A/N: I have Boxerbee to thank for suggesting this word. Also, I should warn you that this chapter is quite dark in comparison to others, and involves minor characters' deaths. It's also a lot longer because I felt there should be more of a plot... and let's face it I just don't want this series to end x

Zoothapsis: a premature burial.

Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa, eyes closed and palms together, fighting valiantly to stave off the boredom that was looming ever closer. He hadn't had a satisfying case for two days, and he had to admit that he had been impressed with himself that he'd lasted this long.

The brisk ringing of a mobile phone saved him from his depression, and he quickly swung himself from the couch and headed over to the table, looking down at John's phone. Unknown number. Interesting.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Mr Holmes? Is that you?"

Detective Inspector Dimmock. Why on earth was he calling John? The doctor had been out to the shops, but as he was speaking he could hear the front door open and close.

"Yes, it's me, Inspector. Can I help you?"

"Actually, is Doctor Watson there?"

Sherlock looked up as John entered, who gave him a smile as he moved through to the kitchen and placed the shopping on the table.

"Yes, he's here." John frowned and looked to the detective, clearly knowing the phone call was about him.

"Will you pass me over? I need to speak to him urgently."

Sherlock held out the phone and John moved over to take it, questions gleaming in his eyes. The detective shrugged.

"Hello?" John moved across the room and headed up the stairs as Dimmock spoke. Sherlock heard a pause on the steps when the doctor stopped, and then the footsteps resumed, though at a much slower pace, as if John was listening to every little thing Dimmock was saying.

Left once more to a deafening silence, Sherlock looked about the flat for something to do. Having nothing else to do, he picked up his Stradivarius and began to play a slow melody. No more than five minutes had passed before he felt a vibrating in his pocket and realised that it was now his phone that was ringing.

"Sherlock Holmes." he said, putting the phone to his ear.

"Sherlock, it's Greg. Listen, we need you down here at a crime scene."

"Of course you do. Where are you?"

"The Griffin House Hotel, outside Connaught Street. Listen Sherlock, if you'd rather stay at Baker Street then I completely understand–"

"What? Why would I want to remain here? I'll be there in fifteen minutes." He hung up on Lestrade without giving the DI a chance to explain. Finally, a case.

As he shrugged on his coat and scarf, John's heavy and almost reluctant footsteps reverberated as he came down the stairs. When he stopped in the doorway, Sherlock observed that he quite literally looked like hell. He was incredibly pale, and his eyes were empty, those hazel orbs staring lifelessly up at him. His shoulders were slumped, as if he had given up on the world, and he loosely held his mobile in one hand.

Still, the temptation of a new crime scene meant Sherlock ignored his deductions for the moment as he took John by the arms and spun him around to face the stairs.

"Come on, John, Lestrade's waiting for us."

"Sherlock–" he croaked, trying feebly to stay where he was. "I can't–I have to go to–"

"You can do it later. Come on, we're going to be late."

"It's a crime scene; who's waiting for us?" he said without humour.

"Stop being so sarcastic and hurry up."

Surprisingly, John traipsed down the stairs without uttering another word. All through the cab ride too, he didn't say anything; merely stared out of the window.

When they arrived at the Griffin House Hotel, Sherlock clambered out as quickly as he could and headed over to where Lestrade was standing. The DI turned once he saw him, but his expression changed when he noticed John coming towards them.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Greg hissed, glaring at Sherlock.

"He... always comes." he answered with a frown.

"Yes, I know that, but why is he here today? Don't tell me you dragged him along." There was a warning look in his eyes, and Sherlock shifted, looking down at the floor.

"You don't know what's happened, do you?" The DI asked.

"No, I don't. Why, what's going on?"

Lestrade didn't get a chance to tell him, for John appeared next to Sherlock, still looking sullen and gaunt. Greg grimaced and pulled John aside, motioning for Sherlock to go on ahead to the body.

"John, if you don't want to be here then that's absolutely fine–"

The doctor shook his head. "It's alright, Greg," he said quietly, a sad smile playing on his lips. "I need to be distracted, I think. This'll help."

"I understand, but I doubt a dead body is going to help."

