A/N: Okay sorry again for the wait. Busy busy busy over here. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed and favourite and everything. Tiny bit of plot in this one (: Please read and review and tell me what you think!

"Mr Holmes?"

A hand tight on his bicep, the cold snow beginning to flutter and Sherlock shook his hair out of his eyes, blinking at Becker and wrenching his arm from his grasp. He didn't need pity, he didn't need help.

He needed to find John.

That wretched screech of heels against lino as he flew through the hospital to the A&E department and he ignored the protests of staff as he made for the only bed in the ward with a team of doctors and nurses surrounding it. He froze, skidding on his slick soles, his heart pounding in his chest until his eyes managed to focus past the blood stained doctors and the stern nurses to...a woman. A woman with lacerations to her face and neck, car crash probably.

John had already been moved?

It meant that either John had stabilised enough to be placed in a room or...or he was dead.

Sherlock turned just as Becker caught up and he could almost feel the commander's breath on his neck as he burst past him through the doors and flew down corridors, up stairways and around random corners until he glanced into a room and was stopped by the sudden sharp realisation that he knew that doctor.

"Mr Holmes!"

It was the pretty boy doctor, the six year old male model from the first time...

Becker appeared beside him and frowned, glancing between the two men. He opened his mouth to speak but the doctor was already ignoring him, already trying to make eye contact with Sherlock.

"Where is he?"

The doctor's face was stern, his hands clasping a clipboard and yet he exuded confidence. "John has suffered a severe injury to-"

Sherlock blinked and suddenly his mind balked at the word severe and he stopped listening. He walked slow steady steps around the shorter man and to the armchair by the window.

His eyes never left the view.

He wouldn't look, he couldn't.

He didn't listen to the doctor, letting his voice just float over him because he didn't want to hear, he didn't look at the bed where John lay because he didn't want to see and he didn't blink because he didn't want to remember.

He was vaguely aware of the sounds of a heart rate monitor bleeping weakly nearby and the voices of Becker and the doctor muffled by his own heavy breathing. He felt eyes on the back of his neck for a few moments after the voices stopped and he waited for Becker to leave before he let himself pull his legs up, wrapping his arms around his knees and blinking out at the now heavily falling snow.

He didn't want to remember John's gray skin, the clear and certain image of his hovering between life and death.

So he sat and he stared and he tried not to think about what had just happened. But he didn't have anything else to think about, he had solved his only other case. So instead, he tried something that he had used as a child to get through boring plays and irritating lessons at school. He began naming countries, their capital cities and longitude latitude of the capital city in question in his head starting with Russia.

Russia, Moscow, 55.05N 37.35E...

He blinked, had his eyes slid closed? How long had he been asleep? Sherlock sniffed and rubbed a hand over his face letting his feet drop to the floor from the window ledge and in the motion swivelling his body slightly towards the bed.

It was almost as though he couldn't stop himself and he sucked in a sharp breath when his gaze connected to John.

His lover was completely still, almost statuesque. His arms were laid across his chest and his eyes were closed with an almost unearthly glow shimmering off his skin, it was cold, like sunlight bouncing off of snow.

Sherlock frowned and got up, walking across to the bed a horrifying fact presenting itself to him and making his stomach lurch. John wasn't breathing; his skin was alabaster white and his face gut wrenchingly slack.

He reached out a hand to touch him, to feel his skin, when John's eyes flew open and fixed on him but they were different. They weren't John's eyes at all but the shining bright almost black eyes that had flashed at him in his darkest nightmares. Followed by the mocking, grating laugh echoing from his memory and booming from Johns open mouth, his handsome smile warped and twisted into a face, an image that made his blood run cold.

Sherlock reared backwards skidding on the floor and screwing his eyes shut as he fell, the close breath of the beast sticking to his skin.

He woke with a start his stomach lurching as he gasped for breath. He resisted the urge to look at the bed, to see that John was still living and yet he couldn't. (He would never admit it out loud but the voice in his head screamed that if he looked nightmare may very well become reality.)

Footsteps on lino and Sherlock got to his feet tugging down his top and running his fingers through his hair, no need to be seen in such disarray. (No need to be human.) His face slid into its once familiar bored expression and he looked to the hallway quirking an eyebrow as Lestrade strode into view. He looked surprised to see Sherlock stood like that and looked away from the stern detective to where John lay. He didn't say anything.

"Well?"

"We got a hit on ANPR, the car belongs to a Mr Phillip Travers...I have his address if you want to..."

