Woo update on the right day.

I'm really unsure about this chapter and it's kind of driving me crazy, so while I put some miles between myself and it, if there's any tips you can give me to improve, I'd love you eternally and forever.

Enjoy.

I swear, sometimes you can be the biggest arse the world had ever seen. I sat on the floor beside my bed for nearly ten minutes, my head clasped in my hands, trying as hard as I could to keep my feet on the ground. My lungs were feeling incredibly tight. Luckily the breathing exercises that my therapist had taught me ages ago came to mind, and I started desperately inhaling through my mouth and exhaling through my nose, trying to force my heart to slow down.

There was just too much stress right now, and you weren't helping. Thinking made my chest throb with pain. I focused on the smell of my tea, wafting up from the bed-side table.

My medication bottle was sitting beside the tea, just within reach, almost tauntingly so. I glared at it. I hated everything about it to the very core. But everyone was telling me that I was in danger, everyone was warning me, everyone seemed to be pointing at that damned little bottle as the solution. I turned the option over in my head, cringing at the thought of the dizziness it brought, and the disorientation, and the nausea.

I looked at it for a long time.

If I just took it for a little while, long enough to prove to the doctor and the therapist that I wasn't depressed, that would be fine, right?

Ugh, but it was still awful. And taking anti-depressants over Christmas had to be the sorriest thing I could have thought up.

Then again, the holidays made various types of relapses much more common. I couldn't stand to think of what might happen if I sunk that low again.

When I got out of that ward, when I was finally on my own, I swore to myself that I would get better. I swore that I would keep living, that I woud be strong, that one suicide was enough for Baker Street. I never wanted to be that way again. I never wanted to feel that same emptiness, the same sadness, the same loneliness. But now, you were telling me to brace myself, because it was coming back. Of course I was scared. Of course I was terrified.

I made my decision. If this thing was going to come back, I wasn't going to face it blindly, the way I did before. I reached for the bottle, unscrewing the cap and knocking two of the tiny tablets into my hand. It turned my stomach just to see them, but I closed my eyes and tossed them into my mouth, swallowing them with a mouthful of tea.

There. The deed was done.

Slowly I crawled up into bed and curled myself around one of the pillows, continuing the breathing excercises, gently pushing my body to relax.

I wasn't sure when sleep finally crept in. One moment I was staring idly at the far wall, and the next I was surrounded by the warm morning winds of Afghanistan, my boots kicking up dust. Mountains rose in the distance, darkened by the contrasting sun. The scent of my tea drifted through the air, and something about the wind felt soft.

Quietly you stepped towards me, sitting beside my hip on the edge of the bed. You watched me, silent, with a sad sort of look on your face. I turned and gazed at you, my eyes still clouded with sleep. By the light in the windows, it must have been at least afternoon. You reached down and smoothed my hair from my eyes.

"You took the medicine." You whispered. "Good, John."

"Only because I knew you'd pitch a fit with the doc," I slurred, yawning. "I'm so damn tired."

"He said it would make you drowsy. It's alright, just rest." You rubbed my shoulder and stood up, brushing off your coat and tying your scarf around your neck.

"Where are you going...?"

"Mycroft's." You looked down to give me a look, but I was too tired to register which one it was. "Mrs. Hudson is upstairs. For now, sleep off the medicine."

"Yessir."

"I'll be back soon, John." You leaned down to press your lips against my temple, smoothing my hair back gently. I nodded into my pillow and closed my eyes, falling back into sleepy bliss. But just before I heard you step out, you eased open the drawer of my bedside table.

Maybe it isn't my place to criticise you. You did redeem yourself, it just took some time. The next morning, you made me breakfast the best you could with what little ingredients we had in the kitchen. Served coffee, too - drug-free, as you promsed. There was gentleness in the tips of your fingers as you brushed them beside my wrist. You made it a point to be considerate to my nerves, and I appreciated it. I still didn't drink the coffee, though.

We slipped through the day without much of a bother. I was exhausted throughout the entire morning and into the afternoon, not wanting to eat or work or do much of anything. I curled up in your armchair with a large blanket and watched crap telly until I felt my brain beginning to disintegrate. You fluttered around within the house, finishing up some of your experiments and starting new ones, keeping yourself reasonably busy. Every now-and-again you would lean over the back of the chair and rustle my hair, ask how I was feeling. Then you would disappear into your work again.

