TRIGGER WARNING: If you are sensitive to scenes including suicidal ideation, please don't read this chapter.

John took the car. He didn't want to wait for a taxi, even if he'd been willing to pay the fare. It was only a little after 3 pm, so traffic was light. Following Greg's directions, he pulled into a fenced security area set a bit apart from the main terminal area. The guard at the gate looked closely at his identification and waved him towards a parking spot near a row of blast barriers.

He rang for admittance at the locked entry door and was relieved to see it swung open by Greg Lestrade. "Thank God," the man sighed. "C'mon in."

They walked down a typical bland corridor, military green walls with dirty grey carpet. Instead of meeting Sherlock, though, John was surprised to find himself led into a small windowless office. Greg came in as well and closed the door behind them, then leaned his hip on the metal desk set against one wall. "So," he said. "Sherlock's down the hall. He's, well, he's not fine, but he's safe enough. But you and I need to have a chat before you see him." Greg's voice was serious, and held more than a hint of anger. He gestured at the folding metal chair parked in front of the desk. "Have a seat."

John did, just a bit surprised at Greg's manner. "Gonna tell me what happened, then?" he said mildly.

"Short version?" Greg said tightly. "He was examining the coffin. Really tightly focused. Got down on his knees to look underneath and dropped his phone. One of my PCs reached over to pick it up, and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to balance himself when he stood back up—got a bit off-kilter, apparently. And Sherlock came up, grabbed his arm, and slammed his head into the tabletop."

John's jaw dropped. "Is he OK?" he said faintly. And even John wasn't clear which "he" was intended.

"The PC was out cold. They've taken him to the medical unit here in the airport; I'm going to go check on him shortly. The paramedics didn't seem to think it was too serious, but we'll see. Sherlock—I have no fucking idea, since he won't talk. At all. Not a word. He just backed right up against the wall, closed his eyes and shook. He's down the hall in a room here. I left one of my officers with him—just wasn't comfortable leaving him alone, y'know?" And John did know, of course. He would have felt exactly the same.

What he felt right now, though, was guilt. Great, ugly, crushing guilt. He knew Sherlock wasn't doing well, should have urged him to have another of their sessions, or taken a holiday, or something.

Greg apparently picked up on that, and shook his head. "You're not getting it," he said soberly. "This isn't your fault. It's not my fault, and it sure as hell isn't Sherlock's fault. But what is your fault," he said angrily, "is not telling me that Sherlock had full-blown triggers. God knows I'm not surprised he has them. But Jesus, John—I assume you knew, what with your talking with him and all. And you let him come work with me and never told me that certain things were going to push him over the edge? So that I could have, I dunno, been prepared? And maybe avoided this?"

John blinked, and opened his mouth to speak, and then immediately closed it again. Because Lestrade was absolutely right, and this was inexcusable, and he deserved to be shot at sunrise. "God," he almost-whispered. "I am really, really sorry."

"Yeah, well," Greg huffed, somewhat mollified. "There is a bit of good news in all of this, I suppose. The PC he decked knows Sherlock—has a bit of a hero-worship thing going, in fact. Camden—you remember him, I think. He was in on the case with Comstock—saw a bit of Sherlock's, um, issues then, so he's likely to be pretty understanding. If it was anyone else, we'd be potentially looking at assault charges."

John raised his chin stubbornly at that. "There's no way those would stand—you know very well it wasn't intentional."

"Yeah," said Greg soberly. "But the only way they could resolve that would be to bring in the psych folks. Do you really think Sherlock wants to sit through that kind of hearing?" He paused, then continued hesitantly. "Do you think he would pass a psych evaluation right now?"

John snorted. "Mycroft told me once that Sherlock's been running rings around psychiatrists since he was a child. I think he could handle it."

"Well, maybe," Greg replied. "But I'm not sure he wouldn't be better served by flunking it."

The room Sherlock was in was small, and quiet, and dark. Someone (Sherlock?) had turned the overhead lights off; the only light came from one small slit window at the roofline. When John opened the door, the PC standing just inside quickly slid out without comment.

Sherlock was not immediately visible. John had to walk around the desk resting in the middle of the room before he spied the detective sitting against the back wall, knees bent and forehead resting atop them. Following an instinct he didn't quite understand, John said nothing. He simply walked over, turned his back to the wall and slid into place next to his friend, almost, but not quite, touching.

