By the time Sherlock returned it was too late for John.

There was nothing he could do to help. Not any more. The damage was long done and Sherlock had no chance of fixing it. He hadn't expected to discover John in such a state when he had returned. The memory still fixed in his mind. It was like his brain refused to delete it. Like it never wanted to forget.

"John! It's me!"

"Bu- you're over there! You can't be there too!"

Mycroft was surprised when Sherlock had rang him asking for help. Something that was as rare as a blue moon. However Sherlock was happy at the speed in which everything had been arranged. What he wasn't happy about was the completely white room he was forced to sit in.

"What are you on abo-"

"JUST SHUT UP! You're not real! THERE CAN'T BE … oh god."

Sherlock shuddered. It was a curse having a mind like his. He remembered every detail. Every word spoken. Every movement.

John curled up in his chair as Sherlock drew closer. He was mumbling under his breath and Sherlock swore he could hear the faint sounds of crying. When he touched John's shoulder the man tensed up. Slowly he lifted his head to look the detective in the eyes. "Sh- Sherlock?"

"John, what's wrong?" Concern laced Sherlock's voice. He didn't know what was going on. For once. Before he had climbed the stairs to the flat he had been composed. Now he felt… worried.

"How… how is there-" John's voice died in his throat as he tore his glance to stare at the window. He was shaking his head, tears streaming down his face.

"How is there what, John?"

"TWO OF YOU?"

Sherlock closed his eyes. He tried to wish the memory away but something inside was screaming at it. Something that resembled guilt. If only he had returned sooner. If only he hadn't lied to John. Maybe all this wouldn't be happening.

The clicking of shoes echoed through the room causing Sherlock to open his eyes. A woman stood before him. She hadn't slept for forty-five hours, had a egg sandwich for her last meal and had recently broken up with her boyfriend. The lipstick she was wearing seemed like she was trying to impress somebody. Perhaps a doctor. All this calmed Sherlock. Then he fully registered her facial expressions and all hope went out the window. "I'm sorry, Mr Holmes."

"Give me the chart." Sherlock replied icily.

"I can't ju-"

"Give it to me. My brother did warn you, I assume."

"I'm sorry," she handed over a paper file. "You can go and see him when you've read it."

The woman walked away before shooting a sympathetic look towards Sherlock. He hated sympathy. He scanned over the file taking in the full analysis. It was exactly as he feared.

He didn't see John that day. He didn't see him the next either. Sherlock couldn't bare to confront John. He regretted everything. He hated everything. Moriarty for making him disappear. Mycroft for not looking after John. Mrs Hudson for not checking up on him. Lestrade for abandoning John. He even hated himself. He had did this to John. It was him who John saw everywhere he went. Him who had terrified the doctor and made him cry.

John Watson had slowly slipped into insanity and it was all his fault.