It is time to check out of the hospital. John is by my side, wheeling me out to the parking lot. Mycroft is waiting in the limo. Suddenly, I feel afraid. John, you can see it in my face. Your lips are pursed. You are as upset as I. I remember the look on your face when you first caught me shooting up in the attic, the blue light bulb casting a ghostly glow around the room. I always need blue light to find a vein. Your face was stricken just like it is now.

You help me in the limo, wincing when you feel the bones under my shirt. I slide into the seat. I know better than to try and escape, Mycroft has activated the child locks on the doors. They slam down like a prison door, I am trapped. The drive is a short one. The limo stops in front of a modern looking building. They have tried to disguise its purpose with landscaping, but I know better. It is a rehab center. Though I try to remain calm you dear John can see the panic in my eyes. "John, help me."

The limo stops and Mycroft opens the door. Like a mother bear protecting her cub you step in front of me.

I hear you shout. "Mycroft, this isn't good for him. I've changed my mind. I don't want him locked up."

Mycroft sighs, "John, we both agreed that this is what is best for Sherlock."

You shout again, the veins are showing thru the thin skin of your neck, they are so beautiful so blue. Then you threaten Mycroft as you pull a gun on him. John-I am so impressed. Mycroft stops. He could have you killed, but he knows it will destroy me. He orders us both in the limo. Once we are in the limo I look over at you and smirk. You look back at me; your brows are furrowed from anger and anxiety. Dearest John, I have stressed you out, yet again.

The limo arrives at Mycroft's house. You and he argue for a few moments and then you both reach an agreement. You help me out of the limo, your hands are warm on my cold skeletal frame. I love you dearest, John. I am not sure in what context; I just know that I do.

We are escorted to Mycroft's panic room. After getting a list of supplies from you on what it will take to assist in my toxic clean-up, Mycroft locks us in. The room is spacious, industrial looking, cold, it is you-Mycroft. There is only one bed. You lead me to it and I collapse in a heap. God, I feel so tired so nauseous. John, you know for you are already nuking a cup of chamomile tea for me. You start to put the cup in my trembling hands. But we both know that I will drop it. You blow on it to cool the tea off, then you offer me a sip. My hands cover yours as you steady the cup.

I then close my eyes and pretend to sleep. You lay down next to me. I roll over and lay my head on your shoulder. I then drop my hand on your stomach, my long fingers feel through the opening in your shirt. I touch your bare skin. Your stomach muscles tense, but you don't dislodge my hand. My index finger rests in your navel, as if it was always meant to be there. What would you do if I kissed you? What would I do if you kissed me? I am an asexual person; it is all about the work for me. I have disciplined myself. If I were to allow my passion to ignite I would burn us both. I would burn the heart out of you and you would do the same to me.

The thought of you gasping in my arms is a thought I dare not linger on. I could make you fall in love with me dearest John. I really could if I tried. Then all my attention would be focused on you. If I could burn you to ashes and then raise you up like a Phoenix I would. The risk is too great. Like Icarus we would both plummet to our death-the sun too bright for us to handle. The pain of unrequited passion makes my stomach cramp up. I shake. I roll off the bed and onto the floor clutching my head in my hands. You are at my side.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, talk to me what is it?" You ask in your sweet nasal voice.

I let you lead me back to bed. You lower me down on the mattress, like a groom easing his virgin bride to a place of vulnerability. I let my hips relax under you. John, your eyes are open wide, the pupils dilated. I deduce that you are primed. If I move my hand up and over 45 degrees I will touch you-touch you there. I move my hand upward slightly ever so slightly until I feel heat. I gasp for air. I know we are almost there-to the breakeven point. Then fear for your heart as well as mine overtakes me and I say, "For God's sake John, I can't breathe give me some air."

You roll off of me; I smile because you are free. You dearest John will escape the flames-the fall. Your wings are not made of wax. You are strong. I let you soar.