Disclaimer: I don't own it, just the plot bunny

And yeeeeeaaaaaah John's bedroom is on the floor above, but I'm doing it like it is in my mind and it just fitted to do it like this sooo... bite me :P But special extra gold stars to people who noticed, we all clearly watch Sherlock waaaay too much for our own good ;)

Thank you very much for the kind reviews.

Warning: includes whump, violence, blood, some violence, and no slash

The sun was blazing like a torch, its unbearable heat scorching the back of John's eyes. Bullets were flying past his face like flies, and all around him in the long grass and among the crumbling walls there were grown men holding their insides in their hands or lying in dark pools of their own blood. It always shook John when he heard them begging for their mothers as death came surging towards them. There were so many of them, too many for John to handle alone... god, why was he on his own? Where was back up? Had he even radioed them? He began to reach for his radio, and then realized with a jolt that he was holding a man's shoulder together with his bare hands, blood pouring all over his protective bullet vest. Sweat was slick against the back of his neck and under his helmet hat, his hair sticking to his forehead. It was so hot, so, so hot. He could barely breathe. And there was so much noise, the explosions, the gunfire, the screams. He felt an abrupt stinging pain and looked down, then yelped as he saw blood spreading over his own chest. This wasn't supposed to happen, not here, no, no, no... He lifted his gaze, his heart hammering wildly, ready to scream for help, for someone to come and help the man he was still holding together. And then saw with a sickening jolt the curly dark hair, the sleek, angular face... Sherlock... Sherlock was in Afghanistan, bleeding out before his very eyes, hot blood pouring between his fingers. He heard himself yelling, his own voice strangely distant -

Mrs. Hudson flinched as John sat bolt upright, and then gasped in pain as the blood began to rush into the arm that had been pillowing his head on the table top. She touched his arm and he started, blinking owlishly.

"What?" he managed.

"I didn't like to wake you, but you were asleep on the table," she said anxiously, squeezing his shoulder. "Poor love, I said you weren't getting enough sleep."

He stared at her, trying to remember exactly what he was even doing in the kitchen. The night before - or was it earlier that morning? - came back to him with a bang and he scrabbled for his watch. He'd been asleep for around six hours. Six whole hours. He hadn't slept that much in the past week put together. He suddenly became very aware of the sweat on his forehead and upper lip and brushed at his face, looking quickly away from Mrs. Hudson, who was still hovering over him anxiously.

"Did you fall asleep late? The kettle was boiling away over there, you know!"

He suddenly remembered that Mrs. Hudson had no idea of the events of last night, that he hadn't told her when he had received the calls from Lestrade, or when he went dashing out of the flat like a madman yelling for a taxi. He felt a sudden pang of guilt - she acted like a mother for he and Sherlock, and he had left her out of everything. He cleared his throat as she crossed the kitchen, retrieving the cup of tea she had evidently just made him. He knew that soon she would be asking if there had been any news, if Lestrade had found anything - it was why she had come up to the flat every morning over the past week.

"Fancy sleeping out here, you'll ruin yourself, pushing yourself so hard."

"I couldn't use my room," he said at last. "Sherlock's in it."

Mrs. Hudson dropped the mug of tea with a loud crash, and her hands jumped to her face. He didn't know whether she was more shocked at the broken china or his bluntness. She stared at him with wide eyes, and then rushed past him and out into the corridor. He heard her stop, heard a slight pause, and then heard the door of his room creak open. There was a beat of silence. John pushed himself up to his feet and bent to clear up the mess on the floor, scooping up the broken fragments before retrieving a cloth. As he wiped up the spillage, Mrs. Hudson reappeared in the kitchen, her face white. Her eyes were red, and she wiped at them before speaking.

"Wh-When?"

He smiled wearily at her, dropped the tea towel onto the draining board. "Last night, very late. Lestrade called me from the hospital. Sherlock wanted to come home."

Mrs. Hudson let out a little sob. John headed over to her and pulled her into a hug, letting her cling to him for a few long moments as she struggled to bring herself under control. Eventually she let go, sniffing, patting her pockets for a handkerchief.

"Oh, oh dear, look at me, so silly... The hospital?"

"He had a few bumps and bruises, but he'll be fine," he assured her quickly. "Don't you worry, Mrs. Hudson, I'll look after him."

