I am so sorry I took so long. I have a lot going on with school and I'm obsessing over multiple things at the time. And the science fair, but I'm sorry, I hope I haven't let any of you down. Here you are then.

Although he wished he didn't have to, John grew easily accustomed to life in a wheelchair. Of course, he wasn't complaining about Sherlock making him tea every morning- the reason still eluded him, but he certainly never asked.

About a week after the accident, Sherlock decided John needed to try going outside. He carried his friend down the stairs, yowled for Mrs. Hudson to bring a chair, then sat John in the plastic seat and brought his wheelchair down.

Once his friend was in the wheelchair, Sherlock opened the door and John's breathing hitched. The detective knew that he was remembering entering Olsewski's house, and the harpoon that had nearly struck Sherlock.

"Are you ready, John?" Sherlock asked. The doctor nodded quickly, as if to say,"Yes, let's just get this over with."

Sherlock wasn't convinced. "Are you sure?"

John stared out the door. They were just people, just normal citizens he didn't know- but Olsewski could have spies, people to take him out, people with guns, snipers, people with bombs and big cars.

"John?"

And suddenly, in John's eyes, every person he saw passing the open door had a handgun in her purse or a machine gun in his cello case, or a sniper in their duffle bag. Every move was towards him, to get him and kill him.

John gasped, suddenly too afraid to even breathe. He started shaking his head and covered his mouth in horror. His eyes grew wide and he gasped for breath. Sherlock pulled him back and shut the door. He knelt down in front of his paralyzed friend, who was fighting for air, starting to hyperventilate.

"John! John, don't worry!" Sherlock said. "It's alright, everything is alright. Look at me!" John's wide brown eyes finally turned to his friend, speaking volumes. He was so afraid, Sherlock saw. So vulnerable, like an innocent child who had lost his parents.

"John, it's Sherlock. Remember? Do you know who I am?" When John didn't answer, only continued to battle for air, Sherlock grew concerned. "Do you know who I am?" Nothing.

"John, listen," Sherlock breathed in loudly, slowly, and then breathed out. "Copy my breathing patterns." In slowly, out slowly. In, slowly, out, slowly. "Can you hear me? Do as I do." In slowly, out slowly.

At long last, John mimicked Sherlock's breathing and began to grow calmer. When he was under control, he buried his face in his hands. "Sherlock, I- I'm sorry-"

"No, you're not. And, even if you are, you have no right to be. It isn't your fault." John didn't answer, and Sherlock knew that he was ashamed because his ears had turned pink and his left hand was twitching slightly. The detective was furious. His friend had been disabled for life and mentally hurt so badly- because of something that had happened 60 years ago. John was near broken.

They stayed there for a while, John in his wheelchair hiding himself in shame, and Sherlock kneeling in front of him, wanting to do something but unsure of what exactly that was. Finally, John sat up and sighed.

"I really am sorry, Sherlock. I'm going to have to go outside sometime soon. I need Physical Therapy, I need practice in this thing. I'm sorry I freaked out."

Sherlock simply said,"We'll try tomorrow."

The next day was the same. John had a near panic attack and refused to leave the house. They tried the day after that. No progress. And John was barely getting any practice in his wheelchair.

Sherlock was more intrigued than he was worried. A psychological issue occurring in John. A panic attack each time he tried to leave the flat. That was certainly interesting.

The problem was that Sherlock wasn't sure how to handle it.

Sherlock was perfectly fine when he was up to his elbows in human entrails. He enjoyed it, even. He could deduce what a person had eaten last Wednesday by the way they had tied their shoes. He knew if you were having an affair just by glancing at you.

But now John was suffering a severe emotional crisis and the great Sherlock Holmes was stumped.

Sherlock noticed that John hadn't gotten any calls from his family. A drunken voicemail from Harry was highly possible, but not a true concerned family member bothered to call to see how John was holding up after he was shot and paralyzed from the waist down.

So each day passed when John didn't receive any support from his family, and there was no improvement with the doctor's anxiety.

John refused to eat some nights. He was adjusted well enough in the flat that he could easily get around (and make tea). His arms had grown stronger, and he only needed Sherlock's help to get into bed occasionally. Sherlock continued to aid his friend in dressing, but only with pants and underwear. John was perfectly capable in putting on his socks and shoes and shirt. He looked proud of himself every time.

But no matter how proud of himself John had felt that morning for making tea unsupervised, he still screamed in his bed each night, tortured by his dreams. And each night, the unknown admirer came to hold and calm him.

Sherlock couldn't stay away from cases much longer. He was sure something had come up. And he was itching for something. But he couldn't do it without John. And John refused to go outside.

Sherlock had to buy groceries now, because Mrs. Hudson had refused to after two times and John wouldn't leave the house, reduced to a sniveling child by his fears. He couldn't take up any more cases because of this and it was driving him absolutely crazy.

They needed a solution.

"Close your eyes."

"Sherlock-"

"Just do as I say."

John did as he was told and shut his eyes. "Ready?" the detective asked. Feeling more relaxed, John nodded.

The door was opened. John could hear the bustle of activity, the people walking. He couldn't see them with his eyes closed, though.

And that was why John was afraid.

He couldn't see the enemy. He couldn't catch the glint of silver from a handgun in the sunlight, or warn Sherlock that the woman passing in front of the flat was pulling out a rifle from her bag.

It just made it all the worse.

"Do you want to go outside?" Sherlock asked, seeing John struggling to control himself. The doctor shook his head. "Please, please, no."

The door didn't close. "Why not?"

"I can't, I'll be killed!" John confessed. "Please, Sherlock, close the door."

The door was finally shut and John apologized many times over. "God, I'm never getting out of here. They're all out to get me, I'm not safe..."

"No one is going to kill you, John," his friend kneeled in front of him. "Olsewski is..." Sherlock felt bad about lying to John. Not informing him about something was one thing, but having to lie to him... "Olsewski is locked away. He murdered a person. He could have murdered more than her, but he's locked away. You have nothing to fear."

Sherlock was hoping that that would put his friend's mind at rest. John just say there. "What if there are other people wanting to kill us for putting him in jail. What if you get hurt?"

"Then you're only delaying it and making them angrier by becoming a hermit. Would you like to try again?"

Before John could answer, Sherlock's phone buzzed. He stood and looked at the text.

I've gotten a psychiatrist. He'll be over at 10 AM sharp. - M

Sherlock smirked. For someone who seemed so hard, Mycroft truly did care. One of the man's soft spots, besides Sherlock, was John. The detective could tell that Mycroft thought of John highly, possibly for nearly (and single-handedly) transforming Sherlock into a human being, and had also come to see the doctor as the normal brother he never had. Doctor, soldier. More experience with the public than Sherlock and Mycroft combined. So naturally, his older brother wanted to do anything to help John.

The psychiatrist better be good, Sherlock thought as he lifted John to carry him up the stairs. But, knowing Mycroft, he would probably be the best in the country.

A/N: Hope you liked! Thank you for your reviews and loyalty!

Fun Fact of the Chapter: Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes never said,"Elementary, my dear Watson," in any of Arthur Conan Doyle's books. The phrases "Elementary" and "My dear Watson" were used in the stories, but never together.