Lessons in Friendship 6 - Danger Night

This takes place in the near future when Sherlock is back from the dead (after being away a few months, not years) and reunited with John and they live together at 221b again. But the aftermath of the fall is catching up with them (my version of the future does NOT include the possibility that John gets married soon). First Chaper shows the events from John's side, the second the same events from Sherlocks POV. Mentions of former drug use and slight self-harm.

Standard disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

I read one chapter (14. Empathy) of one story from the writer Ashtrees after I was given a kind review to one of my stories (thank you so much), haven't read any more than that chapter, yet, but I will in the future … . In the story a weighted blanket was mentioned. Since I haven't heard of those before I googled it (almost nothing about it in german) … and got caught with the idea. Well, I made one last week, not easy to get the stuff. Now, the thing is finished and it's great! (The picture shows a part of the blanket, quilted with glow-in-the-dark-thread).
Thank you soo much for the idea Ashtrees!

Many thanks to my betareader Graveofthefireflies!

I was in desperate need of comfort this week so I wrote this. Not much new in it, just some h/c.

…

….

John sat in a lovely Italian restaurant with his date. It was the first time for a very long time, he hadn't been on a date for over half a year. In fact, it had been before Sherlock's faked death that he had done this. While he was mourning Sherlock - thinking he was dead - he hadn't even been able to do normal things like shopping or laundry properly, so dating had been the least thing in his mind.

His PTSD had come back full force the day Sherlock had jumped off that roof. John had been lost in depression worse than after Afghanistan.

It had been about two months since Sherlock came back, but the aftermath of all that was still heavy on both of them. John's limping had come back the day before Sherlock's funeral and had stayed insistent even though Sherlock was back now.

His wound up soul somehow had problems accepting the fact that he had back all he needed. It was like he didn't dare to believe it, still anxious Sherlock could vanish at any moment. He was afraid that it all was just a dream and he'd wake up and realize Sherlock was still dead…. He didn't dare to accept it yet.

He tried to hide his symptoms again, not wanting to confront Sherlock because he knew Sherlock was also suffering from all that surrounded the events. Sherlock was no longer talking enthusiastic and without pausing like he had been in the past. John doubted that anything had ever shaken the man as this had. John could see he was hurting, too… he'd even said the man was suffering from depression. … they both were… and they both were waiting for all of it to get better, now that the most important basic requirement was already there, they both reunited in working and living.

But Sherlock used every method there was to avoid talking about it. Often he behaved like he had when they had solved their first cases, insulting, ignorant, distant, and quite self-centered. When John tried to talk about the fall, his faked death or how they both felt he just ignored John or even hid in his room. Sherlock had - directly after he came back - told him why he decided to vanish and how he had spend the months until his return. John had understood the decision but was still angry for not having been included, and that it had taken Sherlock several months until he came back. Ever since that Sherlock avoided the theme. John had even tried to drag him to one of his own therapy sessions but Sherlock had made a scene and refused to go. So, in the end, John had gone alone.

The therapist advised him to seek some contact outside of work and the flat. She encouraged him to go on a date or do things he liked, so, here he was, a few weeks later, having dinner with his date. The past week had been difficult and it was the first time he left the flat for days.

He and Sherlock had had a quarrel a few days ago… well, quarrel was not the right word. John had a kind of emotional outburst because all that had happened was kept inside for too long and had been festering in a part of his mind for weeks. Not able to speak to Sherlock about it made him worse.

The fact that Sherlock had come back was the best that ever happened to him, but he still was having a hard time to deal with it emotionally… and after Sherlock made another sarcastic remark about the benefits of being dead John had bombarded him with a dress down. John literally had exploded and had yelled at him how bad it had been and how much he still hurt and that he still had the urge to punch him at least once a day for doing that to him…. Espacially after they had been through that before - Sherlock recklessly reawakening John's PTSD - in Baskerville.

John had put his hurt and sorrow and the past month's daily agony into words and abreacted it into Sherlock's face. He even told him how he had wanted to end all his agony and how far it got until he stepped back (though he had, back then, actually decided he would never tell Sherlock in case they'd ever meet again and talk about the theme). But John was far to angry to hold back and he wanted Sherlock to feel that it had really been bad, and quite a harming thing, to keep him out of the loop, and how he was retraumatized (he hated to admit it, but that was what had happened according to his therapist). John knew it was only half Sherlock's fault… the main part was Moriarty's thing. He was angry Sherlock had risked this to happen instead of preventing it.