One minute passed; two. Finally, Sherlock heaved a sigh and spoke, in a quiet, subdued voice. "How's Camden?"

"Pretty sure he'll be fine," John said evenly. "Greg says the paramedics weren't too worried. We can go check in a bit, when you're ready."

Sherlock made a horrible noise, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I rather doubt he's anxious to see me at the moment."

"I dunno," John said mildly. "Lestrade says he's got a bit of a man-crush on you, apparently. He's liable to be excited to have your full attention." He paused, debating with himself momentarily, then went for it. "Of course, I suspect he'd rather you didn't hit him again…" he said, looking up at Sherlock through his lashes.

And Sherlock, surprised, gave an involuntary, though slightly damp, snort of laughter. "I make no guarantees," he finally said with a theatrical sigh.

Just like that, then. They could laugh, just a bit. For the moment, it was not quite the end of the world, and Sherlock could see just a glimmer of daylight. John sighed as well, much more heartfelt than Sherlock's version.

They sat together, in the quiet dark, for just a bit longer. It was comfortable, that silence. Finally, though, John stood and stretched, his knees cracking a bit, and then held out his hand to Sherlock. "C'mon then. Let's go see Camden; you'll feel better once you know he's OK."

Sherlock obediently stood as well, swaying a bit before John grabbed his arm to steady him. "When was the last time you ate?" said John, mildly alarmed. Sherlock's blinking pause told him what he needed to know. John marched over and pulled the door open, startling the PC who had been hovering outside. "Would it be possible to quickly rustle up some tea and a sandwich?" he asked.

The PC bobbed his head. "We've got some stuff down the hall if you'd like to come see," the young man said genially. "Nothing fancy, but better than that machine crap."

It was better, actually. The room "down the hall" had several folding tables spread with an assortment of things—sandwiches, crisps, and soup, as well as tea or coffee. John led a slightly-wobbly Sherlock to a chair and the man thumped gracelessly into it, then rested his head on his folded arms on the tabletop. John bustled around, grabbed a sandwich, some crisps and tea (four sugars, to get that blood sugar up) and placed it in front of Sherlock.

John waited a full minute for a reaction, then finally placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sit up," he said gently. "Food will help."

Sherlock slowly unfolded himself from his arms and sat back in the chair, blinking a bit. When he still made no move towards the food, John nudged the sandwich towards him slightly. Sherlock looked down at it, then looked back at John. "If I eat that I will vomit," he said softly. "Take it away. Please." He shoved the plate a few inches, and then rested his head back on his arms.

John looked at the plate, uncertain what to do. He pulled the sandwich over in front of himself, then touched Sherlock again. "Sherlock," he said quietly, and waited for the man to uncurl again. "Have the tea first. That you need to have. Then maybe some soup instead?"

Sherlock reached out, picked up the cup and took a sip. "What kind?" he asked, finally.

John got up and checked. "Tomato." And that was excellent news—Sherlock always asked for tomato soup and toasted cheese when he was ill.

It took a while, but in the end, Sherlock ate about half of a cup of the soup and a small packet of crisps. His color improved—no longer quite as corpse-like, though still very pale (even for Sherlock), and the dizziness seemed to have receded. He reached what seemed to be his limit for food, finally, and pushed his chair back slightly from the table.

John, taking this as his cue, stood and held out his hand to help his friend up. "So, ready to go see Camden now?" he said.

Sherlock simply nodded and stood up, ignoring John's outstretched hand. "The infirmary is this way," he said, and walked off, as usual not waiting to see if John was coming.

John was coming, Of course he was.

The infirmary wasn't far—perhaps a five-minute walk, which they made in silence. John was hesitant to say much—everything, right now, seemed fraught with potential for disaster. When they reached the doorway of the medical unit John stopped, and Sherlock, surprisingly, stopped with him. Although, when John thought about it, it wasn't that surprising—he knew Sherlock really didn't want to have this particular interview, even though he was anxious to know how Camden was.

"Would you like me to come in with you?" John asked finally.

Sherlock reacted with a flare of temper. "I can do this by myself. I'm not a child, John."

"No," John said soberly. "If you were a child I wouldn't be giving you an option."

Sherlock almost visibly pulled his horns back in and dropped his chin. He didn't quite say he was sorry, but the implication was clear if you spoke Sherlock. "I, um, I would like to go in by myself," the detective said, very quietly.

