He ends the call and leaves his office, barely stopping to grab his own coat, and hastily makes his excuses about a family emergency as he rushes out the clinic. Once outside, he realises that he's not even sure where he's going, not sure where to look, his head is spinning and he knows he needs to focus. He forces himself to take a deep, calming breath, then he pulls out his phone again. He tries Sherlock, already knowing he'll have no luck and gets through to his voicemail once, twice, three times. Then he dials Mycroft's number and quickly explains the situation, receiving reassurances that Mycroft's people will find him. John heads off in the direction that he knows a few people within Sherlock's homeless network can commonly be found, zipping up his coat to the November chill and feeling grateful that the rain has eased off to a light drizzle. He feels like he's been walking forever when he comes across one of the network who is of no help, then a second, before finding someone who says they saw him heading towards Waterloo Bridge. Heart racing, John picks up the pace to a run, and approaches the underpass of the bridge.

At first he sees nothing, but then as he turns he can make out a small huddled figure in the shadows against one of the pillars. John picks up his pace again and can't stop his breath from catching in his throat as he sees Sherlock. He's sat leant against a dirty wall, his legs drawn up to his chest. He's soaking wet from the weather and is shivering in his thin shirt and blazer, appearing far too small for such a tall and usually imposing man, and looking stiff, uncomfortable and unbearably lost. But his face. John's heart cracks at the sight of his face. Sherlock looks utterly broken. In three strides John is at his side. He's desperate to embrace the man and fighting a raging battle against the desire to throw his arms around Sherlock's vulnerable frame. But he has to assess and respect Sherlock's current emotional state and possible need for space. Sherlock's eyes flick up and towards John's but won't meet them.

"Sherlock," he says urgently, "are you okay? Have you taken anything?"

Sherlock shakes his head forcefully.

"I haven't, John, I promise," he says thickly.

"It's okay, I believe you," John says in hushed tones.

"I wanted to…so badly. I almost did but I thought of you and I stopped myself, somehow. I'm sorry," Sherlock replies, unable to keep his voice from cracking.

At this, the overwhelming desire to take Sherlock in his arms intensifies, but instead John drops to his knees in front of his friend.

"It's okay," he repeats gently, squeezing his arm reassuringly.

"Can you tell me what happened?" John presses cautiously.

"Another case fell through and I just…I needed to get out," Sherlock says quietly. "I could feel the walls closing in on me. And I wanted a hit so badly."

He pauses, still staring at the concrete ground with the same vacant stare.

"There was no connection," he says, and John almost winces at how dead and emotionless his voice sounds.

"I thought if I looked hard enough there would be something to explain…all of this. But even I can't find something that isn't there."

Sherlock sounds utterly destroyed and John's chest throbs painfully at his last words. He reaches out to ever so gently brush back Sherlock's hair, half expecting to be rejected. Sherlock flinches minutely, sending a pang through John's heart, before leaning into the touch.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock."

At that Sherlock lunges towards John, face buried in the space between John's neck and the scar on his bad shoulder. John finally throws his arms around Sherlock's frame, pulling him closer and feels him trembling uncontrollably.

"Shh I've got you," he whispers, stroking his back soothingly.

Sherlock sucks in a shuddering breath, clinging to John as though he's afraid he'll disappear.

"I'm so glad I found you. I was so worried, I've been so worried," John admits in a hushed tone, holding Sherlock tighter still.

"I know," Sherlock replies, his voice thick and catching in his throat. "I know and I'm so sorry to have failed you again."

"No," John says, some of the strength coming back to his voice. "Listen to me, Sherlock, you didn't fail, you stopped yourself tonight and every other night for the past two weeks and I'm so proud of you."

A violent shiver runs through Sherlock and John quickly breaks away to remove his own jacket.

"God, you're freezing," he says, pulling the jacket around Sherlock's shoulders and holding him close. He takes Sherlock's hands in his own and notes that although they're very cold he's not in any immediate danger. Still, he needs to get out of these wet clothes and out of the chilly air as soon as possible.

"Let's get you home."