The detective listened to all he unloaded, several times looking as if fighting his own emotions, but always covering them up before they could really surface. But he never said a thing during the whole episode. John had yelled until he got hoarse and the emotional stress had made him dizzy. With filled eyes he had retreated to his room before he would have started crying in front of Sherlock. He had needed the whole night to calm down.

Nightmares had followed and the subsequent days were difficult and silent. Sherlock was barely talking. Whatever he felt it was carefully hidden.

When Lestrade had called they had work to do and slowly things normalized. John had hoped their episode was almost over then, until the case was solved. Sherlock had been only a bit worse than his usual self while it lasted, insulting, impatient, almost yelling at Anderson and making biting remarks several times.

After the case Sherlock became worse, withdrawn. At first John speculated Sherlock was angry with him for his emotional outbreak or for his lack of empathy how bad it had felt for him…. or ungrateful… or whatever, but after a few days he started to suspect Sherlock might at least partly have another problem.

He got a proof at Bart's the other day. The expression on Sherlock's face when they had neared the building was almost as if he tried to ignore the sight of it. He seemed to withdraw from his environment and reality. His gaze went up to the roof and his eyes were so full of disorientation and disgust John wondered if they should better get home fast. But Sherlock had hidden it as soon as he felt John's gaze, though he hadn't been able to hide his paleness and his clenched jaw, it had followed him for the rest of the day. John then realized that he must have felt bad about it somehow, but he was still to angry to …. forgive him.

Another case followed and things normalized a bit more, again …Though several times John felt reminded a bit of the episode Sherlock had had when he thought Irene Adler had died. He seemed to walk in a bubble quite often, like he was only half present and his mind had….. retreated? He missed input he usually wouldn't have (noises, his mobile ringing, someone talking he was actually listening to), even looked spacy sometimes, like he was on autopilot. Once John asked himself if he himself looked like that when he had that kind of a dissociation-zone-out, from then he monitored Sherlock for signs of more problems.

John hoped that it would get better when the case was over and he'd start to eat and sleep more again. But when the case was finished Sherlock didn't start sleeping again… except for some short naps on the sofa. Though he started playing his violin for hours without pausing.

John had the distinct feeling something emotional had piled up in Sherlock, too, and his friend was neither understanding what was happening nor was he able to do something about it. He tried to talk to him several times but all he got for his efforts were unnerved and hurtful comments or doors in his face. Since he was emotionally pretty bad himself he decided to just wait until they both got a chance to unwind a bit.

A few days later the atmosphere in the flat had gradually relaxed and Sherlock had eaten at least once a day. John hoped this was a first step on the road to recovery for both of them. So when he had the chance to have a nice evening out he took it.

They had a delicous dinner, though a bit too much small-talk for John's taste.

When they were almost finished with the dessert John's mobile rang. At first he thought it might be Sherlock disturbing his date, he had done that quite often in the past. But he'd usually text, even if it was important… he looked at the display: Mycroft. Now, this was unusual… possibly even bad. He answered the call while giving his date an excusing smile. She didn't look happy.

"John?" Mycroft asked before he had the chance to say anything.

"What's wrong?"

"John, we missed a danger night, I fear…." Mycroft informed, his voice taunt.

"Hell, no…. what happened…?" his heartrate sped up unpleasantly.

"Not sure yet. I am on my way, but I'll need at least 12 minutes to get there."

"Oh, god…. I'm on my way…."

John stood up, his date looking up flabbergasted. He grabbed his wallet and put a note on the table.

"I'm sorry, medical emergency, I have to go." He grabbed his jacket and was out of the restaurant thirty seconds later, the line still open.

"What happened?" John asked urgently, starting to ran towards Baker Street, leaning on the crutch with one hand, holding the mobile with the other.

"I don't know, he injected something…."

"How do you know if you're not there?" he wondered and cursed that making a phonecall while running was difficult due the noise, and that calling his hasty stumbling running was much too friendly.

"Surveillance equipment, John."

"When?" Baker Street was only a few streets away.

"About six minutes ago. No signs of an overdose until now, though. He's sitting on his bed." Mycrofts voice was slow as usual but sounded distressed. "Do you know what might have stressed him today?"

