it."

"No. Maybe that's how it used to work, but not anymore. I'm your friend, you're my friend, and friends take care of each other. Get used to that, you twat."

Sherlock turned his head to glance over at him, and almost smiled. "I… I am glad you came home, John."