Some days, things were better. Some days, they were worse. Sherlock had forced himself to sit with a psychiatrist, who had diagnosed him with PTSD, saying that though his symptoms were uncommon, they weren't unheard of. He was given advice, techniques that may help ground him (breathing exercises, distractions, physical exercise, etc.), and a small dosage of medication that he could try. If it helped, and there were no negative side-effects, he could gradually up the dosage. Additionally, he met with the psychiatrist once a week. Although Sherlock was thrilled, at least he was trying.

Today was a particularly bad day. John's going to leave. Why wouldn't he? asked Moriarty. Something's going to happen, and it'll be your fault. You can't protect me. Sherlock had tried to ignore it, tried to finish the paperwork at the Yard.

The detective took a step back from the desk where the papers lay, rocking on his feet and saying, "I'll come back to these later."

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, we need to send these off today, and God help me if I have to write how you figured out it was the brother."

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Idiot. Exhale. Machine.

Snatching the DI's recorder, Sherlock began to speak. "It was the brother because he used the blood sample from the lab where he worked in place of his own blood, more or less. The blood was linked to the donor who had just left the country the day before the murder. The brother went in and changed the video footage to Tuesday rather than Wednesday; Tuesday showed the donor in the area. However, the brother's DNA, hair, was on the victim. The suspect also confessed to a friend that he'd 'done something irreversible.' We switched the video footage, which showed the suspect there on the day of the murder, and found the weapon in his room." Finishing, he handed the recorder back to Lestrade. "Write that down. Evening."

Slipping by everyone, Sherlock headed home. He was looking forward to be in the flat. Perhaps he'd try playing the violin again. He hadn't played since he'd gotten home. The psychiatrist had suggested it several weeks ago, and Sherlock had rolled his eyes. As if the violin would tear the thoughts away. The only thing that had come close to working was not being alone, and sometimes, even then, the thoughts crept in.

"Home," called Sherlock. He froze as he found himself staring at his parents, sitting on the sofa with a photo album with John, who was smiling.

"Oh, hello," said his mum with a smile. She stood, wrapping her arms around Sherlock and leading him to the sofa. "We decided to pop in for a visit."

The way her voice had jumped at the end of her sentence made Sherlock think she was lying. Brilliant as she was, his father was always better at keeping secrets. Mycroft probably told them to visit. Biting his tongue, Sherlock muttered that it was good to see them and sat down next to John, in between his parents. Eyeing the photo album, Sherlock's face grew warm as he saw the photos of him as a child. "What possessed you to bring this?" Sherlock gestured to the album.

"We thought it'd be fun," said his father with a shrug. "Or, your mum did, at least."

"It's quite fun," John said. He flashed Sherlock a grin and nudged his shoulder. "You look so happy in these photos."

Sherlock leaned over. "Yes. I was." He was quiet for a moment or two before pointing to a photo of Mycroft as a child, jam on his face, a napkin in his hand. "Prim and proper as ever," he chuckled.

John laughed. "Turn the attention on your brother."

Mrs Holmes smiled. "Myc was very neat, yes. Sherlock was a bit like a hurricane."

"If the state of the flat doesn't tell you, he still is," said John.

Gradually, Sherlock relaxed. As much as his parents embarrassed him at times, he knew that they cared. It was also nice to see that John got along with them so well, and they certainly seemed to like John. He'd never introduced them to anyone, really. He'd never had anyone to introduce them to: not as a child, not in university, and not beyond that. Not until now.

His parents left later that evening, hugging the both of them. Shutting the door, Sherlock gave a small shaking of his head, saying, "Mycroft sent them, I'm sure."

John raised his eyebrows. "Why would he do that?"

Sherlock gave a small shrug, waving his hands about. "Because he thought it'd help me in some way, I suppose."

"Did it? Do you feel better now than you did when you got home?" John studied Sherlock, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Yes." His focus was less on the question John asked and more on John himself. Staring back at John, Sherlock couldn't help but crack a smile. "You sent them?"

"I did, yes. They were in the area, to be fair." John put his hands up, grinning. "It did help. You seem happier now than you did when you first got here. Besides, you need to socialise with someone other than me and the people at the Yard every now and again, and your parents are wonderful people." John paused before saying, "That, and I now have wonderful blackmail after seeing those pictures."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up at this. "Don't think I couldn't blackmail you ten times worse," he said, taking a few steps towards him.

They stood close; only a step more on each of their parts and they'd be nose-to-nose. Sherlock couldn't make himself move, and John seemed just as stuck to the spot as well. It was only a crack of thunder that made them separate, Sherlock giving a small start, crossing his arms.

The remainder of the evening was spent preparing and eating dinner, the each of them displeased about the weather. The rain made John's shoulder ache, and the thunder reminded Sherlock of being trapped in a cell in Serbia: the heavy footsteps of a man coming to whip him had sounded like thunder, echoing. As had become a habit over the past weeks, the two headed to the same bed to sleep next to one another. John had no issue with it, he'd said, and it reminded Sherlock he wasn't alone.

Lying in bed next to John, Sherlock listened to the rain outside. He could hear John's breathing beginning to slow. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for today. I'll return the favour sometime."

"Y'don't need to do that," said John. His voice was heavy with sleep.

Sherlock hummed. "I know. I want to."

Hours later, late in the night, Sherlock padded into the sitting room. He removed his violin from its case, tuning it and dusting it off before beginning to play. John awoke to the sound of a quiet, gentle song, and smiled.