Hey guys, I apologize for not updating on time this week, I was really sick last night and wasn't able to finish it up. But hopefully I can make up for it today and Thursday.

I can't believe it's already March. Time just flies so fast. Pretty soon it will be summer and god-damn I'm so far behind with my homework why did you have to remind me.

Please enjoy the new chapter, even if it's a little late.

We received the call from Greg at a crisp 4 o'clock in the morning. The weather that night was miserable, freezing rain through most of it, with a fierce bite to the wind that whipped the collar of your greatcoat like a flag. There was a case opened in Brent, not too far from us, so we took a cab. You grumbled something about "not getting out of bed for anything less that a seven", but nonetheless you splashed cold water on your face and tied your scarf.

Sally met us outside the building as we arrived, standing behind the yellow police tape at the entrance. She greeted you with the same annoyed smirk as always, but her eyes flashed when she saw me. In a ruffled sort of tone, she turned to you. "Uh, you sure John's good to be here?" She asked.

"Why wouldn't he be?" You replied.

"Yeah," I added, looking between you and her. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You were just in the hospital." She put her hands on her hips. "This scene isn't very pretty."

"He'll be fine." You ducked under the tape, then pulling it open for me to crutch under. "We need at least one qualified medical expert on the case."

"Rick's qualified," She countered.

"If that were true, I wouldn't be needed here, would I?" You shot her a glare, stalking inside. She and I shared a look, then followed.

The lights from the gym were excruciatingly bright. Two levels of undisturbed exercise equimpment lay around, stinking with accumulated sweat. Mirrors surrounded the length of the room, and I could catch my own reflection in one of them. Not much privacy here, I noted. The sign-in desk was lengthly, with offices further toward my left. A tile path cut through the carpet, leading toward the locker-rooms, where various police and employees were milling around like flies. Greg spotted us as we approached and waved us in.

"Sherlock, great, you're here. The clean-up crew are wanting to get in right away to fix stuff up. Needless to say the manager isn't very happy about this."

"Well, is it a murder or a suicide," You asked.

"We don't know. It looks like a murder. The security cameras were down, they were supposed to be replaced two days ago, but the guy never showed. An attendant came in to open up, must've stumbled onto a burglar. Just look at the state of those lockers."

You paused to glance at the wall of twisted, broken metal.

"Burglar, you said. What happened to the attendant?"

"Shot through the head. Had the gun in his hand, but there are plenty of murder cases made to look like suicides."

"You're getting better. Who questioned the burglary theory."

"I did." Inserted Sally. "There's no sign of forced entry, not anywhere. That man was the only person in the building."

"That's a fact?"

"You're the great Sherlock Holmes, why don't you tell me?" She rolled her eyes.

You tsked, turning in a circle to survey the room one more time. Your eyes studied the collapsed rows, then to the body, then back to the rows. Gears were turning in your head, working to connect all the pieces and draw in every detail. With two long strides you stood back, dropping your head to scan intensively across the floor. "Where's the rod?"

"Rod?"

"Yes. Obviously our burglar used a rod. Most likely one from the gym floor. Ah, here it is." You ducked into the shower room, pulling out a long metal pole. You weighed it in your hands. "Yes, this is it. Our blunt object."

"You shouldn't tamper with the evidence," Sally bit.

"It doesn't matter. He wore gloves." You spun the rod in your hand. "John, examine the body. Tell me what you see."

I took in a breath, crutching my way over to the attendant, flanked by Lestrade. The young man was pushed in a corner, leaning against the wall at his right side. His arm had fallen into his lap, the gun removed, but his finger still curled where the trigger had once been. The sight of him made my stomach turn, but I forcefully shook any emotion from my thoughts and focused on the facts. A large part of his head had been blown out, with bits of blood and human matter sprayed against the wall. His expression was tight, pained, with some of his dark hair plastered to his forehead.

"John," You repeated. "Tell me what you see."

"Er..." I snapped on my gloves and folded my leg to get down closer, tilting his chin just slightly. "He's young. I'd guess... early or mid-twenties."

"University student."

"Very possible." I pulled at the cuffs of his shirt and trousers. "He's in good shape. Must be athletic. His expression is very distressed. Eyebrows drawn, eyes clenched."

"Anything else?"

I swept my eyes across his body, looking for any noteworthy details. "He didn't have the chance to change before walking in. Still has all his rain-clothes on. Er, other than that, I don't see much. I'll keep looking."

While I turned back to the body, I saw Greg walk from the corner of my vision and approach you. I already knew what he was going to say, it had been written across his forehead from the minute we walked in. He slapped his hand down on your shoulder and pulled you close, trying to talk hushedly. But he never really was very good with whispering, and it was easy enough to pick up on it.

"Is John okay, Sherlock?" He watched me. "Mycroft said he was in pretty bad shape."

