Woo I finally get to start branching out from my original. There's a bit of new material I'm excited to include and I guess you could say this is the beginning of it. If you have no idea what I'm talking about just smile and nod I won't judge you. But I'm pretty excited.

Side-note my friend got twin kittens and named them John and Shezza and I'm in love.

Please enjoy the chapter.

Our cab ride home was charged with tension. You spent the majority of the time watching the street pass by, brow curved, thinking. I didn't want to interrupt you, but I was boiling with frustration and itched to get it out. It didn't surprise me that my doctor was being irritating, but now it seemed like you were on his side rather than mine. People just don't understand how aggravating it is to have a world-renowned detective telling you that something that's wrong is right.

The whole thing was so stupid I couldn't even wrap my mind around it without getting heated up. It was like the doctor wanted me to be depressed. He was so ready to just jump right into the medication and the treatment, as if he had scheduled it into his calendar and had been looking forward to torturing me. And someway, somehow, he had convinced you to play along with him.

In the six months since you moved back into Baker Street, we hadn't talked much about my previous struggle with depression. You were aware of it, I knew that much. But we had never discussed it, and I never felt the need to share the details with you. I could help but believe nagging thought in the back of my mind that the doctor had said something to you, something that would've made you upset. But I couldn't think of anything, and that was probably the most nagging part.

"Are you angry?" I finally blurted, and you turned to look at me.

"Angry?" You repeated.

"Yes. Are you angry with me."

"Why would I be angry with you."

"Because I didn't tell you about the... place."

You paused, kneading your fingers. "Why is that?"

"It wasn't important, and you never asked. I wasn't trying to hide it from you, that's what I'm saying. I would've told you if you would've asked."

"Why would my partner's mental history not be important."

"Look, Sherlock, you didn't need to know." I pursed my lips, regretting my choice of words. "Well, I-... I mean, well, not that... uh..."

"Well, you have your reason." You shot me a fake grin, then turned away again. The cab pulled up to our address, and you escaped through the door before I could get another word in. I cursed under my breath and dragged myself up from the seat, stumbling out after you with my crutch stuck under my arm.

Mrs. Hudson burst through the door to meet us with a cry. She ran forward to hug me, right in the middle of the street, which shocked me - she had never done anything like that before. Maybe I looked worse than I thought I did. But I wrapped my arms around the woman's small waist and held her steady while she clutched my shoulders.

"Oh, John! Sweet, sweet John..." Her voice shuddered, eyes starting to brim with tears. "I'm so glad you're home from hospital."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I smiled at her, and she might've died right there from grief.

"Come inside, come inside. You should sit down, relax. I've made you tea, your favorite, of course. I'll bring it up to your flat." She gripped my hand, then pulled away and disappeared back into the house as fast as her hip would take her.

I blinked, glancing at you as you finished paying the cabbie. "She seemed excited."

"She's wound herself up quite a bit over this." You said flatly, and approached the door.

I bit my cheek and followed, leaning heavily on my crutch as I walked. My leg throbbed with pain, and I recognized the gentle twitch in my left hand all too well. I put it in my pocket as I walked past you, but hiding things from you was hardly possible.

You followed behind me up the stairs, walking slowly, being sure that I kept my balance. As we went into the flat, I was slapped in the face by the smell of strong bleach cleaner. Obviously Mrs. Hudson had done some work while I was out (I never would've imagined you cleaning the flat). The kitchen was swept, shelves organized, counters sponged down. The rug even looked vacuumed. I couldn't even remember the last time we'd vacuumed. She constantly made it clear that she was not our housekeeper, but she sure did a damn good job of it.

With a gauche tug you removed your greatcoat, tossing it across the arm of your chair as you walked into the kitchen. I tsked and took a seat in my own, groaning a little as I stretched out my sore leg, leaning my crutch against the mantle.

"Are we going to talk, Sherlock?" I asked. "Or are you just going to mope around?"

You shot me a look, disappearing into the bedroom. I took that to mean the latter.

Mrs. Hudson came up a few minutes later with a platter of tea, chirping on about how she tidied up the flat "just for you, John". She knew how much I hated the mess. I eagerly accepted the tea, not quite realizing how thirsty I was until I had the saucer in my hand. You came to join me, building a fire and making yourself a cuppa, tuning us out completely while the landlady droned on.

But soon enough her chattering came to a close. "You boys will want some peace and quiet, then, hmm? I'll leave you be." She patted my shoulder. "I'm just a shout away if you need me. I'm glad you're feeling better, John."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I smiled at her.

She nodded, then turned and trotted off downstairs, closing the door behind her, leaving you and I alone on either side of the subtly crackling fire.