For some reason, those words almost set her off again and John had to put the kettle on to calm her down.

"He was still asleep," she said, having sat down at the table with him with the tea. "He didn't look very well, dear, should I make us all some breakfast?"

"How about I go and ask him?"

John very much doubted that Sherlock would be in the mood for a fry-up, but Mrs. Hudson had the right idea. Who knew when Sherlock had last eaten? And those antibiotics had to be washed down with something. He rooted a glass out from the bottom of the sink, rinsed it out, and filled it with water. He paused, trying to think through the long list of things he had to do. He still felt tired, as if he hadn't slept at all. His mouth felt old, his skin dry and papery. He scrubbed a hand over his face.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Do you think you could... you know, give me a hand?"

She nodded at once, smiling at him. "Oh, of course, dear, whatever you need."

"It's just I need to go and check on Sherlock. Do you think you could change the sheets on his bed? Bit more hygienic, you know? And then I can move him into there, somewhere a bit more familiar."

She was nodding again before he'd even finished, halfway out the door. He could hear her opening and closing the airing cupboard at the top of the stairs, hurrying to and fro. He sighed heavily, then picked up the glass of water and headed back to his room, feeling for the antibiotics the hospital had given him in his pocket. He paused outside the door, which now stood ajar after Mrs. Hudson's look inside. He could see Sherlock's figure in the dim light, still lying in the same position John had left him in the night before. John had a ridiculous impulse to knock before entering. He shook it off and eased the door open, stepping inside. He approached the bed softly and put the glass of water down on the bedside cabinet, surprised that his entrance hadn't woken the keen-eared detective. But Sherlock showed no signs of waking; his face was unearthly pale, his lips dry, his eyes flitting violently to and fro beneath their lids. As John leaned closer, he made out a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, his dark curly hair slightly damp with it. Perhaps a minor infection? John cursed silently for letting himself fall asleep so fast the night before - if the antibiotics had been administered a few hours earlier, this could have been avoided. Sighing, he crossed the room to his wardrobe and got down his first aid kit from the top shelf; Mrs. Hudson had one in the kitchen, but John's was better equipped and came with a few extra perks. He made his way back to the bed and sat down cautiously on the edge of it. Sherlock flinched slightly in his sleep but still didn't wake. John reached for his uninjured shoulder, squeezing it gently.

"Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock, can you wake up for a little bit? Sherlock?"

He was using his 'patient's voice' - quiet, calm, just enough tone to give him authority. The 'trust me, I'm a doctor' voice. Usually it sent patients into a relaxed, responsive mood; now, Sherlock jolted awake with a sharp gasp and made to sit up before crying out in pain. John hurriedly pushed him back down again.

"Easy, don't forget those ribs," he said, trying to smile. "You alright?"

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room twice before settling on John's face. Only then did the rigidness in his limbs ease off a little, the fear in his eyes die. John tried to pretend not to notice, busying himself by setting the first aid kit down on the bedside cabinet and picking up the glass of water. He offered it to Sherlock, who after a brief hesitation propped himself up on his elbows and accepted it. He sniffed it before drinking. John pulled the antibiotics out of his pocket and popped a couple out.

"You should have these, too," he said, holding them out. "Should really have them with some food, but Mrs. Hudson's rather eager to make breakfast, so..."

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment. John held his gaze, quirking an eyebrow. The silence stretched on.

"They're antibiotics, Sherlock, they're fine. I promise."

Slowly, as if he was expecting the tiny pills to explode at any second, Sherlock took them. He rolled them around in his mouth for a little while before gulping them down, then pushed the water at John and lay down again, squeezing his eyes shut. John ran an eye over him, noting the soft tremor in his hands and the shallow, sharp nature of his breath.

"Why am I in your room?"

Sherlock's sudden question was so unexpected that John nearly dropped the water. It was a Sherlock question - straight, to the point, short. Even if Sherlock's voice was slightly hoarse, the sound of it sent a pang of relief through John's chest.

"I was tired," he explained, smirking. "You're surprisingly heavy for such a skinny git. I couldn't be bothered to go to the end of the corridor."

"I want to be in my room."

John nodded. "Yeah, yeah I know, Mrs. Hudson's just changing the sheets."

Sherlock frowned.

"She's not touching your things," John added hastily. "Just the bed, okay?"