"Mycroft tends to exaggerate. He'll be fine."

"He'd better be fine. Poor man's been through more than enough already. You keep him healthy, you hear me?"

"Let me worry about John. I've got things quite under control.

"Sure?"

You nodded, continuing to spin the rod, your eyes flickering between me and the lockers. There was something about you that made me think you already had this case solved, that you were just waiting for your moment of truth to reveal everything and leave us all licking at your heels. You liked it that way, after all. You liked the spotlight, the drama. I shook my head and focused back on the shot wound, getting as close as I felt I could without sniffing it.

This kind of wound wasn't new to me. I had seen plenty of shot wounds in Afghanistan, all in various places, due various causes. Most, of course, were on the battlefield. Men who had gotten chunks of flesh or entire limbs torn off, ribcages blown open. Some of the most gruesome cases didn't come from the Taliban, however. I'd seen a handful of men with their faces ripped apart from a trigger aimed misprecisely, holding a gun to their own heads with quivering fingers not quite able to line it up right. I knew this wound. Their turmoil was too great for them. They didn't want to taste the gun, they wanted to feel it.

A fresh streak of pain shot through me. Sally was right; this scene wasn't pretty. Even on a normal day, this would be a hard one, much less a bad day.

I wrestled my thoughts in, desperately trying to evade any memories of the ward. But they seemed unavoidable, laced in tight with the body, with the case. I knew exactly what this man had been feeling before he pulled that trigger, and it scared me. This mans body that could have very likely have been my own a year or two ago. Lestrade's brown eyes watched me carefully, glowing with similar thoughts.

"What's your conclusion, John?" You pulled me from my trance.

"Suicide. Obviously." I grunted and pulled myself up, taking a little assistance from Greg. "Emotional distress. His eyes are slightly reddened, puckered around the lashes. Angle of the shot, position of the body, it's pretty clear."

"I'm thinking it was a result of stress from university," You added, "Though the trigger might turn out to be different after a little digging in his file."

"But... what about the lockers?" Greg swung his arms out. "How do you explain that?"

"Simple. Suppressed anxiety, stress, severe self-loathing, boiling up and bursting forth as a single emotion." You gripped the pole, stepping closer to the lockers. "Rage."

The entire room fell quiet as you took that first swing, then the second, then the third, your hands gripped over the rod like stone. Your entire body contoured into your vicious thrashes, coat swirling around your ankles as the wall crumbled at your fingertips. Sally took a step to stop you, but Greg held her back, and the two just watched as you poured yourself onto the metal pannelling. My eyes remained glued to your figure as your muscles pulled and snapped with the miserable adrenaline of a suffering youth.

When you were finished, you paused, your shoulders heaving to regain breath. The tension hung as you fixed your hair and set the rod against the wall, leaving the rest of us in apprehensive silence.

"Case closed."

"There is no way in hell I'm letting you make tea." I sighed, laying my coat on the back of the kitchen chair. "You seem to enjoy drugging my drinks a little too much. Remember the last time?"

"The Veriks case was ages ago." You countered, falling into your armchair. "It wasn't that bad."

"I had a fever for a week." I narrowed my eyes, running the kettle under the tap. "I'll make my own pot, thank you."

You grumbled, but didn't argue. I turned up the heat on the stove, then moved to flip through the newspaper you had planted on the kitchen table. The sun had just started to come up, and Mrs. Hudson hadn't yet made an appearance, which I was more than a little grateful for. I had a bit of a headache, exhausted from both my lack of sleep and the stress from the suicide case that morning. You, of course, read my tension right off my skin.

With a gentle push you rose from your chair, walking into the kitchen to rustle through the cabinets. "Medicine, John. Doctor's orders."

"I'm not taking it, I already said that. I don't need it."

"It will help."

"Nothing needs to be helped." I shot you a look. "I would rather not discuss it again. I doubt either of us have anything new to say."

You turned the pill-bottle over in your hand. "You're in pain."

"I've got a headache. That's it." I hung my crutch off a chair to emphasize. "I'll just have a cuppa and go lay down for a little while. I have to work today, one o'clock shift."

"No, you don't. I called in and let them know you weren't going to be available until your health stabilizes."

I turned to stare at you. "You did what?"

"I called your office and-"

"Sherlock, that's my business, not yours."

"You're going to have to start getting used to me in your business, John. You're not going to be getting rid of me."

I leaned against the counter, folding my arms. It was awful how obstinate you could be sometimes, with that smug smile plastered over your face. Gently, however, it faded as you examined the bottle in your hand, taking a seat and setting it on the table between us. Neither of us said anything, but your eye gave me a hint of the stubborn will you had to see me take the medication.

"I saw how you reacted to the body," You stated.

"Of course I had a reaction, anyone would have. It was disgusting, not to mention it was a lot like the suicides in Afghanistan. What do you want from me?"

