Dear sweet lordie it's here. Ah finally

This is going to get real dark real fast. All warnings apply. Enjoy.

I don't want to take anything away from these next few chapters so I won't leave any author's notes. Just remember to review and tell me how you feel. I'll see you on the other side.

The morning of New Year's Eve was bright. Little snowflakes fell from a light overcast, and although the thought of yet another snowstorm didn't excite me, the view was pretty from the hospital window. You had just showered and were now slipping back into your trousers as I stared hopelessly down at my plate.

My hospital breakfast was meager, and my appetite stone-dead, but I managed to swallow a few bites. My doctor had been less than impressed with the number on the scale that morning. But now it was even harder to keep anything down. No matter how much I tried to convince myself that food was harmless, my stomach still turned with refusal, as if it had given up completely on being a stomach. I chewed a mouthful of toast as you sat down beside me.

"Consider yourself lucky, John," You said, picking a strawberry off my tray. "The doctor didn't want you released until the end of the week. It took Mycrof for him t to let me take you home."

"That man needs to go back to medical school." I muttered. "He doesn't know what he's doing."

"He's doing his best." You tied your scarf.

"His best isn't good enough." I sighed and stabbed a cold clump of egg. "I've lost a stone since first I came. A stone."

"Then you need to start eating more."

"But I can't. I'll just throw everything up."

"They have medication for that."

I looked at you. "You've got to be kidding."

"No? There's stuff for nausea, vomitting."

"I'm not taking any more damn pills, and that's the last I want to hear about it." I huffed.

"Fine, then." You flipped up the collar of your coat. "Are you ready to go?"

"I guess so."

I pushed the metal tray away, sliding my feet to the ground, and you took my hand to help me off the bed. Pain raced up my arms and legs, my ankles weak and knees still sore. I hissed, and immediately you were at my side, your hands hovering just above my shoulders. "Is everything alright? Does something hurt?"

"Everything hurts, that's the problem," I grunted, putting my hand on your arm to steady myself. You gently touched my back.

"Maybe it's better if you stay, after all," You thought.

"That's not necessary." I said, sighing and righting myself. "Let's just get home. I'm tired, and this place drains me."

You studied me, then nodded.

My body wasn't accustomed to all the sedatives the doctors had used on me, I decided. That, paired with the medication and whatever Anne had slipped in my drink, continued to suck the energy out of me even after we left St. Bart's. I positioned my forehead against the cold glass pane to help ease my stomach.

The jacket you had brought for me was irritatingly baggy. It had been a little on the larger side in the first place, but now it was scratching at the skin of my wrists and collar with every shift. I tried to focus on the street buzzing around our cab, but even that was hard. All the movement, the color, and the energy dizzied me, like I had just stepped out of a dream, or stumbled into a massive case of déjà vu.

"When we get home I'll make some tea," You said, noticing my slump against the door. "That hospital coffee was practically water."

"Mmh."

"Are you alright?"

"Just a little sick."

Your hand brushed reassuringly along my back.

We arrived at Baker Street within a few minutes, and I took my crutch while you paid the driver. Gladdie bombarded me as I stepped through the door, yowling and pouncing on my leg. I hissed when his paw hit one of my bruises, and you shouted at him. He changed direction and busied himself with sniffing your feet. I hung up my coat.

"Oh, John! Thank heavens, you're finally here!" Mrs. Hudson came running from her rooms as fast as her hip would take her, her green apron tied around her waist. She threw her arms around me and squeezed. "I've been worried sick about you, dear! Oh, dear Jesus, you look awful."

"I missed you too, Mrs. Hudson." I smiled a little, ignoring the pain. "How was... uh..."

"Holland. Holland was wonderful, dear, thank-you for asking." She fluttered her arms. "I was just making biscuits for you, honey and almond, your favorite. Come and sit, would you? I'd love if you'd sit with me, just for a little bit, would you?"

"John should rest, Mrs. Hudson," You said, kicking the door back inside.

"No, no, it's alright. I can." I nodded to you. You made an averse face, but still followed me when I crutched into her kitchen.

The smell of the freshly-baked biscuits nearly knocked me over. There were about two-dozen of them, all hot and stacked on a plate in the middle of her table. Obviously she had been cleaning again, because the stink of bleach cleaner still hung in the air, although masked by the biscuits. The news chittered from a radio-box in the corner until Mrs. Hudson switched it off, motioning for me to take a chair at her dinner-table.

"Would you like a cuppa?" She chirped. "I'll put on the kettle."

"Thank you, that'd be nice." I sat down and sighed, stretching out my bad leg while you took the seat across from me.