Sherlock nodded wordlessly. John wet his lips uncertainly, and then reached out for the bandages covering Sherlock's right shoulder. Sherlock batted his hand away. John made a small noise of frustration in the back of his throat and tried again, only for Sherlock to forcibly shove his fingers off once more.

"Sherlock! I just want to have a look at it."

"Why? I've taken your pills," Sherlock ground out from between clenched teeth. "I just want to sleep."

"You can sleep in a minute, once I've-"

"No."

John took a deep breath. "Sherlock. I've just discharged you from a hospital literally a couple of hours after you've been rescued from Moriarty. Now, I did that because you said you would let me treat you from home. I did not do that so you could lie around in bed getting an infection."

"I - don't - care."

"What?"

"I said I don't - care," Sherlock said icily, opening his eyes a crack. "I don't care what I said or what liberties you took, John, I want to go to sleep now. Everything hurts, my head is imploding, I don't want to have breakfast with Mrs. Hudson, I don't want to make small talk, I want to go to bed, and I want to stay there. My bed."

He had clawed himself upright as he spoke, breath hitching, jaw twitching, and now he had made his point he threw the duvet back and rose to his feet in one fluid - and fast - movement. John leaped up, reaching out to steady him as he swayed, but Sherlock simply gripped the cabinet and shook off his helping hand. At that moment, Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway.

"John, his room's ready - oh, Sherlock! Sherlock, dear, it's so good to see you up and-"

She broke off as he pushed past her and made his way down the corridor, leaning heavily on the wall as he went. Mrs. Hudson shot John a startled glance; he shook his head and made to follow him, but Sherlock reached his room and shut the door with a final, determined bang. John stopped short, his hands balling into fists.

"Sherlock, you selfish, arrogant... urgh!"

He span away from the door. He should have known Sherlock would try to pull something like this, should have known that as soon as they got back to Baker Street the pleading would stop and the demanding would begin. Any sympathy he had felt just a few minutes earlier evaporated like steam. Mrs. Hudson hovered a few meters away, biting her lip.

"Oh dear. Don't worry, I'm sure he'll come round. Just had a bit of a shock. How about that breakfast?"

John trailed after her into the kitchen, still fuming.

He went back again twice that day. The first time, Sherlock simply rolled over and pulled the sheets over his head. The second, he shouted. John had only heard Sherlock shouting a couple of times, real, angry shouting. The only time he'd directed something like that at John was in Dartmoor, after Sherlock had seen the phantom hound. John wasn't sure what was worse - the violent rage Sherlock hurled at him, or the way he was close to tears afterwards, hands gripping his head. John had withdrawn quickly, terrified of Sherlock causing himself more damage. After that he'd left Sherlock alone, and spent the evening sitting in the main room in silence, listening for movement. But Sherlock hadn't emerged, and John had eventually gone to bed at midnight unsatisfied.

The next morning, he had decided to be more forceful. Armed with the first aid kit and a glass of water, he'd returned to Sherlock's room. He lasted about ten minutes before his patience broke and he was shouting. Sherlock drove him out and shut the door. John stormed back to his room and sat at his desk, listening for movement through the wall. He heard Sherlock shuffling about, heard a dull thud as something fell to the floor. Then he heard the bed springs creak as Sherlock got back into bed.

Eventually, Mrs. Hudson braved the room around lunchtime with a tray of omelette, toast, oranges and tea, and was surprisingly successful. John lurked in the kitchen, picking at the scratches on the table, waiting. She reported that Sherlock hadn't spoken much, but had let her stay and chatter while he ate and had handed the tray back to her empty. Then he had lain back down again and shut his eyes.

"He's looking very peaky, dear," she said anxiously, washing up the plates. "Not well at all."

"He's being awkward, he's not letting me help him," John replied tensely, scowling as he wiped the dishes dry. "It's just typical Sherlock, locking himself away, trying to force himself through it."

"Maybe he just needs some time."

John had opened his mouth to argue, but then Lestrade had called and John had spent a considerable amount of time explaining why Sherlock wouldn't be coming into the station to give his statement, and no, John didn't know when he might be feeling up to it, and yes, he did realize that every second Moriarty was further away from their grasp... He felt like a fool, standing their making up excuses for Sherlock, having forced Lestrade's hand back at the hospital. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe Sherlock should have stayed in the intensive care unit.

