A/N: Another suggestion, but this is one I'd also been planning to do for awhile anyway. John in this scene though... oh my god, what a fucking bastard. Maybe there's a rational explanation for his behaviour, I don't know, but I seriously just want to hurt him every time I watch this.

I Didn't. See. Anything.

Shivering with adrenaline, veins thrumming with the lingering pulse of terror and confusion and fear. Normally he'd be fumbling for a cigarette right now; at the very least adding another nicotine patch (or four) but good god he can't because there's nothing. John's taken away all his usual drugs. What does that leave...? Come on there has to be another way think you idiot there must be something...!

Buildings ahead, pub. Alcohol... only option.

Sherlock hates the stuff but it's all too necessary - he's just honestly not capable of calming down on his own right now. No, no no no no his mind is racing too fast out of control can't stop it! The sick, sick fear of his own impending madness sucks down to the pit of his stomach, coiling into a tight knot with dread and anxiety. It's a roiling ball of horror and he's really never been much good at repressing that particular sensation. Fear in general just isn't something he handles well. Drugs, then, always the drugs. Only way to keep himself sane enough to cope.

Teetering on the verge of a full-blown panic attack now; hasn't had one in years. Nicotine patches are stronger than cigarettes, he's found, tend to keep him calmer. Though even before the switch he'd already mostly learned how to stop himself panicking, trained his mind to kill off the anxiety before it could build into something destructive... or he thought he had, anyway. Maybe he'd just been fooling himself into thinking he had some vestige of control over the process, was really the drugs the whole time...

He takes another sip of whiskey and grimaces at the taste, sets it down on the table beside him. How he'd even managed to make it to the pub and order a drink without breaking down into a hyperventilating wreck of a neurotic mess he honestly has no idea. Managed it somehow, though, and the fireplace is warm and the whiskey is disgusting but it's nonetheless doing its job of scattering his thoughts in swirling vortices of light-headedness. He places his hands in front of his face fingertip-to-fingertip in his usual meditative posture and tries to collect himself.

Within minutes though John walks in, and good god why. Not now, John, please not now... but there's really no choice, is there? Sherlock's got his role to play in this whole partnership thing and of course John's sat down and started speaking, seeking social interaction. Having a conversation is absolutely the last thing Sherlock wants to do right now but ugh John's his friend so he has to at least try. Alright, calm down, focus, take deep breaths. He's fine. Fine fine fine by fucking god he's perfectly fine.

It's a struggle to avoid breaking down into a panic. Doesn't quite trust himself to speak - no, not quite yet - so he just lets John continue to ramble on about inconsequential things. Glares a bit, though, because as he glances over the other man's completely at ease, which is just... god, really, John? Is it not painfully obvious that he's not okay right now? There's no way he doesn't... really, this clearly isn't normal behaviour... why hasn't he mentioned it...?

But then abruptly, belatedly, he figures it out.

John simply doesn't care.

Well... that's... that's fair. Why should he, really, after all? Sherlock's not meant to have emotional reactions to things. Sociopath, remember? Probably thinks it's some sort of manipulative gambit. And... and it is. Yes, he's just acting this way to... see how John will respond. Right. By choice. Because if it's a choice then he can stop.

John goes on and mentions the dog, though, and without warning Sherlock finds himself incapable of continuing the train of self-deceptive lies he'd been trying to trick his brain into believing. Suddenly all he can see is that bloody hound- no, that monster! Enormous slavering jaws those teeth and glowing red eyes - so utterly, completely unnatural and obviously a hallucination but god it had seemed so real and the only thought trapped in his mind since seeing it has been a looping shrieking mantra of I've gone mad I've gone mad I've gone mad...

It's finally happened, he's snapped, it's all downhill from here and oh god he has no idea what's going to happen to him now.

What do they even do with psychotic, schizophrenic sociopaths? Commit them? Surely they must - they will, because he holds no illusion that anyone is going to volunteer to... to look after him, or whatever sort of care is necessary for mad people. No, he'll be thrown into an institution probably. Somewhere like that wretched rehab clinic except so much worse because it'll be full of the mentally ill and he'll have absolutely no chance of escape no not if Mycroft's involved. Stuck trapped in some hellish facility with nothing and no one forever.

Denial should be his only option right now but damn it all it's not working. And whether by fault of the alcohol or something else Sherlock finds himself admitting in a rush what he'd seen: Henry was right, I saw it too... But John doesn't seem to believe him. Let's be rational...? What the hell do you think I've been trying to do for the last thirty minutes!? Being rational is not fucking working, John! I saw a bloody monster! How does one rationalise insanity!?

Doesn't yell, though, even if he wants to... just mutters something about improbable and impossible, because maybe... maybe it was real...? But then no it fucking wasn't. He knows it wasn't - John's right, after all. If someone had figured out how to make a genetically mutated super-dog they would have heard about it. No no no, it was a hallucination he should just accept that but he can't, god he just can't. Refuses to reconcile the thought of his brain and his senses failing him so catastrophically. In desperation he picks up the whiskey again.

His hand is shaking.