She bustled, setting the pot down on the stove with a clang. I almost flinched, and rubbed my ear to cover it up. "I'm so, so glad you're home, John. It's been dreadful quiet without you here, Sherlock out running around late and all. Barely even came home, I'll tell you. He never remembers to say hello, you know how he is on those big cases of his." She muttered to herself, "Tearing up my bloody wall with all his papers."

"It's better I make use of it," You folded your hands on the table.

"You can make use of it by letting it be as a bloody wall instead of a corkboard."

The phone rang from the other room, and Mrs. Hudson pushed out of her seat. "Oh, that's probably Tommy. I left one of my suitcases down in Holland, you know, busy busy... I'll just take this, alright? You boys stay right here." She scuttled off, her shoes gently squeaking along the floor. You and I locked eyes for a few moments.

"We can go now, while she's occupied," You offered.

"No, it's alright." I stretched my shoulders, just gently. "We can stay a little longer. I don't want her to worry about me."

"It would probably be better if we left, then. You do look awful."

I shook my head.

You pursed your lips, then reached into your pocket. You drew out a small pill-bottle and set it down between us, its gentle tap twisting a hole into my gut. I stared at it with dread, then looked up and met your gaze.

"You went pale." You said, quietly. "What's scaring you?"

I swallowed hard, gripping my trembling hands together in my lap. Even seeing the bottle - not even the pills, the bottle alone - had almost made me throw up. My skin felt clammy, and I could feel my lungs beginning to buckle.

You were beside me, your hand resting on my shoulder. "Is it an attack?"

"It's fine. I'm fine." I sucked down a breath. "Just... put that away. Would you. Just put it away."

After a pause, you grabbed the bottle and held it in your palm. You turned it over, scanning across the label and going quiet. Gently you unscrewed it, and held the lip directly under my nose. "Do you smell anything?"

I jerked away. "The hell do you mean, Sherlock?"

You pulled it away and moved for the kettle. I watched you as you served a cup of tea, stirring as its steam wafted up toward the ceiling. You used one of Mrs. Hudson's various tea containers, with the label out of my line of sight. As it was finished you held it in front of me, letting the steam drift into my nose.

"What do you smell, John?"

I curled my nose and tried to yank away again. The smell was making me uneasy. "What do you mean, smell? I smell tea, isn't that what I'm supposed to smell?"

You grumbled. "Anything else?"

"No. Just tea. Did you put something in it?" I sniffed. "Yorkshire?"

Your eyes got narrow. "Yes. It's Yorkshire."

"Okay?" I leaned onto my elbows and bounced my leg. "What does that mean?"

"I think you were right."

"Well, that's a fucking first."

"Think, John. When you received that parcel in the mail, what was the first thing you did with it? You smelt it. When we were in the café, I had the bleach cleaner. I noticed that you seemed particularly sensitive to the smell. Too sensitive. Much more sensitive than normal. When we entered the dog pound, your reaction was the same."

"So, what, Sherlock?" I stammered.

You grabbed the pill bottle and tossed it into the air. "She was clever. She was goddamn clever. This is how she did it, John." You held the bottle in front of me. "These are benzodiazepines, John. Benzodiazephines, which, when allowed to build up in the liver, can cause senses such as smell to become abnormally acute. She's overdosing you on your own medication. Goddamn. That's fantastic."

I let my head fall a little, my eyebrows knitting. "So... it was the meds, then?"

"I'll need to do an analysis on these, right away." You popped out a pill and held it to the light. "She could have had your pills switched with duplicates, or the doctor could have been on her side all along. Or a nurse, or a supervisor. Changing the charts. Covering up the bloodwork."

"Sherlock."

"It's flawless. As the medication built up in your system, it gave you all kinds of symptoms that your doctor simply prescribed as depression; exhaustion, lack of appetite, nausea, anx-"

"Sherlock..."

"What?"

I held my head in my hands, still trembling. I focused all my energy to my arms, trying to still them, but my body was working against me.

You knelt down again, putting your hand on my knee. "John? What's wrong?"

I choked, balling my fists with handfuls of hair. Sickness made me weak, and my head spun with the gravity of everything you were saying. I was right? It was the meds? We could've stopped this a whole long fucking time ago? But it could've have been the meds. The symptoms were there when I was off the meds, with E. The symptoms are here now. And I had to add Anne to the mix, and E, and Argall, and my parents, and Lestrade, and Harry, and mum, and you...

I burst into tears. "I don't know. I don't bloody know, Sherlock. I should've just - ... Should've - ..."

"Shhh, quiet, John," You whispered, petting my hair. "I'm sorry. I overwhelmed you."