He heard the bathroom door shut as the day crawled into late afternoon, heard the shower begin to roar. It stayed on for a very long time, and Sherlock stayed in the bathroom for even longer once he had turned it off. John went out into the corridor and waited outside, but when Sherlock finally emerged the steely glare in his eyes froze whatever argument John had got ready. He had taken off the larger bandages around his chest, and the bloody scrape on his left side blazed against his pale skin. He had re-taped the gauze awkwardly over his shoulder, although John could see that the area was red and inflamed. The bruises had turned a dull, blotchy grey-yellow and Sherlock's hands were shaking as he reached for the wall, pulling his dressing gown closed to hide his body, his battered face a startling contrast of white and red. John made a grab for his arm, trying to insist on examining him properly, but Sherlock simply pushed him off and slunk back into his room. John heard the bolt slide across on his door and swore under his breath, and then again more loudly for the detective to hear. An hour later, after Mrs. Hudson had carried in some soup and buttery bread, John heard the sweet, searing notes of his violin.

Sherlock played for hours, long into the night. John sat up again, sat at his desk, picked at the rough wood and waited for something to happen. As the hands of his watch crawled towards one, Sherlock's perfect melodies began to falter, every so often a flat note chipping at the music, a slip of the bow. Which would have been understandable for just about anyone else, but Sherlock didn't make mistakes. Sherlock always played flawlessly. If he was tired, he simply played more slowly or plucked the strings instead, but this time he was actually failing to hit the right notes, he was halting and tripping over some of the slurs. Eventually the music broke off sharply and John heard a muffled yell of frustration from the other room. He rose to his feet, stepped quickly out into the corridor. Sherlock's door was still shut. John stood listening in the darkness, the minutes crawling by, waiting for some indication... He didn't hear anything else. Eventually he withdrew back into his own room and sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, raking his brains.

It was clear to him that this viscous cycle of Sherlock constantly rejecting his help couldn't go on. He wasn't taking the antibiotics properly; John had eventually left them in his room in the vain hope that Sherlock would at least make some kind of effort. But that plan seemed to have failed miserably too. Sherlock was too pale but his cheeks were slightly flushed, he constantly seemed to be sweating, which meant a fever, and the skin around his shoulder and side had been red and swollen. All of which pointed to a certain infection. Coupling that to the fact that he hadn't been eating properly - only two meals since he'd got back to Baker Street - and the length of time he had been missing for meant that if Sherlock didn't start looking after himself properly soon, he would find himself on an extremely rapid downwards spiral. John had seen it before with soldiers who under-estimated the dangers of not changing bandages often enough or forgot medication. He had to do something... but trying to make Sherlock Holmes do something was like trying to give a hurricane directions. It was impossible. Unless... John hesitated, and then retrieved his first aid kit and rooted through it. He found the pills relatively quickly and turned the little bottle over in his hand, chewing on his lip. The drug was a fairly low level sedative; one crushed up in a drink would be more than enough to calm Sherlock down and send him into a more pliable state without knocking him out. Because he couldn't be knocked out completely, John would have to ask him questions, especially if the infection had become worse. And Sherlock was forcing his hand, there was honestly no way around it. Did he expect John to just sit back and watch as his shoulder began to rot and his body began to destroy itself?

He couldn't just do nothing. He had to try.

He placed the bottle on his bedside cabinet and went to sleep looking at them, uncertainty tugging at his mind.

The next morning, he got up early and was in the kitchen with the kettle on before noises began to come from Sherlock's room. John had already brought the first aid kit into the kitchen and had it ready on the table. He poured out Sherlock's tea and made himself one too, hoping to avoid suspicion, and then crushed one of the little white pills to dust with the flat of a knife. He stirred the fine powder into the drink and then stood staring at it, watching the liquid swirl around the cup, coming slowly to a halt. Was he really about to go through with this? Drug his flat mate? But he had to, Sherlock was giving him no choice. It was either this, or back to the hospital. And if Sherlock was right and Moriarty was still looking for him, hospitals meant more dangers than they were worth. John took a deep breath, reminding himself of the many pros against the admittedly few cons, and then picked up the two mugs and balanced the first aid kit on his arm. As he approached the doorway, however, Sherlock himself suddenly appeared. He was wearing trousers and his blue dressing gown, armed with his violin, which he clutched in one hand like a lifeline. With the other hand he leaned on the wall, clearly trying to do so as discreetly as possible. His legs shook slightly beneath him and his face was bloodless, sweat standing out on his forehead. For a few seconds each simply stared at the other, both caught in the act, before John finally broke the pause.

