AN: warnings for descriptions of purging and SI.

N.B.: The quote at the end of this chapter is taken from the book ''Wintergirls'' by Laurie Halse Anderson.

JOHN'S POV

I hear muffled shouting, and make my way downstairs. Catch Sherlock sitting on our sofa, a bowl of yogurt in his lap, probiotics capsules on top of the yogurt. He's mashing them with the back of a spoon. Splintering the capsule into shards.

Additionally, he's watching Jeremy Kyle at an almost obscene volume and I reach for the remote to reduce the noise.

He looks up at me with a quiet tiredness permeating his being.

He's trying. It's something. It's more than something, really, because he's eating, and whether he went into the kitchen and got his breakfast in anticipation of my seeing this act or not - it's still something profound.

''These two sisters are drug addicts John, and-''

I turn, run my hands through my hair. Look at the clock. Fight an impulse to groan when I realize what I'm realizing, given the time.

''Why aren't you dressed yet?,'' I grouse and Sherlock stops talking. Licks at his lemon meringue yogurt. Pulls one of the probiotic pills off the top and chews it up.

''Sherlock! It's almost noon! You have your appointment with Yuri this afternoon!''

Sherlock's scrapes another bit of yogurt from the bowl and while internally I'm cheering, externally I don't want to come across as a push-over. He's eating, thank God, but he's still lazing about when he should be out of the flat and on his way to see his psychiatrist.

''I have time, yet. Obviously,'' he says with no depiction of concern. Places his lunch, meager as it is, against the side table and reaches back for the remote. Presumably to drown me out.

I take in his form. He's had his shower (his hair is still damp, but not sopping), and he's in jeans (something I've never seen him wear, honestly), but he's far from ready. Sock-less, still clad in a silk pajama top. He hasn't even shaved, and the slight scruff on him looks odd.

I try not to go into over-protective mood. Over-analysis mode.

I want to believe that deviations from the norm we had in the past are fine. Because while I have this mental image of Sherlock being 'fine' when I met him, I need to accept that he has never been wholly fine. He's been haunted, and he's struggled on his own for almost his entire life, and on his own he's done admirably.

But he wasn't healthy in his mind before; not entirely. So it shouldn't make me squirm with anxiety if he's wearing different clothes now. Or that he hasn't shaved. I simply knew a version of Sherlock that seemed healthier in the past, even if he still struggled with eating. Still struggled with dark thoughts and superficial success.

''Sherlock! Get up! Get your socks on. Brush your hair! You're not four years old, and I'm not your primary school teacher; I shouldn't have to nag you to do these things,'' I grouse.

I play at being annoyed, sometimes. I'm not actually annoyed, but I don't want him skipping out on yet another appointment. Not when I know he needs this. He needs someone who he can talk to about this stuff. Someone that isn't me.

''And call Yuri - let him know you're running late.''

Sherlock flips the channel, seemingly ignoring me. I know he isn't. Not really.

After a few moment, he settles on Graham Norton.

''Sherlock. Get up. Get ready,'' I stress, using my firmest 'Captain John Watson' voice. ''Move it!''

''Oh relax, John. We still have enough time; you haven't even showered yet. I can be ready before-''

I hold up a hand, confused.

''What does my not having had a shower yet have to do with you dragging out getting ready?''

Sherlock suddenly blinks. Sits up stiffly against the sofa.

''You're coming with me though, John,'' he speaks slowly, unsure. ''You always come with me.''

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Fight back a moan.

''Sherlock, we discussed this yesterday! Last night in fact.''

Sherlock is now looking somewhat perturbed.

''What did we discuss?,'' he asks quickly, anxiously. He licks his lips. Pushes away his yogurt.

No.

Don't do that.

Don't push the yogurt away.

Eat the damn bowl. It's not even 200 grams. Just eat it.

I meander on over to 'my' chair, toss the bloody Union Jack pillow to the floor. Fall into the padded seat with a huff.

''We discussed how you really aren't discussing anything with Yuri. Not really. How you come to sessions, leave ten minutes later. How perhaps I am enabling you? Does any of this ring a bell?''

My flatmate blinks quickly, scratches his cheek.

''Not really,'' he says hesitantly, ''I must have deleted it.''

I get up, briskly walk to the kitchenette. Find Sherlock's mobile, return to the living room, toss it to him.

''Text Yuri. Let him know we're running late. By about 15 minutes.''

Sherlock catches the mobile easily, but his expression remains guarded.

''We?,'' he confirms, and I see a slight notch decrease in his features. A very, very slight reduction in anxiety.

''Yes. We. If that's what it takes,'' and I look around, wondering the best way to pull myself together in less than 10 minutes. I won't have time to shower, but at the end of the day, that hardly matters.

What matters is that Sherlock goes to this meeting.

What matters is that Sherlock doesn't continue to find creative ways to fight going to his sessions.

''So you're coming?,'' he confirms, a moment later. Staring at his yogurt, still only partially consumed.

He looks so purely apprehensive that I suddenly feel a slight surge of compassion.

''Yes. One last time. But we aren't dragging this out. It's not fair to Yuri. And you're finishing that yogurt. Then I want you upstairs for a check in.''

Sherlock studies me silently, then rises from his little blanket cocoon on the couch and trots up the stairs back to his room.

''That's not necessary,'' he says stiffly, the anxiety fresh again.

I hold his sight, and shake my head soundlessly.

''Don't do this. Don't make this a damn struggle every morning,'' I whisper, suddenly so tired myself that I just want to put on my jacket and walk to Speedy's. Leave him on the sofa with his pathetic breakfast.

But I can't.

Sherlock's throat convulses.

''We did that yesterday,'' he says almost timidly. ''Every day isn't necessary.''

I watch him. Sad.

There is no way that this entire thing isn't fucking sad. Not the most poetic of terms. Not phrased eloquently.

But that's what we have here. What's happening here is so complex, so self-directed, this anger, this sickness. It's hard to feel that it matches the tragedy of his childhood, or the turmoil of his depression as an adolescent. In moments like this, when he eats his yogurt, and he argues and he tries to appease me rationally, with a stack of books on forensic science off to his side and a folder of cold case files from Lestrade opened and half marked with pen, I can almost forget that the greater tragedy of his life isn't even his past.