John ended up staying in the hall; he considered walking back to see what Lestrade was up to, but didn't really want to leave Sherlock to his own devices. As it happened, Sherlock only stayed five minutes before walking briskly back through the infirmary door. He then took off down the hallway, heading back towards the exit, while John half-trotted along beside him.

"So how is he?" John panted, as Sherlock kept hurrying along.

"He's fine," Sherlock said blandly. "A large bruise on his forehead and a headache, but nothing worse. He was embarrassingly willing to forgive me." He paused a second, a sure Sherlockian sign of uncertainty. "I suggested that he may wish to accompany me on a private case or two in the future. He is not entirely an idiot, so it's a wise investment for the future. Lestrade won't be working cases forever, after all." He lowered his eyes and was suddenly extremely interested in the cheap carpet.

"That's a really good idea," John said, somewhat impressed. "He'll like that. It's a nice thing to do, Sherlock."

"It's entirely self-serving," Sherlock sniffed. "Simply a succession plan for Lestrade."

"No, it's not," John said amiably.

John drove Sherlock home; there was nothing left to do at the airport, since Sherlock (in the midst of all the other drama) had managed to solve the case. In the end, neither the senders, the corpses, nor the recipients had been important—it all came down to the ground transport company, who would collect the coffins to take them to their final "destinations". Very slick—procure an abandoned corpse, usually someone who died indigent with no known survivors. Set up a falsified set of documents to bring the coffin into the UK and buy passage for it on a plane flying to Heathrow. The transport crew would show up with documents authorizing them to pick up the coffin on behalf of the fictional recipient, and, as Greg Lestrade put it, "Bob's your uncle."

"Or your granddad," John couldn't resist interjecting. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

When they got to Baker Street John parked the car and went in. He had already decided that he and Sherlock were going to have another of their "chats" this evening—if ever Sherlock needed that, it was today. After greeting Mrs. Hudson and doing a quick recce of Sherlock's fridge (nearly empty, as usual, but for the odd body part and a large tub of chicken livers—John didn't ask), he decided to make a quick run to Tesco for the makings of a reasonable dinner. Takeaway was always an option, but he'd discovered over the past few months that Sherlock found the activity of cooking a meal somewhat soothing. He would willingly slice vegetables or peel potatoes with a minimum of fuss, while maintaining a civil conversation. It was odd, but welcome.

Mary showed up about three-quarters of the way through the creation of roast chicken and mixed veg. She sniffed the air and nodded approvingly, then held up the bakery box she had brought along. "I took care of the pudding," she said cheerfully. "You boys can do the rest of the work. The Tube was a nightmare." She dropped onto the sofa and put her feet up on the coffee table with a grateful sigh. "I hate the days when everyone decides they have flu and show up en masse," she groaned. "Ninety percent of them just have a cold, but there's always at least one that really does have the flu, and passes it on to the rest of them. We'll be swamped next week."

"Think of it as job security," John said philosophically.

"Could be worse—one of them could actually have plague," Sherlock chimed in.

"And on that cheery note, let's eat," John laughed.

They were most of the way through dinner when the doorbell rang, and Mrs. Hudson went to let someone in. John was surprised to look up and see Greg Lestrade in the doorway. And by the look of his face, he was definitely not bringing good news.

"Greg," Mary said warmly. "Come join us—there's plenty to go around, since Sherlock is apparently subsisting on carrots and the occasional sniff of the chicken on someone else's plate." She ignored Sherlock's scowl.

"No, thanks anyway," Greg said soberly. "I…look, I have some news. And since it's sort of my fault, I wanted to deliver it in person." He walked over and stood by the table and looked directly at Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

"You know earlier today, when you…well, you were pretty upset, so you were out of it for a bit there," he began. Sherlock stiffened but kept quiet. "Camden's fine, don't worry. It's not that," Greg continued. "But you know that it wasn't just my people in the room, right? So the thing is, in the confusion, someone from the security staff of the airport took a photo of you, after..." Sherlock's face froze, while John and Mary both glared at Lestrade.

"Now don't worry," Greg added hurriedly. "It won't go to the newspapers; as soon as I found out about the picture I phoned your brother. He got that part taken care of. And I called the head of airport security myself—he found out who it was, and stood there while the man took the posting down and deleted the photo from his phone. But—"

"But it is already on the internet, and will be widespread by morning," said Sherlock in a deceptively disinterested tone.