You stirred your cuppa, sipping at it absentmindedly. I let the stillness carry for a little longer before I spoke, hoping to ease some of the tension between us, as not to start an argument.

"So..." I paused to clear my throat. "Can we at least try at a civil conversation, then?"

You nodded, swishing the tea in your mouth.

"I know you're angry, and I understand why, but I think it's getting the better of you. Can you just... pause, and sensibly tell me what you're thinking."

"John, you purposefully kept the details of your mental illness from me in an attempt to keep me oblivious to the fact that I was the one who caused it."

I watched you, careful to be sure you were finished. You brought the teacup back to your lips, your eyes locked onto mine, suspicion clouding its color.

"That wasn't my intention at all, Sherlock." I stated. "Did the doctor tell you that?"

"It was a speculation."

"And you care about speculations all-of-a-sudden?"

"If you won't answer to a speculation, let's begin with facts." You broadened your shoulders, and I shrunk back. "You were diagnosed with PTSD by your therapist years ago, and though many of the symptoms had at one time faded, they now seem to be making re-appearances. The limp, the tremor, the nightmares, to name a few. In addition, you suffered a brutal emotional trauma that left you socially paralyzed for months. You had improved over time, but only slowly. By the end of the second year, you had bought a flat, gotten a job, but you kept a degree of isolation even then. Six months ago I rejoined you, and you suddenly dropped your treatment, claiming to be perfectly alright. But men can't make jumps like that, John. Men can't just erase their problems once the good days come."

"I didn't erase my problems, Sherlock," I started.

"No, but you do seem to be ignoring them." You set your cuppa down.

"Wait, wait, just..." I put my head in my hands, trying to organize my thoughts. "You're basing this all off of one instance, one accident which my doctor called a panic attack and you yourself called a drugging."

"Process of elimination, John. Once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true."

"The drugging is not impossible, and the 'panic attack' theory is as improbable as they come."

"But I can no longer trust you to tell me everything, can I?" You hissed, leaning forward onto your elbows.

"Of course you can! I'll tell you anything you need to convince you that this wasn't an attack."

"Then tell me about Afghanistan."

My throat clenched tightly as your glare bit into me, demanding and cold.

"What do you-"

"You know exactly what I mean. What happened in Afghanistan, John? What is it that you never bothered to tell me about?"

I rubbed my forehead, waves of warm fear washing across my body. "That wasn't supposed to go on the record."

"It did. Your doctor used our sexuality as a trigger point for you. At first I was confused; you had never shared with me anything concerning your sexual history, and all things considered, it hadn't mattered much before. But when our physical relationship began, you continued to leave me in the dark. And there is nothing that I hate more than being oblivious."

"I didn't think it mattered."

"Obviously it does matter."

I flexed my jaw, looking at the ground. "...What exactly did he tell you."

"During your second year in Afghanistan, you were raped by a fellow soldier. You spent nearly a week in the infirmary, yet you refused to reveal the identity of the rapist."

"Yes, and?"

You narrowed your eyes, thinking again. "Is there something I missed?"

"That was, what, seven years ago? I've moved past it, Sherlock. You and I have had sex before without any problems. I don't see why you think-"

"The doctor alerted me that the forceful way I approached you may have triggered your reaction."

I paused, staring at you for a long time while I gathered my words. "No. That would never happen. I've moved past it, it doesn't bother me. It's not a 'trigger', or whatever they call it. It's just a piece of my past that I'd rather not people be digging up without my permission."

"I have a right to know."

"No, Sherlock, you don't. If you wanted to know about it, you could've just asked." I frowned, standing. "I'm not hiding anything from you."

"Then you won't mind me going through your med files."

"No, you won't go through my med files, because that's an extremely childish thing to do. If you want to know something, ask me. Just ask, Sherlock."

I turned on my heel and started to walk away, then paused, looking back at you with a mix of anger and hesitation.

"And just so you know, Sherlock, I didn't want to bring up the... thing because of my own personal reasons. I don't want to remember it, I don't want to talk about it. That's all."

You raised an eyebrow. "The rape?"

"No. The ward."

I nodded to myself and marched down the hall, stopping just outside the bedroom door to march right back, holding my open hand in front of your face.

"I'm not taking the pills, but don't get any ideas." I prodded with my fingers. "Hand them over."

You made a grunting noise and pulled the bottle out of your coat pocket, placing it in my palm.

"I'll show that damn doctor. I'm not depressed. And I'm not some anxiety patient, either." I grumbled, going back into our room and shutting the door tight.

Twinkle, twinkle little review,
I really love you, yes I do.

Next chapter up Sunday.