Because maybe it's not.

Maybe it's this.

This purgatory.

The monotony of his activities, the acedic nature of this subsistence, the repetitiously boring nature of his disease.

Or how - on days like this when he eats a little, and doesn't seem too morose - I almost want to say, 'screw it, Sherlock. Do what you want!'

Because it's a slow meandering away from anything good, but sometimes you want to cave. You want to give him the basics to choose to fight or not, especially when you're tired of fighting and arguing on the little things. And then it becomes so easy - too easy! - to remember that all these little things, these little moments - are what determine the course of a life. The content and substance and sense of what that life is and how it feels and what it must add up to for the person trapped in that body, dealing with that sickness.

You don't walk away because you stop loving a person. You walk away from the arguments and the trials and the tantrums and the deception because you do love them. But sometimes you forget that you are not fighting them, you are fighting a disorder.

It's a human sort of frailty. To forget the longest stretch ahead for a reprieve in the moment.

''Get up,'' I say again, stiffness in my voice. ''I'm not changing my mind on this. We can't afford to go backwards, here,'' I add a moment later.

Damn it, Sherlock.

Damn this.

To his credit, he can move fast.

I've barely brushed my teeth when I see him in my peripheral vision, freshly dressed in an emerald green jumper. The jeans, however, remain.

I give him a once-over, and as I do - I spit out anise toothpaste into the sink, then gargle with some Listerine. Spit that out too, while Sherlock half leans across the bathroom's entrance, watching me with a bored expression.

''Are you done yet?,'' he asks with some measure of impatience, and I glance up in the mirror. Capture his gaze.

He can't be serious.

''You're jumping the gun. You know the drill,'' I reply.

The drill, in this case, is very simple.

No shirt. Only boxers or pajama bottoms.

No socks. Nothing with pockets.

And he has to use the washroom first.

''John, I haven't even had a coffee this morning,'' he stresses, cheeks tinted fuchsia.

I huff, knowing there is no real way to determine the veracity of this statement.

''You know our agreement.''

He stares at me, looking deflated.

Turns around, then pulls off his emerald jumper. Unzips his jeans. Pulls them off.

When he's standing in nothing but his pants, he turns back to face me. Lightly presses against his bladder for show.

''I. do. not. have. to. urinate,'' he stresses, upset. ''I'm working at this properly! Nothing is the matter! I'm certainly not water-loading,'' he rushes, suddenly looking so dejected that I just want to take the bloody scales and smash them with a hammer so no reading is ever gleaned from them again.

I nod, somewhat appeased but still not foolish enough to assume he's telling me the truth.

''Hop on then,'' I say lightly; a test. A challenge.

He meets my eyes, and I see his un-padded heart spasm in his chest.

I can see his frenetic and palpable anxiety.

I touch his wrist. Stroke the flesh carefully. Hate the fact that I can feel old pin-prick scars from needle use. A history of red constellations when starving wasn't enough.

Sherlock moves towards the scale, and steps on carefully. As if he doesn't want to add too much of his body to the scale too quickly.

His eyes scan over the layout. The readout.

''113 or so,'' I say, confirming what he can already see.

I know this isn't how it's done. I know, from my readings, that most eating disorder clinics often hide the numbers from patients.

But he's doing this with me. He's doing this completely outpatient, and he wanted to know, he wanted to see.

He told me as much three days ago. Worried about re-feeding problems, he argued.

Wanted to face it head on, he said.

His lowest weight, out of the hospital, was just shy of 111 lbs. Close to 10 lbs lower than even I had expected, and it made me sick to contemplate how a man just under 6 ft 1 could exist in such a stretched out, under-nourished state.

Of course, it's not that much of a weight gain. It's the bare minimum that could possibly be expected in three days, and all of it is likely due to proper hydration, but his features still pull back in something not unlike disgust.

''Do you see what's a bit not good about this situation?,'' I try, gently.

Sherlock huffs out a breath. Looks up at me, face hot.

''I've gained! How come I'm still somehow screwing up in your estimation? I'm doing everything you're asking!''

He climbs off the scale, and starts to tug his jeans back up his legs. He looks distraught.

''You're not screwing up at all! You were seriously dehydrated, and now you are probably in a slightly safer place! 2 lbs is the minimum I'd expect in terms of weight gain when you probably were so dehydrated upon admittance!''

''John'', he says, face stone. ''Please-,'' he trails off.

I don't say anything else. I don't know what else to say; how to properly order the complexity of what I feel.

I give him his space and then I tread back to my room to finish getting dressed.

Five minutes pass, and once I am dressed I make my way back to the bathroom. Sherlock pulls his jumper back over his head. His hair, I notice absently, is now almost dry and has curled quite tightly around his skull.

''Have you texted Yuri back *yet*?,'' I attempt, in distraction.

Sherlock nods carefully, eyes squinting into something sour.

''What's wrong?''

He looks back up at me hurriedly, face pinched.

''Nothing. I'll wait down on the landing,'' he states as a reply, curt.

It's not that cold. Not by a long shot, and yet Sherlock is currently dressed in an undershirt, a button down and a jumper, replete with his navy coat, his black gloves and his blue scarf.

Additionally, his silhouette is further bulked up by what looks to be a hand-knit toque. In some ways, he reminds me of a little kid whose been overdressed by a mother on the first chilly day of autumn.

But I don't comment on his selection of clothes. I don't comment on the fact that his abnormal sensitivity to the cold is part and parcel of his being sick. I wouldn't be informing him of something of which he wasn't already, at least on some level, aware. So I simply walk alongside him at a semi-rushed pace as we make our way to the tube.

From the corner of my eye I can see him periodically bite his cheek. Evidence of nervousness.

''What's got you worked up?,'' I query, and Sherlock tucks his hands into the overcoat's pockets. Continues to look ahead.

''Like I told you earlier. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is the matter. Lay off.''

I slow my pace, and he overtakes me by half a block before he realizes that I've paused. Rushes back, eyes downcast. Same tentative expression.

''John. You said it yourself - we're already late.''

There's something in his voice that I dislike.

