"Two in a day so far," he muttered afterwards, John hovering in the doorway. "Unusual."

"Did you take your meds this morning?"

Sherlock glared at him. "You watched me, remember?"

John held his hand up in defence. "Just checking."

"This is an anomaly. I don't like it. John, fix it. Can you fix it?"

"You're stressed," he replied. "Your cortisol level are probably through the roof, and that's certainly having an effect."

Sherlock scowled, annoyed that his body could betray him like this in a time of such need.

John shifted uncomfortably. "You should probably rest," he offered.

"I should probably do a lot of things," he snapped. "That doesn't mean I will."

John stared at him.

"I'm going to let that go, because it's been an awful day, in more than one way, but for future reference, that is a 'bit not good', alright?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his head away from John. He took that as a signal to leave, and did, closing the bedroom door behind him.

Out in the living room, he texted Mycroft.

Anything? -JW

Still working on it. -M

John rubbed his face with his hand before typing out and sending the next one.

He had another one. Stress can be a trigger. -JW

I am aware. -M

"Of course you are," John muttered, throwing his phone perhaps a little too harshly onto the table.

John must have fallen asleep on the couch, startled awake by the doorbell ringing at some absurd hour of the morning. He stumbled down the stairs to open it, muttering that it had damn well better be important. It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the light to recognize who it was.

It was Anthea, or whatever her name was that day, not even looking up at him, just looking at her phone and grinning.

"John," she greeted.

"Umm, yeah? D'you know what time it is?"

She ignored him, motioning over her shoulder to someone behind her.

A man in a dark suit carried something over to him, and it was only once he was in the doorway to 221B that John could tell what it was he was carrying.

"Sherlock!" he called. "Sherlock!"

Within seconds, Sherlock came bounding down the stairs, eyes crazed and hair on end.

When he saw what the man was holding he grinned and skipped the last three steps, landing directly on the ground and running over.

It was Gladstone. A little bloody from the wound in her neck, and very exhausted, but it was Gladstone, and she looked absolutely thrilled to see Sherlock.

Likewise, he seemed overjoyed to see her again.

Sherlock scooped her into his arms and cooed at her, apologizing for losing her, for letting them take her, for letting them hurt her.

John thanked them and guided Sherlock back upstairs, so enthralled with examining Gladstone that he could have walked into a wall and not have noticed.

He pushed Sherlock onto the couch and went for his phone, still lying rejected on the table. He had a new message.

The people responsible have been taken care of. -M

Thank you. -JW

John sat in his chair and watched Sherlock murmur to Gladstone, examining the wound on her neck and smothering her belly with kisses as she rolled around on the floor, obviously glad to be home.

John smiled. Screw anyone who thought Sherlock was a psychopath, or even a high-functioning sociopath like he claimed to be, because those people had obviously never seen what John was witnessing.

A man reunited with his dog.

Love.