The moon was bright in the velvety night sky as John trudged down the street, hands shoved deep in his pockets to hide them from the chill. The world seemed so clear and obvious here, lit up by the moon and the stars and the glowing Tesco sign.

Why couldn't everything really be this clear?

Why did it all have to be so shadowy and confusing?

And Sherlock wasn't helping.

He appeared to have quit cutting, yes, but that couldn't be it. The story couldn't just stop there.

Back in school John had heard about a girl who had the same problem. He had never actually met her, but he'd heard rumours. Gossip, mostly, cruel things.

But they stopped being cruel and swiftly became fake words of love and remorse once it all went a little too far and she'd let it go a little too deep.

Addictions didn't just stop.

It wasn't a switch you could just turn on and off.

Something was pushing Sherlock, like that girl from school. John didn't know what it was, and that was more unsettling than anything, because if he didn't know what it was, how could he possibly make sure it didn't go too far...?

But then again, was that really his job?

Sherlock had somehow made it all the way up from a 12 year old to a grown man without letting it slip, without letting it go too deep. Maybe he didn't need John's help so desperately.

He shook his head and took a deep breath of the sharp night air.

That was his own exhaustion talking, trying to rationalise and get himself off the hook. Only it was wrong.

Had he forgotten what happened two weeks ago? Sherlock's upper arms had required nearly twenty stitches. He'd lost so much blood John had thought he was ill.

If that wasn't too deep, John didn't know what was.

And now he was resisting. That had to be it. To show John that it really was just the boredom-when it really wasn't at all.

After the fact John had spent some time on the internet doing a little research on the topic, in an attempt to find something useful. He knew Sherlock was a special case-always a special case-but he was at a loss and could really do with a little outside opinion.

He'd stumbled on a quote on some website, the name of which he'd forgotten, but the words stuck with him. He went back over them, wondering if they were true in this particular situation, if they really applied.

"You don't understand how much pain you have to be in to drag a blade across your skin because that's the only pain you can control."

That dead look in Sherlock's eyes when he'd found him with his secret stash of blades had not spelled boredom. It had spelled hopelessness. In a way, giving up.

That had been two weeks ago...

John stopped at the edge of the sidewalk and turned back toward the flat. He'd cooled off enough by now.

Cooled off so much that a little shiver had slithered up his spine, making the hair on the nape of his neck prickle. He set his teeth and walked a little quicker, listening to his own footsteps following him in the darkness like the slight worry that was beginning to trail his thoughts.

It was an unfounded worry.

Nothing to take seriously.

And yet he couldn't quite shake it off.

...

"Sherlock? I'm home. Are you still awake?"

It was nearly ten o'clock at night when he got back to the flat and mounted the stairs, trying to keep them from creaking and waking poor Mrs. Hudson.

All the lights in the whole flat were on, making him blink and squint after his long trek out in the gloom.

He thought he heard a groan in the direction of the living room and frowned, making his way toward it.

Sherlock was on the floor beside the sofa, curled in on himself, not moving but muttering endlessly under his breath.

"…Sherlock?" As John stepped closer Sherlock's head snapped up and he fixed wide, unnaturally dark eyes on him, hardly blinking.

John stopped where he was, staring at him. "Are you alright?"

For a few seconds there was no reaction from the detective. Then he finally blinked and looked at him as if just realizing he was there. "Go away."

"No, I'm not going to go away. Something's not right about you. What happened?"

John barely had time to register the Union Jack pillow flying at his face, and only his reflexes as a soldier saved him from the actual impact.

"Sherlock, what the hell—"

"GO AWAY!"

"Look, I know I was crabby earlier, but I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!"

What on earth…?

Sherlock was pale and sweaty, and he huddled on the floor, eyes darting around the room, only occasionally focussing on him.

"Oh my god…" John took another step closer, staring into the detective's widely dilated pupils. "You're… Oh my god. You're high!"

Instead of answering Sherlock only retreated farther away from him, pulling himself up by the arm of the couch and sending nervous glances around the room.

"Are you kidding me?! Are you fucking kidding me?!" John's fists clenched and he could feel the blood pounding in his ears. "I leave for AN HOUR AND A HALF—"

"Can't breathe." Sherlock clutched at his chest, still looking very tense and uneasy.

"WELL JESUS, HOW MUCH DID YOU TAKE?!"

He fixed John with that overly intense stare again, his whole demeanour going rigid. "What are you doing here?"

"I—I live here, Sherlock." He took a deep breath.

This was an unfamiliar situation by far, though he'd dealt with people who were high before. But never Sherlock.

He'd never seen him so… paranoid.

"You're not really here! You're not coming back!" Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tightly and covered his ears.

"…What are you talking about? I'm right here. I'm not leaving you."

"LIAR!" Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he glared poison daggers at him. "YOU'RE LYING, JUST LIKE THE REST OF THEM!"

The rest of them…