John flinched a little and Greg hastily apologised, but he waved him off. "It's fine." John murmured. Lestrade nodded and left him, moving over to where two officers were stood near a patrol car. John walked over to Sherlock, who was crouched over the body of a young woman.

"She's a lawyer." the detective said, knowing John was stood behind him. "Married, two children, aged thirty-five – no, thirty-six – and is having an affair..."

"You look like shit." Sally Donavan strolled up to John and remained next to him, watching Sherlock with a sneer on her face. Anderson sauntered up behind her. "What's the Freak given you now?"

The doctor remained impassive. "Nothing, Sally." he said in a clipped tone.

"You look dead on your feet." Anderson put in, "Who died? Aside from the obvious."

John pursed his lips and didn't say anything.

Having noticed that there was no retort, Sherlock spun on his heels and glanced up at his flatmate, frowning.

"Someone really has died." he muttered. John only gazed back at him, refusing to break eye contact. The detective stood up and slowly moved over, studying every aspect of the small soldier in front of him.

"Family member." he announced, "More than one person, actually. Their deaths have come as a shock, so it wasn't anyone terminally ill or elderly. No extended family, so they were close."

"Sherlock–" John muttered, looking down. Donavan and Anderson were listening intently, finding this gossip fascinating and already making lists of who they were going to tell.

"Your father." Sherlock declared, "It was a car accident. Dead on impact."

"Stop it–"

"And Harriet, too." he raised his eyebrows, almost as if he was surprised. "Though this was a separate death, she wasn't with your father."

"Sherlock, please–" John's voice had reduced to a whisper, though he was ignored.

"Suicide. The most obvious guess would be too much alcohol consumption, but–"

"Your sister was an alcoholic?" Anderson scoffed. "Not surprising, really, if she'd have known her brother associates himself with this Fre–"

It came out of nowhere. A swift right-hook and then Anderson was sprawled across the floor, his hand pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to stem the flow of blood. John was stood over him, breathing heavily and his hands clenched into fists.

Anderson looked up at him, "You think you can get away with that? Why, I could–"

"Anderson!" Lestrade stormed over, glaring at him. "What do you think you're doing?" He didn't give him time to answer. "Get the hell off my crime scene!"

Anderson stood up quickly. "But sir!" he squeaked.

"Now." The forensic scientist scurried off.

"You too, Donavan. I don't want to see you here." The sergeant was wise enough not to argue.

Greg faced John, who had calmed somewhat. "Go home, mate." he said gently. "You're clearly exhausted, and no one's blaming you. And don't worry about Anderson."

John smiled his thanks after apologising for making a scene, before leaving to find a cab.

"And you," Lestrade turned on Sherlock. "I will allow you to stay on this case, but, you are to go back to Baker Street right now and apologise for what you've done. You were being extremely obnoxious and insensitive, and I don't want you back here until you've sorted things out with John. Now go."

Reluctantly, he walked back to the main road and scanned the area for a cab. He'd gotten everything he already could from the crime scene, so it wasn't too irritating that he'd been forced to leave. Besides, John's case had perked his interest now. Perhaps I shouldn't call it a case, he mused as he climbed into the taxi. Nevertheless, he was very curious about the circumstances of the two deaths. They couldn't be a coincidence, could they? And suddenly it's a murder case? Maybe not, but there could certainly be cause and effect. Mr Watson's death caused Harry to commit suicide. But then, how did she come to know about his demise before John?

These thoughts continued until he stepped out onto Baker Street and slowly made his way up the stairs and into the living room. John was nowhere to be seen, and Sherlock soon worked out that he was up in his room. He hesitantly climbed the second staircase and remained outside John's door, unsure what to do. He gently pushed it open and peered inside to see John stood at the window, his back to the detective. It would have been impossible for John not to have heard him, but he made no movement to keep the younger man out.

"John?" he asked, "Are you alright?" Sherlock walked forward and took his position next to the ex-soldier.

"M'fine, Sherlock." he whispered.

"I – er – I'm sorry about earlier, when I made those deductions about your father and also Harriet. I realise I wasn't being very tactful, and I should apologise... Sorry." Brilliant.

"S'alright. You didn't know."

Sherlock bit back the retort that was waiting on his lips, and instead opted for a safer question. "When did you find out?"

