I didn't know what to call this chapter, so if anyone else has some better ideas that would be great :)

Hope you like this one anyway, only one review for the last chapter! :(

Twenty-Four Hours

The next twenty-four hours were some of the strangest of my life. Having your best friend dying was weird enough, but turns out having him suddenly reappearing in your life again is even worse. I try to think about all the films and TV shows I've seen in which a friend comes back from the dead, what did those people do when they found out the truth? I'm pretty sure my reaction wasn't showed in any of them. Perhaps it would be a bit much of an exaggeration to say that for a few hours I had gone insane, but it certainly felt like it at the time.

The affects of the past twelve weeks and my attempted suicide (there was no point trying to avoid it or deny it, I know what I was trying to do when I stood on that bridge) had caught up with me, so I thankfully spent most of those twenty-four hours asleep. The trouble was staying asleep for more than a few hours was difficult, and I kept on having strange dreams about Sherlock lying dead on the ground and then suddenly jumping up on his feet, blood still running down his face. What was worse was when I would wake up and get up, completely forgetting what had happened and that anyone had come back from the dead, to find Sherlock Holmes sitting in the living room watching daytime television and asking how I was.

My emotions varied from rage, confusion and sorrow, I didn't know which way to turn. I tried to keep myself to myself and think things through, set things straight in my crazed mind, but Sherlock kept on appearing, trying to talk to me, trying to get me to eat. I tried to be nice to him, because I knew he was trying to help me and I tried to just ignore him because clearly I wasn't OK and I hadn't been hungry for twelve weeks. But after a few too many nagging appearances I snapped. I started yelling at Sherlock, telling him that he should be rotting in the ground and that there's nothing wrong with me, he just needs to leave me alone, why isn't he getting out of my head? Are you even real? Look at what you've done to me, I hate you.

Sherlock didn't look angry when I shouted these words at him, he didn't look sad either, he just stood there calmly until I had finished, and then left without another word. I suppose he thinks he deserves every bad word I say against him, as I suppose I may have to agree with him on that one. I still believe that his death was the trigger for everything that had happened next, those events might have still happened – my argument with Kitty Riley, Harry – but in slightly different ways, and probably wouldn't have had as much effect. And it turns out after all I've been through, he wasn't even dead. If that's not rubbing salt into a wound I don't know what is.

After that explosion of rage however I did start to calm down a little bit. Sherlock actually got me to eat something, and I had to admit that after swallowing down a rather blackened piece of toast (the man really didn't know how to work a toaster) I did feel a bit better. Over those twenty-four hours Sherlock was always very calm, trying not to show any emotion.

Mrs Hudson came round a few hours later to make a cup of tea, she sat with me in the living and talked until I was dizzy. I hadn't heard her so happy a long time, I suppose I hadn't considered what might have been going through her head after she discovered about Sherlock's 'suicide'. I only realised when I sat with her in my armchair, a blanket over my shoulders (I had been feeling the cold recently and Sherlock insisted, even though I knew he would hate wearing one himself) how much of a son Sherlock was to Mrs Hudson. She must have missed him deeply, and yet she couldn't talk to anyone about it. She felt comfortable talking about him now though, and ended up moaning about him for one reason or another, but I knew it was the way in which a mother would moan about their teenage son.

"Of course I knew he wasn't a liar, that's not our Sherlock to be someone like that." She commented, and I had a feeling it wasn't the first time she had said this, but after who knows how long of listening to her chatter it was hard to tell.

I was going to point out to Mrs Hudson that the whole fraud rumour showed how little we knew about Sherlock Holmes, even now he's back I'm not sure how well I know him, or if I can trust him. However I said and just nodded in agreement, staring off into the distance, it would be unfair to upset her.

"You should have said that you weren't feeling well John," Mrs Hudson said after a short and rare pause, looking at me closely. "I didn't realise how ill you've been recently until Sherlock told me."

Although Sherlock probably hadn't told her that it wasn't a physical sickness that was plaguing me. "You don't need to worry about me," I murmured.