Sherlock nodded and moved to leave the room but his head swam for a second and he waited for a moment for it to clear. "Wait in the reception."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to answer back but he seemed to reconsider and turned away, his heavy footfalls echoing through the tiles floors of the hospital. Sherlock waited for the sound of the lift to go before he moved across the room, reaching out his hand and blindly feeling for the bed.

He kept his eyes on the opposite wall as he slid his fingers across Johns form to find his partners palm and he pressed his own towards it, linking their hands and taking slow hesitant breaths.

His lovers palm was warm, his fingers lax and Sherlock relaxed only a little. John was alive. He let out a sigh as he let go and quickly walked away not trusting himself to resist joining his lover in the bed, feeling his heartbeat in his own chest.

He was quiet in the car on the way to the owners house, Lestrade making a few attempts to start a conversation but Sherlock simply glared out of the other window trying (And failing.) to put the feel of Johns palm and the bitter metallic taste of blood out of his mind.

They pulled up outside a large Victorian house, gravel driveway and clinging ivy indicating someone still very much stuck in the past. The vehicle wasn't at the address and Sherlock got out of the car to stride up to the front door, ringing the bell incessantly.

He wanted in and he wanted in right now.

Lestrade trod up next to him and sighed, hands in pockets, awkward. He clearly wanted to say something about John, about Sherlock not offending people by blurting out their secrets in public, (It was hardly Sherlocks fault if they hid them so badly now was it.) or about the way he was staring out into the distant streets of London, his innate sense of direction meant that he was pointing to Regents park, to the hill from the night before and he almost snarled at the anger, the bitter resentment he felt for everything right now.

The door swung open revealing a man in his late 50s possibly early 60s, he had curly grey hair and a scruffy beard, a face that didn't match the well tailored suit and opulent decor of the house.

"Can I help you?"

"I wish to speak with a Mr. Travers? "

"What is this about?"

"I am a police officer sir and his car has been involved in a number of incidents."

Lestrade was using his best authoritative voice and the man's eyes flickered between them, pausing on Sherlock for a moment. (Long enough for Sherlock to think that maybe he saw past the cool hard expression and saw the seething broiling rage beneath.)

"Alright, follow me."

They were told to wait outside a set of double doors on the second floor and Sherlock didn't take his eyes off them as he perched on the edge of a rather chintz sofa. Was the man responsible for John's condition in there? Was he about to end this whole thing? It didn't seem likely, after all surely someone brazen enough to attempt to murder them so many times would be smart enough to use an unmarked car or the least one that couldn't be traced back to him.

"He will see you now."

The doors were open and behind the curly haired man, back in the darkened room was a bed and the distinct sounds of a heart rate monitor. Sherlocks heart sank. It was too good to be true.

He got to his feet and strode past the man at the door causing him to yelp in surprise and move to grab him, to block him, but a voice from the bed stopped the action.

"Leave him Charles."

Charles let Sherlock go and crossed the room to slump angrily in a chair at the bedside glancing from the man that lay there to the intruders in his home.

"You never use your car then."

Sherlock looked down at the man. He was around the same age as Charles and had white hair that stuck straight up front his skull in a buzzcut of sorts, a upturned nose and ruddy cheeks he looked very much at home here. But his skin was pale and his breathing hoarse and when he struggled to sit up Charles lifted him by the armpits up the pillows almost on instinct alone.

Dammit. This was not the well turned heel that haunted him.

"No not these days."

"But you will again." Charles butted in and fixed Phillip with a fierce glare.

"Yes, perhaps."

Sherlock sighed and turned away; glancing around the room (His heart wasn't in it. His mind hungered for the puzzle but it was distracted by a hopefully imagined tang of blood and the strange tightness to his breathing Sherlock was experiencing.).

He was all but ready to leave when Lestrade piped up. "So nobody here uses your car Mr. Travers?"

"Well, I am stuck here and Charles no longer holds a license so nobody here, although...maybe Frankie took her out for a spin?"

Sherlock span round and lunged for the bed, his hands gripping the sheets as he leant close to the elderly man. (Oddly the man did not flinch, perhaps ex-military or police.)

"Frankie? Who is Frankie?"

"A boy that helps around the house and sometimes comes to visit me. Although...I haven't seen him in a while now."

"You just let some strange boy go driving about London in your car!"

"Oh no, I have a tracer on the car, everywhere it has been is logged on a computer. If he steals it or tries to sell it I would know."