Some faint trill. Some faint catch that isn't deception and isn't anger and isn't Sherlock just dealing with This.

Something else.

Something fearful.

Not in the sense of eating, and gaining, and having me monitoring the process. Or blood work and tests and comments by others on the possible damage he's already done to himself.

No, it's a different sort of fear.

Something more alight with immediate doom. A look of dejection.

I cross my hands over my chest. No-nonsense.

''Right. But two or three minutes more at this point isn't going to make that much of a difference, is it? So you'd better get to the point and tell me what's bothering you. And don't tell me 'nothing' again, Sherlock. You promised me; no subterfuge. Openness. My first condition. The primary condition.''

Sherlock suddenly looks agitated. His expression tightens as he studies god-knows-what on the pavement. Kicks at a clump of wet leaves with his shoe.

''I'm waiting for your response,'' I mumble, not unkindly.

''I'm not upset, exactly. I'm not, I-''

I remain silent, brows raised.

''How do you think today's session is going to go, John?''

I tilt my head, confused by the question.

''What do you mean?''

Sherlock's hands rub against the sides of his legs.

''He's going to be furious with me,'' he hisses at last, looking up at me with an undeniable vulnerability.

''Who? Yuri?,'' I ramble, confused. ''Why the heck would Yuri be furious with you?''

Sherlock scrapes the heel of his shoe against the edge of the kerb.

''Of *course* Yuri,'' he mumbles. ''And I really don't see how I need to answer that question. You know why. You know exactly why.''

My head feels cotton batton-y with his words. As if he's speaking to me through a mental wool filter, and the words are distorted and jumbled.

''Sherlock,'' I start gingerly, moving slightly into his space. Aware of the rigidity of his posture, and his general need for several feet of space around his person-hood that no one (not even me) infringes upon when he's stressed.

But this time, with these words, I can't help but test him a little bit. Test this situation. See what he'll do if I move fractionally closer to him.

He looks back up at me, and then down to his hands.

''This is going to be the first session since I-,'' and his voice drops off suddenly. A boulder plunged from a precipice.

The crashing of the boulder against the waves below is the pounding of my heart when I realize what he's alluding to, and so I take his hand. Squeeze it.

''Yuri is *not* going to be furious with you!,'' I whisper urgently, and see a flicker of a smile as Sherlock's mind registers my protectiveness.

''I won't let anyone treat you in any way that brings you down. Never again. You hear?''

His glands work, noisily swallowing, and his voice croaks when he replies in the affirmative.

''I hear that. I know you *mean* that, but-''

He stalls.

I give his left gloved hand one last squeeze, and he looks up at me.

Mouths the one word. Just the one.

'Please.'

He needs an assurance. He doesn't need a force asking him to bare his soul. Not at this moment.

He knows that's to follow.

He needs my words. Maybe until he finds his own.

''Okay; here's how I think this session is going to go. I think that, most likely, Yuri's going to ask how you're feeling now. Today, certainly. Maybe the last few days. Most likely that night.''

Sherlock's breath hitches, and I cup his wrist with my fingers. A tether. An anchor.

''He might want to ask if you are able to identify what triggered you, before. He's going to be concerned, of course he is, but-,'' and I slow, unsure of how to proceed.

Sherlock runs his hands over his coat, smoothing it out. Glancing back up towards my line of sight, but carefully avoiding making prolonged eye contact.

''Did he request to see me alone? Is that why you decided-?,'' and he trails off, his nervousness not entirely eradicated although it does seem somewhat less intense now.

Damn it. He shouldn't be this scared to accept help.

No one should be.

''Sherlock,'' I rush, ''Listen to me: it's going to be okay. Nothing is going to happen today you won't be able to handle. I promise you.''

Sherlock's voice warbles back to me, unsure, unsteady.

''You shouldn't make promises like that, John.''

When we are half-way to Yuri's, I come to a decision, and pat down my coat pocket. Feel the small plastic container jingle with pills. Retrieve it from my jacket and let my thumb gloss over the words.

'Holmes, Sherlock

LORAZEPAM. 2 mg

To be taken with food.'

''Sherlock?''

He's watching the train jet through the tunnel, seemingly transfixed by the interplay of lightness and darkness.

''Mmh?,'' he queries, distractedly.

I take his hand, and pass him the bottle. He looks down to the yellow-tinged plastic medication container. The child-proof cream coloured safety lid. The NHS logo on the side, on a waterproof sticker. His name, the medication's name, the dosage strength, and Yuri's clinician information.

He blinks, and breathes in quickly. Holds a breath. Doesn't exhale.

''Sherlock? Hey, c'mon. Try to calm down a bit, alright?,'' and I remove one of his gloves. The black leather which grips his flesh like a second skin. Let my thumb stroke his palm rhythmically.

''Yuri thinks I need an anxiolytic?,'' and his timber is low, gravelly.

I don't respond immediately - simply help him turn the bottle around.

''Look at the date.''

Sherlock's eyes widen almost imperceptibly.

''This is very recent. This was after that night.''

By 'that night' he means the night he secured his lethal quantity of morphine.

The night he overdosed on morphine.

The night he deliberately overdosed on morphine.

Largely because I pushed him on an issue he couldn't face yet. Because I couldn't see that he had reached his limit for what he could handle.

I did that. That was my fault.

I made this worse.

Me. John Watson.

I took an oath to first do no harm.

And I harmed a man already in so much pain.

''You got this filled three days ago,'' Sherlock determines, glancing back to me.

I nod, watch him as he clutches the bottle tightly, his mouth pinched downwards.

''I'm supposed to take this?,'' he asks in confusion. ''Do you think so? Think that I need medication too?''

And for some reason I cannot begin to fathom, he sounds almost hurt.

''You're to have it, if you need it. Yuri wanted you to feel calm enough to attend sessions. He felt that given what has happened, how hopeless-,''

Sherlock fidgets about, looking among the car for anyone leaning in too close. Anyone being nosy.

''I'm whispering, Sherlock. No one's paying attention. Even if they were, they can't hear this,'' I murmur.

Sherlock nods, but still glances about uneasily. Pockets the medication.

