A/N: Sorry but this is a shorter chapter.

EDIT: I changed some of the last bits to this chapter so if you read it once, please read it again. Thanks!

Chapter Nine: Happy

.o.o.

.o.

Fix me

Fix my head

Fix me please

I don't wanna be dead

Someday

I'll feel no pain

Someday

I won't have a brain

They'll take away the part that hurts

And let the rest remain

Frank Turner – Fix Me

.o.o.

.o.

John didn't know what time it was when he woke up but figured it had to be almost after noon. His body ached from the spooning position he had been lying behind Sherlock until he had cried himself to sleep. It wasn't his body he cared about, though; it was his heart. It was breaking his heart seeing his best friend so depressed and low, vulnerable.

It was almost uneasy to see a man he trusted and loved who was usually steady and brilliant in such a state. He had only seen Sherlock this bad once before and even that depressive episode had only lasted two or three days. Just from being with the detective last night, he could tell that Sherlock would be in this Hell for longer.

He carefully got up off the bed and had started heading for the door when he heard a voice in the dark room.

"Where are you going?"

John turned around and although he could just make out Sherlock's outline in the dark room, he knew that he was looking at him with solemn eyes. "I'm just… going to make us a bit of lunch."

There was a hesitated silence, and then a ruffle of the bed sheets. John was tired of guessing what was going on and another thought crossed his mind: what if Sherlock had sharp objects in the bedside table beside him he could turn to and grab in the dark without John even seeing? The doctor walked over to the window and started to pull apart the dark curtains that kept the sunlight out of the bedroom.

"John… please don't do that…"

"We should get some light in here, Sherlock. It's too dark," John replied firmly, deciding to only pull apart enough curtain to let in a ray of sunlight inside, enough so the doctor could see what Sherlock was doing.

Sherlock had turned to lay on his stomach and John could see his bare back muscles and shoulders. He walked over to him and knelt down so he could look him in his eyes. "What is it?" the detective drawled tiredly.

John gently brushed a lock of his curls out of Sherlock's eyes before giving him a weak smile. "Tell me your symptoms, the physical ones I mean. I already know the emotional ones."

Sherlock Holmes sighed before he closed his eyes. "Exhaustion. My bones feel like they've been cracked apart and then set on fire. Just… everything aches, John."

The doctor nodded, making mental notes and then noticed the slight circles under his eyes. "What time did you wake up today? You look like you didn't sleep at all last night."

Sherlock looked at him with almost bored eyes. "Brilliant deduction, John. I haven't slept all night."

The two men stared each other for a long time before John stood up and walked into the bathroom, grabbed a couple aspirin and then walked into the kitchen and came back to the bedroom with a glass of water. Sherlock forced himself to sit up and then nodded a silent 'thanks' to John before swallowing the medicine.

John glanced at the drawers of the bedside table now before looking back at Sherlock. "If I open these up, am I going to find anything you could possibly hurt yourself with?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered to the drawers and then looked almost pensive. "Go ahead, look through them."

He didn't want to invade any privacy the detective had left but John also didn't want to regret leaving him alone to go make lunch. He opened both drawers of the table and started to search through them, grabbing any sharp object that could draw blood. He then looked back at Sherlock as he pocketed the objects in the jeans he had never taken off.

"Right, then. I'm going to go make lunch. Do you want to come out and keep me company?"

Sherlock shook his head and then hugged his pillow with both his arms, causing his shoulder muscles to flex. John sighed but stood up and walked towards the kitchen, still feeling apprehensive of leaving Sherlock alone.

As he made them both small ciabatta sandwiches, John glanced around the living room and then around the kitchen. His stomach sank in realization; if he wanted to go anywhere, he'd have to take out all the dangerous items Sherlock might think of hurting himself on. That could take a while. It would just be easier to stay here with him.

He boiled the water for tea and then took the tray of sandwiches, fruit, and tea into the bedroom, lying it carefully on the bed, away from Sherlock's feet.

"Lunch, Sherlock…"

The detective opened his eyes and glanced over his shoulder at John. "Not hungry."

"I don't care if you're not hungry. You need to at least try to eat something. You haven't eaten anything substantial for quite some time now. Honestly, I have no idea how you're still standing, Sherlock."

John knew that he sounded cold and nagging but he couldn't stop the frustration that was already creeping up. He always felt frustrated when Sherlock got this way, in these black spells that seemed to latch onto him for days, sometimes even weeks. He didn't get quite so frustrated at Sherlock though; it was more frustration at himself for not knowing how to properly deal with these types of things.

Sherlock forced himself to roll onto his side and look at John, hugging the comforter to him. "I appreciate the sentiment, John. I just… can't eat right now. I don't expect you to understand but I have no appetite. Go ahead, you should eat."

