It was still dark out when John was roused from a light sleep by the repetitive call from the other bedroom.

"John? John. John—"

He groaned and rolled over, covering his head with a pillow, but it was no use. Finally he pushed the blankets off and sat up, switching on the lamp and trudging downstairs.

"Jesus, Sherlock, it's three o'clock in the morning… I have work tomorrow…"

"Oh please, it's not like you weren't getting up soon anyway."

John stifled a yawn into his sleeve. True, he was a little thirsty, but still…

Sherlock was lying on top of the blankets, still fully clothed, and although the lights were off he didn't appear to have slept recently.

"So. What's this about?" John leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest.

He didn't get an answer immediately, and almost nodded off standing up.

"John."

"Hmm?"

"I broke the rubber band."

He blinked, his sleep-hazed brain taking a few moments to process what Sherlock had said. "Huh? Oh… Uh… I don't…"

"I checked the drawers, but I couldn't find any more."

John found his way over to the chair by the wall and settled himself in it as his eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness. "Yeah, well… I don't think we have any more. Do you…?"

Sherlock groaned quietly and glared up at the ceiling.

"Whatever happened to 'I don't have time for feelings'?"

"Shut up." The detective turned his head to look at him, and John could see the glint of his eyes in the shadows. "I don't. I just…"

"I know. Sometimes you can't control them. Not even you. That's just part of being human."

"Am I, though? Human? Sometimes I think…"

"Sherlock…" He rubbed his temple and shut his eyes. "Yes. Of course. Of course you are. You're the most human… human being I've ever known."

"Even with all this? I know I'm not exactly the most empathetic person alive…"

"No. Because of all this. That's what makes you so human. You try to get away from it, to act like it doesn't affect you, but you're really just trying to do the same thing the rest of us are. To… try not to hurt, I guess."

Sherlock was quiet for several minutes. "…As long as you're up, you might as well make some tea."

"Yeah... Sure. I'll be back in a second." John heaved himself up and padded down the hall to the kitchen.

He didn't really mind Sherlock ignoring his point, because he knew it wasn't out of spite. He probably just wasn't comfortable discussing something so heavy so openly.

John really should have been used to that by now.

And besides, if he wasn't mistaken that request for tea might have also been an invitation to stick around for a bit. And that, with the search for a replacement rubber band, constituted a pretty good plea for help.

When he returned to Sherlock's room he was sitting up in the dark, with his knees drawn up and his arms crossed over his chest.

John set one of the mugs on the side table and took a seat in the chair again. "Are you alright?"

"Fine."

"Don't just say that, if you aren't. I know you might not really want my help, but that doesn't mean I've stopped caring."

"I... I mean... Right now, I'm... fine, but I'm not okay. That doesn't make sense." He laughed, a little harshly, and shifted on the blankets.

John looked down at his own mug in his hands, and shook his head. "No, I think I get it. Maybe. But with you I'm never sure."

"Neither am I."

He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him even though he couldn't quite see them. "You should drink your tea. It might help you get some sleep."

Sherlock scoffed loudly. "I don't have time for sleep right now."

"Yeah, well, sleep deprivation and being 'not okay' is really not a great combination. Just try. I promise if anything happens, you can punch me for it."

"No, you don't understand. I can't."

"'I can't' as in, you're too stubborn, or you've got insomnia?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe a little of both, if you must know."

"Drink your tea before it gets any colder, and then get back to me on that."

The detective reached over and took the mug, warming his hands against it before raising it to his lips. John waited until he'd drunk more than half of it before he spoke up again.

"Are you going to be fine for the rest of tonight? Because I really do have to get up for work in the morning."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Fine."

"Will you tell me if you're going to be not fine?"

"…Alright. But I am. Fine."

...

John glanced up from his coffee as Sherlock emerged from his room the next morning. He sighed. "You didn't sleep at all, did you?"

"Fabulous deduction. I'm fine." He waved a hand dismissively, looking more irritable than fine.

"You don't have to be a dick this early in the morning, you know. And I could probably get you something to help you sleep, if you need it."

"I don't need anything! Nothing except to focus! I can't focus, John! Why is that so hard?!" He raked his fingers through his curls, mussing them up further.

"Sherlock." John set his coffee down on the counter and looked at him. "First of all, breathe. Second, you're stressing. My advice as a doctor would be to get some sleep, and stop trying to handle everything on your own. You might not want to hear it again, but I'm still here. Okay?"

"I've told you before, I can't!" He pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes, and when he looked up again he spoke determinedly. "I need a smoke."

"Sherlock. No. We've talked about this before."

"Oh, come on! What would you rather I do, smoke, cut, or shoot up? Because I need something."

"What you need is some fucking sleep. You're half way to being a zombie. But… fine. If it's that, or… the other stuff, then a smoke sounds like the least of three evils. Just this once, so you don't lose your mind before I get home. And do it outside, please. Not in the flat again."

"I'll see what I can do."