The temperature had taken a turn for the worst, and the snow hadn't stopped since yesterday, piling up thick on the roads and making it nearly impossible to get anywhere, so we stayed bundled up inside. It was a little strange, just staying home with you throughout the day. I felt somewhat like a retiree. Your work was slow, mine nonexistent, so we wandered around the house aimlessly, spitting remarks every so often, just generally enjoying each other's company.

Days dragged on this way, with no real aim or purpose. We went out for groceries (which was a bad idea) and played a lot of Cluedo (which was an equally bad idea), but by the third day we were both ready to get out. Early that morning, you kindly let me know that you had scheduled an appointment with my therapist that afteroon. As overjoyed as I was, I still found it difficult to rouse myself, even as the hours ticked lazily by. My feet dragged a little on the way out to catch a cab.

Therapy was dull, and though I had complained all weekend about going out, I itched to be home, or at least out from under Ella Thompson's microscope. She seemed just as condescending as my doctor, which aggrivated me, but I let it go in the name of past usefulness. We made a date for our next appointment the following Friday (which would hopefully be free of the medicine's side-effects), and I made a beeline for the door.

When I got back, I sighed with relief in the warm fortress of the flat. The newsmen weren't kidding when they said we'd reached the negatives. I kicked the snow off my boots, taking my time in unbuttoning my coat.

"You've gotten a parcel, John," You shouted into the hallway. "I left it on the stair."

"I see it, thanks." I grunted, reaching for the small brown box waiting for me, examining the packaging and tag. It was marked with my parents' address in Wales. Maybe a Christmas gift? How nice of them. I hung my coat and trodded upstairs.

"Got it in this morning. Had to sign," You announced, typing away at your (no, my) computer. "From your parents. A book, expensive one. Most likely a textbook or some kind of limited edition. Classic. I'm thinking hardcover with leather."

"Yes, thank you for the demonstration, show-off." I set the package on the kitchen table and moved to the cabinet, grabbing the kettle. "It's frigid outside this morning."

"I'll take your word for it." You shot me a smug smile, and continued typing.

I filled the kettle and set it on the stove, giving you a glance. "Why are you using my computer?"

"Mine was in the kitchen."

I looked at the table. There was your computer, beside my box. And then there was you, sitting comfortably at your desk not four meters away. I was reminded why I had given up trying to understand you a long time ago.

"How was your, uh." You paused your typing. "Appointment."

"It was fine, it went fine." I rubbed my hands together.

"Good." You continued. "What did you two discuss."

"The usual stuff," I answered. "How I had been feeling, how had I been sleeping, had I been updating my blog."

"Do you feel any better?"

"A little, yes. She said to give you her congratulations."

"Have you opened the parcel yet?"

"Well, no, I was just going to make tea. My hands are about frozen solid."

"Open it. I want to know if I was right."

"You're always right, Sherlock," I sighed, reaching for a kitchen knife. I cut the packing tape on the top of the box, opening it and peering inside. The gift looked somewhat like a book, but it was wrapped in brown packing paper. I pulled it out and weighed it. "Yep, definitely a book."

You turned in your chair to watch as I tore the paper away.

"A Bible," I exclaimed, looking at it carefully. I couldn't help but raise it to my nose, inhaling in the smell of fresh leather. "It's lovely."

"I was right on all counts." You turned back to the computer screen.

"Hmm." I set the Bible down to pour myself my tea.

"What is that murmur for." You asked.

"Oh, nothing." I sniffed at the tea and chuckled. "Just thinking. A gift like this from my parents is strange, but at the same time, it's really not. Y'know?"

"No, I don't."

"Sometimes they get really serious about the whole Catholic business, and invest a lot into it, but then there are other times when they couldn't care less."

"Typical of most religious people," You added.

"Yes, I guess so. It didn't matter much when Harry and I were kids, but I guess this is evidence they've changed their minds a little." I turned it over. "I'll have to write them a thank-you note."

"Are they orthodox Catholics?"

"Generally speaking." I sipped my tea and put the Bible under my arm. "Did you get the paper this morning?"

"Armchair."

