When John woke up with a raging headache, he attempted to push himself into an upright position, but the sudden movement made things worse and his stomach began to churn angrily. He got out of bed as quick as possible, but it wasn't quick enough to get to the restroom downstairs. If anything, it just made his stomach want to rid itself of its contents even faster. Fortunately, there was a bucket near his bed that hadn't been there before.

As he heaved into the bucket, he could make out the sounds of hurried footsteps on the stairs. The door opened and suddenly John could feel a soothing hand on him, rubbing up and down his back in calming motions.

"It's okay. It's okay. You're okay." Sherlock kept repeating, his voice softer than John could bear. His level of care was flattering, but it was hard to fully appreciate under these circumstances.

It was odd, hearing him reassure like that. Sherlock didn't do reassurances. They were meaningless - sentiment that did nothing of real value. He just did whatever he thought was best or whatever he wanted with little care to the consequences it had on the people around him, especially when it came to the emotional consequences.

Slowly, he settled himself away from the bucket with the help of his flatmate. When it looked like John was done with puking out his guts, Sherlock helped him back into bed. "I'll be right back. Don't worry."

Maybe John should just be grateful that Sherlock was finally being considerate, that he was finally paying attention to someone else's emotional needs. Mostly, though, it set him on edge. Sherlock was behaving like this for a reason, and that reason had been spelled out quite clearly: John was a broken man, and therefore needed to be treated with kid gloves.

When Sherlock returned, it was with a bucket, a glass of water, and Advil. John accepted the glass and pill without a word, unable to protest for to thank him. Sherlock didn't seem to care. He stood by the bed, staring at John with narrowed, studious eyes, seeming to try to decipher a complicated case. It was extremely awkward.

After a moment of tension, John groaned. "You don't have to stay you know." Sherlock looked uneasy, unsure whether that meant he should listen and leave, or if he should do as he wanted anyways and stay. It was clear that he wanted to argue his point on staying, but John couldn't handle his presence looming over him. "You'll get bored up here with nothing to do."

He still had that look of wanting to argue, but in the end he just said, "Call me if you need anything."

When his footsteps could be heard going down to their living room, leaving the door ajar, John collapsed back into pillows, closing his eyes against the pain throbbing through his head.

He woke up hours later, the headache faded but but not entirely gone, his whole body some, and the strong sense that he hated himself. How could be be so stupid? Losing control like that? What had he been trying to do anyways? He knew he was a light weight, and he knew the consequences of drinking as much as he did.

In self-deprecation, John stumbled down the stairs, limping heavily and leaning against the wall. Sherlock's eyes were on him the moment the door was cracked open wider. John recognized the look immediately. Intense, calculating eyes took in all of John, observing, connecting the dots, and filing the information away. Usually, such a look amused John, or even aroused him, but not lately, and definitely not when directed at him.

"I called Sarah early this morning to say that you were feeling ill, so don't worry about work," he successfully read the stress in his flatmate alongside all the other things going wrong in him. It wasn't the deduction of John's concern that was surprising. What was surprising was 1. He remembered Sarah's name, and 2. He had bothered to call John's work at all. "So you can take today and the weekend getting out of the 'funk' of yours." There was a slight sneer at the use of the slang term, but it was overpowered by the detective's overall concern.

For he wasn't using the phrase as the insult as he would normally be using it as, but rather as a term to be used because of a lack of understanding as to what exactly John was going through. He saw the symptoms, had deduced the reasons, and had even come up with a way to fix him. What he couldn't fathom was the reason why. Why was John affected in this way? Why wouldn't he let Sherlock fix him like he had before? Why had he felt the desire to go to the pub when Sherlock was waiting at the flat with a cure?

Instead of belittling John's "irrational behavior" or mocking the way he was allowing "sentiment" to rule over him, Sherlock was asking, "Would you prefer tea or a shower?"

"What?"

A small, crooked smile appeared at the edges of the man's mouth, bemused by a slower than normal partner. "What would make you feel better first: tea or shower?" When John took too long to answer, Sherlock decided for him. "Shower then," he demanded, already moving to the bathroom to get the water heated. "You stink."

When he had moved himself into the bathroom, he had thought Sherlock would head out. He didn't. He stood there, waiting, watching, just like he had when he had set John in bed in the morning. Wanting to steer him away, John mumbled, "Thanks for your help Sherlock."

"Of course." Came the simple reply without any notice of leaving. Apparently it was going to be one of those days.

"I think I can do the rest by myself." John hated the way he sounded so unsure.

"I'm sure you can as well, but that doesn't mean I can't provide assistance."

John also hated the way he couldn't immediately decline the offer, because having Sherlock helping him take a shower was an even worse idea than them kissing heatedly on the sofa. The problem was, John was suddenly re-imagining that kiss and how much pleasure had racked his body while his flatmate took control of the situation. Then he was thinking about how Sherlock would take control of the this situation, them being in the shower together, naked skin on skin, lost in the steam. John was already becoming flush before anything had the chance to start. What the hell had Sherlock done to him?

In his inability to say no, Sherlock had slowly stepped right behind him. Cautious of the way a startled ex-soldier might react, he took a hold of the edges of John's shirt and tugged upwards.

Once upon a time, all Sherlock had to do was state in his exasperated, raspy voice that he needed something and John would do what he could to meet the man's expectations. Obviously, not much had changed in that regard. It wasn't even a verbal order and John was readily obeying, raising his arms so his shirt could be lifted over his head.