''I have some water in my pack, if you want to take one. It's likely another 45 minutes before we get to Yuri's, so now is a good time.''

He closes his eyes. Presses against his temples, then puts his gloves back on.

''I don't need medication. I'm not that bad.''

I squeeze his hand, again, since hugs have become more awkward for me. Especially since his return from the hospital. His pale, beaten throat against my neck, and the muscles of his torso pulling in as he tries not to breathe. Tries not to exhale. Tries to keep his form, already so withered, as constricted as possible. As if, by touching him, he wants me to feel the bones of his body and not the small remainder of what exists of his musculature.

And then, concurrently, he will wear layers upon layers of clothing. As if trying to disguise his thinness. The ultimate paradox. I don't even know if he wants me to sense what he's become, or if he wants to hide it from me.

Probably both.

''I'm not that bad yet,'' he reiterates, and my musings shift and re-orient on our present. Us together, us together on the tube. The two of us, in now-time. Sherlock, 113 lbs and 6 ft 1, wearing too many layers, but somehow seeming so much better in the course of only three days. A Tim Burton leanness. Unnatural, but his eyes. God, his eyes. Not hopeful enough in himself, but hope that he turns on me. His lips, no longer quite so cracked. Making eye contact. Furtive eye contact. But trying so damnably hard.

Me at present: 144 lbs at 5 ft 6. Also trying so damnably hard, but in a different way, under a different strain, with different fears.

''It's not about being 'bad'. It's about what might reduce your stress well enough that you're able to get through the next while without feeling so conflicted. So you can deal with treatment, and everything that entails,'' and I debate saying more. Decide that if I expect bravery from Sherlock, I likewise need to show bravery myself. It's only fair.

''I don't want you to feel scared anymore, Sherlock. Neither does Yuri. He's certainly not furious with you. I give you my word that he's not.''

Sherlock's quiet for a few minutes, and I don't needle him. Don't press him for a response. I let him process my words, their meaning, the options that have opened up to him. The reality that I've addressed, and how no one hates him for what he's feeling, or for what he did when he could no longer see a non-destructive way to vocalize his needs.

I nudge his shoulder with my own solid one.

''It's going to be okay,'' I parse slowly. Taking the time to enunciate each word. ''You're getting better, and it's okay to not be 100% right now. It's *okay* to be where you are right now.''

Sherlock turns back to watching the tracks alternate their course of dark and light. Black charcoal nothingness interspersed with brilliant flashes of steel and substance.

What I thought was quite a bit of anxiety on the train turns out to be a pale reflection of what I was to come to see, evidently.

We are making our way up the walk to Yuri's home, and Sherlock's posture has become brittle. His face is grey.

I give him a look, remind myself to keep the incredulity out of my tone.

It's hard to do.

''Come on; you've got this,'' I attempt reassuringly.

My worry is that it will sound pat. Almost flippant.

I've seen this man, my friend - my absolute best friend and now an almost unnameable 'more' - face the most stress filled interactions. Within hours of knowing him, he was facing down a gun. Being plied to take poisoned pills. People had called him a freak, mocked him, outright belittled him.

None of that seemed to impact him that deeply.

Perhaps the operative word here is 'seemed.'

Perhaps all of it was impacting him, and like the consummate actor I've seen before, he acted again. Then again.

But it didn't *seem* that way. He truly seemed nonchalant in his outwards manner that I felt as if I had stumbled across the path of an alien. Of someone so different in their very psychological composition that I couldn't help but wonder if the assertions of others were true.

Which is a horrible thing to think, now. To realize I did wonder if there was something so unmovable within him that the harshest words and the most dire attacks would leave him more or less unaffected.

Part of me wanted to look, and see. Look and see, and spot the start of a crack.

Not to see someone in pain.

No, not at all.

I didn't want to develop such fondness for Sherlock, and then see him break.

I just wanted to see if he could feel like I felt, somewhat. If the jeers and the fearful moments were, somehow, registering.

I was entranced by his mind, and his mind's seeming ability to disconnect from horror. Which, upon our first interaction, was a subject that haunted me. I was haunted by my own obsessiveness. Stuck in a world of nightmares and past mistakes. Ever repeating nocturnal regrets.

So when I met him, and when he opened his mouth and said such ridiculous things, and appeared so untouchable, so full of self-regard as to not let anything derail him from his passions - I wanted to learn his secret.

I wanted to learn the tricks he used to avoid anxiety. To avoid regrets.

To avoid pain.

He seemed above pain somehow, and that's possibly what drew me in - at least initially. That he could feel things with such passion, be it his love for science and criminology, or his music, or his experiments - be shrug off horror.

Which sounds so insane now. How could I have ever been so child-like in my thinking as to assume that Sherlock - who is perhaps the most passionate person I have ever known - could avoid feeling pain?

How could I have convinced myself of such an impossibility?

I knock when, after a full minute, Sherlock seemingly cannot.

He seems rooted to the spot. Two steps down on the landing, behind me. His gloved hands in his pockets, his coat jostling with the movement of his agitation.

Then the door opens, and the jostling and rustling motions behind me stop.

I see a slightly glass-blurred Yuri press against the latch, and open the second and exterior door, holding it at such an angle that I can catch it easily with my fingertips.

''Hey guys,'' he says informally, his eyes ghosting over my frame, over Sherlock's own.

''Hello, Sherlock,'' he says carefully, and I can hear that sound I've heard a thousand times in my practice. Careful regard. A 'don't spook' them voice. I've heard the tonal qualities come from my very own mouth when in the presence of a person so tightly and overtly anxious that the wrong word could cause them to leave, even when they were very much in need of being seen.

I recognize similar qualities in Yuri's tone now. Surprise, perhaps, at what appears to be Sherlock's obvious fear. Hesitation to say the wrong thing. To appear to forward, but also a hesitation to appear reticent lest Sherlock take silence as a personal dismissal.

Turning to Sherlock, I press against the glass partition with my shoulder as Yuri pads back down the hallway.

''Deep breaths, love,'' I remind him, and Sherlock nods. His throat bulging and receding.

Yuri seems more or less the same as the last time I saw him.

