"Oh god..." John nearly dropped his mug, but managed to hold onto it. "Oh god, Sherlock... I..."

The detective averted his eyes stubbornly, but John almost fancied he could hear his heart beating in the quiet flat.

That heart he did have.

No matter how reliably informed he'd been that he didn't.

John set his mug aside quickly and took the gun from him, emptying it of bullets and slipping them into his pocket. "How long? I mean... When did it start? Why didn't you say something?"

"I just did. And... about a week ago. I thought I could control it, but..." He glanced at the floor. "Look what you've done to me. You said I should do this—and now look at me. I've been altered. This... thing has broken my self-control. I can't do this anymore, John. I'm finished."

"Well... I... Yeah. Yeah, you're right. Look—I'm sorry. The nurse made it sound like that side effect wasn't very common, so I thought... I didn't expect, really..."

"But it did. It's made me weak."

John put the gun on the table next to his mug and knelt awkwardly beside the armchair at Sherlock's feet. It seemed right to be close, and standing over him was even more awkward.

He sighed quietly, and when he spoke his voice was soft. "I'm sorry, Sherlock... I just wanted to help. I... didn't mean to ever put you in that place again."

Sherlock glanced back at him, eyes ever searching and calculating, trying to understand everything—but did he ever really?

"I hate it here. I need to make it stop. John, make it stop."

"Um... I don't... Jesus—I don't know how. We'll have you stop taking it, obviously—but they said you shouldn't stop all at once, but... what do you do in this situation...?"

"You're the doctor! Help me!" Sherlock quickly shut his mouth and looked down again.

John hesitated.

He hated seeing his friend like this, knowing it was because of something he'd started...

And he had no idea how to fix it.

"I'm going to figure this out. We are. And in the meantime, I won't leave you alone. Alright? I'm going to make sure you're safe, but I'm also… I'm… going to try and help you be as comfortable as possible until we can get this fixed, okay?"

"You don't… have to do that. I've already given you my gun, and I've gotten rid of all the blades, so I should be alright."

"Fuck it, I'm not going to work tomorrow." John shook his head and looked up at him. "I'm not going to leave you alone like this. It's not that I don't trust you, it's that… Yeah. I don't want you to have to be alone."

Sherlock drew his feet up onto the chair defensively. Now that John was really looking there were shadows beneath his eyes, and there was something behind them now that was even more unsettling than the mania had been. Altogether something was just… off. Like a string had snapped on an uncared for violin, or the safety switch had been torn off a gun.

It may well have been a long time coming.

"…I don't blame you for not trusting me." Sherlock mumbled, more to himself than to John. "I don't either. Anymore."

It was probably the wrong thing to do.

Sherlock probably thought he was a twat for doing it.

Maybe it didn't help at all.

But at that moment the only thing John could think to do was to reach up and take the detective's hand, kneeling there in front of his chair. To hold it firmly, but not too tightly, just enough so Sherlock knew he was still there.

It had worked before, hadn't it?

It had seen him through two hospital beds, and one bloody floor… and damn it, if it had gotten them that far then it would have to work now.

Because what else did John have to offer?

He'd already tried to help by prescribing medication—and all that had done was push Sherlock back off the edge into that dark, cold place he probably never wanted to see again in his life.

Ever.

So what else could he do?

He could be there.

He could care, and he could stay, and if that's what it took then that's what he was going to do.

Sherlock didn't resist or pull his hand away, and after a minute John was surprised to find that he returned the pressure slightly.

A silent acceptance of his company.

Perhaps, in a way, also a gesture of forgiveness.

Or maybe that was just John's imagination.

No one in 221B slept much that night.

Sherlock wouldn't—or couldn't—and John was determined to stay with him for as long as it took.

He could call in tomorrow and take the day off from work.

Hell, he'd have to take the whole week off.

There was no way he was leaving the detective all by himself in the flat for hours on end. And not just because he was worried about what might happen if he did—but because being isolated would just make it a thousand times worse, he was sure.

After an hour and a half John had begun to feel stiff and sore from sitting on the rug, and he muttered something to Sherlock about moving to the couch.

John took a seat at one end of the couch, and Sherlock curled up on his side on the rest of it. From that position John could only see the top of his head and part of his back, and after a while he began to feel like he wasn't being all that helpful, just sitting there.

An idea had crept into his head, though, and he slowly reached down and laid a hand over Sherlock's shoulder.

The detective turned his head to look back at him warily. "…What?"

"I just want to try something. It might help you relax a little."

"I don't need to relax, I need to make this stop—"

"I know, I know… but for right now, just let me try this. Okay?" He put his other hand just above Sherlock's shoulder blade and, very, very carefully, began to massage his tense muscles.

Sherlock immediately flinched, and his breath caught in his throat before he could make a sound.

"Sorry… you're really tense… I'll try to be gentler, but it'll hurt before it gets better." John waited a few seconds to see if he would be allowed to carry on, and when Sherlock didn't move he continued, albeit even more carefully.

It took a while for him to start to loosen up a bit, but he eventually rolled onto his stomach to give John better access to his back and shoulders. John kept on even after his hands got tired, determined to help any way he could.

Once he'd moved down from his shoulders to his back he moved his hands in gentle circles, pressing a little more now that he wasn't complaining so much. But as soon as one of his hands progressed down to his side Sherlock suddenly jerked and let out a gasp.

"Sherlock?" John stopped, frowning. "Are you okay?"

"I… I'm fine… I think." He got his breath back, and nodded.

"What was that, then?"

"I don't know, exactly… It was just surprising, and… uncomfortable."

"Sherlock. Are you ticklish on your sides?"

The detective paused. "I don't know. Maybe. Just… don't do that again. I didn't like it."

How could someone get into their thirties and not know they were ticklish?

For someone like Sherlock… easily.

You can't tickle yourself.