"… Contrary to what the patient has believed, I do not see signs of sociopathic behavior. Patient presented with crying and vomiting upon arrival. Mental status has yet to be determined but-"

I hadn't even finished typing my case notes when Sherlock bolted upright, his bloodshot eyes wide. I stood up from my desk, fearing he was about to throw up again. Instead, he looked around the room, remembering his surroundings. "I'm still here," he said.

I nodded. "That was a short nap."

"I don't sleep," he mumbled. "Not even when I'm… medicated." He bit out the last word, aiming the accusation right at me.

"You were in no position to argue with me," I said lightly. "You couldn't stop throwing up. I was only helping you. That's what I'm here for."

"Exactly why are you here, Merry-with-an-E?" he muttered.

"I'm a psychiatrist. I specialize in patients with PTSD. Your brother wanted to make sure you were going to be all right," I said. "He thought that you might need help working through your grief."

"What grief?" he scoffed. "I'm not grieving."

"You're not?"

"They'll grieve," he said quietly. "Not I."

"They?"

"Mrs. Hudson. Molly, perhaps. And John…" He paused, and I saw his face crumple for the briefest of seconds. But he pushed the pain away, locking it up tightly inside him again. "John will grieve."

"Yes," I agreed. "I am sure John will grieve."

We stared each other down for a few minutes. Finally, he broke the silence. "I had no choice in the matter. My conscience is clear," he said. "I will not grieve."

"All right." I nodded, knowing that the grief had already arrived in the form of denial.

"At any rate, I'd like to be alone," he said.

"I can't let that happen just yet," I explained. "I'm here to keep you safe."

He snorted. "I just committed suicide. How much more danger could I possibly be in?"

"You tell me," I deadpanned.

The smirk on his face faded. "Where's the washroom?"

I pointed. "Just off your bedroom."

"I have a bedroom," he smirked. "I suppose I'm staying for a while, then.

"Do you have a bedroom? Or are we sharing?"

There was a sneer in his voice but I ignored it. I pointed to the closed door on the left of the room.

"How cozy," he murmured.

"If you're feeling well enough to take a shower, I've put out your bathrobe and some towels," I told him. He was really frightful, the blood was still caked in his hair and face. He must have realized it, too; his fingers wandered to his face, feeling the stickiness there.

As he walked into the bedroom, I called, "Please keep the bathroom door open while you're showering. The medication I gave you is still in your system and it might cause you to get light-"

The door slammed shut in response.

"-Headed," I finished.

Rolling my eyes, I pulled out a bottle of cleaning solution and some rags- thoughtfully placed beneath the sink in our shared kitchenette- and went to work on my poor couch upholstery. The blood Sherlock had left behind wasn't lifting very well, but at least the stains faded from brown to a less ominous tan color.

As I scrubbed, I listened intently to the sounds in the bathroom. The toilet flushed and the water in the sink was turned on, then off. I heard him gasp, and I guessed he had just faced his reflection in the mirror for the first time. I fought the urge to call out to him and scrubbed harder.

When the shower turned on, I relaxed a little. He'd managed to undress and make it into the shower without help, so perhaps he wasn't suffering any light-headedness after all.

I was just replacing the rags and cleaner, wondering idly how I'd get the blood out of his clothing, when I heard it:

A thunk. Like a bare foot slipping on a wet tile, and a bare bottom landing hard against the shower floor.

I swore under my breath and ran for the bathroom door.