'Yeah. Probably so," Greg said dejectedly.

Sherlock pushed back from the table and stood. "Thank you for letting me know, Inspector," he said in the most formal of tones. And while the other three watched helplessly, he walked out the door, down the stairs, and out of the building.

John's first instinct was to follow. But he quickly reconsidered; Sherlock wouldn't appreciate being treated like a child, and John knew from experience that leaving the man be for a bit to process emotion was sometimes the better option. It didn't make John feel any better about it, though.

Greg, however, wasn't prepared to be quite so sanguine. John watched as he pulled out his phone and typed a message. The wording made it clear who the recipient was: He's on the wind. Get the cameras working.

John and Mary were torn about what to do. Greg left shortly afterward, planning to reach out to a couple of his friends on the force to let them know to keep an eye out. John couldn't decide whether to stay at Baker Street and wait, or go home, or go look for Sherlock. (The last, he knew, was unlikely to be successful, but he nonetheless had a compulsion to try). In the end they went home; Mycroft had texted shortly after Greg left to tell John that he would contact them when Sherlock turned up, or notify them of any problem. They both knew what kind of "problem" was implied.

Shortly after they arrived home, John got another text from Mycroft. He's home; all seems to be well. John immediately sent off a text to Sherlock.

You OK? We left the cake; you can share it with Mrs. H.

He waited twenty minutes, then sent another.

Everything all right? Please let me know. Mary worries.

Of course in this case John was the one doing the worrying. But the end result was the same.

Yes. SH

John breathed a large sigh of relief, and sent one last text.

I'm glad. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Try and get some sleep.

Even though it wasn't that late, John found himself exhausted. He and Mary were both in bed by 11, and happy to be there.

The phone rang at 2, jerking John into immediate alertness. From long habit, he picked it up and barked "Watson" while sitting up, groggy and irritated. There was a long pause in which he could hear someone breathing on the other end. He was just about to demand that the caller speak when—"John…" the voice was uneven, wobbling, but unmistakably Sherlock's.

"What's wrong?" John barked, as Mary sat up abruptly behind him. "Where are you?"

Another long pause, then—"John…"

John vaulted out of bed, grabbing for his trousers while handing the phone quickly to Mary. She took the phone and said, in a concerned but professional tone, "Sherlock? What's happening?" She listened momentarily while John pulled frantically at his shoes, and her face, her voice, her whole demeanor suddenly changed. "Oh sweetheart, don't," she murmured, as her eyes welled with concern. John reached over and grabbed Mary's phone off the nightstand and dialed Mrs. Hudson's number, hoping against hope that the older women hadn't taken anything to sleep this evening. He was ecstatic when she answered on the second ring.

"Mrs. H., I'm so sorry, it's John," he began. She started to speak but he immediately interrupted her. "I need you to go upstairs and check on Sherlock right now. Call me back at this number immediately if he's not there. If he is, you do whatever you think best until I get there—we're on our way right now. If you need to call 999, do it—don't wait for me. We'll be there in fifteen minutes." He hung up as she was hurriedly agreeing.

Mary was still on the phone with Sherlock, but had managed to pull on a dressing gown and shoes, and was ready to go out the door with John's bag in her free hand. They swept out into the darkened street, where Mary handed the phone back to John as they climbed in the car. Mary drove—she was a much better driver than he. While John held on the phone and tried to get Sherlock to talk to him, Mary blew down the streets at twice the legal limit. They stopped for not a single light—John knew that, if need be, either Lestrade or Mycroft would take care of any tickets, and there were virtually no other cars on the road this late.

When they reached Baker Street, Mary whipped the car into a restricted slot in front of Speedy's and turned off the engine. The front door was still locked for the night—John, thankfully, had never removed his key from his keyring, so they quickly slid inside and up the stairs. As they trotted into the sitting room John looked around—nothing unusual to be seen, but no Sherlock. Suddenly he heard Mrs. Hudson's voice from the back of the flat. "John? Oh, thank God. Back here," she said tearfully.

John and Mary hurried through the kitchen and saw Mrs. Hudson huddled on one of the kitchen chairs in the hallway just outside the bathroom door. She was crying, and roughly swiping the tears away with one hand. "He's in here," she said softly. "I wanted to go in, but he wouldn't let me. At least he let me turn off the shower," she said shakily. John looked at Mary and jerked his head towards Mrs. H., and Mary took the cue to help the old lady up and back out to the lounge.