John took a shaky breath. "I already knew Dad died." he mumbled. "It was last week. Car accident, like you said. He was pulling out of a turning and another vehicle just ploughed into him at 60mph. I'm surprised you hadn't worked it out sooner."

Sherlock was also surprised. Now that he thought about it, John had been quieter this past week, not really arguing with him about experiments or moaning about the fact he doesn't have a girlfriend. He should have picked up on it sooner.

"I found out about Harry's... death this afternoon when I got back from work and bought the shopping. That was why Inspector Dimmock was on the phone." he explained.

Sherlock nodded. He'd already worked that out.

"He wants me to come down to Bart's and make a formal ID on Harry. Mum's too upset to do it, and Dad... well, you know."

The detective remained silent.

"The last conversation I had with him," John continued, "I told him that I never wanted to speak to him again. I had lost my job at the clinic – thanks to you, by the way," he added with a small smile, "and he seemed to leap upon that chance to degrade me. I was so frustrated that I told him to piss off and hung up. Two days later Mum calls telling me he's dead." His voice cracked on the last few words, but he carried on.

"And now Harry." he whispers. "Overdose, so I'm told. Swallowed a bottle of pills then fell asleep. And we didn't exactly part on good terms either."

Sherlock shifted a little, not sure what he was supposed to do in this situation.

John seemed to notice his discomfort. "I'm sorry. I know this isn't exactly your area of expertise, but... I don't know what to do, Sherlock," he whispered, unshed tears brimming in his eyes. "I don't know what to do." It was barely a murmur, but Sherlock still caught it.

"You don't have to do anything, John." he said firmly. "Mycroft can take care of the funerals, and if you think it's necessary we can visit your mother."

"No, she's staying with a friend for a while." he muttered. "Thank you, though." He looked up at Sherlock for the first time that evening, and the detective could see the sheer pain and fear that resided in those hazel irises. The glance was only brief, though, and then John was back to looking out of the window.

"Sleeping will help." Sherlock blurted out. "It's late anyway, and you looked shattered."

The doctor shook his head. "I won't be able to sleep." he mumbled. "I want to be... alone, Sherlock, if that's alright?"

He nodded. "Of course. I'll be downstairs if you need me." He turned and strode across the room, shutting the door behind him. He paused for a few moments, and he soon heard the creak of John's bed as he sat and then a strangled sob, muffled most likely by John's hands, the soldier in him trying to prevent himself from crying. Sherlock unknowingly pressed his ear closer to the door, and he heard more sobs resounding through the room. His heart clenched painfully and he fidgeted on the spot, not having a clue what to do. Did he go downstairs and act like everything was okay, or did he go back into John's room and comfort the man?

His mind made up, Sherlock noiselessly crept back in and moved over to the bed, where John was sat with his head in his hands, his body silently shaking. He sat next to the doctor and gently eased him closer. John rested his head into the crook of Sherlock's neck and attempted to stop the tears as the detective rubbed his arm soothingly, murmuring softly into his ear and trying to calm him.

He had never seen John so out of control of his emotions. True, every now and then he may lose his temper, but even then he did his best to remain calm. What startled Sherlock though was how much John was grieving for his sister. He knew they had never gotten along, and the sad fact was that if the positions had been reversed between the siblings, he doubted Harriet would be as saddened as John was at the moment.

The doctor was quiet now, only sniffing every now and then, and Sherlock had the sneaking suspicion that he would be falling asleep very soon, despite his earlier words. Sure enough, about two minutes later he felt John go completely limp in his grasp as exhaustion finally took its hold. He tenderly manoeuvred his flatmate backwards until he was lying with his head on the pillows and a light blanket thrown over him. He mused that this would be the last time he would see John looking truly peaceful for a few weeks, and he wished there was something he could do about it.

Deciding it was the best option, Sherlock lay down atop the covers of the bed next to John and settled in for a long night. It was likely the doctor would suffer from nightmares tonight, and he had every intention of doing his best to prevent them.

Just as he was drifting to sleep, a buzzing in his pocket alerted him to the fact that he had a text message waiting.

The funeral practicalities have been taken care of. All John needs to do is turn up. – MH

Thank you – SH