They struggle to their feet and out to the road, taking shelter under a building awning until they can hail a cab. Sherlock is silent for the short trip back to Baker Street, shivering getting the better of him every now and then, allowing John to keep an arm around his shoulder. John shoots a text off to Mycroft explaining that he's found Sherlock and that he will be with him. Then he calls Mrs Hudson to let her know they're on their way back and to ask that she please keep Rosie overnight. He has no idea what he's doing, he's really just playing it by ear, but he knows that there's no way he can look after Rosie and Sherlock at the same time this evening. The cab pulls up to 221 and John pays and tips then manages to get them both upstairs. Sherlock is still trembling mildly and hasn't said a word since they left the bridge, John has followed suite, not wanting to push him too far too soon. He decides again that taking care of Sherlock in a practical way is better than nothing at all. Once they're inside, John grabs a warm blanket from the linen cupboard and directs Sherlock towards the lounge.

"Strip down and wrap yourself in this. I'm going to get a fire going, get you nice and warm yeah?"

Sherlock nods dazedly and follows John's instructions as John busies himself with the fire and making tea. He comes back into the room a short while later with two mugs, setting them down carefully on the coffee table. Sherlock looks exhausted and more vulnerable than John has ever seen him. Still torn over how to deal with the situation, he follows his intuition and sits beside Sherlock on the couch. A brief flicker of relief washes over Sherlock's features and tells John that he's on the right track in thinking that the most important thing right now is just being there.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks softly, "it's okay if you don't."

"Not right now, sorry John," he replies, his voice ragged and raw.

"That's alright," John reassures.

"Have some tea, it will help."

Sherlock accepts the warm mug and takes a sip. John can't help but feel silly suggesting that tea is any kind of solution to their problems, but the doctor side of him knows that Sherlock needs fluids and sustenance so it really will make him feel a little better. They sit in silence for a while, sipping their tea and gazing into the fireplace. John observes that his physical condition seems to be improving as he warms up, he's no longer shaking and has a bit of colour back in his face. Eventually, Sherlock decides to take a shower, assuring John he will be fine. He comes back dressed warmly in long sleeves and sweatpants and seems in better spirits, much to John's relief.

"I'm sorry I scared you, John," he says quietly, sitting back down beside him.

"It's fine, really. I'm just glad you're doing better."

They exchange small smiles.

"Feel like some crap telly?" John asks, and Sherlock almost laughs, and nods.

An hour and several episodes of Black Books later, things feel almost normal again. John knows very well that they're not, and they won't be for a while yet, but the feeling of being safe and warm in their home as the rain beats on the windows outside is a comforting one. He's even managed to persuade Sherlock to eat a whole sandwich and drink another cup of tea. They're giggling outrageously at a particularly ridiculous scene when it happens, though John's not even sure how. One moment Sherlock is laughing and the next he's sobbing.

"Oh Sherlock, come here," John says gently, pulling Sherlock into his arms for the second time that evening.

All at once everything seems too much for Sherlock – the stress of the past year, losing Mary, almost losing John, losing Eurus. John holds him close as he sobs, having no real idea what to do or say. He wishes that somehow he could take away Sherlock's pain. But Sherlock seems to not notice or not care, wrapped within his own emotional turmoil. He buries his face in John's shirt and John continues his hushed words of comfort, one hand reaching up and getting lost in Sherlock's curls, and drops a soft kiss on Sherlock's temple. Sherlock's lips graze the skin of John's neck as he slowly manages to get his breathing under control. He's awed by Sherlock's trust in him, proud that he's gotten to a point where he can let another human being see him at his weakest.

"Thank you for letting me be here for you, for trusting me. I know it's not easy for you."

"You're the only one I trust. The only one I ever trust like this. In the…in the past I have occasionally opened to people, and it's always been a mistake. It's always just reaffirmed what they knew about me already – that I'm a freak."

"You are not a freak, Sherlock," John says, his tone firm and reassuring all at once.

"Listen to me. You're the most amazing, extraordinary, brilliant, kind, wonderful person I've ever met. Anyone who doesn't take the time to see that is missing out on so much. You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

John pulls away ever so slightly, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands and tracing soft, reverent kisses across Sherlock's brow, nose, and cheeks. He longs to kiss him – not in a way that he intends to lead to anything further, but in a way that would put into actions rather than words just how much John adores him, and to give them both some desperately needed comfort. But he knows it's not the time and neither of them are in a position to be making such drastic decisions about the nature of their relationship.