"Well… the past two weeks have been kind of… difficult, but …. He had an episode, it started three days ago, not talking for about 36 hours, playing violin six hours straight. … I stayed at home because of that. Was better…. today, though. Have you called …an ambulance?" John panted. He was around the corner from 221b.

"No, Sherlock is usually much to accurate a mind to overdose… though he nevertheless managed to do some direful day years ago…. But as soon as he shows any signs I will. They have been alerted to shorten the response time in case help is necessary, though."

"Good, bringing him to a hospital with this would devastate him."

"You have no idea… and that's why he would be brought to a private facility if necessary."

"I'm at the door, see you soon."

He fumbled with his keys and opened it, running up the stairs in panic. He slowed down as soon as he entered the flat, he didn't know why… maybe not to cause any exaggerated reactions.

He threw his jacket on the counter while passing it and headed for Sherlock's bedroom. The door was closed and he opened it carefully….. holding his breath.

John saw his medical bag open on the floor.

Sherlock was on his bed, sitting against the headboard and his head hanging and listing slightly to his right. His eyes were open but he only blinked owlishly when John knelt in his line of sight. He looked as if he had been crying for hours, his face pale and his eyes bloodshot and swollen.

"Sherlock?…. Dammit!" John felt anger rising. A small tray Sherlock usually used for his experiments was on the bed, on it a used capped syringe, some alcohol wipes and a vial that looked like standard hospital issue.

"Sherlock!… What the hell have you done?"

Sherlock blinked, as if he only now registered John was there. A slightly alarmed look crossed his face.

"What the hell did you take?" When Sherlock didn't answer John turned towards his bag and fetched a pen light and his stethoscope. He knelt on the bed next to Sherlock but this disturbed Sherlock's balance and he sagged sideways slowly. John caught his dazed friend gently, feeling his neck for his pulse immediately, not too bad, only a bit elevated. He gently manhandled him back into a sitting position, then fetched some cushions and stuffed them to Sherlock's sides to prevent him listing again, he wanted him sitting upright for the time being.

When he examined his pupils Sherlock moaned softly, they were reacting a bit sluggish and were dilated. He unbuttoned the shirt and Sherlock's lack of resistance made his worries climb up to the roof. Sherlock's heart sounded not too far from normal…

"What did you take, Sherlock?" he reached for the vial and read the label.

His eyes widened. This was not at all what he had expected… it was …. a sedative… a non-opioid sedative, the same medication which John had given him a few months earlier to be exact.

"Did you take something else than this?… Sherlock!… answer me, dammit!" John shook his shoulders. Sherlock didn't speak but an expression of agony crossed his face and his eyes looked as if he was about to have a breakdown, but then returned to an unemotional mask.

"You wanted to knock yourself out?….. Why?…..Come on, Sherlock, answer me…" John urged.

But Sherlock only followed his movements slowly and was obviously hovering in a state of semi-consciousness.

"How much did you take?" he lifted the bottle, it was from his bag and it didn't look as if there was much missing. He inspected the syringe. It was small, for use with insulin, but the needle was big enough for intravenous injection. He took Sherlock's arm, the sleeve still half up and a tourniquet hanging loosely around his elbow. He had injected it intravenously then. Good, predictable outcome that way. Only one needle mark… also good. The other arm? He unbuttoned the cuff and rolled it up… none, good, thank heaven…

"How much did you take?…. answer me!" John grabbed the back of his neck and tilted his head back to look into his eyes.

Sherlock blinked slowly again…. His gaze blindly scampering through the air.

"Sherlock, tell me…. please…. " He begged, holding Sherlock's head gently in both hands, looking into his eyes. "Please tell me…." He knew his own face was wet with tears now.

"'wo seesee…." Sherlock slurred…. That was not really much, in fact it was a regular dose to send a patient into relaxed slumber, with Sherlock's resistance it would be the exact dose to bring him into this half-asleep state, it had failed to knock him out before, even though now he hadn't slept properly in days.

"You took something else?"

Sherlock minutely shook his head. John's guts had twisted painfully with the idea Sherlock had taken drugs a few minutes ago and he felt the tension vanish partly.

"Why?…" John let go with one of his hands and took his wrist feeling for his pulse, his gaze falling onto Sherlock's fingers, his fingertips were bloody, every single digit on the left hand, dried blood, it had run down his fingers. God, he played that violin until his fingers had blistered and then until he started bleeding? That must have taken quite some time and it must have hurt. What the hell…?