I am not sure, given Sherlock's extreme anxiety, if this is for the best or not. If Sherlock will start fabricating reasons and conditions that take on structure and power in his mind, when the situation is fine. When things are truly okay.

Yuri has the study ready for us. He's put out a tray of different snacks this time - something I've never seen before - and has a pitcher of lemon water and tumblers off to one side.

I sit first, not awkwardly, but also not easily. Sherlock's anxiety weighs heavily upon my mind and I discard my jacket and try to pay attention to my flatmate's actions.

A moment later Sherlock sits down besides me, but he keeps his outerwear on; his coat, mittens, his scarf.

Yuri pours himself a glass of lemon water, nods at me to do the same, so I get myself a small paper plate and load it with grapes, cherry tomatoes and a few cubes of Gouda. Take my water glass, and add some seltzer water.

Sherlock sits rigidly besides me, not touching anything, and Yuri doesn't speak of the matter.

A few moments later, he pulls apart some printed sheets affixed with paperclips and spreads them out. A pen clicks in his hand.

Sherlock watches everything with a strong unease, and I find it difficult to swallow down the fruit.

''So, I guess-,'' Yuri starts carefully, taking in the rigidity of Sherlock's form. For all the issues he's likely had with Sherlock in the past, not opening up - not being accessible - Sherlock now seems much more stressed. The room buzzes with the energy of his fear. ''I just want to start with a few questions, Sherlock. You were aware that this session was scheduled for you and I alone, right? Why has John accompanied you today?''

Sherlock's bottom lip sucks in, and I sense he bites at it lightly for grounding. His clothed hands rest oddly on his laps, immobile and artificial.

''John always accompanies me on these excursions,'' he says softly, a few seconds later.

Yuri plucks a grape from his own plate and eats it. Chews. Nods as he chews. Swallows, then speaks.

''That's true. He does. But we discussed how I'd like to start seeing you alone during our last session. Do you remember the reasons for that request? Do you understand why I felt that might be a good idea?''

Sherlock freezes up more so, if that's possible.

''Sherlock?,'' Yuri tries again, looking patiently in Sherlock's direction.

''Yes,'' Sherlock replies evenly and it's unclear what he's saying 'yes' to, really. He's only offering the bare minimum in his speech, now. Short, clipped sentences - a few words at a time. I suspect if he spoke too much, the anxiety would be revealed in tremulous speech and a shakiness when he talked, and that he's trying to disguise his anxiety by reigning in how much he reveals.

''Yes? Yes you remember the reasons for that request, or yes - you agree that it's a good idea?''

Sherlock tugs at one of his gloves. Not because he's hot, I suspect; more to do with the fact that he wants to keep his attention focused on anything that is removed, in some form, from this line of questioning.

''There is nothing I need to discuss with you that I cannot discuss in John's presence.''

Yuri pushes back a frown, aiming for equanimity.

''But you do remember why I felt it might be a good idea to test out a few sessions, alone?''

Sherlock is currently the colour of milk, and I hate that this - not criminals intent on poisoning him, not bullying co-workers at the Yard, not the cruel speech of those who don't 'get' him, but a kind psychiatrist asking wholly carefully crafted sentences - could bring out such fear and anticipation of bad things, of dark things.

''I never said I agreed with your assessment,'' Sherlock all but breathes. ''I never said - I never gave any indication-''

And he stops talking then. Breaks off. His body is clad with layers upon layers of clothing. But if we stripped those layers away, I'm sure we'd see a rapid inhalation and exhalation of his lungs. The fear of his mind made evident in his breath, the tensing of his flesh.

''Why is John here today, Sherlock?,'' Yuri tries. ''Did you refuse to come without him?''

The question so bare-bones, so in-his-face, that it leaves little room for Sherlock to hide. It leaves no room for shelter in words and meandering thoughts and displaced ideas. It's too blunt for that.

Sherlock swallows and the sound is painfully loud in the small space. The loudness of the sound makes me feel oddly disconnected. Far more than I would have thought. And that's the thing about emotions, isn't it? They attach to singular events, cuts of memory, as if the memory of life is film, and one sound, one colourful ream of film, one scent - can have such weighted meaning. More, perhaps, than a host of cruelties and injustices inflicted upon the body for years at a time.

Or perhaps the body attaches meaning and significance to a short-hand version of expression. A look, something of a nanosecond, something that barely seems to have anything of lasting impact - and that encapsulates an entire emotion. And eventually perhaps becomes a mascot for an entire disorder. Those little catches and splinters of life, so watered down, represent years of hell. Years of suffering, of grief, of bitterest solitude, of starvation. Of being alone and engaging in painful things, with few people ever comprehending the depth or seriousness of the situation.

And all those days of personal suffering get lost in a tide of bleached memory. Days of restricting what he ate, and doing sit ups in his room when I could not see and as such not intervene. Until his spine was bruised and blackened, and until the skin came off and the surrounding flesh began to scar. And those moments become secondary in the scheme of his pain, as something seemingly innocuous. The bruising looked bad, and still does, but it's just a cover for something I will never be able to take in with my sight, which is obviously much worse.

His being here, in relative safety, among people who want him to get better? That seems to fill him with a type of nameless dread. He's currently among people who want the best for him, and he's fucking terrified.

It's just so wrong.

Which he knows, which he must know.

But his anxiety isn't lessened in that knowledge. In some strange, unfathomable manner - it's all the worse for the knowledge, perhaps.

''I didn't refuse. I would have attended this session even if John hadn't accompanied me,'' he mutters at last, brow flexing into something that almost looks like confusion.

''You would have?,'' Yuri says calmly, looking at me quickly, then back to Sherlock.

Sherlock nods. ''Yes, I would have. I made a promise to John, to try. I'm trying to uphold that promise,'' he whispers, and damn it. I want to hug him. It's not the right time to do so, but I want to offer him that little bit of surface strength.

Yuri takes a sip of his beverage, organizes some of the paper work he seemingly has printed out for us, and then inquires, ''So if I felt that maybe John should leave for a bit - perhaps go for a short walk around the block while we continued our session - you'd be alright with that?''

Sherlock flinches. Actually flinches. Hesitates, and Yuri waits.