Mrs Hudson didn't seem convinced, but just then she decided it was time to make another cup of tea.

It wasn't long since Mrs Hudson left that I went to bed, and this time I managed to sleep soundly and when I woke up the mysterious bout of sanity had disappeared. I must have slept for about eight hours and I thought I hadn't woken up at all, but afterwards Sherlock told me there was one point when I got up and stood just in the doorway of the living room, where he was watching yet more television (it seemed to be the only thing he could do around the house at the moment).

He told me he turned round and spotted me standing in there, looking like a ghost, with a pale dace and dark rings around my eyes. Apparently I just stood there and stared at him.

"Are you all right John?" He had asked.

I nodded, "Still alive Sherlock?"

"Yes," he replied quite casually.

I nodded again, and then apparently I went straight back to bed. And now I wake up feeling perfectly sane and certain with the knowledge that Sherlock is actually alive. It's like everything's clicked into place and I understand the events that happened to both me and Sherlock over the past twelve weeks. The long rest made me feel a little more relaxed as well and no longer exhausted. I had recovered from my midnight swim and when I stood up for once my head doesn't spin, I even feel like having a little something to eat. It doesn't sound like much but for me this was a massive improvement.

I got dressed before heading into the kitchen, where Sherlock was once again attempting to make breakfast. Any other time I would have laughed at his poor attempts to cook even the most basic of foods, (today it looks like he's attempting a traditional English breakfast) but I'm not able to laugh just yet.

He turned to the bin, muttering something about useless kitchen appliances and about to throw something very burnt-looking away, when he froze, staring at something in the bin. I watch him as he bends down and picks it up.

"John, what's this?" He demanded, and my heart sank like a stone when I saw he was holding up my box of anti-depressants. I had completely forgotten about them, and I didn't think that Sherlock would find them.

I feign stupidity all the same. "It's a box," I replied innocently.

Sherlock sighed. "Yes I know that, but what's in the box?"

"Oh I don't know, a world of mysteries!" I don't care if this man is trying to help me, I still hadn't forgiven him and had got into the habit of making the simplest of things as hard as possible. "Are you worried it's bigger on the inside?"

Sherlock glared at me. "In actual fact John I was being sarcastic. I know exactly what these are."

"Really?" He wasn't the only one who could use sarcasm.

But Sherlock's eyes now softened. "Why didn't you tell me you were meant to be on medication John?"

"Because I don't need medication. I'm not sick." I pointed out.

"Of course you need medication," usually Sherlock would have sounded angry, but his voice was filled with sympathy. I think I would prefer it if he was angry. "I knew you had depression but I didn't know you had been given medication-"

"But I'm not sick." I repeated, almost desperately. I already seem to have forgotten about my bout of insanity that occurred only a few hours ago.

Sherlock leaned forward across the table and stared straight into my eyes. It was horrible, as if he was trying to drive the truth into me, I looked down at the ground. I'm not sick and I don't need that medication, I don't care what he might say about the past twelve weeks, I don't care what I might have been like in the past twenty-four hours. I'm not sick.

"Why did you stop taking them?" He asked quietly.

I shrugged, "They weren't working," I admitted. "They just made things worse."

"But that's just a side effect, that often happens." Sherlock tried to explain to me. "Things get worse before they get better, so you're going to take them and keep on taking them this time."

"What makes you think I'm going to do that?" I demanded.

Sherlock stood up straight. "Because you've got a friend to help you through it this time. And trust me, I won't be running away again."

He took out one of the foils from the box and pushed out one of the white capsules and handed it out to me. "Trust me." He said.

Trust him? I didn't know if I could ever trust that man again, he always had so many secrets and surprises up his sleeve. He even pretended he was dead for three months, how can you trust someone you thought was your best friend when he faked his own death and didn't even tell you? But deep down I knew I was sick, you can't feel this empty inside and say it's normal.

The only thing I hate about him as much as I hate him lying to me, is when he's right.

I took the pill from his outstretched hand, and Sherlock managed a smile.