We're past the halfway point ahhhh. Excited x100. Only up from here.

Fun fact American cider is non-alcoholic while British cider is alcoholic. Obviously John was drinking the non-alcoholic kind in the last chapter. I'll have to change that up but it's tiny so it can wait.

Enjoy the new chapter.

Greg and Anne saw me back to the flat that night. Greg kept complaining about your level of maturity, but Anne only set her hand gently against my arm and held it there. Both of them were worried about letting me stay with you, since Mrs. Hudson was in Holland and I would be alone. I promised to send them a text as soon as I was able to get inside. As the cab pulled up before 221B, Anne gave my arm a squeeze and said goodnight.

I crutched up the steps and unlocked the door, waving back to the cab as it pulled away. As I opened the door, Gladdie thrust his nose through the opening, making short whimpering sounds. You had obviously forgotten that he couldn't climb the stairs on his own. The poor pup was shivering terribly. I scooped him up as I closed the door.

The house was dark, so I assumed you had gone to bed. It was late enough not to question it. I made it up the stairs and poked my head into the sitting room just to check. Rather than going to your bedroom, I braved the stairs up to mine, taking Gladstone with me. I wasn't feeling particularly fond of you at the moment, and I would rather have not spent the night in your bed.

My old bedroom was still mostly furnished, although it had been out-of-use since I started sleeping with you. Small scratch-marks in the middle of the floor reminded me of your criminal from the other day, but I tried not to fuss about it. I flipped the light on and made it a point to check that the windows were properly closed and bolted.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Everything alright? - GL

Yes. He's asleep. - JW

Okay. Let me know if you need anything. - GL

Thank you. - JW

I sighed, sitting down on the bed and pulling Gladstone onto my lap. The room was much too quiet. There was no soft breathing, no oblong shape tucked underneath the covers, and no sweet smell of your shampoo in my pillows. It had only taken a few weeks for me to grow accustomed to having you so close. Now, regardless of the way you had treated me earlier, a part of me still missed it.

Gladdie whimpered and nuzzled his nose into my palm. There were no nightclothes left in the closet, but I didn't mind sleeping in my jumper. I kicked off my shoes and leaned my crutch against the bed-table, wrestling with the blankets to pull them over both I and the dog. The sheets smelled like detergent and dust.

I hardly dreamt that night. I could see your shadow, but I couldn't touch you. Everything was cold, and I was alone.

The windows were light when I woke up. I squinted and read the time from my phone. 8:44. I couldn't believe I had slept so long, mostly because I felt as if I hadn't slept at all. My leg was sore and my eyelids drooped heavily. Gladdie was the one who urged me out of bed, yowling and licking at my face until I complied.

I crept slowly down the stairs, dog in arm, hoping to determine whether or not you were still irritable this morning, but there was no sign of you at all. The flat was quiet and empty. I was both relieved and slightly confused, since you hadn't mentioned any cases or errands. Had you even come home at all last night? But then I saw a little note, folded and standing neatly on my armchair. John was scrawled across the front, in your handwriting. I figured I had might as well read it.

Gone out investigating in Brixton. Be back tonight. Possibly late. Don't stay up.
Made a reservation with your doctor, you're due there at 2. Bring paperwork.
Sherlock

"How thoughtful of you," I muttered, folding the page again and sticking it in my pocket. A doctor's visit wasn't exactly how I wanted to spend my time, but there wasn't much arguing, since you had already made the reservation. Skipping would only cause more trouble than going, so I resigned to it.

I went to change clothes and continued with my morning.

With all necessary politeness aside, I really did hate my doctor. I stayed with him because Mrs. Thompson referred him to me, not because of my own choice. I trusted her judgement. Nonetheless, every visit with the man was a pain in the ass. He walked into the room with the same guarded look on his face every time, as if he was prepared for a struggle and assured of his victory.

He strategically positioned his clipboard between us. "On a scale from one to ten, how stressed are you feeling right now?"

"Eight," I answered, my jaw tight. "Fluctuating one or two points."

"Fluctuating?"

"You're making me nervous."

He chuckled and smiled. "There's nothing to be worried about, John." He flipped through his pages, scribbing something down. "The nurse said you were putting up a bit of a fight."

"Yes. She was borderline harassing me."

"She was trying to get a blood sample." He sighed. "Well, your bloodwork is clean. Your blood pressure is still running a little high, though. Have you been feeling anxious?"

"No."

"Have you been having any more panic attacks?"

"I'd prefer not to call them panic attacks," I stated.

"Then you have had more."

"I didn't say that."

"How many?"

"I didn't say that!"

The doctor leaned back, balancing his clipboard on his knee. "John, I'm going to ask you to be honest with me. You told Mrs. Thompson that you wanted more input, didn't you? You can do that by proving to us that you are mentally sound and able to answer for yourself. If you can't, I'll have to take measures to ensure your health and safety."

"You mean you'll ship me off to an institution until I behave."

"Is that why you're being stubborn? You're still holding a grudge because of the ward?"

"No. I just don't trust you."

"The suicide ward was not an easy solution for me, John. It was the last resort." He shifted in his seat. "Regardless of the way you feel about me, it's my job to do what I can to keep you healthy. Last time, I failed. This time, I plan to make every move possible so that I will not fail again."

Both of us were quiet for a few seconds, until he clicked his pen and took another breath.

"Let's start again. Have you been having more panic attacks?"

I chewed my cheek. "Yes, I have."

"How many?"

"Only two. Well, three. Twice I actually lost consciousness, and another time I only lost my balance. I caught it before it could come on, and the breathing exercises worked to stop it."

"Good. That's very good." He started to write. "Do you remember what days they were?"