"Thanks." I walked over to your chair and took the paper, slipping it under my arm along with the Bible. "I'll be in the other room. Don't want to bother you."

"That's probably for the best."

I pursed my lips, then turned on my heel and strode off toward the bedroom, tossing the paper and the Bible onto the cover of my bed and taking a seat so I could pull off my wet socks. I had been a little worried that my parents wouldn't accept my relationship with you, but they had sent us a gift, hadn't they? Obviously I had just been overreacting again. I had nothing to worry about.

The corner of an envelope stuck out of one of the pages near the end of the Bible. I raised an eyebrow, tossing a sock into the laundry hamper before reaching for the little white slip, pulling the letter out of the book and turning it over. On the front, "John" was written in my mother's handwriting.

You hardly noticed when I came back into the room. I stood at the mouth of the hall, my eyes blurred, watching you in silence while I found my voice.

"Sherlock..." I croaked.

"What is it, John. I'm working."

"Could you give me a moment... please."

"What is-" You looked up at me and froze, your clear blue eyes fixed on my bloodshot ones. "-the matter, John?"

I gripped the letter in my hands. "I got a note."

"Well, what does it say?"

"...er, well, it's from my parents..."

You blinked and looked back down to your computer screen.

"What does it say."

"I don't really..." I cleared my throat. "Well, I don't really know how to explain it..."

"It already is explained, isn't it. Read it to me." You said, still not focused on me.

My throat went dry, but I looked down at the page, unfolding it slowly and glancing across the words one more time before I opened my mouth.

"Dearest John," I started. "We would like to begin this letter by reminding you how much we love you. As your parents, we are responsible to always do what we believe will be best for you. Recently we have recieved word of your engagement to your flatmate, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and will respond by kindly informing you that we will not in any way bless the marriage of you and Mr. Holmes. As members of the Holy Roman Catholic Church, we believe that homosexuality is an abominable sin, punishable by an eternity in Hell. For this reason, we will not accept your sinful relationship with Mr. Holmes. We will always continue to love you, and we will pray for you constantly, that you will turn from your sinful ways. But until you repent of your homosexuality, we wish to have no further contact with you or your spouse. God bless you, John, and may your heart be open to His mercy. Signed, Mr. and Mrs. Henry Watson."

I let my hand fall slowly, tears now brimming in my eyes again. You looked struck, your eyes wide and skin pale.

"They're practically disowning me, Sherlock." I whispered, my voice shuddering. "My own parents."

"John." You stood from your chair.

I pressed my back against the wall of the hallway, sliding down to the floor with a tired thump.

"My own parents." I brought my knees to my chest and leant my forehead against them. "Jesus Christ. What am I supposed to do?"

You knelt beside me, placing a hand on my shoulder. You didn't quite know what to say, and it was discouraging. "John. I'm sorry, John." You slowly pried the parchment from my fingers, setting it on the floor. I brought in a long breath of air, feeling warm tears begin to flow.

"That's it, then. That's their opinion." I laughed angrily, crushing my hands into fists. "I was so worried about what they'd say, I guess I don't need to worry anymore."

"John-"

"For fuck's sake, don't say anything, alright." A sob began to churn in my stomach. "Abominable, they called me. Dammit, Sherlock, parents aren't supposed to say that."

You gently rubbed my shoulders, watching me very carefully. Everything that had been building since therapy now lurked just beneath my skin, spreading like tar, clogging every veins and making my arms heavy. Tears began to fall, streaming red-hot across my face, pooling under my chin. My hands started to tremble, shaking so violently that you reached down to steady them.

"Oh, god, Sherlock," I gasped, rolling my head back and forth.

"Shh, John. Look at me." You cupped my cheek, stroking it with your thumb. Your eyes were still clear, blue, ice cold, perfect against mine, puffy and bloodshot, ugly and empty and raw.

I reached for you, and you leaned into me, wrapping your arms around my chest. My lungs began to close up, answering the misery that washed through every part of me. You pulled me into your lap and cradled my aching body, but I already knew that there was no saving me. Grief spread like fire through my limbs and I gripped your shoulders, dizzied by the emotion and the pain.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, please," I shuddered, clinging to you with all the energy I had left. "I can't... You can't..."

"I won't." You pressed your lips against my forehead, your paleness cold against my sun-scarred skin. I closed my eyes.

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