His body shook as he lay in sweat-soaked sheets, waiting for his heart rate to even out. Tears threatened to fall again but he forced them back, swallowing his sadness and guilt. He cried once, he was done crying. When he was more calm and rational, he stretched out on the bed, still facing the wall. He had no intention of moving. He had been hurting for long enough that the pain he felt evened out into a dull hum.

Everything was so different. The world adapted a darker tint as if storm clouds rolled in when John died. Sherlock realized, as he stared at the unresponsive, uninteresting wall, that he was starting to feel nothing at all. He couldn't figure out if that was good or bad, especially in the long run. At the moment, he was biased, the numbness was a relief, but would he feel the same in a week or a month? He wasn't sure.

He spent a lot of time mulling it over as he wasted the day in bed, only moving to use the bathroom. He had no energy or will to do anything else. The phone rang a few times but he didn't answer. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson attempted to talk to him through the door but he didn't want to hear it. Three days passed in the same fashion until D.I. Lestrade felt like he'd had enough. The D.I. showed up on the night of the fourth day and pounded on Sherlock's door.

"Sherlock, open up!" he shouted, agitation poisoning his tone.

Sherlock didn't reply. He never did.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock heard him call as his footsteps echoed away.

Sherlock knew that Lestrade wouldn't leave it there and, sure enough, his footsteps returned a few minutes later. The D.I. didn't call out for him again; instead Sherlock could hear the sound of scraping metal and the rattle of the doorknob being thrust back and forth. His heart sank when it hit him that Mrs. Hudson had given him a key. Sherlock buried himself in the covers of his bed as he heard the door crash open and the heavy footfalls of Lestrade stomping his way into the flat. The D.I. walked straight to the bedroom and paused in the doorway.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said softly.

He still didn't respond, hoping his child-like hiding would prove successful.

Lestrade walked further into the room, adjusting to a gentle demeanor. He decided he needed to acclimatize to Sherlock's state of mind. He approached the situation as a parent would to their child.

"I know you're under there," he said accusingly.

When the consulting detective didn't budge, Lestrade ripped the covers away from him. The sight was almost pathetic. A grown man curled up in bed, wearing clothes almost a week old with afflicted, red eyes from hours of crying. Even though he was exposed, Sherlock refused to look up. Lestrade knew people, knew grief, and could see how deeply cut Sherlock was. He sat next to him on the bed while he thought of the right words to say.

"I know this is tough," Lestrade started.

"I don't want to hear it," Sherlock mumbled into his pillow.

"You don't have much of a choice," he replied. "I know this is tough but wasting away in bed isn't going to help or change anything. It's been four days and I know if I hadn't interfered you would've starved to death."

"What does it matter?"

"It matters a lot. It matters so much, in fact, that I've taken drastic measures and called your brother."

Sherlock shot up in bed, John's jumper wrinkled and twisted around his body. His eyes hardened with fear, anger, and disbelief. The way he stared at Lestrade almost forced the D.I. to stand up and back away.

"Why would you call my brother?" his voice cracked, tinged with incredulousness.

"You need help and support. There was no one else I knew to call," he replied calmly and clearly, as if it would help him understand better.

"I would've preferred it if you had let me die."

"You don't mean that."

"I do," Sherlock snapped. "When will he be here?"

"In the morning. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I had no other options."

Sherlock shot a glare at Lestrade before his face crumpled, residual sadness breaking through. Lestrade became visibly panicked, unsure of what to do. There was no consoling him, not in any way that he was familiar with, so he could only stay and hope it would pass. He almost sighed in relief when Sherlock composed himself moments later. The detective hid behind his mask of apathy to disguise himself from prying eyes. Breaking down on his own was one thing; breaking down in front of Lestrade was out of the question.

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock barked.

"I'm not leaving until Mycroft gets here. I left you alone once, I won't do it again."

Sherlock sighed and flopped back down, attempting to pull the covers up around him but couldn't. Lestrade had a tight grip on them to prevent him from burying himself again. A frustrated noise left him as he abandoned the covers, curling up into a ball for alternative warmth. A scowl was plastered on his face as he hid himself in the striped jumper.

"Come on, Sherlock. Get up. I know you haven't eaten since the day of."

"If you're going to stay, could you please do it without bothering me?" he hissed.

"I won't let you kill yourself," the D.I. replied seriously. "Now, get up! You're like a child, I swear."

"And you would know all about that, would you?"

"I should hope so, I have five of them. It's how I put up with you so well."

Sherlock sat up, staring at Lestrade. "So, why are you here instead of with them?"

"I was with them and then I came here. This isn't just about my job, I'm genuinely concerned. I'm ordering in. I'm not going to let you stay here and sulk but I'll give you some space."

Lestrade left the bedroom but not before pulling the covers clean off Sherlock's side of the bed. He groaned, curling up into a tighter ball, considering Lestrade's words carefully. He thought for a few minutes and decided he wouldn't win with the D.I. He wasn't going to leave him alone. The downtrodden detective dragged himself out of bed and pulled on a pair of trousers. He left the jumper on, in spite of the fact that it was quite dirty, and was about to leave when the whispers from the previous night hit him like a bus.

He staggered back, startled by the volume of the noise. It was like the last time but multiplied by two. He clutched his ears, looking wildly for a source as his eardrums pounded, close to bursting. Sherlock glanced toward his nightstand and the voices started to define themselves. They began to melt together into one male voice that echoed because it wasn't whole. He couldn't make out what it was saying but he knew where it was directing him.

When his pale fingers wrapped around the dog tags at his bedside, the voice stopped. He gazed down at John's name, cursing his apparent insanity. Whatever was causing the voice within him wasn't going to let him forget the pain. Sherlock assumed all of those years of drugs had finally caught up with him. He hung the tags around his neck, stuffing them under the jumper, and walked out into the living room where the D.I. was sitting.

"See, was that so hard?" Lestrade asked, brightening when Sherlock entered the room.

He didn't reply, he didn't mention that he was losing his mind, he just dropped into a chair and stared with a blank expression.

"It'll get easier, Sherlock," Lestrade said, facing the detective as he leaned forward in his chair.

"Will it?" he asked doubtfully.

"It won't ever be okay but the hurt and sadness will ease."

"When? How? I've never dealt with feelings like this before."

"Just pretend it never happened," Lestrade replied with a dark laugh.

Sherlock's mouth dropped open for a second. A comment like that wasn't in character, as far as he knew him. Then again, how well did he really know Lestrade? The grey-haired man shifted uncomfortably in his seat, looking apologetic and shocked.

"Sorry, that came out wrong."

Sherlock paused before answering. "It's fine."

"Really, I-"

"How did John's family take it?" Sherlock interrupted, changing the subject.

"What?" Lestrade asked, sitting up straight with a startled and bemused expression.

"John's family. You did tell them, right?"

"Of course. His parents and…" he trailed off, struggling to remember something.

"And Harry," Sherlock finished, eyeing him strangely.

"Yes. And Harry. His brother."

"Sister," Sherlock corrected, his suspicion swelling. "Are you sure you called them?"

"I did. My mind has just been preoccupied with you and other cases," he said assuredly, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest.

Sherlock nodded. "If you say so, Detective Inspector."