John shifted in his seat again, glancing over at the detective beside him.

They'd been called in to the Yard for a follow-up on the Hansel and Gretel case, but it seemed Lestrade was just a little bit busy, and honestly John was surprised Sherlock had been this patient so far.

A dull fifteen minutes later Donovan came bustling through the waiting room, on her way to drop off some papers in Lestrade's office. She paused at the sight of them, hand on her hip. "Oh, you're back again, are you? Last case not dismal enough for you, huh, Mr. Depressing?"

Sherlock only rolled his eyes. "I'm not depressing, I'm realistic."

"Hey," John gave her a pointed look, leaning forward. "If you don't have anything nice to say, maybe you should just piss off."

"I do, I do. I actually just wanted to say that was really amazing, what you did. Finding those kids. Really unbelievable, actually."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and the glare he gave her was nothing if not cold as ice.

"Sally…" John began warningly, but she only shook her head.

"Everyone's been talking about it. The whole thing was incredible. But I'm sure you knew that, right? Of course you did. That's exactly what you wanted."

John stood up, back straight, as imposing as he could be in spite of his stature. "Just what the hell do you think you're talking about? You don't know anything about this. Leave us alone."

Donovan shrugged, and turned to go. "We'll see, I guess. You know I was right, all along."

The ex army doctor probably would have gone after her had Sherlock not grabbed his wrist and held him there until the door had closed behind her. He seemed composed as ever, but there was something about the calmness in his eyes that told John that inside that head of his the gears were turning.

"Sherlock… she was…"

"I know."

"Do you think she was just saying that to get to you? She could have been. She does that."

"Yes, I know that, too." Sherlock still hadn't let go of his wrist, and now he suddenly got to his feet, pulling him with him out into the hall.

"Hey—where are we going? I thought we were waiting for—"

"John, I need to tell you something." Sherlock stopped and turned back to him, his voice low.

"Huh? What?" John looked up at him questioningly. "Tell me what?"

Sherlock took only a split second or so to compose himself before he continued. "Remember when I said I was fine?"

"But... Not okay?"

"I'm not okay. And... I'm not fine, either."

John was beginning to look more and more concerned now. "What do you need? God, you haven't started to… have you…?" He gulped and glanced at Sherlock's arms, but the detective shook his head quickly. "What can I do? I want to help."

"Just... Do exactly as I say, please."

"What does that mean? Sherlock?"

"I'll tell you later."

"But—I—" John's gaze was confused, searching for but finding no answers in the detective's face. "How do I help?"

"Just stay with me. That's all I ask. And, one more thing."

"Yes? Anything."

"John... Thank you."