John shifted on the bench, glancing up at the door to Sherlock's hospital room for the fifteenth time.

It was still closed.

But at least there wasn't any yelling from inside, so far.

He had been hoping beyond hope that the detective could behave himself and keep his cool with the psychiatrist they brought in to interview him prior to release, to make sure he was fit to go home.

It seemed to be taking forever.

When at last the door opened and the psychiatrist emerged, John had almost but not quite nodded off, but he looked up at the sound of footsteps, clearing his throat.

"So…?"

"He checked out fine, so I'm giving him clearance to leave. You should still keep an eye on him, though."

John nodded and glanced at the door, getting to his feet. "Thanks."

He waited until the psychiatrist left to go file the report before he went in. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, regarding the IV with distaste.

"Hey. I saw the shrink out there. How did it go?"

"Irritating beyond belief, and a complete waste of everyone's time." He scowled. "I want to go home."

"We will, eventually. She said you're good to go, but there's still a few hours left until they release you."

"That's stupid, I'm recovered. I'm ready to go home now."

"That's protocol. They have to follow it." He glanced at the tray on the side table. "Not going to eat anything, are we?"

"Hmph. I had more important things to do. You take it, if you're so keen to have someone eat it."

"Er, thanks but no thanks." He took a seat in the chair and settled in. "Look, Sherlock… we need to talk."

"No we don't."

"For heaven's sake…"

"We don't need to talk. There's nothing to talk about. It was an accident. It won't happen again, and that's the end of it."

"Is that a promise? No, wait, nevermind, I'm not going there again… Just… hear me out, okay? This… all of this… needs to stop. I think… maybe you should think about… trying some medications. Real ones, not whatever the hell you took the other day."

Sherlock stared at him in silence for a few seconds, his eyes narrowing. Then he cracked a smile, and laughed lightly. "Good one, John. You almost had me, but you should have heard how ridiculous you sounded, and the look on your face—"

"Sherlock. I'm not kidding."

The smile disappeared instantly, replaced by a gaze of intense scrutiny. "…I don't follow."

"I'm dead serious. I've tried everything I could possibly think of to help you, without going in this direction, but it obviously isn't working. It's time to try something else."

Sherlock's eyes were boring holes into him, and John would have been hard-pressed to pick one emotion to describe everything he saw reflected in them.

"No. It isn't. I said it was an accident. I'm alright, I'm fine."

"Yeah, that's not going to hold any water."

"I don't need any medication! There's absolutely nothing wrong with me!"

"Do I even need to point out what's wrong with that sentence?!" John gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. "Look where you're sitting! Do I need to remind you how you got here?!"

"How many times do I have to tell you it was an accident?! I was basically high!"

"That's the problem! You do things like that, and that leads to this, and I—I can't handle any more of this. Okay? I can't do this anymore. I really need you to help me help you."

Sherlock was silent, and it was effectively impossible to tell what he was thinking. "…That's… something friends do, isn't it? That would help you…? If I…"

"Yes. That would help me more than I can describe. It would be a huge weight off my shoulders."

He bit his lip. "Help you… I suppose I could do that. Maybe. But if it's too hard—"

Of course.

If you won't do it for you, do it for me.

Just try.