Disclaimer: You know the drill. I own nothing.

A/N: No time for a proper note but thanks to all who reviewed, they were lovely. Hopefully Sherlock isn't too OOC, I tried really hard! He's quite tough to write actually. The drugs stuff should be fairly accurate but I apologise if it's not - put it down to Sherlock's exhaustion-addled brains. So anyway, as always, hope you enjoy. Please r&r.

Warning: References to drugs use. And I think there's a few 'bloody's in it too.

*Edit*: On reading the story as a whole again, I don't think I'm going to continue it any further - partly because in all honesty, I don't think it's my best work (after re-reading my other Sherlock fic) but also because I feel that the end of this chapter works as the end of the story really. There was going to be a Sherlock & Lestrade conversation but I don't think it's really necessary since he didn't come into it nearly as much as I'd planned him to. Apologies to anyone who has been waiting for an update on it, I guess if people really want that scene I might do it eventually but for now, this is the final chapter.

Enjoy (hopefully).

John sighed as he flicked the kettle on, trying to ignore the way his heart was hammering against his chest. It had definitely not been a good dream, but it was already fading in his memory. Still, bits of it seemed to have been etched onto his eyelids. Given what had gone on in it, it had ended quite well really. Even so, it had left him completely on edge, full of a nervous energy that did suggested he'd not be getting any more sleep that night…morning.

A car screeched outside and John jumped, knocking his mug off the counter as the kettle clicked off, the resulting smash sounding ridiculously loud against the nocturnal silence. Cursing himself, he knelt to pick up the pieces, wishing he had thought to 1) turn the light on as he entered the room and 2) put on his slippers before coming downstairs.

Satisfied that he had the majority of the bits and resolving to write a note warning Sherlock just in case, John stood.

"OH MY GOD!" Sherlock's gaze did not falter. "Sherlock, you almost gave me a heart attack!" John said laughing uneasily and trying to calm his once more hammering heart. Placing the broken mug on the counter, John turned back to his flatmate, who sat perched, cat-like upon the counter on the other side of the kitchen, the streetlamps giving his face a strange, hollow appearance.

Sherlock continued to gaze unblinkingly at him, barely seeming to be breathing. Unnerved, John took another mug from the cupboard, "You having tea?" he offered over his shoulder.

"Yes," Sherlock replied so quietly that John barely heard him, "please." John raised his eyebrows at hearing the foreign (to Sherlock at least) word coming from his flatmate.

"You okay?" John asked, feigning normality, as he shuffled past Sherlock who hesitated a second before following him into the living room. "I haven't seen much of you this week. You haven't been in your room the whole time have you?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as if the question confused him. "Sherlock," John tried again, waiting until Sherlock's eyes met his, "are you all right? You seem a bit…" he struggled to find the words to express what he meant, "…unusual." John decided at last.

"I'm fine. Thank you, John." Again, John was surprised at how polite Sherlock was being.

"Right…" He murmured uncertainly. "Listen, erm…oh! Thanks for buying milk by the way," Sherlock inclined his head slightly, unblinking. "While we're both here, can I ask you something?"

Sherlock searched John's face for a moment before nodding almost imperceptibly and entering the room properly. John gestured to the sofa opposite, inviting Sherlock to sit which he did, drawing his legs up underneath himself and clutching his mug in both hands. His eyes were still on John – it was starting to get more than a little eerie.

"Will you stop that? It's getting really creepy!" Sherlock blinked at John's suddenly sharp tone, but obediently averted his gaze. John was tempted to tell Sherlock that his suddenly having discovered manners was getting creepy too but stopped himself just in time. Silently, they sipped tea.

John noticed absently that it was beginning to get light outside, and that the shadows on his flatmate's face that he had thought were cast by the orange streetlamps were not disappearing as he had thought they would. God, Sherlock looked exhausted – beyond exhausted! Draining the last of his lukewarm tea, John placed it (somewhat forcefully) on the coffee table in front of him.