John smiled sadly in his direction and sat down on the bed. He moved the tray over to his side now and then started to stroke his companion's black curls affectionately. He felt Sherlock relax and then slowly, he made his way towards John's lap before he laid his head on it.

"I'm sorry I'm so useless right now, John. Maybe if we had a case – "

John shook his head, able to guess what Sherlock was going to say after that. Maybe if we had a case, I wouldn't be such a wreck right now. "No, Sherlock. I know you can't help having this. Once you're better, I'm going to see if I can get you something for these spells of yours. Some kind of medication."

Sherlock shook his head now. "I can't. I told you, John; I can't work if I'm taking antidepressants. They mess with my thinking and I can't focus."

John wanted to argue against him, try and make him see reason but now wasn't the time for that. Sherlock was in a depressive state and arguing would just make it worse for him. He continued to stroke his hair lovingly, thinking.

"Sherlock, do you remember… The Woman?"

The detective's body tensed up somewhat. "Of course I remember The Woman. Irene Adler… what about her?"

John wet his lips, trying to figure out how to word this. "You were very fond of her, weren't you, Sherlock? I mean, when she faked her death, you were almost… heartbroken."

Sherlock was uncomfortably quiet. "What's your point?"

John scratched his temple, now biting his lip. "Do you… did you love her?"

"That was a different kind of love, John. That wasn't how I love you," Sherlock began to explain. "That was just… mere fondness for her. She was one of my most interesting cases and certainly one I'll never forget. She led me towards Moriarty, which helped me crack her code."

John kept telling himself now wasn't the right time to discuss things that bothered him but he couldn't stop himself. "You… played sad music for days on end. You hardly slept…"

"It was an act, John. That's all it was. I wanted you to believe I was in mourning and I wanted you, and everyone else to believe I cared about her," Sherlock replied softly before he turned onto his back to look up at John.

"Why? Why did you want me to believe that? You lied…"

"You needed to believe that so…" Sherlock cleared his throat, discomfort on his face. "So that you could believe I was capable of showing affections for someone else. I needed you to believe that I wasn't such a cold, heartless machine."

John closed his eyes, breathing almost a sigh of relief. That made sense, and even if it wasn't true, just hearing Sherlock say these things made him feel better about what had gone on. Sherlock had a history of pulling these stunts to make others believe something else. It was plausible enough, and therefore John saw no other reason to question it further.

Satisfied with Sherlock's answer, he let his fingers caress his partner's forehead lovingly. He smiled sympathetically as he saw the usual sadness glaze over Sherlock's eyes again. He wanted to help him. He wanted to do anything he possibly could to help him but he felt helpless without the use of antidepressants. At least the medication could help balance out the chemical defect in his brain, stabilize him somewhat, maybe help Sherlock even put on a few more pounds.

"Stop it…" the detective suddenly whispered to him.

John sighed but smiled. "I didn't even say anything."

"You were thinking though. I can tell it in your silence. You were thinking about me."

"I'm always thinking about, Sherlock Holmes. You're the only person who matters to me enough to think about all the time," John remarked gently. "Do you ever think about me, Sherlock? I mean… when you're not thinking about a case or tobacco ash."

Sherlock turned his head so John couldn't see his face. "Only if you're being particularly annoying at the moment or someone else mentions you by name." He looked back up at John's disappointed face and then managed a small smirk. "Of course I think about you, John. Don't be silly."

John nodded and smiled. "Good. Good… how are you feeling? Any better?"

The younger man shrugged and then rubbed his eyes before he sighed. "I think not. I… can't get these thoughts out of my head."

John looked down at him with concerned eyes. "What thoughts?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and looked off to the side again before he closed his eyes. "I… think you can deduce what thoughts, John. Please don't make me say them aloud."

John swallowed hard. Great, Sherlock was having suicidal thoughts. How long had this been happening during his black moods? He definitely couldn't leave him home alone now. He was silent as he rattled his brain, trying to figure out what to do.

"You just need to keep your mind distracted. You're good at that, that shouldn't be too difficult for you, Sherlock…"

"I'm only good at keeping my mind preoccupied when I'm not feeling like this. I don't know… how to distract myself now," Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed before he leaned over and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, mentally willing this feeling to go away.

John moved over and knelt behind Sherlock, soothingly caressing his back. He could feel the detective's back trembling and by the soft sounds of sobbing, he could almost feel the same pain his companion felt. He leaned up and then pressed a kiss to the one edge of his shoulder blade before moving over and kissing the other one softly.

"It's going to be okay, Sherlock. You're going to be all right. This just needs to pass. Hey, come here…" he whispered to him.

