Hi!

Okay. I have a plan. I started this work without a real aim, but now, after a long absence (I truly apologize, I was caught up and distracted, and I have a number of excuses, but I won't go into those), and some thinking, and, from a lovely review on my work that has made me truly giddy (I can't believe I was compared to Moffat), I finally have an end-game plan.

This chapter is stiff, I'll give you that, I had a hard time getting into the rhythm... again... but I have a feeling that will shake off soon. I haven't quite gone over this, but I will, and I will be in a constant state of editing. So please, if you see an error in grammar, character continuity or story continuity, please speak to this and bring it to my attention! Any advice will be considered, and, in all honesty, I'm already working from some of the suggestions I've received.

Thank you for reading! Let's get this moving, now, shall we?

Medical Knife

"Don't be so conceited, Sherlock. Why would the big fucking variable in my life, the reason for all this bullshit, be you? How do you distil that from this whole ordeal?"

They seem to do a lot of talking over tea, nowadays. Sherlock essentially forced John into the clean – since when did Sherlock clean? – kitchen, steeped some chamomile, and were now standing rather oppositely of each other in the room. John tried once to excuse himself, but Sherlock really couldn't have given a damn if even he'd had a legitimate reason to leave. He liked to think himself a man of control, precision, and presence, so he did little to acknowledge the growing agitation and sheer magnitude of degrees to which he became, for lack of delicate phrasing, pissed off. He'd had his dandy way with yelling at Anderson a few days prior, and was more prone to doing so to idiotic strangers as of late, but he was managing quite well, especially in regards to handling John. He didn't want to say something dangerous – or seemingly dangerous, or hurtful, or just ignorant – when it might be too much for John to handle. Sherlock hated how sensitive John had become, hated that even the slightest things might rub him the wrong way if he's in one of his moods. Sherlock knew he himself wasn't exempt from these behaviors, but at least he didn't have the burden of desiring acute pain. Not that he'd say that. Not that he'd try to veer too into assumption. The last argument they had in their flat lead to some very white rooms, late nights, and more fights. He had learned. He has new methods.

He shook his head, resisting the urge to sigh. "I am just reasoning, logically, based on information I've gathered these past four months. Forgive me if I'm wrong – which we both know I'm not – but you supply me very little rationale, or even explanation, so my own hypotheses are all I have to work from. Here, tea," he gestured toward the red tea cup. "Please, just… relax. Just, follow me."

John visibly eased, by certain degrees, but it wasn't enough to put him at ease. Sherlock took his, and gestured toward the hallway. John followed him, up to the flat's door, where Sherlock caught sight of his furrowed brow in the corner of his eye. He opened the door, inviting chilling November air into their rather cramped and stifled home, breathing in the new life of outside and reminding the both of them that there was something more than just the drama of their four little walls on Baker St. It was still raining, but not as heavily, or loudly. They could see the street easily, see the lights of London radiate through the moisture, see it wash away all the old foot traffic and dirt.

They stood in the door way, the gate between too cold and borderline too-warm, with their elbows close to touching. "John, you must know that this can't go on."

A car zoomed by, and they kept their eyes on the street. John held his cup tentatively. "I know."

"I've let you settle things on your own terms, given you the privacy you should have every right to, what I've up until recently neglected to give you, and we've still ended up here. No matter how we choose to look at this, nor the blame we place on whatever unfortunate focus, we are at least not delusional enough to think that we can continue with this same useless course of action, or, rather I say, inaction. Something has to change."

"I guess you're right about that. It's that… well, I don't know how to do that."

Sherlock grinned, asymmetric. "Stumped, Doctor Watson? Well, I guessed as much, you've been running about without a head for far too long. But that's fine. I have a plan, actually."

"Oh?"

Sherlock looked to John, rolling his eyes to him then back to the street, then to the tea that settled between his fingers. "I think, among other things, that you need a return to normalcy. I know a thing or two about addiction, and know that you've become accustomed to certain responses, conditioned, by your own allowance, to seek certain release when your declining tolerance level for stress is breached. I've decided that we will both be taking cases, and you will go back to work, and will make the effort to start unraveling just why you're inclined the way you are."

John huffed. Not quite upset, though anything but thrilled, he said nothing and challenged Sherlock to keep talking. "Think about it, John. You've been avoiding obligation and explanation. You've been giving up your heart out online, but have refused to do so in real life. You're holding on, and it's brought nothing but pain to you."

"Sherlock, I don't know," John's voice was drowned by rain. "I really don't like this."

"Well, you don't get a say in the matter. Not anymore."

"Fuck it all. Fine. Okay. Enjoy this, you power-crazy psycho." Sherlock saw that John realized what he said and wanted to correct it, to apologize, but he couldn't speak, even after trying to and making no sounds.

"So, are you feeling well?"

Sherlock thought he'd be met with more resistance. "I'm feeling as well as I've been."

"What does that mean?"