"You should get some sleep," John murmurs, his fingers still gently carding through Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock seems half there already and doesn't have the strength to protest and John helps him up and towards his bedroom. He pulls back the covers and crawls into bed, barely taking his eyes off John.

"Stay with me. Please?"

"Of course I will," John replies, excusing himself only briefly to pop to his own room and change into sleepwear.

A few minutes later they're settled in Sherlock's bed, facing each other but not touching, eyes closed, John wanting to wait for Sherlock to fall asleep before doing the same. After what seems like an eternity, John shifts slightly. He can tell Sherlock is still awake – his breathing hasn't changed and his body has lost none of the tension that should have fallen away in sleep.

"Sherlock?" he whispers, in case he's wrong.

"Mmm, I'm awake. I'm evidently exhausted but can't seem to get to sleep. Too tense, too much going through my mind. It's quite frustrating," comes the weary reply.

"That's understandable," John says softly.

He thinks of something but isn't sure whether to offer, torn between wanting to help and not wanting to overstep any boundaries.

"Would you…would you like me to give you a massage? It might help you relax."

Sherlock is silent a moment, apparently giving it some thought.

"I…I've not had one before. But…that sounds nice."

John smiles, stroking Sherlock's arm gently through his shirt.

"Take off your shirt and roll over," he says. "I'll find some oil."

He gets up and rummages around in the bathroom cabinet briefly, before remembering Rosie's baby oil. He returns to the bedroom a moment later, finding Sherlock naked from the waist up and face down on the bed, his head resting to one side. John's breath hitches ever so slightly – he'd not forgotten about the scars but seeing them again made his heart pang painfully. As he sits gently on the bed and moves closer to Sherlock, he's glad to see that the scars have faded more since he last saw them many months ago. The light from the lamp is dim and Sherlock looks incredibly beautiful. Vulnerable. Exhausted. Broken. But still beautiful. The way Sherlock trusts him so openly, in a way that John had never dared hope, is suddenly overwhelming – his throat feels tight and his eyes prickle despite his better intentions. He clears his throat and positions himself close to Sherlock.

"Is it okay if I touch you now?"

"Yes John," comes Sherlock's soft but certain reply.

John pours a little oil into his palms and rubs them together to warm them up, before placing a strong and reassuring hand in the middle of Sherlock's back and stroking gently. He sets a slow, deliberate rhythm, his hands moving across the skin in firm but tender movements. Sherlock practically melts under his touch, humming contentedly and seemingly not even aware he is doing so. As he moves his hands over Sherlock's back, he thinks again about how soothing, how healing, touch can be. For someone like Sherlock, who has from John's observations always avoided physical contact with other people, it must be foreign and strange. But he's witnessed Sherlock become more and more comfortable with it over the past few months, even seeking it out now. And for John to be able to reciprocate without feeling uncomfortable or worrying about what people think…well that was…let's just say they had both come a long way. As he muses on this, John runs a hand up Sherlock's back and into his hair, fingers massaging the scalp. Sherlock all but moans and John chuckles lightly.

"Alright there?" he enquires and Sherlock manages a nod.

John's not sure how much time passes, lost in the rhythm of his touch and the silky feel of Sherlock's skin and hair, but suddenly he hits a wall of exhaustion and knows he has to stop.

"Okay?" John enquires again, starting to move away.

"That was…just what I needed. Thank you," Sherlock mutters, sounding beyond tired but far more relaxed.

"We should get some sleep," John says, waiting for Sherlock's murmur of agreement before reaching to switch off the bedside lamp.

He feels Sherlock roll onto his side, his clumsy movements indicating that he's very much on the precipice of sleep already. Through the darkness he reaches for John in a silent question and John responds right away, drawing him close and pulling him snug against his chest. Sherlock settles there as though he was made for it, the top half of his body resting on John's, his head on John's chest and his palm resting at John's heart. Despite everything that is happening, John feels content in this moment. He doesn't know, and doesn't want to question right now, why it feels so right to be here together like this, to finally have Sherlock in his arms. John places one last soft kiss on Sherlock's forehead, and a few seconds later hears the deep breathing that indicates that Sherlock is finally asleep. John holds him close, willing his embrace to protect Sherlock from his own subconscious.