Sherlock
The case had pushed me almost to my limit. It wasn't difficult to solve but Anderson and his stupid lack of anything resembling a brain had caused the criminal to be let free. He had moved some of the evidence in the scene and as such all of my deductions were deemed inaccurate. The offender was caught again as he pulled the trigger taking the life of the 6 year old we had fought so hard to save. If it wasn't for John, I would have slipped something in Anderson's drink and left him vomiting all over the pavement. Instead I found myself in a taxi back to Baker street with John demanding that I at least tried to sleep.
Walking into my room I had to accept the boring necessity of sleep but when I sat on my bed I felt tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. Trying my hardest to fight them, to stop this sign of weakness from showing, I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands, hard enough to draw blood. Realising the futility of the battle I allowed the tears to fall silently down my cheeks. Despite what people think I do have feelings, I am just not as open to showing them as other people. Fear and sadness cloud the mind and prevent logic and reasoning from being in charge. Feeling a little better I lay down in bed and waited for the tears to stop falling and my guard to once again go back up.
John
I knew Sherlock had emotions and felt things deeply, despite what he wanted people to think, but I also knew how tight the control he had on them was. That's why it had been such a shock when I'd opened his bedroom door to speak to him and found him sobbing, having finally given into them. I wanted to rush over and cradle him in my arms, soothing him and reminding him that I would always be here and that everything would be ok. My heart was pulling me into the room, when logic took over and I stopped. Sherlock was such a private person and the fact he felt comfortable enough to cry wasn't something to take for granted. He hadn't noticed me and so I slipped from his room and silently climbed the stairs to my room, texting Lestrade and Mycroft that they weren't to disturb him for the rest of the day.
Alone in my room I began to wonder how I could help the consulting detective. It couldn't be anything flashy because he would become uncomfortable, but then again it couldn't be anything too subtle because he would never realise what it was meant to mean. It was a conundrum that needed to be solved and sooner rather than later.
I must have sat there for half an hour before the solution came to me. I would write a letter. It was the perfect idea. There was no way even Sherlock could miss that but it also allowed him to read it at his own pace, preventing his brain from being overwhelmed with emotional words. Once I had set my mine on this plan I got up and began trying to formulate what exactly to write. Every now and then I stopped and just listened, hoping to hear some movement from below, letting me know that Sherlock was feeling better but the flat was silent. I sat down and finally began putting my words on paper, hoping that this would reassure the genius that I was here to stay. Having finished the letter I placed it in my secret draw, where I placed anything I wanted Sherlock to see, and headed out of the house to fetch some takeaway and a few groceries for the rest of the week, hoping that by the time I got back Sherlock would have found the letter.