You shifted in your seat. I groused, turning back to grab a teacup.

"Do you want a cuppa, Sherlock?"

"Sure. No sugar."

I pulled off the kettle just as it began to whistle, holding it carefully as I filled the cups.

"Why is it that you're so opposed to treatment, John? You're acting as if your doctor is asking you to do some horrible, hideous thing, but honestly it would only do you good. Are you humiliated by it?"

I sighed, setting your teacup in front of you.

"No one else has to know about the prescription. It can be as private or as public as you want." You stirred your tea.

"It isn't that, Sherlock."

"Then what is it?"

"It's just..." I tapped the rim of my cup. , my words choking in my mouth. You watched with an eager stare, which didn't exactly help. But I cleared my throat and struggled to begin. "The, er... The side-effects were awful."

"Side-effects fade."

"They took a long time to fade. The doctor ended up putting me on three dozen other medicines to help deal with them, and then I had to take more medicine to deal with those side-effects. I don't like the decisions my doctor makes, and I don't think he should be putting me on medication when I'm not even showing signs of depression."

"Actually-"

"Don't. You both are getting stress and anxiety mixed up. I've just gotten engaged, there's a lot that I need to think through and deal with right now."

"That's exactly what we're worried about. If this new stress causes a relapse, it could be extremely destructive to you."

"I won't relapse." I said, matter-of-factly.

"You're inviting huge risks onto yourself."

"Risks for what." I muttered.

"Emotional instability. Mental breakdown. Panic attacks, much more severe than the first. Anxiety disorders. Suicide, John."

My heart met an uncomfortable sting, and I nearly dropped my teacup. Your eyes narrowed slightly as I set it down, glancing up at you angrily, trying to decide what approach would bring the minimum amount of suspicion. But you kept prodding, memorizing my every move, the corners of your lips pricking with interest.

"You're affected by that, aren't you. You don't want to remember it."

"Stop it, right now." I bit my cheek, looking around the room for something else to focus on.

"You wanted to kill yourself."

"Yes, Sherlock, thank you for that fine distinction." My voice wavered no matter how hard I tried to sound composed. I lifted my teacup, but my hand trembled so badly that I had to switch hands before I spilled it on myself. I tried to keep talking, but I couldn't manage words, so I glanced away and sipped at my tea, trying as hard as I could to regain control.

"John, you're shaking."

"I fucking know, alright?" I slammed my cup down and put my elbows on the table, cradling my head. "You're just trying to upset me, now."

"You need to tell me, John. I need to know what's scaring you."

"You're not my goddamn therapist."

"You said you didn't want me rummaging through your files. So, I'm asking. What's scaring you."

I looked up at you, pursing my lips. "Why now? You've already got me worked up."

"Then you should just get it overwith."

I folded my hands over my eyes. "It was three months."

You said nothing, sitting back a little in your chair.

"Three months... in the, er, place." I rubbed my forehead. "I had called Greg... He was trying to be supportive, y'know. I didn't really have anyone else. He said I should call him whenever I felt low. It was two in the morning, but he came right over. I had a gun."

"Did you try to kill yourself?"

"...almost."

"What did he do."

"He stayed with me. Sat with me, let me talk it out. Spent the night. The next morning he got Sally to help get me to the hospital. He was worried about me, and he thought the best thing for me would be to leave me in a hospital's care until I was stable again. I didn't agree with him, but I decided to try it out anyway."

"What happened."

I balled my fists. "It made me so much worse. It was a tiny room, white, I was in solitary. I was so alone there, devoured by grief and anger. As time passed I got worse, and they blamed it on me, instead of on the room. They let me leave less and less. I was exhausted, weak, angry, depressed. There was no one for me there. I couldn't function, and because I couldn't function, I was trapped."

You fell silent, the gears in your head turning.

"I'd nearly gone insane by the time Greg got me out. He'd had a long battle with the hospital, since my doctor is an arse who doesn't take orders. But he got me released and took me to stay with him. It took months to rehabilitate me, months of therapy sessions and long walks and crap telly."

"And you got better."

I nodded, lifting my cup again with my better hand, inhaling the smell before drinking.

"But, now, you're afraid of going back there. Of feeling that way again."

"No. I won't feel that way again."

"You're terrified."

"And you're a dickhead." I pushed up from the table, collecting my tea, the newspaper, and the pill-bottle in my shaking hands. "I'm going to my room now. Please don't bother me."

"It isn't good for you to be alone for long periods of-"

"Don't, Sherlock. Just... don't start. I'm going to sleep off this headache. Don't bother me." I pressed my lips together, beginning a slow limp toward the bedroom and shutting the door quietly behind me. You made no more complaints.

Oh, how I love reviews. Oh, I really love reviews.

Next chapter up on Thursday (pinkie promise).