With the use of sign language things got a lot easier for both John and myself. I also learned that John hadn't lost the ability to read, which opened up another form of communication. It also meant, however, that I had to be more careful. Mycroft was keeping me informed of his progress in hunting down Moriarty through email, and one day John noticed the name of the consultant criminal on my laptop screen. It took me a moment to figure out why he was having a panic attack. I didn't make that mistake again, but it was nice to know that John recognized who had done this to him.

When I realized he could read I asked Mrs. Hudson to make regular trips to the library. We started out small and easy with picture books (a lot of Dr. Seuss), but John quickly progressed to more advanced reading. It wasn't long before Mrs. Hudson brought the Harry Potter series for him to read.

I found him on the couch one day, completely enraptured. He looked up to me, grinning and signed 'Have you read these? They're so much fun!'

I returned the grin. How could I not? It was so nice to see him genuinely happy. "I haven't read much fiction," I replied, walking to sit beside him. His eyes widened and he put the book down (I think he was on the sixth one?) forcefully. He practically flew off the couch to the stack of library books, found the first Harry Potter book, and shoved it into my hands.

'Read it.'

How could I argue with the look on his face? He looked so free and excited. It wasn't like I had any cases anyway. I'd stopped taking cases when he'd first disappeared. All that mattered was finding John. And now all that mattered was helping him.

John learned BSL rapidly, faster even than me. He improved in reading my lips as well. Meanwhile I started eating a little more. I was still too on edge to sleep, however. Even though things were quickly getting better during the day, things were actually worse during the night. His PTSD had been bad before all of this. Now it was plain awful. It made my blood boil, which I related to Mycroft, demanding good news on the chase to find Moriarty.

I should've seen it coming. I had no one to blame but myself. I knew full well that my body was taking a beating from John's thrashings, not enough nutrition, and lack of sleep.

One morning, as John was dishing up breakfast (I'd made omelets), I was walking to the sitting room to check my email. Suddenly the room shifted. Completely swayed in my vision. I gripped the door frame, blinking against the overwhelming grey. I think I heard John calling my name, but it was distant and faint. And then I lost the battle against the grey.

The omelet looks delicious. I hope Sherlock will eat some today. He doesn't eat enough. He never has. I remember that.

I turn to take my food to the sitting room. I want to finish reading Harry Potter. I've only got a few chapters left on the last book and I'm really excited to see how it ends.

Sherlock stops walking. He sways a bit and holds onto the door frame. I frown.

"Sherlock?"

He doesn't answer, he just keeps swaying.

And then suddenly he topples over.

I throw my plate on the table and run to him, turning him over. He's not awake. I shake him again and again, crying his name. He can't do this to me, he can't. He's supposed to take care of me, this isn't fair. What is wrong? Why is he doing this? I'm scared. I'm so, so scared.

I feel myself slipping. I'm slipping and I'm going to get one of those attacks that scare Sherlock so much. (He'll never admit they scare him, but I know. I can tell.) I grab Sherlock's hand. I can't leave. I can't. Sherlock needs help and I know it. If I have an attack, he won't get help. I won't be able to help.

But how do I help anyway? Through tears, I look around the room wildly. His phone! I leave Sherlock's side for only a moment to grab his phone. I quickly run back to him, grab his hand again, to keep me from slipping. I find Mycroft's name in the contacts and call.

I can't hear anyone, of course. But I know he has to be there. Mycroft always answers his phone. Even if he doesn't, I can leave a message, right? I need to tell him Sherlock's not okay, that something's wrong...

But how?

"Mmm..." I can do this. I can do this. I can talk. I know I can. "Mmmm..."

I stop for a moment, breathe.

"Mmmmmycroft." I did it! I did it, I said Mycroft's name!

Sherlock needs help. I need to let him know Sherlock needs someone. Someone more capable than me.

"Help," I say desperately, looking down to Sherlock, fighting the panic. "Sherlock. Help. At home. Help."

I drop the phone to hold Sherlock's hand with both of mine. "Sherlock..." I whisper. "Be okay..."

EDIT: So, uhm. I'm an idiot. And somehow forgot a major plot point. The whole John's deaf thing. Yeah... So I fixed that. x.X

A/N: Look at that fast update! ...With a cliffie... Yeah... I love you? No, really. I really do. xoxo

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