"You're up," he said, trying to sound normal. "How do you feel?"

Sherlock moved his head in something that could have been a shake or a nod. He let go of the wall and made his slow, unsteady way over to the window, where he deposited his violin on the desk. He stood there for a while, looking a little lost. John stood on the threashold of the kitchen, watching, searching for some words. Eventually he decided to try one last time.

"Sherlock, I really do want to have a look at that shoulder of yours. You know you're not well, don't you? It'll take half an hour, tops, and then you'll start feeling better. Will you just...?"

He let his voice trail off, his heart sinking as Sherlock gave his head a short, definite shake. The detective was looking out of the window, his lips tight. It suddenly struck John how much weight the other man had lost - his dressing gown was hanging from his frame, his wrists tiny, his shoulders hunched. John swallowed hard.

"Listen, Sherlock, it's really, really important that you let me look after you."

"Go away, John."

There was no venom in the words, just a flat, empty tone that seemed to be even more offensive in its blandness. John forced himself to control his anger, his temper jumping over the edge at once, lack of sleep doing little to make him feel any more patient. He nodded, throwing the first aid kit down on his armchair. He headed over to Sherlock, who glanced at him, his eyebrows pulling together in a silent warning.

"Relax, will you? Here, I made you a drink."

The words sounded so false, even to his own ears. And yet despite his transparent lie, the great Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world, couldn't see through it. Sherlock accepted the mug and returned his gaze to the street beyond the window, effectively dismissing John from the room. John retreated to his armchair but didn't sit down, sipping at his own tea, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. If the sedative caught him off guard, the last thing he wanted was Sherlock falling over and injuring himself further. Sherlock drank the tea in a few slow gulps and then put the mug down. He continued to look out of the window, a frown steadily working itself deeper onto his face. John abandoned his mug, wetting his lips, trying to inch closer to Sherlock without drawing too much attention to himself. Sherlock was beginning to list slightly to one side, his eyelids drooping a little, his hand groping for the windowsill. John closed the distance between them and reached for his arm.

"Sherlock, do you want to sit down?"

Sherlock's hand closed on the windowsill and squeezed tightly. His other hand balled into a white-knuckled fist. He blinked rapidly, his lips parting as he took a sharp breath. John got ready to catch him if he fell, but the reaction he eventually got was rather different to what he was expecting. Sherlock flinched violently away from him, sending half of the things perched on the edge of the desk tumbling to the floor, and fixing him with a stare full of sheer and utter terror.

"What did - what have you - you - what..."

The words were garbled and thick, tinged with fear. John reached for him once more, alarmed, but Sherlock suddenly tore away from him and staggered across the room, snatching for balance on the back of his armchair, his eyes squeezing shut. Words tore from his mouth, suddenly loud and shrill.

"What did you do?"

John stared at him, his mouth hanging open. "Wh... I gave you a little sedative, Sherlock, it's fine, really-"

Sherlock's legs were trembling violently, his nostrils flaring as he breathed hard and fast, his face drained of what little blood had been in it. John could see thick beads of sweat forming on his upper lip. By this time, the warning sirens were going off in John's head and he could feel his medical instincts kicking in, but he was terrified to even try to touch Sherlock. The other man's lips were moving rapidly, and John risked taking a step closer to hear what he was saying.

"In the tea, it was in the tea, I knew it, I should've known, should've tasted it, you put it in my tea, you drugged me, not you, you were the only one, not you, but you drugged me, I trusted you!"

The last phrase was thrown directly into John's face with a burning, tearful gaze and writhing lips. John watched as Sherlock's eyes flickered in and out of focus, and it suddenly hit him. Sherlock Holmes was having a panic attack. John finally managed to force himself into action; he took hold of Sherlock's hands and dragged the struggling detective around to sit down in the armchair. Sherlock pulled away from, bringing his knees up to his chest, and John hurriedly backed away, lifting his hands. He watched, aghast, as Sherlock screwed his thumbs into his eyes and began to rock on the chair, still hyperventilating, his whole body shaking. He was beginning to look visibly green in the face, and John contemplated running for a bucket.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, please..." He felt helpless, useless. He had caused this reaction, he had done this. He crouched down, keeping his distance still, trying to keep his voice measured and calm. "Sherlock, it's okay. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done it. I was just worried about you."