"I guess he took it to prevent himself from taking something else after he ran out of energy to play his violin, doctor." Mycrofts voice came from the door.

"What?" John didn't understand, he let go of Sherlock's head.

Sherlock closed his eyes in what might have been a slightly unnerved reaction to the presence of his brother and tried to turn his face away.….But Mycroft rounded the bed and stood upright on the other side, still with his umbrella in his hand and looking down on him.

"For some unknown - but lucky - reason he choose to render himself unable to execute taking anything else… Probably he was fighting his urge to take some other drug and found he couldn't any longer, so he played the violin, knowing that as long as he wouldn't stop playing everything was o.k. But at some point he couldn't go on with that and then he took something that would render him unable to administer anything else…. But if he carefully made sure it wouldn't knock him out, anxious to be haunted by his demons in his sleep or if he miscalculated the dose remains unclear. That correct, Sherlock?"

"Leav'm'lone." Sherlock started to move around, most likely to escape his brother's gaze.

"I will soon. If John determines you are not in danger. We should assist him into a laying position, doctor."

"Dontouch'e.. wannasit" Sherlock sounded unnerved. John took his shoulder and helped him down the bed, Sherlock didn't want to lay down but he was too uncoordinated to prevent the professionally guided movements. Mycroft luckily decided not to interfere.

"So, will he be alright?"

"If what he says is true and he only took 2cc of the stuff he'll be fine."

"I am pretty sure he is telling the truth, lying is not his thing, at least not to us, not even with the matter of drugs. But let me check something."

He dialed and left Sherlock's bedroom.

"Ehhh, Sherlock … you gave me quite a scare, here…. Don't do that… please…." John felt beaten now that the crisis seemed to have passed.

"'m sorry…." Sherlock mumbled. And John's eyes widened - had he really just heard Sherlock apologizing?

"Is it true, did you take that to render you unable to take something else?"

Sherlock hesitated but then closed his eyes and nodded minutely, looking almost ashamed.

"Why?" John wanted to know why, he had felt the need to take anything at all, the reason for it all.

"Couldn't harm you. Hurt you so much…already… the fall… 'm so sorry."

John's jaw dropped…. Had he just been given a brotherly proof of love… attached to another apology? Silence settled in the room and he just stared at the figure laying in front of him. He pressed his lips together. God…. First running home thinking he might be dying by an overdose, finding him semi-conscious and now… this… somewhere in him the urge to really cry and release the tension that had built up the past week rose but was kept small by force.

"Is that… what stressed you in the past few days… being faced with how I hurt about your faked death?" .. yeah, he had wanted to make him face it. He wanted him to know how much he hurt… he had the impression that he had stopped caring again in these long months were he was gone. That he didn't care at all any longer. That all they had gained in their friendship was lost or buried somewhere. He knew this had been bad on Sherlock, too, but now he was the one faced with the fact how much it had affected his friend…. Obviously a lot more than Sherlock had let to the surface. John sat down on the bed next to Sherlock again.

"I hurt you by throwing all that at you….?" John asked, leaning closer. Sherlock didn't say anything, just pressed his lips to a thin line. He obviously tried to hide it but his breath came harder and his eyes filled and John feared he was about to have a meltdown… but then his eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled back…. oh, dammit, he must be so overexerted with his emotions and with suppressing them that they were playing havoc on his body in earnest now.

Sherlock's head rolled slightly sideways but some tension remained, telling John he was still fighting against sleep desperately. He also had started trembling. Dammit, this was so not good, but at least John was pretty sure this was a mental problem, not a physical one. Nevertheless he took Sherlock wrist once more and checked his vitals.

"Shh… it's okay.… relax…. I know you feel bad right now, but it will pass. You'll be fine… relax…." He hoped Sherlock would fall asleep an get some rest, but realized it was probably futile.

Sherlock was presumably pretty much uncomfortable with the sedative alone right now, in both mind and body, the emotional stress on top of it must be devastating, let alone Mycrofts presence.

He took the used syringe and the other stuff from the bed and stored it in his bag. Gently he freed the tourniquet from his arm and pulled the sleeves down. He would attend to his fingers later.

He stood in front of the bed, taking a deep calming breath. His hands folded on top of his head and breathing deeply several more times to regain his composure. While trying to come up with something that would comfort Sherlock Mycroft reentered the room.

