Dear me, this has become a bit of an addiction. Don't know exactly how I came upon this idea, except to say that I was bitten by a large plot bunny... hasn't been britpicked, so please bear with any Americanisms and lack of knowledge on how to make tea :)

Disclaimer: Big shocker here... but I don't own Sherlock...

Give sorrow words;

The grief that does not speak whispers the o'er-fraught heart

And bids it break. – William Shakespeare

You know something is wrong when John answers his mobile. He frowns at the number (it must be one he doesn't know or rarely hears from) before answering it with a "Hey, Clara. What is it?" and going into the kitchen. (So one he rarely hears from.) You watch him surreptitiously from your position on the couch. ("Clara, look-… please, you have to calm down. Just tell me what's happened.") All is not well. You easily remember Clara as the ex-wife of John's sister, Harry. Clara is now calling John, clearly upset. None of the scenarios running through your head are looking good. You eliminate the most unlikely reasons for the call, and thankfully they're the worst. However, the ones that are left are still not very pleasant. They all involve Harry. ("Oh… oh, God… alright… thank… thank you for calling, Clara. No, I really appreciate it. I'll be there soon.")

When John comes back into the sitting room, he seems haunted but tries to hide it. (The average person wouldn't notice, but I do.) He stammers out an excuse about work and emergencies and grabs his coat. He is nearly to the door when you remind him to put his shoes on. You receive a momentary blank stare, but he pulls on a pair of trainers and is gone in a second. You don't follow him or try to lead him through a series of deductions about his feelings. You know he's gone to Clara's. You know it is because something happened to Harry. Relapse? Injury? Death? Nothing is good.

John returns almost four hours later. He is haggard, his eyes wet with unshed tears. He looks like he has aged five years. (It's likely the worst case scenario, then.) You watch as he removes his jacket and trainers and goes into the kitchen. His voice is tight when he asks if you want tea. You answer, "No," and listen as he goes about the process of making himself a cuppa. Everything is the same as always. (He picks up the kettle, fills it with water, sets it on the burner, digs out his favourite tea, waits for the water to boil.) Things changed when the kettle started to whistle. There was a crash and the tinkle of breaking ceramic from the kitchen. You carefully unfold yourself from the couch and go in. John is leaning against the counter, head bowed, trembling finely. You remove the kettle from the burner, turning off the gas. (He is not here with me. He is elsewhere… far away.) You step closer, murmuring, "What's wrong, John?"

You reach out and place your hand on his good, unscarred shoulder. He jerks away nonetheless, going up to his room, saying, "I can't, Sherlock. I… I just can't." (He is limping again. I can hear it in his steps.)

Something stirs within you, and you vaguely recognize it as empathy. You don't like seeing John hurt like this; it hurts you in turn. (What should I do now? What do normal people do? What do friends do?) Your mind is made up quickly, and you follow him up to his room. He hasn't shut his door. It creaks quietly as you push it open. John is seated on his bed, shaking slightly, his head in his hands. He doesn't acknowledge you until you sit beside him.

"Go away, Sherlock."

"No, I'm afraid I can't," you answer, "not until you tell me what's wrong."

He doesn't look up or speak. (Of course, I know what's wrong, but I need to hear it from you.) When he finally does reply, it is with another, "Please, Sherlock, I can't."

"Why not?"

He shakes his head, so you ask him again. Only then does he pull up his head and look at you.

"Because then it's real," he whispers, his voice thick, his eyes wet.

"John, even if you don't say it aloud, it's still real. It's eating you from the inside from not talking about it. Please… I want to help… because you're my friend. Let me help."

He seems shocked by your admission, doesn't speak. You avert your eyes and take his hand in yours, trying to stop the tremors. (Please, let me help you, John. I can't see you suffer any longer.) He takes a shuddering breath beside you and says quietly, "Clara called earlier. Harry… she's… she died. She was coming home from the pub and… and she fell into the street. Someone hit her, and she… oh, God, Sherlock-…"

John's face crumples immediately as his sobs try to force their way out; he chokes them down. He puts his face in his free hand. You waste no time in embracing him (This is how I've seen others offer comfort. I hope I'm doing it right.), holding him close. He latches onto you as if you would disappear at any moment, burying his face into your shoulder… yet he still stifles his cries. You bend your head down, putting your mouth close to his ear, and whispering softly, "It's alright, John. I've got you. It… it's all fine."

It does not take long after that for John to completely let go. Sobs burst past his lips, his fists tightening in your shirt. (This shirt may well be ruined after this… ah, well, I'll just buy another. It's worth it.) You simply hold him as close as possible, running your hands over his back, through his short hair, over his trembling biceps. His body shakes violently against yours, his abdomen heaving with the force of his sobs. Your cheek is pressed to his temple, and the occasional turn of your head brings your lips to his skin in a chaste kiss. (Please stop crying, John. It hurts to see you like this.) Your heart clenches in your chest painfully when he chokes out, "She was all I had left, Sherlock. She was all that was left of my family," and it sets a lump in your throat. You draw him closer, tears stinging your own eyes as you whisper, "John, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Even after he stops crying, you hold him, and he doesn't object. He is nearly sitting in your lap. You nuzzle your face into his hair, still trying to provide comfort, although you're not sure if it's for him or you.

"Sherlock-"

You just shush him. The moment is too perfect to be broken, and John seems to agree and does not speak again for a long time. (Just let me hold you, John… just let us stay this way for a little while longer…just let me help you…) John slips his arms around your waist. When he speaks again, all he says is a murmured, "Thank you, Sherlock," into your shoulder.

Even hundredfold grief is divisible by love.

-Terri Guillemets

Reviews and concrit are love...

A/N: Just in case anyone wanted to know, I get all my quotes from QuoteGarden..