"The 21st, 22rd, and 24th."

"They occur frequently, then?"

"...I guess."

"Have you identified anything that might trigger them?"

"No, not really." I purposefully left out the fact that one of them was in the bedroom. I didn't want you having to deal with slack from my doctor about it.

"How has the medication affected you?"

"Don't even get me started," I snorted. "I have no appetite, I can hardly eat anything. I'm always tired, but I can hardly sleep, and never without dreams or nightmares. I've had nausea, tremors, trouble walking, pain in my leg and shoulder, memory problems."

He kept scribbling. "I'm sorry you're having so much trouble."

"I'd improve if you took me off the medication."

He clicked his pen. "John, maybe you should rearrange your thinking. Instead of blaming the medication for your symptoms, you should assign them to your real problem. You may not have come to terms with it yet, but your mental status-."

"Is completely normal. You're the one blaming the symptoms on the wrong thing. If you'd just let me show you-"

"We can't take that chance."

"Yes, we can, because it's my choice."

"You haven't given the medication time to work effectively. I truly believe that if you would just give it a chance that you would be surprised at how well it works. I've prescribed the same thing to many of my patients and in most cases it's worked wonderfully."

"Maybe I'm not most cases."

"Give it time, John."

"It didn't work last time."

"We administered it too late last time. Which is exactly what we're trying to avoid." He shifted again. "There is no quick fix, John. There isn't a pill you can take to make your problems go away immediately. It takes time, it takes effort, and it takes opening up to me and to Ella."

"I can do all those things without being on medication."

"Can you? Because you haven't been showing me you can."

"Take me off the medicine and I'll show you."

"If you'd just give it a month or two to properly-"

"I can't do this for a month!" I exclaimed, gripping my armrests. "I can't eat, I can't sleep. My leg has never been worse, even since Afghanistan. I don't need this. There stress in my life, yes. There's always stress. There's always going to be stress. This medication is only making things worse, and so much harder to handle. You need to take me off. Now."

"Calm down." The doctor said, quietly. "You can trust me, John. The medicine will work. It just needs time."

"It's out of time," I growled.

The doctor frowned, then started writing again, his clipboard bowing just slightly enough so that I could see it. My hand started to shake as I read his long handwriting.

High-risk.
Increase dosage.
May require hospitalization.

Once I saw that, I was finished. I faintly recall saying "sod this" at the man, but everything thereafter was a collective blur of rage. I seized my coat from beside the door and tore off down the hall, leaving the door gaping open behind me. I heard the doctor come running after me, telling me to stop, but I was boiling over and wanted nothing to do with anyone at the present moment. I just wanted to get home, back to the quiet and away from these hospital bastards.

But the doctor had pressed the emergency service button, and several nurses now joined his brigade. One male nurse grabbed my arm, and in angry reflex I connected my fist to the side of his jaw. It took three nurses to restrain me, and another two to administer a sedative. The world slowly wound down, grinding to a stop.

You were called promptly after my episode. The hospital staff wouldn't let me leave alone, insisting that you come to escort me. Of course, you were coming all the way from Brixon, so it took a good amount of time, and you weren't very happy by the time you got there. Regardless, my doctor wanted a private conversation with you before we left. My wrist twitched with annoyance as I waited outside his office, slumped in one of the waiting chairs, tapping the foot of my crutch against a coffee-table.

After what seemed like much too long, you came out from the office with a manilla folder tucked under your arm. I roused out of my daze and straightened. "Are we done?"

"Yes. Let's try to get home before it's dark." You glanced over me, expression guarded.

"Has everything been cleared up?" I asked, standing.

"More or less." You pulled a bottle of pills out of your sleeve and tossed them toward me. "Let's go."

I grumbled at the bottle, but you paid no attention. You stalked toward the door, wrapping your coat tightly around yourself. The snow had stopped, but there was still a humid chill in the air, as if the clouds were only waiting for their next opprotunity to strike. I shivered on the sidewalk while you hailed a cab, watching the shadows move across your back.

We didn't say between the street and the cab, sitting on opposite sides from each other, me bundled in my coat and you in your scarf. A small scowl still lingered on your face, and it made me nervous to interact with you. I was tired and faint. If you were going to act like a child, then I was going to let you. I was not going to entertain your pathetic attitude for one second.

But after a little while, you were the one to clear your throat. "John."

I glanced up at you. "Yes?"

You turned from the window. "My behavior last night was uncalled for. I had too much to drink and said things I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I hope I didn't offend you too badly."

I stared at you, and we held eye contact. "Who put you up to it."

"Lestrade."

"Figures." I sighed. "Yeah, it's fine, Sherlock. But don't ever do that to me again, alright? It was humiliating."

"I'll be more careful."

"And you need to apologize to Anne, too. It doesn't matter if you suspect her, she deserves more respect than that."

Your eyes turned sour. "I'll apologize. But only because you asked. I'd rather you not get involved with her so quickly. She hadn't been nearly as-"

"Okay."

"...What?"

"Okay. I'll be more careful. Sorry."

"No defense? No compromise?"

"I've given up trying to argue with you. If you want me to be cautious, I'll be cautious." I leaned my head against the frame of the window. "You're Sherlock Holmes, after all. You know better than I do. I'm just the blogger."

"Alright." You still looked slightly suspicious, but you chose not to press the issue, which I appreciated. I really just didn't want to deal with it then. You shifted. "You didn't come to bed last night."

"No. I slept upstairs."

"You should have come in."

"I didn't want to make things worse."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize."

You pursed your lips and looked out the window again.

I've got two letters for you. One of them's F, and the other one's review.

Next update Thursday.