"Sherlock," the detective's eyes flicked to him, away again, "Sherlock, I'm…" John broke off, unsure of what to say, how to start. Finally, after several more false starts at which Sherlock would obediently shift his gaze to John as he spoke before averting it once more when it became apparent that John wasn't going to continue, "God, Sherlock, why?"

For a moment, it looked as if Sherlock would answer; he opened his mouth but closed it again, shaking his head.

It suddenly occurred to John how clinical their positions were – Sherlock sat opposite, where he, John, had dictated he sit while John sat on the other side of the room, with a desk (well, coffee table but as good as) in between them. And now John planned to interrogate Sherlock about his coping strategies and recent almost-descent into drugs. It was distastefully similar to John's meetings with his ex-therapist or his patients. Rising, he padded over to the sofa and sat down at the far end to Sherlock, twisting to face him.

Sherlock, having watched his progress, scooted further up the sofa, finally ending up sitting on the arm with his feet on the seat.

"I thought things were okay – that side of things, I mean." John prompted haltingly. "I don't think I've ever even seen you smoke."

"I don't smoke." It was automatic, a response that John had heard directed at him and so many others since meeting Sherlock. It was automatic, but John thought he heard the hint of a challenge behind the tone.

"You don't do drugs either." John pointed out gently.

"No." Sherlock agreed flatly. They stared at one another until Sherlock (surprisingly) broke the eye contact, leaning to rest his forearms on his knees, his head bowed.

The silence stretched on and John got the distinct impression that Sherlock was either sulking or asleep…possibly both. Conceding defeat, for that night at least, and resigning himself to another awkwardly Sherlock-free week, John picked up his mug, returned it to the kitchen and started towards his bedroom again.

"How do you make it stop, John?"

Returning to the living room, John perched himself on the arm of the sofa.

"Why does it all have to be so loud?" Sherlock slid from his perch and slumped against the sofa back in a manner most un-Sherlock-like. John frowned, confused.

"Sherlock, I'm not sure…I don't…what are you going on about?"

Sherlock turned his face as if with great effort, towards John. "All the…thoughts in your head," spoken as usual as though explaining something that should have been obvious, "God, John, don't you have them? You must have some at least! How do you make them stop? I just want some quiet!" Sherlock's voice, normally so confident, was desperate; John decided he had preferred the unending silence. "There's all these thoughts in my head and I don't know which ones are good or right and even if I did, I could be wrong – I was wrong about him, wasn't I?" Sherlock laughed bitterly, the sound seemed a touch hysterical.

"Sherlock," John felt bad for interrupting the rant especially since he had been wanting Sherlock to talk to him for nearly a week now but Sherlock didn't seem to have drawn breath for a good two minutes. "Sherlock, how the hell was taking stimulants going to help with that?" He asked exasperatedly.

Sherlock paused in his rant, looking curiously at John. "Well, they weren't."

"Oh my God…" John muttered, "Right, so why take – "

"No, no, no, no, no. The stimulants were because if I wasn't sleeping anyway then I might as well be doing something useful – I went and bought milk! And beans and…custard or something." Sherlock sounded hurt that John hadn't noticed. "But it was all so miserable and dull, and I just thought they might make the whole thing a bit more enjoyable or…anyway, that was them. The depressants were meant to slow everything down, so I could give each thought the attention it would obviously deserve."

"Obviously." John agreed under his breath. Unsure what to say to that particular piece of logic, he said no more, instead waiting for Sherlock to continue.

"I knew it was the neighbour," Sherlock admitted hesitantly after a few moments, trying to gauge John's reaction. When it appeared he was not displeased, Sherlock continued. "I knew but I…I wasn't sure so I couldn't – I didn't want to tell them yet. I'm never not sure." He added dazedly, before continuing thoughtfully, "It was so…random. That 'crack team' of Lestrade's have been calling it fate or coincidence. Idiots."

"Not fate, then?"

