There is a small mention of child abuse but I don't think that there is anything else that is triggery in this chapter.

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It's nothing to worry about

Chapter 2- I'm just tired (I can't take this anymore)

A cold bowl of soup sat on the coffee table untouched next to the empty mug which had previously been filled with tea. The young man lay stretched out of the sofa, staring at the ceiling with his hands in a prayer position. He didn't even flinch when his flat-mate barged through the door weighed down with several shopping bags. "It's fine, I can manage," muttered John to himself, half hoping Sherlock would hear him and take the hint despite the fact that he knew the probability of this happening.

After dumping the shopping on the kitchen floor he turned back to Sherlock to say something but the words didn't make it out of his mouth. He saw the bowl of soup sat on the side, the soup he had given to Sherlock when he left for work at one and made him promise to eat it. It was now nine at night and it didn't look as if the soup had been touched; at least he'd drunk the tea. The detective had been losing weight recently, the doctor in John noticed and worried hence his recent attempts to coax even the most meagre of bites down his best friend's throat. Of course the doctor had tried asking if there was anything wrong but merely received a scathing comment in reply. It had been a long shot anyway.

"Did you do anything while I was out Sherlock?" John asked. No reply.

"When was the last time you ate anything?" Even when Sherlock was in a silent mood he'd usually get angry at being asked that but this time he did not so much as batter an eyelid. One last attempt then; "Sherlock, I'm going to invite Mycroft over for a cup of tea. I thought it would be nice, we haven't seen him in a while." Still nothing and John shook his head despairingly but resigned himself to the fact that he would not be getting anything out of Sherlock tonight. Instead he removed the soup and mug from the table, quickly made himself some dinner and sat in front of the TV finding he was actually enjoying having an evening in.

Mrs Hudson's done the dusting in here, and the vacuuming, three days ago while John and I were out on the case. The dust is just beginning to become obvious again. She walked into John's seat, she tried to put it back but she got it wrong, it isn't aligned with the floorboards correctly. John made me soup before he went out, chicken soup because he knows that is my favourite, he's worried, he's noticed that I'm losing weight. He's back again now; he was working at the surgery. It obviously wasn't a good day, the speck of blood on his shirt is indicative of that. Shut up!

He hated it when his mind ran off like that, sometimes there would be so much information that his mind simply couldn't cope. He'd keep on noticing and deducing and get lost within the deductions and sometimes it would be almost impossible to rouse him from that state. Mycroft had once sedated him so when he came around again he was ok. His Father had hated his deductions; he'd lashed out at him whenever he made a deduction. And there was that one time when a load of the officials had come to the Holmes' house for dinner and Sherlock had happened to have wandered through the dining room while they were eating. It wasn't his fault the chancellor was cheating on his wife and it was not his fault the wife was cheating on the chancellor. He'd thought that they'd have been grateful for him pointing it out; it meant thatwould no longer have to tiptoe around each other anymore.

Apparently it was not an acceptable thing to announce before all of the guests. His father promptly excused himself and marched Sherlock up the stairs and into his room, harshly slapping him across the face so that the he fell to the ground. He roughly picked Sherlock off the ground by his shirt collar and shoved him into the wardrobe, locking it shut. "I'll be back for you soon, you will pay dearly for this my boy." And pay he did, that was a memory he did not care to indulge. Never again did he venture outside of his room if his Father had people over for dinner.

Sherlock glanced at John from the corner of his eye, careful not to move in case his friend saw him. The smaller man was sitting watching TV, something so mundane but John was not mundane. He was fascinating and kind. He was not like the others. Anderson and Donovan hurled abuse at him; Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were good to him but didn't understand, Molly loved him but didn't know him. John was the one who tried to understand, he knew he would never truly understand but always tried and always, somehow, knew what to say.

Even with John's presence the words from his past, pathetic, weirdo, waste of space, and the words from his present, freak, psychopath, let down, seemed to plague him. They stung far more that he would ever admit to anyone. He let out a groan and curled in on himself without even noticing. Once Anderson had attacked him, on a crime scene. Lestrade had been away but texted him to ask him to help with a case a different DI was on. Reluctantly Sherlock complied, if he hadn't been so bored he wouldn't have said yes. The DI instantly took a dislike to him as Sherlock told him that everything they had gathered from the crime scene was wrong. There was a space of about ten minutes that it was only Anderson and Sherlock upstairs in the house. Anderson uttered the word freak so Sherlock had uttered something regarding Anderson's intelligence. Anderson was stronger than he looked, tackling the consulting detective to the ground, away from the body, and punching him repetitively. There had been bruises on his neck too where Anderson had pushed just a little too hard. Sherlock was sure the DI knew exactly what had happened but he could tell he would deny it had happened if Sherlock pressed charges. The consulting detective also didn't want a certain big brother to get involved so he just left it at that. Though, until John came along, Sherlock refused to work with anyone who was not DI Lestrade.

"Sherlock!"

He had never been liked in his life, not really. Usually he managed to convince himself that he liked it like that. And now that he had John he honestly didn't care if nobody else liked him, just so long as he had John's approval. But Sherlock knew he did not deserve the doctor, kind Dr John Watson. The man cared too much, was too patient and too kind. There had to be a catch.

There was a sudden pressure on his shoulder and Sherlock jumped up in surprise, seeing John's concerned face just inches away from his own. "Are you ok mate? You were groaning but you weren't asleep were you?"

"No," replied Sherlock, trying to sound cold and detached. He was somewhat unsuccessful when his voice sounded croaky and unused.

"Are you ok though? Are you in pain?"

"Um, n-no," Sherlock stumbled trying to think of a valid excuse. "I'm, I'm just tired," he stated successfully, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb, feigning exhaustion.

"Mhmm," mumbled John, obviously not totally believing his friend. He looked at Sherlock with a gaze that the detective recognised. It was his diagnosing look, trying to perceive what was wrong. When he couldn't figure it out he didn't pursue the matter any further, something Sherlock was thankful for. "You know Sherlock; there is an obvious cure for that. Go to bed for once." Sherlock nodded and stood up.

"I think I might take that advice. Goodnight John." With that Sherlock headed for his room. He was struggling with life at the moment, he was just grateful for John, because if it wasn't for John surely it would have overwhelmed him by now.

John gazed after his friend, there was definitely something very wrong with him but he couldn't place his finger on it. He'd leave the man be another couple of days. If things did not improve he'd have to try something else. He just hoped Sherlock did improve.

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