Sherlock was still mumbling at a hundred miles an hour under his breath, still rocking, his hands now gripping his head tightly. John resisted the urge to run to him, tried to focus on talking him through it.

"Sherlock, I'm here, don't worry. Please try to calm down, just try, okay? Let's take some deep breaths. You're alright. You're in Baker Street, you're safe. You know that, right?"

He kept up the steady mantra, kept talking, prayed that on some level he was getting through to the other man. They stayed like that for so very long, Sherlock curled on the armchair, John kneeling on the ground a few meters away, the chasm between them filled with John's halting words and Sherlock's heavy breathing. John's legs were beginning to ache by the time his method began to take effect - after around ten minutes, Sherlock's breathing began to even out, the trembling began to die in his limbs. His hair was wet with sweat when he lowered his hands, pressed them together in front of his face, shut his eyes. Finally John decided to move, his injured leg complaining loudly as he rose, but as soon as he did so Sherlock's head snapped up and his eyes flew open. John froze, as if he had been caught committing some terrible crime; in fact, in a way, he had. He couldn't bring himself to speak, guilt sealing his lips shut. Sherlock gazed at him, his eyes glittering with unshed tears, anger and confusion and simple disbelief hovering in his face. Eventually he spoke, his lips barely moving, uttering two stony words.

"Get out."

John's stomach lurched. "Sherlock," he said, trying to keep his voice level. "I'm so, so sorry. Really, I am. I didn't know you would react like that. I just wanted-"

"I said get out! Get away from me!"

It was a raw, primal scream, a sound that John had never heard Sherlock make before. Without warning, Sherlock suddenly surged up to his feet and took a few strides towards John, his fists balling once more, and without hesitating another second John turned and fled. He snatched up his jacket and shut the door behind him, tripping down the stairs without letting himself pause to think. Upstairs, he heard the violent, scratchy chords of Sherlock's violin, screeching and dry, ugly. He shoved his way out onto the street and started walking, walking so fast that he barely took in the world around him, his heart thundering in his chest, his blood roaring in his ears. He didn't let himself think, he didn't let himself acknowledge the shock and alarm that had closed over his lungs like a fist. He walked.

Eventually, he realized that it was drizzling slightly and that his hair was soaked through. He slowed down, squinting through the grey streets, finally lifting his eyes from his shoes. He had managed to get himself a long way from Baker Street, and the dull, dim streets surrounding him were unfamiliar. He turned around twice, and then finally spotted a tiny coffee shopped crammed between an Indian cuisine and a chippy. Eager for anywhere out of the rain and with strong coffee, he dashed across the road and ducked inside. He tucked himself away in a corner at the very back of the shop, managing to get out the words to order an Americano before sinking into silence and staring blindly at the table top.

He wasn't quite sure what had just happened.

He had seen people have panic attacks before, of course he had - he'd served in Afghanistan for god's sake - but never, never had he seen Sherlock have such an extreme and emotional reaction. Never had he seen so much hate, so much venom directed at himself. The image of Sherlock rocking and shaking in his armchair was burned into John's mind; he scrubbed both hands over his face, forced himself to take a couple of deep breaths. He'd completely blown it. He'd ruined everything. Sherlock would demand that he move out, and he wouldn't be able to fight him on it. And then Lestrade would ask questions, and then the paramedics would be turning up with their ambulances and their drugs and their stretchers and Sherlock would be carted off to the Intensive Care Unit, possibly even in a mentally unstable ward if he acted like this towards them. And god, it was all John's fault. He'd pushed him too far. He'd used the whip when the carrot didn't work, and he'd only managed to make things worse in the only way possible. How could he have expected Sherlock to just accept something like that? How could have been so stupid... Again, Sherlock's accusing stare flashed before his eyes, and John buried his head in his arms. He remembered that consuming terror. What if Moriarty had used drugs on Sherlock at some time during his abduction? And John had taken Sherlock's fragile trust and walked all over it. Oh, no, Sherlock, it doesn't matter if I drug you because you're my friend, so that makes it okay... He brought his fist down on the table with a sudden crash, making the couple to his left start in surprise. He didn't care. He'd just destroyed everything he'd had with Sherlock in one stupid, ignorant, rash decision. To his horror, he felt tears pricking at his eyes and brushed at his face brusquely. Clearly he'd been getting far too little sleep recently. And Sherlock himself was just too exhausting...

