Before you ask, yes, this is the new chapter. You didn't misread or misclick.

I decided to take another rotation to go back and work on this chapter some more. One of my followers pointed out some flaws in the last version, and I didn't want to sit on a chapter I knew wasn't acceptable. I'm glad I did it, too. There are some small changes in plot, but most of the adjustments I made were in the writing itself, so if you don't want to read the chapter again you don't have to. If you do, though, let me know if it read any better than the last one. (Hopefully it does. Crossing fingers.)

Also, I'd just like to publicly state how much I enjoy this whole process. Writing, editing, hearing from you, it all makes me really happy and I'm glad I'm doing it. Keep the reviews and the messages coming, I always look forward to hearing from you.

Enjoy.

Gray skies loomed over Christmas morning, chilling the walls, strangling the fire, and flooding the streets with snow. I shivered through three wool sweaters. You grumbled bitterly at the lack of insulation, but there really wasn't much you could do. I bundled Gladdie and myself in blankets on the couch, arming myself with a cup of hot tea and avoiding the flooring at all costs. The fire crackled idly as you stalked throughout the house.

I wasn't sure if you were deliberately avoiding eye contact or if you were just distant. You had woken in a strange mood, your voice too harsh and your grip too tight. You had made breakfast for the two of us and even taken care of the dog, but when I tried to make conversation you cut me off short. I tried to figure out why, but your defenses were impenetrable. Eventually I stopped bothering.

That morning I finished the rest of the pills. You watched me carefully as I swallowed them with my tea. I had felt slightly nauseous since last night's episode, and though relaxing had helped relieve most of it, the room still swam when I moved my head too quickly. I prayed that I hadn't caught some kind of virus, God knew that was exactly what I needed. But it gave me an excuse to skip lunch, so I wasn't complaining too much.

In a way, I was angry with myself for feeling so dispirited. Somehow it seemed wrong to be anything less than euphoric on Christmas. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't escape from my thick mental fog, and so I curled up tighter and sipped my tea. Even if I felt less than wonderful at home, it could probably be credited to walking on eggshells whenever you came into the room. I would get better when I was with Greg and Anne and the others, or at least I hoped.

Mid-way through the morning I realized that you hadn't called your parents. Begrudgingly you resigned to do so, but only with heavy glares and plenty of incoherent mumbing.

"Yes, Mum, John's fine. Of course I'm taking care of him." You rolled your eyes.

I turned my head at my name. "They know about the accident?"

You nodded.

"How do they know?" I asked.

You shrugged, then motioned toward the phone, turning away from me. "Yes, yes, he's keeping warm. Listen, Mum, who told you about the doctor's visit?" You paused, nodding again. "Oh, Mycroft. Alright. That should have been fairly obvious. Next time he calls with the latest family gossip, be sure to thank him for me; we're always looking for new sets of nerves to include in our personal problems."

I chuckled as your mother's shrill voice barked across the line. But I paused. Hearing Mycroft's name jogged something in my memory. "Hey, Sherlock? Where is Mycroft's gift?"

"You got him something?" You asked, looking fairly disapproving.

"No, he got us something. Where did you put it?"

You shrugged and returned to the conversation with your mother. With a grunt, I stretched out my legs and gritted my teeth against the cold. I distinctly remembered Mycroft's white wrapping paper and figured that the package should have been easy enough to spot. Walking to the kitchen, I sifted through the clutter on your shelves, but there was no gift in sight.

"I feel bad that we haven't even opened it yet," I muttered, leaning against a chair. "It's been more than a week."

"Don't worry about it. Knowing him, it's probably something ordinary. Cologne, or socks." You sighed. "No, Mum, I wasn't talking to you."

"It's still something. You really don't know where it is?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

You flailed. "I'm on the phone, John."

I huffed, taking a seat. An uneasy feeling came over me as I thought about the package. I kept glancing toward the kitchen window, the one we had found left ajar. Could the burglary have had something to do with the disappearance of Mycroft's gift? In fact, this whole debacle had begun as a response to Mycroft's gift. You and I had been on our way to find it when I had passed out. He had never done anything like that for us before, nor had he seemed like he ever would. Could Mycroft, or his suspicious package, have had something to do with all this?