"Fuck this. Fuck Anne. Fuck everything." I let my head fall to the surface of the table, my chest heaving. "Oh, god."

Your face softened. "Let me take you upstairs. You need to rest. Mrs. Hudson shouldn't see you like this."

I nodded, and you helped me from my chair.

Nothing could calm my nerves. I couldn't sleep because of my stomach, so I laid spread across the couch with a rag on my forehead, miserable and trying hard not to puke. You tried to give me tea, water, ginger ale, sports drinks, anything you could think of, but none of it helped and nothing would stay down. Crap telly was irritating, and I couldn't read without getting so dizzy I couldn't hold my head up straight. I considered taking a walk, but my legs hurt so badly it would have almost defeated the purpose. Mrs. Hudson offered me some of her "herbal soothers", but you didn't want any new drugs in my system until he figured out exactly what my doctor had been giving me.

You spent most of your time bent over your microscope with my bottle of pills. But the day passed, and you had nothing to show for your work. The pills were the normal dosage, no extra chemicals, no extra coatings. There was no hint of anything amiss with any one of them.

"I don't understand," You muttered, turning the bottle over in your palm. "It has to be these."

"Is it possible that the pills weren't the method of delivery?" I croaked.

"No." You huffed and leaned your elbows onto the counter. "It has to."

Gently, I turned over. I caught your eye and you stood, walking over to me. You felt my rag, now warm, and took it to run it under the tap. "How are you feeling."

"Shitty as hell." I replied. "Tired as shit."

"The sun's almost down. If you want, you can lay down in the bedroom. Maybe you can get some sleep."

"Doubt it."

"You can try."

You came back with the rag, cooling my forehead. I grabbed it and stuffed it under the thin fabric of my nightshirt, grazing along my stomach and settling on my chestbone. My lungs felt as if they were swollen, and the crisp rag helped it to loosen. You ran your hand through my hair.

"I'll carry you in," You said.

"No, I'm quite capable of walking," I replied. "Hand me my crutch."

You complied, putting the handle of my crutch in my hand while I worked at sitting up. I let the rag fall back into my lap, and immediately felt the weight of its absence. I put my hand on the back of my neck, disgusted with my own sweat, and struggled up.

After standing, I leaned heavily both onto your arm and my crutch. "I'm gross," I muttered.

"Shower? It could help break the fever."

I thought about it. "That sounds really nice, actually."

You helped me into the bathroom and set me down on the edge of the tub. I didn't agrgue; after taking a few steps I realized just how weak I actually was. You knelt down and unbuttoned my greasy nightshirt, slipped my trousers from my knees, unwound the coils of bandages, and set up the water to run cold. The chilly mist helped open up my chest, and the sensation of water running through my hair made me shiver. It felt good. It was the first thing that had felt good in such a long time.

Afterward, you toweled me off with great care, caressing my arms and legs as if they were made of porcelain. For the first time I got a good look at all my injuries - the dark purple and blue blotches on my thighs, the deep gashes travelling from my calves to my shoulders, the swollen ankles and throbbing wrists. I could see the veins crawling up my arms, distinct against my pale skin. You gently took my hand and ran it against yours, watching me with careful, cautious eyes. "Better?"

"Better." I nodded.

You stood and pressed your lips against my forehead for a short kiss, then took both my hands and pulled me to my feet. We went into the bedroom, and you pulled back the blankets so that I could lay down. While I situated myself, you turned to the wardrobe and started shedding your own clothes.

"I'll lay with you until you fall asleep." You said as you pulled off your belt. "Then I'll keep working. I'll figure this out and make you better. Alright?"

I nodded, closing my eyes against the sweet, familiar smell of your bed. Eventually you climbed in beside me and nudged me against your chest, laying your hand against the small of my back. I took a deep breath.

It began with darkness, and the thick, nauseating smell of sweat, vomit, and sex. A gentle whimpering echoed through the cavernous room. You. I blinked hard, trying to get my eyes to adjust, but they only remained seeing things in formless, colorless blobs. Slowly your form started to take shape, squirming and shaking, stripped naked, with your hair plastered to your sweaty forehead.

Oh, Jesus, no.

Your skin was covered in bruises, just like mine. But bruises weren't the extent. Bite marks and scratches roamed across your body, from your throat to your navel and spreading across your hips. You writhed, your face contorted with both shame and pain. Blood dripped from between your legs, and you curled over yourself, trying to hide your humiliation, but you could only weep louder as the pain widened its grip.

I cried out for you. You weren't supposed to know.

The darkness washed away, leaving me trapped between the bleach-stained walls of St. Bart's. I watched as the tail of Molly Hooper's braid disappeared behind the door, its iron latch swinging closed behind it. The mortuary. There you were - stretched across the cold surface of an examination table, your skin bare and exposed to the harsh lights above you. Your chest was not moving. You were dead.

