I do not own BBC Sherlock and no copyright infringement has been intended. The fanart also does not belong to me. I would adore any reviews and I hope you enjoy it!

THE START

Sherlock lifted his head.

He was sat cross legged in the middle of his bed with a plain, white sheet tented over him, wearing a long, towel dressing gown after dragging himself out of the shower with immense difficulty. He considered what he would tell John. Ill? No, he'd been 'ill' for far too long, even John wasn't that stupid. Tired? No, John knew that Sherlock's body could function on as little as three hours sleep. Couldn't face the enormity of the world? Sherlock sighed. He couldn't tell John the truth; he hadn't told anyone the truth he didn't see why they would want to know.

He lifted his head so the sheet shifted and draped over his long nose and pulled his thick brown hair into his eyes. He moved his hand and with long skeletal fingers dragged the sheet completely over his head until it fell in a crumpled pile on his lap. He stared down at it and lifted it to his eye level, inspecting the tiny cotton threads interweaving creating a far bigger expanse of material.

Sherlock sighed and let the cotton glide from between his fingertips, he turned his head to look outside the window and almost flinched at the sight of over eight million people just ... living. Buildings streamed like waterfalls down from grey clouds and the sunlight feebly fought with for it's moment of fame resulting in a sinister grey light shining over the streets. Cars raced down rivers of tarmac and people pushed each other like savages just to get to the place they 'needed' to be. What is 'need'? Does it exist or is it just something that the human race invented to keep us occupied.

Bullshit.

Sherlock snapped his head back around and dropped onto his back with his legs still knitted into an awkward half-crossed position. He uncrossed them and stretched them out to the edges of the bed until it was almost painful just so he could feel something. Feel anything.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock exhaled slowly, he didn't want to talk. But it was John.

"I won't be going out today John"

"Wait-what? Why?"

Sherlock sighed; he really didn't want to talk any more. He felt like the words were separate from him and he didn't think he could stand feeling any more apart from himself than he already was.

"I-" Shit, what should he say? "I'm working on a case, I need to concentrate"

"Oh… OK"

Sherlock could tell John was hurt and he felt guilt pulling at him. He tried to grasp on to that feeling, it grounded him slightly.

John's footsteps slipped away and were muffled by the time he reached the carpet in the hallway, they were slow and heavy, he was disappointed going by the irregularity of the steps and the small drag on every oth- What's the point? Sherlock fell back into nothing and the darkness swallowed him whole as he battled with his connection to the world.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock woke with a start and looked up to see John's face looking down at him. He smiled. Then it came back, the feeling of darkness and emptiness and.. nothing. I must have fallen asleep he thought blankly.

"I thought you were working on a case?" but it was empathy that coated John's words and not the sarcasm Sherlock had come to expect

"I-I.." The art of the English language had left Sherlock and he pushed himself to a sitting position. His hands were clammy and there were beads of sweat quivering on his brow. He closed his eyes, counted slowly to ten and then opened them again. He could feel John's worried gaze on him and shivered as the sweat turned cold on his skin the hairs lifting, violently shaking him as the air hit his skin.

"Sherlock are you OK?"

He looked up to John, panicked. He couldn't bear being seen like this, like an idiot, like everyone else and not the genius that John knew him as and what he was when he could face the world. But those times were becoming rarer and it got to the point when his 'bad patches' were quilted together and his rare 'good patches' were replaced with 'even worse patches'.

"I'm… fine"

Fine. What a shitty word. Pointless and lacking any meaning. The whole reply sounded ridiculously pathetic but it was what he could manage and he thought anything more could have drained the life from him.

"Shit" Sherlock's hand shot to his forehead as he got a sharp pain issuing through the connections in his brain. He could feel the splintering feeling of a headache beginning to spread through his head.

John looked down at him nervously and he hovered just by the bed, his hands fluttering without purpose. He was wearing a pair of rough jeans and a worn, grey shirt. His blonde hair was messier than usual and his face was contorted in worry. He was a doctor. He knew this wasn't normal. It was mid-April and Sherlock hadn't left the house since at least the end of March. Sherlock's mind may be beyond anyone else's comprehension but his body was just as any other human's was. John had seen the patterns, a side-effect of living with Sherlock and he knew that his friend had been 'ill' far too often and for far too long. But, if he wasn't ill what was wrong?

Questions flooded John's mind and Sherlock could read every one of them on his face. He breathed heavily and took his fingers down from his head in an arch, pushing his fringe back.

"I need to catch up on sleep, I've fallen behind"

John's face lifted slightly, he wanted to believe Sherlock but he knew the symptoms indicated something deeper than just a lack of sleep.

"Headache too?"

Sherlock looked down and nodded.

"I'll get you some pills... stronger than usual"

John left the room and Sherlock's light went out. He always seemed to feel slightly better when John was around, he shrugged this thought off, he supposed he'd gotten used to John's presence after being flatmates for more than a year.

He waited for five minutes before John entered the room again to see Sherlock in exactly the same position staring into the abyss. John bit the inside of his lip.

"Here, take two" John handed him a glass of water and two large pills.

Sherlock swallowed them with difficulty – his mouth felt dry and the pills scratched his throat as they went down even with the addition of water.

"Thank you"

John took that as his sign to leave shuffling out, and as he did Sherlock felt the tide of emptiness wash over him again. Sherlock looked around the room, he desperately wanted something to stimulate his mind and get rid of this feeling, the grogginess. His eyes rested on his violin. It was a beautiful instrument, hand crafted in Italy and it seemed to shine in the hope of a melody, but now… now Sherlock looked at the violin and there was no spark. No interest. No desire to pluck away for hours. No anything.

This was a low, there had always been something that could lift him just a little but now even the idea of playing his violin sickened him. He just wanted to feel SOMETHING. His headache was subsiding but he almost wished it would stay just so he could keep his grip on reality for a little longer. This was rock bottom.

A single tear slid from the corner of his eye, into his hairline.

He wasn't naturally emotional but, to feel nothing. He couldn't handle that any more.