"He indeed seems to only have injected one dose according to the surveillance camera's recording." Mycroft confirmed. Sherlock stirred when he heard his voice and seemed to fight his way back to consciousness.

"Tha's whata ….said, now cul' you pleaseb'gone… badnough t'know you monit'ring m' bedroom, do I've to endure you'resence 'lso?" Sherlock managed slightly annoyed.

"Huhu!" a distant voice called from the kitchen. Mrs Hudson was back from visiting a friend and must have seen everything lit up.

"…No.." Sherlock whispered.

John started to head towards her, but Mycroft raised a hand, nodded and left the room.

John returned to sat down on the bed and held Sherlock's wrist again, not only to monitor him but also to comfort him.

"What you did was the right decision. I am really glad you did manage to do this instead of taking something far worse… And I know how much you hate the state you are in and how bad you must feel right now and that you did it nevertheless… to protect me. I appreciate your course of action…. You can take pride in this, you know."

Sherlock said nothing, not even showed he had heard.

"How do you feel?"

Sherlock ignored him.

"Tell me how you are, please.." John gently rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's pulse point.

"Lousy."

"You need anything?… What can I do?" John was slightly astonished Sherlock allowed his touch.

"Get rid o'Mycroft and keep M'Hu'son out."

"I'll do my best. You're o.k. here for a minute?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes still closed.

John stood up and went to the kitchen where he could hear Mycroft und Mrs Hudson talking.

….

"… he's not well, he needs to sleep." Mycroft just explained.

"Oh, dear…. Good evening John…. I'll make some tea. You look like hell…" She filled the kettle.

When John saw her an idea came back to his head.

"Have you finished making that blanket we planned?" John had asked her if she could sew a therapeutic weighted blanket about a month ago, after he had heard of those for the first time. The things were expensive, but looking for sellers he had found several tutorials that explained how to make them. He had asked their not-housekeeper if she was able to make one if he bought the stuff. She had read the tutorial with him and decided this was a really good and lovely thing and that they'd make it as a present. It had been kind of funny to go to a store to get the items with Mrs Hudson… A store that actually sold stuff to make life-like baby-dolls, funny thing, he had never heard of those before. The displayed hand-crafted dolls were awesome pieces of artist-work… they had gotten the stuff about two weeks ago and hadn't talked about it since.

"I finished it last week, why?"

"I think about giving it to him now."

"But I thought we wanted to give it to him as a birthday present?" She wanted to know.

"Yes, but he is in need right now and I think he would adopt to it far better by … using it now and feeling the effects…. If we give it to him on his birthday …. as I know Sherlock he'd need months to be convinced to even try it and then … well, the chance he accepts it is higher this way I think."

"You're probably right… understanding my dear brother more than he does himself, doctor?" Mycroft added with raised brows and a kind smirk.

"Yeah, you are getting pretty good at it, he's right." Mrs Hudson said.

"What?" John was taken aback a bit.

"It was a compliment… not a lot of people had the will or time to do that for him and I think he's better with you than he had ever been before. What exactly did you make?"

"A sensory-friendly weighted blanket, used in the therapy or treatment of persons with sensory issues, ADHS, anxiety disorders, Aspergers, Autism and several other…. Google it if you are interested. He reacted good to being …eh…. I had him stuffed between firm rolls of blankets a few month ago when he was beaten by those maniacs…. You remember?"

"Yeah, he was pretty messed up, I saw him a few days after that."

"Well, I didn't know it would do him as good as it did. The idea to make him feel better that way just came into my mind and I tried…. I also needed to prevent him from moving to much and make him feel safe, that was the result. It calmed him more than anything I ever saw. I decided to find out if it was a known thing or just Sherlock-specific…. Well, no matter what it is I found those blankets, they are filled with small plastic pellets and weight about ten percent of the patient's weight. Ask Mrs Hudson or Google, I want to go back and see how he's doing. "

"You are right, not telling him all that and just use it might help on him accepting it." Mycroft stated.

"I'll get it." Mrs Hudson switched off the now boiling kettle and went downstairs.

John prepared tea but Mycroft dismissed the offer to have a cup.

"I need to get back to the embassy, soon. You had a fight?"

"Well… I fear a few days ago I threw my frustration at him about … about … his faked death… and because he seemed not to care at all how I felt about it." John didn't even wonder how he knew.