I stepped up to look at you, emptiness eating away at my heart. You looked so peaceful. I reached for the sheet to cover you, but my eyes grazed your midsection. Your belly was covered in small lacerations from your hips to your ribs and all over your chest. They were no battle wounds. I looked farther, at your arms, split open from the shoulders all the way down to your wrists, inside and outside. The sight made my throat burn. Everything spun out of focus.

Awake.

I flew out of bed and immediately jumped into a pace, ignoring the ache of my legs. You were startled awake and reached to flip the lamp switch on.

"John?" You sat up.

"Take off your shirt," I snapped.

You blinked. "What?"

"Take off your shirt, dammit."

Hesitantly, you began to unbutton the top of your nightshirt. As it fell away from your neck, the smooth expanses of cream skin flooded me with relief.

"Oh, thank Jesus," I panted, my voice breaking. I collapsed back onto the bed, curling my fists into the blankets.

"So I can keep the shirt?" You sat forward, touching my shoulder. "Are you alright?"

"No. I'm not alright. Stop asking me if I'm alright. It's fucking obvious that I'm not alright. Fuck." I squeezed my eyes shut, and you rubbed my back.

"Lay back down."

I crept over, the burn in my muscles now ripe. I trembled with my head against your shoulder.

My emotions were out of control. Sadness stabbed my chest with deep sobs, and you froze underneath me, unsure of what to do. But, I realized, there was nothing you could do. Emptiness had engulfed me, and I could feel the jaws of a beast lingering close, just waiting for me to give in. Its hot breath made my head spin. Its claws stung my wounds and closed off my lungs. It waited, its slime covering my skin, a curled smile like disease hovering beside my ear.

No one could help me, and I was weak. As I cried out, clinging desperately to your clothes, it nested. It curled its tail along my spine, driving its teeth into the darkest recesses of my mind.

Sleep came, writhing and snarling.

The dreams I had that night were some of the most horrible I've ever experienced. They are not things that I want to burden you with, nor ones I want to bring back into memory.

Daylight was not welcome. This time, my body fought consciousness as violently as it could. You watched, helpless.

Morning faded into evening. Your ice blue eyes studied me closely, but in vain. There was no "problem". There was no "puzzle".

Time slipped into the darkness.

Cold swirled around me like the tendrils of a winter snow-storm. It was dark, the sky devoid of stars, Baker Street empty of life or light. The door to the flat had been left open, deep snow building just inside the foyer, a mournful tune echoing out from the cavernous stairway.

I stepped carefully over the piles of snow, pulling my coat tight. The stairs screamed with frozen effort under my feet, threatening to snap at any moment. Tracks of snow followed me up and lead through the doorway into our flat. Door ajar, the freezing wind blew through the wide windows, their billowing curtains filling the entire room.

You stood against the breeze, wearing only your dressing gown, the sleeves tied up around your arms. A dark tune shivered up from your violin, ice hanging off the neck of the instrument as you cradled it against the cold. Your eyes met mine.

"Come in, John," You called, your voice thick. "Please, John, come in."

My throat tightened as you turned. Your puncture wounds seeped a white liquid, marks running from your inner arm to your wrist.

The violin's air ran sour, and I jolted from sleep, thrust unwelcome into the cold darkness of our bedroom.

Curling against my side, I bit my tears back. You. I hated that dream, I hated all my fucking dreams. I hated feeling this way. Everything in my mind was crumbling in on itself, because I knew, I knew that you would have died. If I had stayed in that dream, I would've watched you fall from the roof of St. Barts until my skull split open along with yours. You were dead either way. If you weren't dead from the fall, you were dead because you starved yourself. You were dead because you overdosed. You were dead because you cut your own wrists open, dangling from the edge of a bathrub with maggots in your mouth. You were dead. And there was nothing I could do but lay there and take it.

Faintly, your violin rang out. You were playing, softly, slowly. You were thinking. Thinking about me. Thinking about the case. Thinking about what you could do to help me. But you couldn't help me. No one could help me. No amount of drugs, or therapy, or sex, or cutting, or crying could help me. Thinking was futile. Feeling was hollow.

My entire body ached with pain. Even my heart felt raw. I knew this feeling. It was defeat. I was defeated. I was destroyed. I was empty and useless and insignificant and I was in pain. You won, Anne. You won, Argall. You won, E. You fucking won.

Scales brushed against my arm, and I opened my eyes, letting my gaze fall on the drawer of my bed-side table. Fine. Fine, I said. You won. You fucking won.