"...Yes, Mrs. Hudson, we're both quite alright. John's got a bit of a bump on the head, but he'll be alright, the swelling has already gone down almost completely." You paced around the bedroom, your phone held to your ear. You seemed eager to get the conversation over-with, fiddling with your fingers behind your back. "Absolutely not. The inner wall has some damage, but it'll be easily fixed with some plaster. I can do it before you get back." Pause. "No, no, the blood came right up. Not even a smudge. I promise." You glanced at me. "He's doing much better now. He got some pain pills and iced it. Yes, I'll keep an eye on him. Enjoy the rest of your holiday, Mrs. Hudson. Yes, Merry Christmas. Goodnight."

You sighed, sinking onto the bed with the phone in your lap.

"Is she enjoying Holland?" I asked, softly.

"She seems to be." You nodded, looking over me with a familliar expression, searching for a problem. "How are you feeling?"

"Exhausted." I let out a long breath. "But I don't feel like sleeping."

"That's understandable. You need to relax." You reached over and smoothed my hair back, careful of my bruise.

"What does all this mean, Sherlock? Is this Moriarty? Is someone trying to revenge him?" I leaned forward, closing my eyes. "What do these people want? Why do all these things keep happening? Are we in danger? Are you in danger?"

You moved closer, crawling to sit beside me. "John, don't think about these things now. I'll figure this out." You put a finger underneath my chin and turned my head toward yours. "I'll take care of you."

"How can you take care of me when you can't even take care of yourself."

You drew back. "What?"

I took a breath and turned to look at you. "You've been acting strange again."

"Again?"

"Greg is worried."

"Worried about what, John?"

"Worried that you've been... shooting up."

Your face went blank. For a few moments you stared at me, the gears in your head slowly turning, trying to decide which emotion would be an appropriate response. I sighed and laid my head against your chest, wrapping an arm around your waist, and rubbed my nose against the fabric of your shirt.

"I want to trust you, Sherlock. I do."

"I haven't done anything."

"I know you haven't."

"Then, why?"

"Because I know you want to."

"I don't-"

"Don't lie, Sherlock." I picked up my head. "It's alright."

"No, John." You pushed yourself up, rolling your hands into fists as you started a brisk pace. "No."

I sat forward, wrapping my arms around my legs. "Sherlock..."

"Lestrade has no right to be saying things like that. Not to you, not to anyone."

"He's just worried about you, Sherlock. He didn't say it to be judgemental. He wants to make sure you're doing alright."

"Did he tell Mycroft?"

"No, he said he wouldn't yet."

"He had better not."

"Why are you getting so upset, Sherlock? If you're still clean, you have nothing to worry about."

"I am still clean."

"Then you have nothing to worry about."

"No. George shouldn't have-"

"It's Gr-."

"I don't care what his fucking name is." You kicked the leg of the bed, making it shudder. I jumped. "He had no reason to ask you something like that. I haven't touched anything in weeks. Not even a goddamn cigarette. But he has the nerve to stir up trouble, regardless!" You ran your hands through your hair, continuing to pace the length of the room.

"Calm down, Sherlock," I said quietly. "I'm the only one he said anything to. He's not announcing it to the world. I'll let him know he doesn't need to worry. No one else will know."

"It isn't about other people, John. It isn't about Mycroft. It's hard enough to function with the current stress you're under, but obviously Lestrade could care less. Why in hell would he think to add another thing to the load, I have no bloody idea." You heaved with anger, nostrils flaring. "Tell him to keep his mouth shut next time. He doesn't understand what's going on. He just needs to keep his bloody mouth shut."

"He was only trying to help. Why are you getting so worked up over this?"

"Because it's wrong, John. You don't need more to worry about. You're already hurting, you're already struggling with everything that's been happening. The panic attacks, the meds, the burglary, the relationship. You're already dealing with so much, he's only going to overwhelm you. I don't want to overwhelm you. You can't get overwhelmed."

"I'm not overwhelmed."

"But I am. I'm overwhelmed." You dropped your head to touch my knee. "I want to help you. I want to keep you safe. But you're right. I can't. I can't help you, and I hate it."