"Why don't you take Mrs. Hudson downstairs?" John said. "We'll be down after a bit." And he really, really hoped that was true.

John moved carefully to the bathroom doorway, afraid of what he might see. He wasn't really prepared for the reality.

Sherlock was huddled in the bathtub. He still wore the clothes he'd had on earlier that evening, but those clothes, and indeed all of Sherlock, were soaking wet. He was shaking violently, either from cold, or emotion, or both. At first Sherlock didn't seem aware that he was there, but when John stepped over the threshold Sherlock's head swung towards him.

He blinked, slowly. "John," he said. "I…you came."

"Well of course I came," said John stoutly. "I'll always come if you need me."

Sherlock gave him one of his unsettling stares. "I can't do this anymore," he suddenly said.

John felt fear grip his chest. "Do what, Sherlock?" he said gently. There was no reply; Sherlock continued to sit and shiver. Finally, it was too much for John, and he started to move towards the tub. "Come on, then," he said, and reached towards his friend.

To his shock, Sherlock recoiled. "No!" he shouted, and John froze. But then Sherlock came, tumbling out of the tub and scrambling to his knees on the damp floor. For the first time John could see his hands, and was horrified to note that one of them held a syringe. And the other—the other held a bottle of hospital-grade morphine.

That first look led John to look more closely, and to note the dilated pupils. Sherlock had taken some of that morphine. The only question was how much, and how long ago. He started to move forward again, only to have Sherlock shriek and throw himself against the back wall.

"I don't want to do this anymore!" Sherlock wailed. "I want to take it, John. I took some but I stopped. But I want to…I want to take all of it, John. Right now. I want it all to stop!" And he sobbed, and panted, and shook.

John was suddenly aware of how spectacularly, how disastrously out of his depth he was. He knew that this was beyond his help; all he could do at this juncture was keep Sherlock safe until someone with the right resources could step in. And for now, that meant taking that syringe and bottle. He quickly knelt, to put them on an even footing.

"Sherlock," he began, very quietly. "I know this is very hard. And I know you feel like nothing can help. But I need you to trust me on something. Can you do that, Sherlock? Can you trust me?"

There was a long pause. Sherlock, after his outburst, was feeling the effects of whatever dose he'd taken more strongly, and his head now drooped towards his chest until he managed to jerk it back up. He stared again, his breathing hitching like a child, and then finally spoke. "Yes," he said warily.

John was light-headed with relief. "OK," he managed to say. "That's good, then." He took a deep breath. "Then I need you to do something for me. I need you to give me that," and he pointed his chin towards the materials in Sherlock's hands. "Please. Will you give me that?"

Sherlock pulled his hands protectively to his chest. "No," he said, slurring a bit now. "I want it."

"I understand," said John, "I really do. But I can't let you have it, and I can't let you do this. You're my friend, and I can't let you do this." He was suddenly near tears himself. "Please let me help, Sherlock."

"No," Sherlock said again. But his speech was growing blurrier. "I can't…please, John. I can't." He couldn't say what it was he couldn't do, but John, sick though he felt, knew.

John held an internal debate with himself, arguing the idea of forcing Sherlock to give him the syringe and bottle. In his current condition it wouldn't be hard—overpowering him would be the work of moments. But that would endanger the one thing he knew he would need going forward—Sherlock's trust. He had a visceral feeling that that trust would be essential in the coming days.

In the end, Sherlock solved the dilemma himself. He suddenly took a gasping breath, and his eyes rolled up, and he slid to his side on the floor.

John launched himself over to his friend, rolling him quickly onto his back and checking his vitals. Satisfied, though not happy, with what he found, he pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number he knew by heart. When it was answered virtually immediately, he spoke.

"Mycroft. That therapist that Sherlock saw at your request? You need to get him over here right now. And you need to set up a place for Sherlock, tonight, at whatever inpatient facility MI6 uses for psychiatric emergencies." He paused and swallowed. "They need to have suicide prevention protocols in place."

Notes:

I know this was hard to read-it was hard to write, though it was necessary to the story. But the important thing here is, if you, or anyone you know, has thoughts of harming themselves or others, you need to say something. Tell a doctor, tell a priest, tell a friend. But tell someone.