"Don't be so tedious, John," Sherlock suddenly sounded much more like his usual self. "You know it wasn't fate, you're far more intelligent than that." John felt his face heat up slightly at the unexpected compliment. "It was random," Sherlock repeated "she could have been anybody – she was going to die from the second she knocked on the door – but had she not gone round at that exact moment, she'd still be alive."

"You don't think that's bad luck?"

"Of course not, there's no such thing," Sherlock snapped, "What I mean, is that there was no reason – she was just there."

"Not all murders are meticulously planned by nut-jobs and hit men. There isn't always a reason, Sherlock," John shrugged, "There isn't always a link."

"Except," Sherlock admitted slowly, "sometimes there is one, and I just don't see it." He fell silent, watching John out of the corner of his eye. "I'm sorry, John." Sherlock said abruptly, studying him uncertainly.

John stiffened, frowning. "Well," he began gruffly, "it's not like it's the first time anybody's tried to blow me up, is it?" As he had hoped, Sherlock's lips twitched. Returning the smile, he teased "It probably won't even be the last if I keep hanging around with you." He cursed himself as Sherlock's tentative smile faded.

"Would you…" Sherlock broke off. Clearing his throat he continued, "Would you rather…they didn't?"

"Obviously." John said immediately.

Sherlock looked somewhat startled by his bluntness but nodded sagely, standing as he did so.

"No, Sherlock, look," John said quickly, standing up and blocking the other man's way. "Most people don't like nearly getting blown up, they don't find it fascinating or exciting, they find it bloody scary! So yeah, actually if in the future, we could avoid that scenario, it might be nice." He grinned exasperatedly. "But, Sherlock, come on! The bits in between, you know, where I'm not almost dying are pretty well…amazing - you're amazing! It's all just…" John threw his hands up.

"Amazing. What's a little mortal peril between friends, eh?" Sherlock murmured, smiling slightly. He sobered, again looking at John nervously. "It won't stop, you know."

"I know."

"There might always be a strange little Irish man waiting to steal you away from me."

"Getting a bit possessive there, people will talk."

"John."

Their eyes met, holding each other's gaze.

"Yeah. I realise that."

"So," Sherlock began almost shyly, "You're staying then?"

"Of course," John said, surprised, "When was I not staying – did you think I was going to move out?"

"Well, no," Sherlock declared confidently, "if you were going to – which you weren't – you'd have done it by now." He gave a sidelong glance at John before continuing casually, "Glad you are though," John raised his eyebrows, "Someone has to pay the other half of the rent. Can't afford it on my salary."

"You don't have a salary." John pointed out, grinning.

"All the more reason to have a flat mate," Sherlock smiled proudly, lying back down on the sofa, arms folded across his chest. John collected Sherlock's forgotten mug of tea and turned towards the kitchen. "Coffee!"

"What?" John asked, ducking back into the lounge.

"Coffee," Sherlock enunciated carefully. "If you're making a drink, I'll have coffee."

"Yeah, well I'm not. And the last thing you need is coffee, get some sleep!" John ordered, feeling the familiar sense of being perpetually miffed at his flatmate creep in. He felt better than he had in a fortnight. Turning to make the drinks anyway, he called out "And whatever happened to 'please'?"

"You were never going to leave," Sherlock said smugly, sitting up as John set his mug back on the coffee table "but I thought I should make it slightly more appealing for you."

"Yeah well, cheers. What's your next experiment going to be then?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I've far too many going now; I couldn't possibly start another until the others have reached completion."

"Right."

"Besides, I don't think Molly could get me another corpse at such short notice." Sherlock added as an afterthought, smirking as John spat a mouthful of tea back into the mug. "It really is a shame there aren't more around."

"Sherlock!" John cried indignantly.

Sherlock reached for his mug, smirking, clearly enjoying himself. Taking a mouthful, he calmly placed it back on the table. "What's that?"

"Tea."

Sherlock huffed. "Yes, I realise that. I said coffee."

"And I said get some sleep." John returned to his drink and started flicking through his mobile, appearing completely unaware of Sherlock's glare. He smirked as Sherlock finally gave up and reached for his by then lukewarm tea.

Thoughts?