"John?" You held your phone to your chest, looking over me. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." I touched my forehead.

Somehow I managed to stomach a portion of food from Anderson's Christmas dinner, and I wished I could have enjoyed it. Though everything looked wonderful, my appetite had never recovered, and even the thought of eating made me nauseous. Luckily no one else seemed to notice. It was good to spend time with Greg, Sarah, Anderson, and the others, listening to their various Scotland Yard stories and laughing together with them. It made the house glow and spill out with warmth - a good change from our chilly flat.

Anderson had even done himself a bit of grooming, trimming his beard and whatnot. His voice was still piercing as ever when you prodded at him, but his eyes sparkled cheerfully, watching you with a simple sort of happiness. Molly was the same way; her gaze was whimsical, as if you had finally come to them again after a long separation. Sally tried to put up a front, but even she was drawn into the group's light attitude. They came beside you, as colleagues and as friends, reviving you.

It was a divine thing to watch. By the time dinner was finished, your shoulders lost their stress, your jaw loosened, and you held your wineglass lax in your hand. What I had hoped for the night to do for me, I watched do for you. On one hand, I knew it was good for you to enjoy yourself. On the other hand, it was melancholy, because my persisting fog excluded myself from the divinity.

The night progressed, and you, Greg, and Sally involved yourselves in a vigorous game of darts in the living room. I tried to at least watch, but all the noise had started to hurt my head, and eventually I got up to retreat toward the back with a warm mug of cider. What I really wanted was a glass of wine, but I figured that alcohol wouldn't really have mixed well with anxiety medication, so I tilted my head against the wall and erased the possibility. I would have to find another medium for the Christmas spirit this year.

While the noise steadily increased with each round of drinks, Anne noticed me from across the room. She swirled her own glass and watched me a few moments before finding her way over, settling into a chair beside me. "You aren't watching?" She asked, adding a smile.

"Nah. Headache. I'll probably hear all about it later, anyway." I smiled back, sipping at my cider.

"That's true." She crossed her legs and leaned back. There was a blush of sympathy on her cheeks as she studied me. "Do you need an aspirin?"

"No, it's fine. It's just the racket. It'll pass."

"Sure?" Anne paused, then stretched her neck to look around the room. "If you'd rather go someplace quieter, I think Anderson has a terrace."

"Oh, yeah, quieter would be good." I nodded, standing up, and she followed with a start.

"I'll get your coat for you," She said, already stepping toward the door. "Wouldn't want you to catch a cold, right?"

"Thanks." I chuckled at her. Her red curls bobbed as she walked off toward the coat-stand. Careful not to let my eyes linger too long, I turned toward the glass doors that separated the balcony from the rest of the house.

The roof had kept most the snow off of Anderson's limited balcony, but I swept a few stubborn clumps off the railing and curled my fingers at the cold. Large snowflakes floated slowly through the air. Truly, our sour weather could never look so gorgeous except for on the city street. A small sofa stood two paces to my left, and I sat down just as Anne slid the door closed behind her.

"Damn, it's lovely," She sighed, taking in the view. "If I lived here, I'd never leave the balcony."

"It's beautiful," I agreed.

"I love the city. It's mayhem during the day, but at night it's so serene." She sighed, then handed over my coat. "There you go."

"Thanks." I swung it over my shoulders as Anne took a seat, wrapping her own jacket tighter around herself. "Yes, this is much better. Much less noise."

"I thought so." She laughed lightly, taking another sip from her glass. Her green eyes seemed to reflect all the colors of the street, glistening with soft yellows and reds, her pale skin drawn up into a smile curved into her lips. I caught myself staring yet again, this time shamelessly, and she glanced at me just as I looked away.

"I have a question for you, Anne, if you'll answer it," I said, hesitantly.

"Of course," She replied.

"But it's a little personal," I continued.

She laughed. "Go ahead."