Sherlocks mind began to move at an increasing pace until the voice in his head was nothing but white noise because if they had the cars locations then maybe...maybe they would find the man. They had a one up on him. Sherlock got to his feet and attempted to hide his shaking hands as he turned to Charles, ignoring the odd panicked look on Lestrade's face.

"We need those records."

Sherlock flew out of that house and down the steps, the papers clutched in his hands. He had a lead, a solid lead. His heart hammered in his chest as he flung himself into Lestrade's car, and when the DI finally joined him he leant forwards in his seat, expecting the car to start. Expecting action, but Lestrade just sat there, staring at him. So he waited...and waited...

"What! What is it!"

The DI hesitated for a second before pulling out his phone and checking something, a text...orders. He nodded to himself and looked up at the detective, his face carefully neutral as he reached out a hand, fingers outstretched towards the other man. "Sherlock, you have to give me the papers."

"No absolutely not."

"And you have to go to the appointment..."

Sherlock froze. Shit shit shit shit. Mycroft had told Lestrade about the therapist? Shit shit shit and double shit.

"No I don't."

Lestrade was quiet for a moment before he leant forwards and started the car, not looking the detective's way just acting as though everything was normal. Sherlock stared out at the street, hoping he was being driven to one of the cars locations but knowing deep down that Mycroft had given the DI the location of the doctor's practice and that this was where they were going.

"Sherlock..."

Lestrades voice wavered slightly as if he was unsure whether to laugh or cry and Sherlock turned to him, following his eye line to the plaque on the wall of the offices.

Dr. Barrows, Dr. Henson, Psychiatry services.

The detective got out of the car instantly and headed for the entrance, if only to escape Lestrade's questions. The last thing he needed was for the fact he was seeing a therapist to become common knowledge, after all it was bad enough Mycroft knew about it. (Although, as soon as he saw Lestrade checking his phone he knew Mycroft had found out it was instantaneous. He had always very good at keeping tabs on his younger sibling.)

Unfortunately the DI followed him, sprinting across the pavement to stand near him, eyes wide, opening and closing his mouth. "Sherlock..."

"Lestrade. Not a word of this to anyone."

"Yeah but...I mean...Who? How..."

"John asked me too."

Lestrade shut up. His entire face seemed to shut down and he gritted his teeth. "I'll just wait in the car..."

Sherlock frowned. He had been expecting more humiliation than that, more questions. But the DI was now patting him on the arm and turning away so he let it go, he certainly didn't want to press the matter. Turning at the last second he saw Dr. Barrows waiting for him, pleasant wide smile and pipe already puffing away as the doctor gestured for Sherlock to go straight into his office.

He hesitated for a moment but conceded and followed the man into the room, placing himself in the largest most comfortable armchair that now sat across the heavy walnut desk from an elegant classic wooden writing chair. He glanced around; the doctor had made a definitive change to the tone of the room. What was once clear glass and bare white walls was now cluttered with plants and books and pictures hung on every wall along with diplomas and an impressive collection of renaissance era art. Sherlock sniffed, so the decor had significantly improved, that did not mean he wanted to be here.

"So..."

His voice was loud in the closed off room and Sherlock almost winced. He felt oddly empty, the adrenaline that had began to pull him through after the shock had begun to fail him was now all but gone and his skin felt dry, pulled tight over his skull as he tried to think. It was not the clinical emptiness of yester year, the analytical clean cut thoughts of his life before he met John. Before the emotions became more important than he ever though they would, before he found himself engaged, and long before he found himself worrying about anything other than where he could get his next fix.

It was so much worse.

He didn't reply and Barrows sighed dropping into the chair across the desk, messing with the drawers and pulling out a thick leather bound notebook and a expensive pen. "Okay, so today I was finishing early and on my way out of the office a charming young man approaches me and informs me I still have one appointment...That there have been some very recent very...unsettling events and that perhaps you would like to talk about them."

"My brother has kept you here for no reason. There is nothing I want to talk about."

"Really?"

There was a long pregnant pause and Sherlock glanced down at the notebook, the edges of a handwritten note exposed as the pages bulged, prone to return to their fellow pages at the base as the overly stiff spine slowly pulled them over.

"Well how about you tell me about that ring?"

Sherlock instantly slid his hand into his jacket, hiding his hand in his armpit, thumb rubbing over the smooth form almost protecting it from the therapists prying eyes. That was his, and right now the thought of someone else prying into the moment he and John had shared made his head throb and so he turned to look away. Barrows waited for a few moments before sighing and leaning on his desk, fingers clasped together as he leant on his elbows, eyes boring into Sherlocks face.

