I was nearly assaulted by a flying cellular phone as I stepped back into the flat.

Sherlock's phone bounced off the wall with a thunk and landed, in pieces, on the floor at my feet.

Sherlock himself was standing in the middle of the room, still in his pajamas, his hands gripped at his sides, his chest heaving with anger. It looked as if one of the storm clouds from outside had infiltrated the flat and was hovering directly over my patient.

I leaned to pick up the remains of his phone. "Problem?" I asked mildly.

"There's something wrong with this bloody phone," he snarled. "I've been trying to get a signal for over an hour."

"Who were you going to call?" I asked.

He set his jaw, defiance personified. "I was going to check for messages," he gritted out.

"Why?" I asked mildly. "You can't return them. You're not supposed to be…" I couldn't finish the sentence.

He finished it for me. "Alive. I am well aware."

Suddenly, his eyes narrowed with realization. "My phone has been disabled."

I nodded. "For your protection. And the protection of others. You and your brother were the ones who came up with these rules, remember?"

"Yes," he muttered, and the anger seemed to drain from his body. He threw himself into the armchair and let his head fall back. He still looked exhausted.

"You can use the Internet on your laptop if you'd like," I said. "I have the password for that if you need it.

"But you cannot send messages to anyone," I added. "Not even your friends."

"Friend," he bit out. "Singular."

"You mean John," I said. I wanted to gauge his reaction in hearing the name.

As I expected, he froze. For a moment, his chin trembled. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the emotion disappeared as Sherlock wiped all expression from his face.

"I don't want to talk about John," he said.

"We have to start talking at some point," I said. "Otherwise, I'm not doing my job. Let's meet after lunch, all right?"

My head had been pounding for the last hour and I wanted to lie down in my room, to close the door on the whole situation just for a little while.

But as I walked toward my bedroom, Sherlock jumped to his feet, whirling on me. "Where were you this morning?"

"With a patient," I said. "A special case. One that couldn't wait."

He stalked over to me, peering into my eyes as if he could read my thoughts.

"You have dark smudges under your eyes," he said. "Partially because you rubbed your hand over your eyes without remembering you were wearing mascara, but mostly because this morning was a terrible strain on your emotional reserves."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off. "You have a pocket full of used tissues, far more than you could have used by yourself unless you'd been crying or having a terrible struggle with seasonal allergies, either of which would make your eyes bloodshot. However, your eyes are not bloodshot, and considering you have a habit of picking up around your office and putting the contents in your pockets until you are near a waste bin, I'm guessing your client left them behind after a very emotional and tearstained session."

I didn't say a word. I didn't have to.

His eyes widened. "No."

I turned away from that penetrating gaze. "Sherlock, I need to rest a bit, all right?"

"It was John."

What was the point in lying to him? He could read the truth as if was printed across my face. "It was only one session," I said. "I will find a new doctor who will take good care of him, all right?"

"No!" He grabbed my shoulders, holding them tightly. "You have to be his doctor."

"It's a conflict of interest, Sherlock."

"Please."

"No, Sherlock. There are many gifted doctors out there. I know professionals in the field, the very best ones."

He shook his head, despairing. "No. Please. Please be his friend." His eyes were brimming with sudden tears. He blinked hard and they began to course down his face.

I knew that Sherlock could cry whenever it was to his advantage, but these tears were real. Watching him weep made me want to weep as well.

"For me," he whispered. "Please do this for me."

"You're asking the impossible."

"I know." He nodded fervently. "I wouldn't ask if I wasn't desperate. And I am desperate, Merry. Please."

His voice cracked. "Please take care of John."

My heart ached for Sherlock. He had lost everything and everyone he'd ever held dear. He had stepped off the ledge of St. Bart's, knowing exactly what he was doing.

I wondered if I was being asked to do the same thing.

I took a deep breath to gather my strength.

"I wouldn't be able to tell you what he said in his sessions," I warned.

He shook his head fervently. "Of course not."

"And I wouldn't be able to tell him about you."

"No. No, that would put him danger."

I swore under my breath. And Sherlock took that as a "Yes."

To my amazement, he threw his arms around me, shuddering, his breath huffing in my ear.

I raised my arms to hold him as he wept.