Sherlock moved back onto the bed and saw that John was lying under the sheets. He moved under them as well and moved in close to the doctor. He felt warmth reach his feet and could tell that John had taken off his jeans and was just in his shirt and boxers. He wiped away his tears and hiccupped, trying to calm down and feeling embarrassed for being this way in front of John.

"W-Where are your p-pants?"

John smirked and chuckled. "I decided to get a bit more comfortable. Maybe you should take your pyjama bottoms off as well. You might be more relaxed."

Sherlock complied and pulled them off, leaving him in just his own boxers. He moved in closer to John who wrapped his arms around him and the two men cuddled close, letting their warmth heat the other up. Sherlock relaxed a bit as he breathed John in. This was where he belonged. This was where he felt safe from the world.

.o.o.

.o.

The men emerged from the bed some hours later, their hair dishevelled and their bodies slick with sweat, John having kept Sherlock successfully distracted. Neither man bothered to put their pants back on as they entered the living room.

Sherlock sat down on the couch as John walked into the kitchen with the tray to make a fresh assortment of food and evening tea. He didn't know if he could honestly say the depression had disappeared totally but the dark thoughts that had plagued his head all morning had seemed to be gone, at least for now.

John put the fire on under the kettle and glanced over at Sherlock before he took out his phone, debating who to contact. It made sense to the doctor to contact Mycroft, being that he was Sherlock's older brother after all. He should be aware of what was going on.

Mycroft, I think I might need your help with Sherlock. He's not doing too well today and he told me he was having suicidal thoughts. – JW

After sending the text, John grabbed two cups and dropped teabags into it. It only took ten seconds before he received a text back. He opened the message to read it.

What exactly do you suppose I do about that, Mr Watson? You're the doctor, after all. Can you not prescribe him something? – M

Mycroft really could make him feel like an idiot in one single sentence. John shook his head, sighing before he replied back to him.

Sherlock already told me he doesn't want any antidepressants because it'll make him lose his focus. What did you do for him when he was younger and had bouts of depression? – JW

John felt satisfied with his reply and sent it before he walked over to his friend who looked so lonely on the couch. He placed his hands in his pockets and gave him a small smile. "Why don't you go on my laptop and check the email? Maybe someone'll have emailed us with a case?"

Sherlock looked down at his long, slender fingers before he placed his head on the back of the couch, looking up at the ceiling. "Can I just go back to my room? I really don't want to be up right now. I'm too exhausted to even think straight right now, John. Answering ignorant peoples' email is simply out of the question."

John gave him an exasperated sigh and shook his head. "No. No… not this time. You can't stay in a darkened room and not come out for days. Besides, I'm not sure I much like the idea of you being inside a room that you can lock yourself in."

"Oh God! Is this a flat or a mental institution?!" Sherlock yelled, kicking his foot angrily against the coffee table.

John looked at him like he was a spoiled child who was throwing a tantrum just to get his way. "Sherlock, please… can you not do this right now?"

At that precise moment, his phone chimed with a text message. He looked at the message:

He didn't want to be around us when he went into those dark moods so we just let him be. He came around eventually, but obviously you know better about his condition. You help him using any means necessary. His well-being is in your hands, doctor. – M

John looked up to see Sherlock looking at him with curiosity in his eyes. "What?"

"You're texting my brother," Sherlock stated. "Why?"

John looked down at his phone and then rubbed the bridge of his nose before he looked over at Sherlock. "Why do you think?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and started to observe John's physical appearance aloud. "You're tired, scared of what I might do in my current mental state. The way you're holding your right thumb indicates you burned yourself making tea, which might suggest you had other things on your mind, mainly me, and you weren't paying proper attention. Your habit of rubbing the bridge of your nose indicates to me that you're stressed about taking care of me because besides your alcoholic sister, I'm the only unstable person you know that you've had to take care of and because it's so personal to you, it stresses you out even more. You're stressed because you don't want to go through this alone."

John suddenly slammed his foot down on the floor. "STOP IT! Stop deducing things! I HATE when you do that, Sherlock! You know I hate it!"

Sherlock sighed now and looked away, his face unreadable to John. "You asked me why I thought you were texting my brother."

"I only needed you to answer in a single sentence, Sherlock! I didn't mean for you to give me the full breakdown!" John continued to yell before he heard the kettle start to scream. He didn't move from his spot, though.

Sherlock glanced back up at him. "I could've told you Mycroft wouldn't be of any help. Why can't you help me? You're a doctor, after all!"

"I'm a bloody clinic doctor! Not a psychiatrist! I thought maybe since he went through this with you when you two were younger, he might have some idea on things I could do to help you… but obviously he just ignored you when you were depressed."

Sherlock stood up and stepped on the table before stepping over it and going into the kitchen. He shut off the gas under the kettle and then proceeded to pour the boiling water into the fresh cups. "Yes, Mycroft always treated me like a freak when I fell into these spells. He always locked himself into the library at home."