"It means… that, being lost, and feeling like a fool, and, well, just weak, I'm either tired, or upset and wanting to get rid of the pressure in my chest, or my wrists. That's what unwell means. It doesn't make sense. Even I don't understand it."

Sherlock grinned, but thought better of it before regaining control. "That's why emotion is pointless."

"Sometimes I wish I could get rid of it. I don't know how you do it."

Should Sherlock say so? He's not the type to go out of his way, embark on an emotional conversation, but here he was, and here it goes, because he realizes that, as loathe as he was to keep within his own comfort zone, he was demanding something very hard to give of John, something he wouldn't want to give up without some form of compensation. "John, it's mostly by detachment that I can function the way I do. It's easy to act, now, as a grown man, but it has not always been my way. There were years in my childhood where I behaved as all others, acted recklessly through emotional prompt, did things that were based in pure sensory expectations. Logic hasn't always defined me."

"You mean control, right? You're logical, certainly, but you're also one of the most controlling, power-pursuing man I've ever met. And I've been in the army, which says a lot."

"Oh, Watson, I won't bend like that. We're focusing on you right now."

"Forgive me, I forgot you were completely without fault."

Sherlock, before taking a drink, said, "I never said that."

"It's just like you, to think so much of your intellect, your logic, to believe you've figured everything out, and yet you still can't see what's already there. You're faults are like mine – dangerous addictions. My whole family has addictions. I'm drawn to you, apparently, and you have addictions, or, at least, an addictive personality. I've asked you to explain yours, and it's been largely unrelatable to me, just as I've tried to explain my own vices to you. I've done my best. But these personal demons pick with only one brain at a time, and I hope, in every way, that you don't come close to understanding why I've done what I've done… you know what that would mean?" He shifted himself to be standing somewhat before Sherlock, catching rain on the back of his neck, holding his tea between them as a last defense while at the same time trying to open up. "If you ever understood, you'd be in my shoes. You'd understand, but beyond logic, you'd still want to do it."

Sherlock saw John. He was looking at him, towering over him, really, but more than anything he could see him. Just a bit. John is the type to crack, to be chipped away, weathered down to the center. He'd cracked a long time ago, but the pieces remained intact… until right now.

"This scares you?" Sherlock said softly, deeply, trying to pierce John with his eyes. "Hurting me?"

"Conceited, aren't you? But, yes… yes, it does. I don't know what derailed me – probably those fucking war dreams, or the lack of caseload, or having too much cases… I don't know. Whatever it is, though, I didn't want it to come back to you, or Harry, or to Lestrade and his whole damn division, or anyone…" John closed his eyes. John's eyes twitch when they're held closed. They're surrounded by dark rings. They look tired, even when resting, when hearing the noise of the rain and feeling the new, rain washed air that filled his body with each calm breath.

"Do you put much stock in coincidental symbolic gestures of nature?" Sherlock said, more like he was thinking out loud, but directed to John. John came to himself quickly, realizing he'd lingered too long, and pulled to the side. He shivered. Obviously, he was cold, and tired, and the day had gone on too long.

He sighed. "Yes, sometimes, I suppose. Why, do you see any symbols now?"

Sherlock made a face, rolled his eyes a bit, tried to play, tried to lighten his tone. "Yes, I suppose I see several, but nothing very relevant, and certainly nothing I take stock in… it's the rain, though. Rain, rivers, flowing water all mean positive energy. They bring new tides. They renew life, and give live the sustenance it needs to be vibrant, to thrive. John, it rains in London more often than not, and anyone here would stab me if ever I mention that it might be a blessing, but the… sentiment remains, however tainted, genuine, and may serve you well as a reminder of what you have to do, and what you will leave behind… well, it is quite cold, isn't it? Let's go in, you get some sleep, rest up for the morning. We have a case tomorrow – well, not yet, but nowadays we get calls daily, so we will most definitely have a case tomorrow, most likely by noon, at the latest. With any luck, it'll be intriguing, possibly a murder, or something scandalous involving aristocracy (you'd be amazed at how many cases of this nature have happened across Scotland Yard's desks lately). I'm not one for press ordeals and publicity through common media, but there are certain perks to being accessible to press resources. There's been a strangling trend lately, so you might be able to help me compare crime scenes. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Come in."

Sherlock turned on his heel, setting down his tea in the kitchen, readying himself by taking off his coat and eyeballing the location of items and solutions and solvents and apparatuses to perpetuate a project he'd been rudely interrupted in the middle of just before John's hospitalization. "John, get some sleep. It's an early morning."

He heard the sound of ruffling and shuffling and restlessness from the living room. "Hey, Sherlock – where did my laptop go?"

"I don't think you need it right now, do you? Don't fret, you'll have it back tomorrow, but you need to settle into sleeping routines. Normalcy, my dear Watson."

John made a show of sighing, putting up a fuss like a child would, but in a far less sincere manner. "Fine, fine, Sheryl. Good night. Since you've taken over my life and schedule, do I have to start calling you 'master'?"

Sherlock laughed, louder than he deemed dignified. "Well, I certainly wouldn't object. Sleep well, John."