''I wanted to say something,'' Sherlock eventually mumbles, finally removing the other glove. Laying both on his lap. ''I didn't want to have to say the same thing twice, to you both. With John here, I only have to say it once.''

Yuri looks surprised, and his eyes narrow slightly.

''Alright,'' he responds tentatively. ''What did you want to say to us?''

Sherlock stills, an odd smile gracing his mouth as he flexes his fingers back and forth. The bones pop and then recede through his flesh with the movement, like ripples in a pond.

''I'm not suicidal,'' he says thickly. ''I don't even think I was suicidal - then. That night.''

Yuri is watching Sherlock intently.

''You mean when you took the morphine?''

Sherlock nods, but the motion is so regimented and small that it's barely much of a nod at all.

''Why do you feel that you are not suicidal? Because you don't want to kill yourself?''

Sherlock is studying his fingers. The tips are red and the cuticles look bitten.

''I don't want to kill myself,'' he whispers.

''Is that what you think being suicidal is in its entirety? Wanting to kill yourself?''

Sherlock frowns, looks off-put.

''Of course,'' he replies. ''That's what it means to be suicidal. Wanting to die. Conceptualizing how and when you will die, by your own hand. Planning it. Committing it is following through on those plans.''

Yuri looks over to me, catches my head, shakes his head softly. 'No.'

No.

And no to what?

No to *what*?

''I have a supposition. Just - hear me out,'' Yuri starts, pushing his plate off to the side. ''Do you have a friend other than John that we can use for an example? You don't have to tell me their full name, if you feel uncomfortable doing so. But if you can provide a name which is a placeholder for someone who matters to you, that would be important.''

Sherlock squirms in his seat.

''Molly,'' he breathes. ''I have a friend - I guess she might consider me a friend - named Molly.''

Yuri gives a very terse, encouraging smile. It's quick and bright. Reflexive.

''Do you see Molly most days?''

Sherlock hesitates.

''No. Not most days, not now.''

''Alright. Let's say that a month ago you saw Molly. She seemed alright. A little despondent perhaps. Not quite herself. Not overtly weepy or sad to any considerable degree, but just preoccupied and perhaps more somber than usual. Would you be concerned?''

Sherlock hesitates.

''I don't know. I mean, if she seemed to be down for an extended period of time, perhaps.''

I look up, startled. Not because I truly have ever believed that Sherlock lacks compassion. Only that the admittance of his compassion is something he's always tried to deny.

''Now, let's say a couple more months go by - and Molly loses weight. Far too much. Would you consider her potentially suicidal based on this alone?''

Sherlock's feet are tapping restlessly against the parquet. I can't help but wonder if he's aware of this fact.

''I'd have no way of knowing if she would be entertaining suicidal ideas, no.''

Yuri nods, his face serious, cocked to the side.

''What if Molly started speeding while driving? Started drinking to excess, let's say. Started putting herself into risky situations, whereby she had a much greater chance of getting seriously hurt. Would she be potentially suicidal in your eyes then? If she were engaging in not one, but a multitude of behaviours that could lead to her getting very, very hurt? That most likely, statistically, would eventually lead her to a very bad place?''

Sherlock's eyes squeeze shut.

''I'd think she wasn't taking care of herself. I would be concerned. But I would have no way-,'' and he stops vocalizing his statement.

''So suicidal behaviours are essentially what? To you?''

The tapping stops, and Sherlock sighs his rattled sigh.

''When a person takes definite, permanent steps to end their life.''

Yuri jots something down on one of his canary yellow pads.

''Definite steps? Can you give me an example of a 'definite step'?''

Sherlock scratches his wrists. Digs deeply, as the flesh turns a shade of sun-burnt pink.

''Slicing through your radial artery. Shooting yourself in the head. Hanging yourself,'' he grits out. ''Taking arsenic! Any of the above, Yuri!''

His breath is coming in rapid pulses, and he slips his scarf off from around his neck with misplaced agitation. In the next moment, Yuri looks over, his eyes settling in on the purple bruising, which has now slipped down a notch into something bluish and tinged with green mottling.

Sherlock suddenly realizes his mistake, and goes to re-affix the scarf, and I shoot Yuri a look. A 'please don't let this go' look.

Which the psychiatrist obviously receives, as he nods to me, his eyes radiating a sort of severity I haven't yet seen before, and he gets up from his chair and walks around the desk. Comes to sit down in the chair opposing Sherlock's own. Looks at Sherlock. Looks Sherlock in the eye, but doesn't mention the bruising of his neck.

No.

Instead, he asks: ''Do you want to hear my definition for what it means to be suicidal?''

Sherlock's lips come and dart out, like one of those bolting lizards that race out from under desert rocks - dashing for a bit of food or water, only to retreat once again to the quietude of their shadowed homes.

''Alright,'' Sherlock says hesitantly. As if Yuri has just asked a trick question - a layered beast with no true 'correct' answer.

Yuri removes his glasses. Wipes at his eyes, then wipes at the lenses before pushing the glasses back over his nose. He's quiet for a few seconds, composing his words.

''I believe that, yes, a person commits suicide when they - as you say - slice through their arteries with deliberation. When they shoot themselves in the head. When they jump in front of a train. They are committing the last action in a frequently drawn-out procession of actions which all play vital, if incremental roles, leading to their last moment on earth. To their own premature death. But that is how I define committing suicide, Sherlock. Feeling suicidal is far more layered in my estimation. Having a draw towards suicidal thoughts starts with smaller actions. Actions which, taken in momentary isolation, might never lead to death at all.''

Sherlock studies Yuri from the corner of his vision, dark hair splashing over his eyes, over his pale skin.

''I believe that a spectrum exists to suicidality, just as there might be a spectrum to everything in life. As a psychiatrist, we speak of spectrums and bell curves when discussing intelligence, when discussing matters relating to introversion and extroversion, when discussing PDD disorders. We know that even sexual expression itself frequently exists in a layered and fluid dynamic. That most of what we see in therapy sessions is not going to present in discrete, binary displays.''

Sherlock picks up his tumbler of sparkling water. Takes a greedy sip. Holds the tumbler in both hands for a few stressed seconds.