"Look, Sherlock I am here to help you, to listen to you. Anything that is said in here stays in here. You have to learn to talk to me before I can help you with the nightmares."

Sherlock did wince this time, the image of those eyes flashing in his mind and he cursed inwardly because Barrows eyebrow twitched a fraction. He had seen that. "You've had another one."

"..."

"Sherlock, let me make you an offer. You are allowed to deduce anything you want about me but in return you have to talk to me and you have to be honest."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow; he seemed to be using the detectives name an awful lot. A strange technique designed to make the situation feel less formal, to make him feel more comfortable. It wasn't working. "And how will you stop me telling you my deductions?"

"I can't, but I what I can do is I won't tell you if you are right."

Sherlock frowned. But that was the best part of his skills, finding the answer and knowing he had it right, knowing he was right. He was beginning to dislike doctor Barrows. "John is in hospital."

"I see, and this makes you feel..."

"Nothing."

He felt his heart rate pick up; after all he didn't know if this was normal. He didn't feel worried he didn't feel scared he felt...neutral.

"Aha, I see. Do you mind me asking how serious it is?"

"He was stabbed."

"I am sorry to hear that."

"I can't look at him."

Barrows was quiet for moment and he scribbled something down in his notebook. Sherlock wriggled in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his arms. He didn't like that he couldn't read the man's incomprehensible writing upside down. He couldn't see what he had written. He wanted to know.

"Is it because you fear that he will be angry at you for causing his injury or because you are angry at him for being injured and putting you in this situation?"

He thought about it for a moment and discarded both suggestions. "Because he won't look like John."

"Mmm... John has been hospitalised before?"

"Yes."

"And the image of him from that situation still haunts you."

Sherlock finally looked at the man, frowning at him. He still felt empty but now his skin was heating and he knew he was blushing. He, the great Sherlock Holmes haunted by the mere image of John incapacitated but then... it was an image of a man, of that man which haunted his nightmares. He shuddered and Barrows leant back, considering his next move.

"Okay, what can you tell about me right now?"

He hesitated for a second, the sudden change in Barrows slow careful considered speech to a friendlier cheerful voice was disconcerting and he carefully regarded the man and the room around him.

"Alex contacted you. A handwritten letter."

He reached over the desk, tugged on the thin hidden drawer and pulled out a folded sheet of standard issue military note paper.

"Remarkable, and correct. How did you know?"

Barrows plucked the note from Sherlocks hand and flipped it open, his eyes softening slightly as they scanned the page before he slid it back into its drawer and closed it with a soft thump.

"You keep touching the desk when you are thinking meaning whatever is in there is always in the back of your mind. It was obviously something personal otherwise why keep it in the hidden drawer? Therefore probably a personal letter or manuscript of some sort and then there is your notebook a handwritten message on the inner lip in handwriting not matching your own. It was a gift, a gift from someone who knew you don't use a computer, someone who knows the affection you have for pen and paper and the appreciation you would have for a letter written in such a way. As to who it was, well, when you mentioned that you were leaving you looked at this picture."

Sherlock got up and crossed the room, pointing at a picture of a group of people in a bar. Barrows was on the far left, his hair cropped close to his skull, face more youthful and his eyes were alight with a drunken haze grinning up at the person taking the photo, his arm slung around a slim brown haired woman. Barrows got up from his chair and walked around to stand just behind Sherlock, peering in at the photo with a small smile on his face.

"Then tell me, which one is Alex?"

Sherlock snorted. Too easy. "Alex was taking the photo. Obvious."

He turned away and strutted back to his seat leaving Barrows to stare at the photo for a moment longer. "Sherlock, feeling nothing is normal. You have a lot of conflicting emotions right now and it is common for a person to become so overloaded that they switch off. You just got engaged and you have barely enough time to enjoy the new development before your fiancée is injured and your feet are swept from underneath you, you are no longer in control. Adding these emotions to your poor sleep schedule, nightmares and the stress of your daily life you have a hell of a lot on your plate. Feeling nothing is your minds way of protecting you."

Sherlock sniffed. That seemed...logical. Perhaps this doctor Barrows knew more than he originally assumed.

The doctor walked calmly across the room and sat down, keeping his eyes on Sherlock for a few seconds. "You have a complicated, dangerous life Sherlock. Talking to the people around you, talking to your friends and family will really help you with your nightmares. No man is an island."