John, after having taken several deep breaths, followed Sherlock into the kitchen and ran a hand through his hair. "And where did you go? What did you do?"

The detective swallowed hard and watched the color turn inside the cups. "I did the only thing I was good at. I got high, John. I… shot up with anything I could get my hands on and I just stayed as high as I could until I felt my depression disappear for the time."

John's heart sank and he felt sad for Sherlock. This man didn't know any healthy coping mechanisms. He only knew the unhealthy and self-destructive ones. He bit his lip. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. Really, I am. I just… without proper medication, I don't think I can help you in any way that you'll allow me to help."

Sherlock poured the milk into both of their teas before pouring the sugar into his own and then handing John his mug. "I have taken antidepressants before, John. Purely for an experiment to see if I was better on them but the side effects are too much for me. Nausea, loss of sexual desire, fatigue, drowsiness, insomnia, blurred vision, dizziness, anxiety… it seems like being a bit sad is worth not having those side effects, John."

The doctor looked at him with interest as he took a sip of his tea. "Is it? Is it really worth it? It's not just being a bit sad though, is it, Sherlock? You're feeling suicidal. That's pretty serious and to me, it seems like those side effects outweigh you being dead."

Sherlock shook his head stubbornly. He couldn't go through taking the antidepressants again. He'd tried them for almost four weeks before and he felt tired all the time and the suicidal thoughts had been so severe that if Lestrade had not been there for him, he'd be dead right now. It seemed like luck that the DI had always been present for each of his suicidal attempts, perhaps even fate. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew he owed the older man so much.

"The antidepressants didn't help me, John. They made me feels worse! They made me..." he sighed, swallowing the words to the rest of his thought. "I just don't want them. You can throw them out if you need to. They're useless to me." Sherlock wanted to go back into the bedroom to hide under his blankets again but for John's sake, he resisted the urge.

The doctor nodded, thinking. He took the detective's hand in his own and searched his pale face. "Well, sometimes antidepressants don't work the first time. It takes a bit to find the ones that are right for certain people, you know? Maybe... maybe if we get you different ones, we'll find one that works for you."

Sherlock thought about this, letting the idea absorb into his depression-riddled mind. "I'm not seeing a psychiatrist."

John smirked and shook his head. "I assumed you weren't, you stubborn arse."

"So... then how do we get a different one?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Doctors can still hand out free samples to people to tide them over until they can go see a psychiatrist. I have samples in my drawer at St. Bart's. When I go to work tomorrow, I'll bring some home for you and we can -"

"- Experiment with them?" Sherlock finished curiously. A small smile appeared on his face now and he nodded in approval. "That sounds like a wonderful idea. But... won't you get in trouble?"

John half shrugged. "Who's to say I'm not giving them to clients who need them? Technically, you're my patient."

"Oh John... I do like the way you think!" Sherlock exclaimed, becoming more and more open to this experimentation idea. He drank a long sip from his tea before he started feeling his adrenaline racing. "I'm sure we can find one that suits me."

The doctor looked almost uneasily at him. He wanted to help the man he loved but seeing his eyes light up at the idea of experimenting with the drugs made him nervous. True, he'd be doing it only under John's supervision, he didn't want Sherlock to get the wrong impression. "This isn't going to be like your other experiments, Sherlock. I'll be dosing them out to you and you won't take any more than I suggest."

The younger man's smile faded slightly but he nodded in understanding. "I know that. You're my doctor, after all. It makes sense if you're the one to give them out to me when you feel is right. It's a controlled experiment. However, if any of them interferes with my focusing on the cases or anything else, then I'm simply going to refuse to continue taking them."

John smiled, having hope that maybe this might actually go according to plan. Maybe they could find one that could help Sherlock at least live with his depression instead of just finding other ways to cope with it. He leaned up and kissed the detective's sharp jawline before he planted a soft kiss to the nape of his neck as well, unable to resist. Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled at his touch.

"Mmmm... why is it I have difficulty saying no to you, John Watson?"

John smiled brighter before he set his tea down and kissed Sherlock's lips softly. "Because I'm your doctor, and you have to follow doctor's orders," he smirked, satisfied with his own cleverness.

Sherlock let out a deep-throated chuckle. "Ah, that's right. I should follow the doctor's orders. What does he order now?"

"Hmmm..." John thought, kissing his cheek. "The doctor believes the patient should take his hand and cuddle with him on the couch while we drink our tea before we go to bed."

Sherlock opened his eyes and searched John's eyes. He gently cradled his jaw in his large hand before leaning in and kissing him passionately. Once they pulled away, he took John's hand and lead him into the living room, having hope that things could turn around. There could be a future with John and a future where he could deal with his depression without hard drugs.

Sherlock could actually be happy.