I reached out to smooth your hair. "You are helping me, Sherlock."

"No. I'm not. You keep getting worse, and I can't even keep you safe much less healthy."

"That's not your fault."

"It is my fault. It's my fault that you asphyxiated in the study. It's my fault that you're relapsing. It's my fault that you're in danger, and it's my fault that I can't figure out this goddamn case, and I am sorry. I am so sorry."

You looked up at me with your eyes filled with pain. I reached out to touch your cheek, and you pulled closer, brushing your lips against mine. You kept whispering I'm sorry as you moved across my skin, your hands roaming across my back. My heart trembled, but I knew that what you needed was reassurance, and so I left you to do whatever you wanted. You slipped my jumper over my head in one fluid motion, your heat spreading across me like wildfire.

I closed my eyes and my mind, forcing out my thoughts and replacing them with your body, digging my fingernails into the soft flesh of your back. Desire seeped through my veins like honey, slowing down the world, dripping from your fingertips. I wrapped my legs around your waist, pulling you flush against me, and I heard your breath catch. Your hands found my hips, your breath searing my skin, and I moaned in pleasure.

As my heart sped up, I felt the walls start to close in around me. I tried to ignore it as it began, but my lungs became painfully tight, and I started to feel dizzy. I pressed my hands against your chest, but you didn't stop. Your tightening grip stung as I tried to get you off. My pulse kept racing faster and faster, and I felt my lungs begin to die as panic shrieked through my brain.

"It's asphyxia, asphyxia," You shouted, cradling my head. "John, can you hear me? John."

I couldn't breathe. I reached out for you, twisting locks of your hair between my fingers, pulling you close to me again. You held me close, rocking gently while I shivered against the darkness. The room spun around us.

My wrists burned with pain, sliced open and pouring blood down my forearms. I gripped the knife in my shaking fingers as the lights nearly blinded me. My stomach rolled with the smell of hot blood and smoking flesh, reaching desperately for the wall and leaving a long smear of red behind. The room was too hot. It closed in around me.

I stumbled to the sink and turned on the tap, but the water boiled out of the faucet. I tried to scream, to make a sound, but my throat was scorched dry. I clawed at my throat, struggling to breathe, but my nails only smeared hot blood across my neck. My wounds kept pumping, blood dripping from the walls, burning my skin and ripping me open.

Death comes to everyone, you had said. Embrace it when it comes. Maybe this was the death that I deserved.

Then, I was in the suicide ward. I recognized it immediately. The small, bleak room leered at me from all directions. My heart dropped, dread lacing its fingers in my throat.

It was a horrifying place. I could scream for years at the blank walls and there would be nothing to answer me. Floods of terrifying reminiscence washed through me. I slammed my fists against that door until I saw stars. I hated that room. That room. Terror racked my shoulders as I collapsed against the cold, white flooring.

Asphyxia was its name. That's what you called it. It was a slimy, crawling monster, one that slipped easily in and out at the edges of my vision. With a swell of pain it bit down on my mind, churning, spewing out nightmares and visions and horrible shrieks echoing in the back of my head. Its teeth were lined with venom, psychosomatic tortures beyond anything I'd ever felt.

I screamed. You jolted. You cried. I trembled.

You were there, every time. When I would turn, there you were. When I was sitting by myself, you were right there beside me. When I was walking, you were talking to me, striding along. When I was cold, you were there to warm me. When I was alone, you made sure I wasn't lonely. When I was sad, you cheered me up. When I couldn't take it anymore, you were the one who was there, whispering that I could live and breathe another day. Just another day.

But you weren't there, really. You were laying on the pavement of St. Bart's, blood soaking your skin. Somewhere deep in my mind I knew that there was where I had left you. Where you still laid. Where you had left me. Where I still stood. Alone, on the pavement of St. Bart's, waiting for someone to come and tell me it was all a hoax.

Your fingers, through my hair. Your voice, in my head. "It's just a dream. Asphyxia."

No one came, Sherlock. No one came.

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