After a few long hours, he realized that he couldn't just hide out in the coffee shop forever. He paid the bill and emerged into the street, where the rain was now pelting down with a vengeance. He turned his collar up against it, but walked slowly on his way back to Baker Street. He knew that, when he arrived, either Sherlock or Mrs Hudson would be waiting to tell him that he had to move out, immediately. He didn't have anywhere he could go. He would have to spend the night in a hotel, call around for some of the friends he still vaguely kept in touch with, ask if he could stay with someone for a while. Maybe he would have to go and stay with Harry if things got really desperate, although that was definitely a last resort. He took the journey one step at a time, moving as slowly as he possibly could, but eventually he found himself standing outside 221b Baker Street. He squinted up at the storm clouds rolling over head and wondered if, should he stand there long enough, a bolt of lightning would just come down and let him escape from the whole situation. It didn't, and at last he let himself in and stood dripping in the hall, listening to the rain hammer on the doorstep. The house was quiet. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had gone out for the day - it was still only just four o'clock. John shrugged his coat off and ran the sopping material through his hands for a while before setting foot on the staircase. It creaked loudly, a fanfare for his arrival, and he listened for a response upstairs. He was met only with silence. Tentatively, he climbed the stairs with reluctant steps.

His room was silent was dark, and so was Sherlock's. He stood in the corridor for a while, wondering whether he should just pack up his stuff and leave without the need for Sherlock to make a scene. Eventually, he decided to just wait in the living room for something to happen, for somebody to tell him what to do, because for the life of him he had no idea. He shuffled into the living room, and then stopped short. There was a long, thick, silver string curling on the floor near his foot. He lifted his gaze, dreading what he would see, and saw a peg. Then a longer shard of dark, smooth wood... then half of a long, black neck... He heard his coat hit the floor, but he barely registered it, stepping forwards.

Sherlock's beautiful violin had been smashed to pieces. Bits of splintered wood littered the floor, some in larger chunks, others in tiny needles. John found himself scooping up the scroll, still mostly in tact, but with only one peg still embedded in it. He stared at it, imagining the force it must have taken to destroy it, and then with a jolt of horror tried to imagine the state Sherlock must have been in to do it. He felt a heavy wave of grief rise up inside his chest, felt his hand close over the scroll. That beautiful violin was like a symbol for Sherlock himself. It was part of the detective, a separate limb. And now, seeing it in pieces on the ground, scattered across the room like a dismembered corpse... there were no words for John to explain.

He didn't remember speaking, but he must have, because there was an abrupt clatter from behind him and he span around. The room was dark, as no lights had been turned on, but he could see a figure rising from the kitchen table in the half light. He actually found himself taking a step backwards as Sherlock strode towards him, into the slightly brighter living room. The detective stopped short. John could make out a strange wetness on his cheeks, a tremor in his chest, could see the gleam of his wide eyes. And then his gaze traveled downwards, and he saw the fine droplets of blood dripping from Sherlock's right hand. A spear of panic plunged into him, and he looked quickly at Sherlock. The detective's pale lips parted.

"I thought... I thought you weren't going to come back," he whispered.

John's tongue wasn't working. Of all the things he had expected Sherlock to say, that had certainly been at the very bottom. He took in the uncertainty in the detective's face, the rigidity of his shoulders, the giddy relief tugging at the corner of his lips. John blinked hard, wondering if the coffee had simply gone straight to his head and started a bizarre hallucination born out of sleepless nights and endless anxiety. Sherlock was swaying unsteadily on his feet.

"I thought you..."

He got no further. As John stood stunned, trying to organize his scrambled thoughts, Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head. Which was why, for the second time in just a few days, John Watson found himself on his knees with Sherlock's limp body lying heavy in his arms, calling the detective's name. Perhaps that won the award for the most terrifying moment of his life so far.

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Hope you enjoyed it! Next chapter should be up soonish.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.