How does a man like Greg catch the eye of a girl like you? I mean, you're absolutely stunning. You don't look like you could be a day over twenty-five. I know Greg has some charm to him, but I can hardly imagine someone like yourself going for him without some kind of incentive."

Anne made a strange face, and I was afraid I had offended her.

"Not that I would think you were some kind of call girl, I just thought it was a little, er, strange. No, not strange." I wrung my wrists. "You're beautiful. You could've had any young man you wanted, and yet you chose Greg. Why Greg? Is he really that attractive to you?"

"I don't really know." Anne answered, with a slight chuckle. "Can we really explain it? Can you explain why you're in love with a raging genius sociopath?"

"I guess not." I took a gulp of cider. "Sorry."

"You're fine." She smiled. "But thank you."

"For what?"

"For saying I was beautiful."

My ears burned. "You're welcome."

We fell back into silence, but it was more a relaxed silence than an awkward one. Anne leaned forward onto her knees, watching the snow fall, catching stray flakes in her curls. Her expression had changed, just slightly. Instead of her normal glow, she now seemed solemn, her lips drawn up tight. I didn't know what was bothering her, but I didn't trust myself to ask, so I just watched.

In passing, I noticed that her nails had been professionally done. At any other time, I wouldn't have thought twice about it, but tonight they caught my eye. According to you, professional nails meant a woman was trying to impress. Her hair looked like it could have been done by a professional, too, though I figured girls have enough skill n the area of hair anyway. The knit dress she wore was pretty, but not particularly in-style, so obviously she wasn't looking for a large group's acceptance. Maybe a closed group, or one person in particular. Nothing about her seemed even remotely suspicious or deceptive; in fact, her whole demeanor was very attractive and friendly. Though I had only met her a few times, I already considered her a friend. Her openness made her easy to trust. How in the world could you have suspected her of foul play?

"You seem to look at me that way a lot, John." Anne said, suddenly. "Sherlock does the same thing, but his is only a glance. Yours lasts longer."

"Oh... I'm sorry." I blinked and looked at the floor.

"And you always look so sad."

I stared at her, shifting slightly. "I'm not sad. Just tired."

"Are you sure?"

I shifted again. "Yeah."

She tilted her head, her eyebows bending forward. "John."

"Okay, Anne, look. I don't want to talk about it right now. Okay?" I swirled my mug. "It's Christmas."

"You've hardly interacted with anyone at all."

"Yes I have! I talked to Greg for a little while."

"A little while. But you've not done much of anything other than that, except listen. You hardly even ate a bite. Have you lost weight?"

"I don't want to talk about this, Anne." I tried to sound commanding, but it took the breath from my lungs. I closed my eyes and sat back, my head falling against the spine of the sofa. "I know you mean well, but I came here to get away from the problems, at least for a little while. I don't need anyone else giving me coping methods."

"I'm just worried about you, John."

"Thank you. But don't be."

She frowned.

"Look, I'm sorry. I've just had a long day. Sherlock's been acting strange and I've just been a little under the weather." I tapped my foot. "I'll talk to you about what's going on, just not right now. Not here. Sometime when I'm feeling better, when I can get it all out without getting worked up."

"Alright." She thought a moment. "Why don't we go out?"

I raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Let's schedule a day. We can go for lunch, just the two of us. Have a chat."

"Well, you know what Sherlock would think of that."

"Of course we wouldn't do anything indecent," She stammered, playing with the hem of her dress. "We'll just talk. I have a feeling that you'll prefer opening up away from him." Her eyebrows knitted. "I want to help you feel better. If getting this off your chest is the way to do it, I'm okay with that."

I smiled a little. "Thank you, Anne. Yeah, we can do it."

"Great." She pulled out her mobile phone and handed it to me. "Put in your number."

In the time it took to enter it, inside, you had noticed I was missing. Your quick glance caught the door of the balcony and you jumped toward it, leaving your empty wineglass behind, and you thrust your upper body into the cold. Anne and I both looked up, and as you registered the scene, the alarm faded from your eyes and was replaced with irritation.

"Lost your game?" I asked, handing Anne's phone back.

"Yeah." You flexed your jaw, stepping out with us and closing the door. "I take it that this means neither of you care much about what opinions I might hold?"