''It would be easier if it did,'' he mutters, finally replacing his glass with trembling hands. ''If we presented in assured units. Something solid. Something which can't be taken away easily.''

I feel a weird tightness in my stomach. A brief, fluttering awareness of pain.

Yuri inclines his head in agreement and then seems to fully register Sherlock's words. Seems to be aware of just how revealing those words are in their unguarded totality.

''Perhaps it would make things easier diagnostically. However, I don't believe that life itself would be easier if things were black and white. I think it would make certain situations more haunting, in their immobility. In their fixed nature. There would be less of a chance of fixing the hurtful things. In reducing our pain, perhaps.''

Sherlock's mouth warps into the slightest, smallest, irrepressible frown.

''I'm not *in* pain!,'' he finally utters in whispered harshness, the individual words almost shrill. ''I wish you both would stop talking down to me like I was some pathetic child! I don't need your condescension: I'm not stupid, and I'm not weak!''

A ripple of shock pulses through my head, and I can't help but make my position known.

I try to make eye contact with Sherlock, but his eyes scan the floors, the wood paneling. His eyes studiously seek out patterns and objects, and obviously avoid connection with my own line of sight.

''I've never thought you were weak, and I never will. And how could anyone in their right mind think you are less than brilliant, Sherlock?,'' I ask, almost irritated that he's digging it out of me.

Thin arms come around and slowly dislodge the blue greatcoat. His arms are thinner than I remember, even accounting for the modest weight gain of the last half week. Next: a flurry of motion, and the scarf is slowly displaced and set aside. I see it as an un-vocalized challenge. An anger put on display, and the bruising now on trial.

Yuri is quiet during this exchange, then slowly passes over a file folder to Sherlock.

''Can you open that? Share those files with John, please?''

Sherlock looks up abruptly.

''You've already played this trick on me!,'' he spits out, stress lining his face.

A sad shake of the head, and Yuri's mouth quirks into something imploring.

''This isn't your file. This isn't a file for anyone you know.''

Sherlock slowly opens the folder, pulls out several photos. Stares at the first few, his eyes shifting in perplexed anxiety before he passes me a couple pages.

There is no name attached to the file - just images. The first photo is of a child's arms, skeletal and scarred. A black jelly bracelet on one small wrist. The forearms covered in dozens upon dozens of various thin scars. Short, controlled nicks. Most of the scars are white, but some are obviously newer injuries and still stand out as a stark purple-pink against a backdrop of ashen skin. The body looks as if it's that of a young adolescent.

''I don't understand,'' Sherlock mumbles. ''Was this one of your patients?''

Yuri doesn't respond immediately.

''Those are photos of a case I was asked to consult on. After Adam died, his parents created a fund in his memory and made these images publicly accessible. They wanted to raise awareness about his condition. These images are from their own website on recognizing suicidal ideation in adolescents.''

Sherlock traces the lines on the photo, and subconsciously seems to withdraw. Pulls at the cuffs of his sweater as if to cover up his own wrists.

''How did he die?,'' I ask suddenly. Not knowing what photos are still to come, and not knowing if I want to be presented with certain images given how I am currently feeling.

Yuri sighs, deeply. Almost resignedly.

''Boerhaave Syndrome. Adam's esophagus ruptured. He was bulimic, and had been purging for years. Since the age of 10, actually. One day, during a violent purging session, the intraesophageal pressure increased to such a degree that he went into shock and died within an hour. But not before experiencing excruciating abdominal and thoracic pain.''

Sherlock's mouth pinches up tightly, his eyes darker and angry. He pushes the photos away violently.

''You said his parents created a website to address his suicide. But this was an accident. His death was accidental!,'' he breathes, looking discomfited.

The psychiatrist holds out a hand for the folder, and Sherlock hurriedly hands back the photographs.

''Adam was a very good person. Perfectionistic, a brilliant dancer, self-deprecating. He was witty, and unfailingly kind. Kind to everyone in the world, aside from himself. When it came to matters of the self, he was very cruel. And Sherlock? You're right - he never saw his death coming, I don't think. He died at the age of 13. At a dance studio, following a class. Did he wake up that morning, expecting to die before the day was out? No, I don't think he did. But nothing about his death was accidental.''

Sherlock looks up hotly, his eyes flashing in bitterness.

''Oh, I see! He was a child, but even so - you couldn't treat him! Couldn't save him! So you want to blame him for his own tragic death, is that it?''

The jab is cruel, and Yuri's small intake of breath tears from his lungs as if he's shocked. When he removes his glasses this time, he doesn't clean the lenses and put them back on. Instead, he folds them up and places them off to the corner on his desk, his face looking brittle and tired.

''You're right; I couldn't save him. I knew Adam was sick, and I knew he was purging; I had spent months talking to him by that point, and three weeks before he was to receive inpatient care for his problems - he passed away. It *was* tragic, Sherlock, all the more so as he never intended to die.''

Sherlock looks somewhat mollified, and settles into a more reserved placidity.

''I have never believed that those who are suicidal start out actively wanting to die,'' Yuri says more softly now, tucking away Adam's photos and locking his desk cabinet. ''I believe that a person can get trapped in a moment so intensely fueled by despair that they reach out for anything that might blot out those feelings. They spiral from one bright moment of upset into the next. In these cases - such people often die suddenly, painfully. Violently. Impulsively.''

I glance at Sherlock and see his posturing change into something tight and stressed as Yuri's words finally register.

Because that's how he nearly died, through his own overtaking of need. His own painful selection of tools, his own undeniable self-violence and his own impulsivity.

And just as I know he's aware of what he did - the enormity of what he almost achieved - I also suspect that his impulsive nature scares him, still. That he's scared not only by what he almost did, but the potential of what he could still do if those feelings were ever to make a reappearance.

''I called the ambulance! I wasn't trying to hurt myself. I was just so-,'' Sherlock stops speaking abruptly, his eyes flashing to hold my own for the first time since the session began. His fingertips have come to rest along his throat, and press lightly against the discolouration from injuries he still won't discuss.

It makes me want to wince.

''You were 'just so' what?,'' I rush, frustrated. ''You were just so WHAT, Sherlock?''