The detective scoffed and Barrows tilted his head. He had an odd way of catching him off guard slipping from Sherlock being in charge, from Sherlock doing what he did bet to being probed for answers and thoughts and feelings. It was strikingly effective. He felt less...awkward about telling him what he wanted to know.

"So, tell me about the latest nightmare."

He crossed his arms and glanced out of the window at the thick snow. He really wanted to be back at the hospital. (Odd, whilst he was there he couldn't ignore the...situation and yet even that was better than talking about his nightmares. About those eyes.)

"John was dead and he...wasn't John."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He...he looked like...like..."

"It's okay Sherlock. You can tell me."

"Like an old enemy of mine."

"This enemy, he frightens you?"

"No."

Barrows simply raised an eyebrow and Sherlock scowled. He wasn't frightened he was unnerved. At most.

"The enemy, he isn't a threat anymore?"

"No...He shouldn't be."

"Shouldn't?"

"Someone has been trying to kill me and John and-"

Barrows interrupted him. "Ah so you think that this enemy may be the one after you?"

"It's possible."

"And this person never frightened you before?"

"Yes."

"But they do now?"

Sherlock sighed and looked up at the ceiling giving the tiniest of nods with his head and he heard the doctor messing with something on his desk. He looked back down to see Barrows holding a thin red notebook out to him. "I want you to keep a dream diary to bring to our sessions."

Sherlock glared at him but the doctor simply waggled the book at him until he snatched it from his hand. "It is perfectly reasonable to be afraid of this man now. Before you met John you had never been in a meaningful romantic relationship had you?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Well everything is more frightening when you have something to lose."

Sherlock twitched his lips and slid the notebook into his pocket. He got to his feet and so did Barrows, walking him to the door. (Careful to maintain a distance between them at all times.)

"Okay, well I am glad you chose to talk to me Sherlock. Trust me, I can help you."

Sherlock frowned; this man was all over the place. "You told me I don't have to trust you; you said I'm on a ledge."

Barrows just laughed and shook his head, turning away to leave Sherlock alone in the waiting room.

The car ride was odd. He sat in silence (Again.) as the older man glanced at him constantly, clearly curious, clearly trying not to appear so. Sherlock wondered if that perhaps the DI thought that mentioning the doctor's appointment was somehow in bad taste since his fiancée was in the hospital and he was bound to be upset by this. Whatever the reason he was glad. He didn't feel like answering anymore questions today.

When they arrived back at the hospital Lestrade attempted to take the thick sheaths of paper from Sherlock, trying to sneak his hand into the detective pocket to retrieve them without his knowledge. It didn't work; Sherlock wheeled around and gripped the DI's wrist. Lestrade frowned and titled his head towards the floor for a second. "No, you are not taking them up there with you. John needs you to concentrate on him right now, not the case."

Sherlock yanked Lestrade hand from his pocket and pushed him away. "John would want the man responsible locked up."

"I can't let you have them; they are part of official police business. You need to forget the case for just a little while; you have a partner now you can't just go running off across London and leave him here. Alone."

"You are not taking these papers."

"Sherlock-"

"No."

Lestrade seemed to consider it for a moment. "Tell you what; if I can get a copy of them and return the original to you within the hour will you promise not to leave John behind?"

Sherlock didn't say anything and Lestrade seemed to take this as a yes because he reached into Sherlocks pocket and took the papers from him, sliding them into his own pockets before looking back up. "Give John my best."

Again he said nothing and the DI seemed to deflate a little before he turned and walked away. Sherlock waited for him to disappear before he turned and walked to Johns room, his mind still focussed on that list. Sherlock kept his head down, fast stepped urgent walk through the twisting halls of the hospital, expertly weaving his way between patients and doctors until he reached Johns corridor and he couldn't help himself any longer, breaking into a sprint he rushed to the door and took a deep breath.

He looked.

John was still unconscious but his skin was slightly pink and his face relaxed. Sherlock froze on the spot. He didn't know what to do. He thought back to that morning and tilted his head to slowly creep over to the bed as though a single footstep would disturb his sleeping lover. He reached out a hand and touched Johns face, his skin was warm, his eyelids flickering as he dreamt. (He wondered if John was just dreaming or if he too still suffered nightmares.) The detective took only a moment to consider his next action before he was kicking off his shoes and removing his jacket to pull the sheets up. He clambered into the bed, tucking himself against Johns side and reaching out to place his hand over his heart feeling the steady thump beneath his fingertips.

He smiled. John was going to be okay.