"The noise inside was hurting John's head, we came out because it was quiet." Anne stated.

You glanced between us. "So, no."

"We didn't think your opinions would mind." I met your eyes. "We're just sitting."

"Secluded, tucked away in a balcony where no one can see you and no one can hear you." You flicked your glare to Anne, narrowing. "I don't appreciate you luring John away from me. You can leave now."

She shifted, but didn't get up. "There's no reason to get upset, Sherlock. You know that John wouldn't do anything you wouldn't approve of."

"Obviously he already has. Leave."

"No. Not if you're just going to berate him. John's worn out, he doesn't need that from you."

"It's not your place to be deciding what John needs."

I set my hand on her knee. "Anne, it's alright. Just go."

"No, it's not!" She exclaimed. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"It's not worth it," I whispered.

"Listen to him." You snapped. "Get out, before you make any bigger of a mess."

"You're the one making a mess." She replied, standing. "You should be the one inside, not me."

As she stepped to leave, you intercepted her, pushing yourself close to her face. She chirped a little in fright, shying away from you as you growled. "You will stay away from John." You declared. "I'm only warning you once."

Her nose curled with disgust. "You're drunk."

You yanked open the door, your eyes never leaving hers. She tried to remain apathetic, but the color had drained from her face, and she slipped back into the flat with her hands nervously bunched at her waist.

I was enraged and embarrassed with you and the way you had treated Anne, and it put power back behind my voice. "What the hell was that, Sherlock?!" I demanded, putting my mug down. "That was completely uncalled for. How dare you act that way toward her. All she did was reach out to me, and think about what I wanted, while you were in there wasting time. You couldn't have cared less about what I was doing until you realized that I was with her."

"I've told you-"

"No, Sherlock. Don't make excuses. It isn't about Anne, or anything that Anne did, it's about your immaturity, and your inability to acknowledge a perfectly good person. Jesus Christ, what's gotten into you, Sherlock? You're not pissy because Anne and I were out here. You've been pissy all day, pissy for no reason at all, and you used your pathetic moodiness as an excuse to be a complete dick to Anne. Don't try to tell me that y-"

"Shut up."

"Y-"

Your voice burst with rage. "You're a goddamn idiot, John. You don't even see that she's walking all over you. You're sick, you're unguarded, and you're letting her worm her way right into your head. But instead of admitting it, you're accusing me of being stubborn to cover up the fact that you can barely function on your own!"

I froze, staring at you. "I-"

"No, shut up, John. You don't know anything. I thought your illness only made you weak, but it made you useless. I can't even trust you to follow my instructions. You're right, this isn't about Anne. It never was about Anne. It was about you, you and your bloody flaccid judgement. Your senses are slow and stupid. And yet you blame me! Do I need to chain you down now, too? Like some kind of lunatic?"

"Alright, alright, quiet down," I stammered. "You've just had too-"

"You're letting yourself dissolve. I thought it was because of something I did, but it's not about me. You're refusing to answer to reason, and you're content just to lay down and die. You ignore everyone and everything else so that you can stay in your own little world where you don't have to deal with your problems. Get out of your own head, goddammit. I'm trying to help you, but you don't fucking listen. And if you don't listen, what's the point?!"

You shattered my mug against the outer wall, its shards scattering in all directions. Your breaths heaved clouds billowing from your nose and mouth. I gripped the arm of the sofa, watching you with wide eyes. My chest throbbed with pain, but I said nothing.

In a flurry, you stormed back into the flat and cut through toward the front door. I quickly got up behind you, disregarding my crutch, and stumbled inside as fast as I could. No one tried to get between us, or even had the time to. You made it to the door twice as fast as I could, and my voice was strained as I finally caught up to you.

"Wait, Sherlock, please." I put my hand on your arm, but you pulled away, opening the door without so much as glancing my way.

"Find your own way home," You muttered, slamming the door behind you.

Crap what song did I use for last week I can't even remember.

Arabella's got some interstellar-gator skin reviews.

New* chapter Sunday.

*(I promise.)