Sherlock looks at me strangely, almost imploringly, before glancing up and over my head. He finally settles his vision on a bust enclosed in a glass partition on Yuri's bookcase. The marble of the sculpture is lit up by an internal halogen - on the underside of the shelving - and the cherry wood creates a heated glow about the figurine not unlike a burst of red sunlight.

In a moment of inverted symbolism, I see the spark of Sherlock's own inner fire - as expressed in his unwavering protest - start to wane. A notching down into something so exhausted that even pretending to be okay probably seems daunting by this point.

''Aren't you tired? Don't you want to stop feeling like this?,'' I plead.

Sherlock's eyelids have drooped down to rest at half mast. His fatigue is palatable.

''Sherlock,'' I try again. I never will stop trying. ''You asked me to come to this session, so I did. You told Yuri that you had something you wanted to say to us both, yet even so you're still holding back.''

My friend coughs and the sound is constricted. Sickly and choleric.

I nudge my chair closer to his own until I've cut into his line of sight.

''You have to let it go. Whatever it is, whatever is going around and around in your mind - you have to let it go. Give it to us. And if you can't do that, just give it to *me*. I can carry it for a bit. I promise.''

Pale blue eyes, the colour of early winter frost, rise up and hold my own.

''I'm very angry,'' Sherlock exhales, body finally settling into a muted pose, ''I'm very angry at what you said!''

My mind jolts to attention, scouring through compiled memories. Our recent interactions. And that could be so many things, really - so many things I've said. Hell, I might have said something inadvertently hurtful well before I even knew he was sick.

''When?,'' I request feebly, as my face prickles with heat. ''Is this about what I said during the case? When you didn't want to take the case? Before Toby?''

''No! It's not about that!,'' Sherlock seethes, although there is something newly taut in his anger that makes me think that, yes, he's royally pissed at me for those words, too.

''Then what? What did I say? When? I can't make something better if I don't know what I did that upset you so much in the first place!''

Pale hands race to his hair, tug at his strands. His flesh blanches around the area of impact, and I resist an impulse to hold him down.

''That night! Before I left! You said what he said, right before-,'' and his voice is thick and painful. ''And so I went through with it, for him. I did it all for him! Told myself it was okay, because he was my friend. And Mycroft too, not even getting it! Thinks he's so smart, but he doesn't understand! No one does! Telling me it was all okay, because I loved him, and then your words! You can speak about my fear in such easy tones, can't you John? Because how it feels to me is so alien to you, isn't it? God - do you have any idea what you did?''

Sherlock gets up abruptly, and with strange awareness I realize he's shaking. I suddenly see him so brightly, and in such awful clarity: his eyes are full and glistening, his cheeks mapped by wetness. Before I can do anything - before I can respond - reach out, touch him, try to make this right (make this right, John!) - he shuffles from the room.

''Sherlock,'' I bite out, not knowing what else I can say. What I honestly *should* say in order to fix whatever it is that I've done.

His gloves, greatcoat and his scarf remain in his chair, but he departs all the same - jetting from the room in nothing more than his cardigan and jeans.

Yuri intercedes a moment later - pulling on his winter jacket, quickly reaching for his shoes - just as we both hear the door to the house rattle shut with a weak slam.

''Stay here,'' I'm informed briskly while nausea bubbles up in my gut. ''I'll go and make sure he's okay.''

''Yuri, I don't know what he's talking about! Not really! I know he's hurt, but I don't really know what I *did*.''

The psychiatrist finishes knotting his laces, and gives me a compassionate look.

''This isn't about you, John. This is about what others have done to him; things he can't easily talk about. You're probably little more than a placeholder for his rage right now, but you're not the cause of it.''

I sit back down in my chair numbly, feeling lost.

After a few minutes, I extricate myself from the chair. Fiddle with the volume on my phone. Ensure the blasted thing is on.

It is on. Only neither Sherlock nor Yuri have contacted me.

Not sure if that's a good sign or not.

A weeding sense of personal failure laps about me.

I feel so done in. So angry with myself, yes, but also with the entire bloody situation.

So I walk around the perimeter of Yuri's home office, glancing at the book titles on his shelf, study the framed photos of him and his husband, Patrick. Try to distract myself in the happiness of others, and let my gaze dance over about 20 years worth of archived happenings. The start of a relationship, it's progression. A photo of a marriage ceremony. Photos of a tropical climate.

And then something grabs my attention and I scour my sight back to the first few photos. Study the photographs in more fervent inspection.

Yuri, 20 years younger, maybe more. His husband - Patrick - equally young. Curly blond hair, and lively eyes. But the photo is strange.

Yuri looks fine. Young, but healthy.

Patrick looks excessively lean, skinny. His face contorted by dark shadows, his expression severe.

I quickly study the other photographs, and see a variation in weight, in size. The oldest photographs are the most marked, and the man in these photos looks the sickest. In one, he's wearing a red polo shirt, and his face is the colour of Elmer's glue. His green eyes marred by deep under-eye shadowing.

Faster now, my gaze fights to decode the images.

A form of cancer? Leukemia, perhaps?

On the far left of the bookshelves, top row, there's a photo of Yuri and Patrick in their mid 20's; Patrick looks as if he's reclining in a chair. His smile is frail. This photo is different from the others: it's housed in a small frame and inscribed with a message under the bronze borders. I squint to read the message, distantly aware that I shouldn't be doing this at all.

''There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever.

There are only small steps upward; an easier day, an unexpected laugh

a mirror that doesn't matter anymore."

In a rush of horrible understanding I pull back - ashamed of my trespassing for a completely different reason now, yet equally calmed by something even more resoundingly clear: Yuri knows what I'm going through.

He knows exactly how this feels.

But so much more importantly, he knows what it's like to go through this ache with someone he loves, and to reach the other side. A place - a terminus - where things are so much better.

A place where life is free of chronic illness; where the person he loves is healed.

And when I finally sit back down in my seat, and wait for Yuri and Sherlock's return, it's not so much with the faint overwhelm of Sherlock's ire or Yuri's admonishments - but a tremulous hope that everything Sherlock has ever needed is within his grasp - right here in this office.