After that, John had no hope. He was quickly divested of the rest of his clothes, and soon after that he could hear Sherlock remove his own. Then there was a warm, soft hand on the back of his shoulder, guiding him into the tub, immediately followed by the man himself. Careful but confident, the detective took charge in lathering John's hair with shampoo and massaging his scalp.

Up til then, all John could acutely be aware of was the blood rushing and his heart pound too fiercely against his chest. With Sherlock's hands in his hair, though, everything felt like he was coming down from a high. He moaned from the absolute, calming pleasure of it and his eyes closed. Unaware of his physical reactions, he leaned into the touch, backing into the firm body behind him.

The massage continued, but it was now in addition to lips against his neck. Too lost in the moment, John couldn't comprehend the breathy whispers that cooled the back of his neck. "You're going to be okay John. I'm going to make sure of it...I'll fix you. I promise. Just stay with me."

Not really hearing the words, John moaned and kept seeking further touch, which Sherlock was glad to help with. He maneuvered John directly under the water, gently leading his head back to wash away the shampoo. When he was sure the shampoo was gone, he moved on to lathering the rest of John. Starting at his chest, he sensually drew circles into John's skin with soapy hands, slowly making his way down.

As he did, he kept his chin on John's shoulder, often kissing the juncture sweetly, keeping an observant eye on John's state of being. He was a little wary of being rejected again at the last moment like last time, but it was obvious that for now John was his to meld as he found best.

When he got low enough to cause an entirely different sort of pleasure, Sherlock had to pause in silent debate before deciding that John wasn't quite ready for that, or in the right mind to consent. So he was technical in the way he continued to cleanse the man in front of him, and if Sherlock pressed forward to find friction for himself, he couldn't be found completely at fault.

It was a testament to how talented Sherlock was in his caresses and what his mere presence did to John, that John didn't come back into awareness until he was engulfed by soft, warm blankets. He didn't have to open his eyes for Sherlock to know when he became aware of his surroundings again. "Feeling better?"

With just the slightest indication that he was awake and aware was enough for Sherlock to loom over him to peer studiously into John's expression. It was a bit intimidating to have the detective hover him, but the shower had lulled John into a sense of security that he couldn't deny even if he wanted to.

"Why did you feel the need to get drunk last night?"

"It wasn't my intention to get drunk."

Sherlock nodded to agree with the statement, and changed his phrasing. "Why did you feel the need to go to the pub last night?"

Just barely beginning to wake up fully, John found he had just enough energy in him to sass, "Figured you could decide that much."

"You drank after work because of what I said the previous night," the detective stated knowingly, and John didn't argue. There was no point in trying to hide from the brilliant observations. To deny the facts would simply encourage the man to dig deeper into his findings.

John was so caught up in his depressing thoughts from the previous evening that he missed the sadden glaze that passed over Sherlock's eyes. He even missed the defeated tone he used to state, "Obviously I was wrong about my previous actions being able to fix you."

"Obviously," John murmured, so low that most wouldn't have been able to hear even from a close distance, but Sherlock did not. There was nothing that could fix John.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered when John began to close his eyes again. "I was so sure that this was what you wanted. No. I know I this is what you want. I've seen the way you look at me, and how your body reacts to me. I've reviewed the facts from before." John closed his eyes tighter as he was forced to listen. "But I didn't take into account your perpetuity towards denial. Well, I did, but I didn't plan on this causing further damage than what there already was. And for that I apologize. Still, I do believe if you could just accept my attention, then…"

"Sherlock, stop." John finally had to push himself into a mostly sitting position. The man was babbling, which only meant two things. One, he was showing off his genius, or two, he was nervous. Seeing as this conversation couldn't possibly be used as a way to impress John, that only left nervousness.

At the sound of John's voice, Sherlock did stop. His eyes were wide and vulnerable.

Now that John had finally caught onto Sherlock's own emotional turmoil, he was forcing himself to focus on the man that had tried his best these past few days to put the broken pieces back together. "What are you going on about?"

Brows scrunched together. "I am talking about this situation that you've placed yourself in because of your insistence that you can't accept my advances despite the fact that I know such physical intimacy will help in lowering your stress levels and also provide…"

"Sherlock," John tired again, recognizing the signs of another round of babbling, but this time wasn't able to keep the man from wanting to protest.

"I just can't understand why the prospect of us continuing this would send you into the end of a battle."

Was that hurt in the tenor of Sherlock's voice? Was this a genius pained by what he felt as rejection?

The hurt that John could see in Sherlock stabbed John straight into his chest with the same brutality that the bullet had torn into his shoulder. Had John been the cause of this hurt? How long had John been too deep into self pity that he hadn't noticed that his friend was hurting too? "It...it wasn't the idea of you that led me to the pub."

"No?" It was clear that Sherlock didn't believe him.

"No," was all that John could say. Because he couldn't put into words how right Sherlock had been that evening when soft lips had rendered him useless. He couldn't say out loud how John knew he was broken and knew he needed to be fixed, but also understood that there was nothing that could be done to actually fix him. Not even tre amazing Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock stared straight into him to see if he could decipher what John meant. When he found that there wasn't a lie to be pried open, he made sure, "To be clear then, you are willing to test my theory?" The theory that Sherlock's touch would miraculously cure John's brokenness.

It wasn't. There wasn't anything Sherlock could say or do that would convince John that he could be made whole this time around.

Yet John definitely couldn't handle Sherlock sounding rejected. Couldn't allow Sherlock to think that there was no hope left in him, because it was bad enough that the detective didn't trust him, but it would kill John completely if he was left alone again entirely.

So, determined to appease his detective, to hold onto him at least a little bit longer, John answered by closing the distance between them and landing a soft kiss on velvet lips.