He stares, but doesn't get angry, no attempt to mask it. No... instead he just laughs - short and bitter because isn't that just like his body, to go and betray him so obviously. Muscles utterly outside his control. Within the confines of his mind he's so good at divorcing himself from all this nonsense - an expert at keeping himself distant, detached, collected; successfully tamped down the urge to scream and cry and run far far away, hadn't he? Went and ordered a drink, sat in an armchair by the fireplace, behaved like a civilised adult. And yet despite everything his hand still trembles... undeniable proof that he isn't fine. Not really. No matter what he forces himself to believe he's still just... scared. Frightened. Pathetic.

Attempting to explain all this to John isn't really the best option, he knows that. Won't help to stop the flood of shooting pulsing terror if he goes and acknowledges it, after all... but... god, but for some reason he just wants someone to know. For once it would be nice to not have to struggle alone, withdrawing into his mental fortress to wage solitary battle against the crushing tidal wave like usual. And isn't John always going on about how it's better for patients to talk?

Well, Sherlock's not exactly a patient, but he is a friend... and since everything else has failed so far maybe he'll give it a bloody try.

It doesn't work, though. John just gets annoyed.

Perhaps Sherlock's failed to adequately explain the problem? Or... no, the man simply doesn't care. That's probably more likely. No one really cares. Sherlock learned that lesson a long, long time ago; why he still persists with the delusion that perhaps he'd been mistaken he has no idea. What makes him think a friend will have any sympathy for him, after all, when family never did? Not even his brother really... but god, no. No, alright, talking about it had been a stupid idea. Should have just kept his mouth shut. Idiot.

Frustration with his own moronic behaviour begins to blossom through the swirling eddies of early intoxication and fires of self-loathing chasing round his head, so that by the time John's moved on to trying to calm him down with condescending platitudes he is entirely not in the mood. You've just got yourself a bit worked up...

Worked up...? Of all the fucking...! Worked up!?

If John thinks this is worked up he hasn't seen the bloody half of it! Sherlock's been 'worked up' before, and this definitely isn't it. No, this is him winning a valiant battle to keep a lid on his own instinctual, idiotic panic response! But oh, the forest was was dark and scary, was it...? How understandable, frightened of the fucking dark!

John has absolutely no idea what it takes to scare him. Stupid bastard thinks he's been through so bloody much, Afghanistan and war and getting shot. There's worse things than simply being injured, John. Much much worse.

Such stark difference between being invalidated in the line of duty and... and... argh. No, the simple fact is that people respect John's suffering, because he was damaged while fulfilling a noble role. It's an honour for him to share his story, the PTSD is acceptable, even expected. But no one would have an ounce of sympathy for any of Sherlock's... if he were to tell them what he's... no, no. He never will. He can't.

Some stupid teenaged junkie huddled alone in the freezing rain isn't worth feeling sorry for. Even if he can't remember how he ever fell so far or when it feels like the entire world's abandoned him to die. It was his choice, after all - he made the decision to turn to drugs... and maybe no one ever told him what addiction was really like or how it would consume him eating away until there was nothing left but somehow he should have known. Should have been smarter.

But before all that though, the little boy in trouble with Father again and it was his fault, his fault, his fault - he could never behave properly, never seemed capable of learning from his mistakes. So of course no one cared, because obviously he'd deserved it. Maybe he'd deserved all of it. Maybe he deserves this.

But no. No. Self-pity isn't fucking helpful. Stop it you bloody idiot! Head up, regain shredded confidence, keep it together. There is absolutely nothing wrong with him. He's fine, he can push through this, he's fine.

John keeps staring at him with that look of concern and Sherlock can't bloody stand it anymore. Looking like he doesn't believe him which is stupid because it's the truth isn't it there's nothing wrong nothing wrong no, no no no THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME.

Oops... damn it, shouted that. Glances around at the pub, and perhaps he should be feeling a little more sheepish about the random emotional outburst but fuck it all, he's well on his way to tipsy now and it really doesn't matter in the slightest, does it? Struck with an idea as he looks behind him, though... he's fine, and he can bloody well... want me to prove it, yes? John's brilliant little stupid fucking plan of looking for a dog. Alright then, watch this. Hallucinations or not he's still a genius, he's still better than them, still worth something.

Without meaning to his deduction drops into a bit of a manic ramble; but who cares because it helps. He's finally focused on something besides the maelstrom in his brain; doesn't even pause to let John interject with his usual questions no just supplies them himself how the hell can you know that, Sherlock? and perhaps he's being just a tad mocking but for god's sake does John honestly not see? Everything laid out so perfectly and it's only a terrier not exactly what they're looking for drops into sarcasm he's not even sure why he's still talking but John's just staring at him with that flat, unimpressed look and fucking hell why does he have to keep looking like that just leave me alone!

Something about friends and I don't have friends. He never has, never will because John's obviously not one or he'd care. An irrational presumption hiding deep within Sherlock's brain seems to be expecting John to argue, to try and prove that he isn't going anywhere, maybe even apologise or hell perhaps just continue to sit there and stare. But he doesn't do any of that.

No... he gets up and leaves.

Sherlock stares after his flatmate, wanting to say something... but he has no idea what. Half a second longer and the opportunity's gone, John disappears out the back door of the pub. Sherlock slowly moves his gaze back to the fire.

Alone now, John's left him. Isn't that what he'd wanted...?

A single, choked-off sob manages to escape his chest.

God, no.