"Oh, he cares… I have never seen him so … bad… with anything in his life before…. I think I would even call it… sick …. with emotional distress. He has lost a lot of weight, not only because he didn't eat a lot, but at a certain point his body repeatedly refused to keep it down. I couldn't convice him to see a doctor. When he had taken care of Moriarty's men he wasn't even able to make it back to London by himself. I picked him up and he collapsed, due to exhaustion and malnutrition, before I was even able to make him tell what had happened. My private doctor took care of intravenous nutrition and kept him asleep for days, otherwise he'd problably …. well, he's better now. But the whole thing was a world-shattering experience for him. I was worried 24/7 that he might start to take drugs again. He started smoking though, but stopped a few days before you reunited…. I thought the danger had passed when he moved back in here. I think the only thing that kept him going was to know he had saved all of you and that one day he would come back." Mycroft informed, now his usual self again.

John rubbed first his forehead and then his eyes with his right hand, trying to hide the tears that were forming again.

"Hell…. and I rubbed salt into his injuries… I was just so… " he stopped, realizing he didn't want to spill his guts in front of Mycroft. He wouldn't understand and he wouldn't help. He needed to tell Sherlock he was sorry for his lack of understanding. He knew Sherlock buried his hurts, the severe they were the deeper he buried them. He knew Sherlock was not able to let his pain go, or out, or whatever would help it heal. Sherlock just didn't know how to do this, he hadn't learned.

"Why didn't he say so?"

"He's Sherlock… he can't… you know that."

"Hell, yes… I know… I should have been… I was just so…"

"I know, John…" Mycroft sounded astoundingly understanding.

Mrs Hudson came up the stairs, slightly panting, the blanket in a laundry basket.

"I am sorry, Mrs Hudson, I forgot it's quite heavy."

"It's o.k., dear." She handed the basket over. "I guess it's better I leave you to do this alone, right? Uh, I wish I could see him tugged in…"

"I know, but I don't think this is a good idea right now, he is not in the best of moods, I will tell you in detail later… Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson."

"Glad I could do him something good, see you in the morning… Good night" she headed downstairs.

"Good night." Mycroft added and nodded towards John "Call if you need anything."

"Night." John echoed and Mycroft also vanished.

He took the basket and went back to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was now lying on his right side staring towards the window. His breathing was agitated though his face wore a mask of perfectly calm. John rounded the bed and put the basket down on the floor in Sherlock's back, then returned to Sherlock's line of sight. The duvet was crumpled and half under him, he himself was not covered.

"How are you doing?"

"Regretting…" Sherlock whispered.

"That you didn't take something… recreational… or that you took the sedative."

"Latter…."

"I know this feels pretty bad for you, but be assured again I am really grateful you did this the way you did…. I don't know if I could live with the fact that you'd died from an overdose…. Or watch you take drugs again." He bit his lip.

Sherlock had, of his own free will, done something he had some real issues with: being rendered helpless was more than distressing for him and the state between sleep and awake held horrors to him John could only vaguely imagine, especially in the hurting state he was already in.

The one occasion Sherlock had spoken about that state had given John goosebumps. To say Sherlock was haunted by demons in that state was pretty applicable, to be haunted while he was vulnerable even worse.

John had had to sedate Sherlock before and had been a bit appalled about the horrors that he had seen in Sherlock's eyes while fighting the effect of the drug. It took a higher dose than usual to knock him out. The normal dose would only send him to the state he was in now. He wondered if he should knock him out for his own good but decided it was a last resort. He'd try several other things first, like make him feel safe, make him understand he was sorry and that he wasn't angry anymore, make him feel … not alone.

"Mrs Hudson and I went through some trouble to make something for you…" he started, feeling a bit …. he didn't know how to describe…. motherly?… well, it had been fun, doing this, he was just afraid Sherlock might hate the thing, especially when he found out it was for therapeutic use. So he tried to evade an explanation of what exactly it was and wanted to convince Sherlock to like it before he found out… yeah, so much for the theorie. If he decided he liked it he would stick to it, no matter what he learned later….

"… god, I feel like a knitting grandma." He tried to loosen the situation. "… we had a good time making a blanket we thought you'd like."

Sherlock lazily lifted an puzzled glance up to John, who was still standing in front of the bed, looking at him with a worried expression.

"Mrs Hudson had a lot of work with this and wanted to make something special for you."

John went back to the basket and lifted the blanket out, it was… heavy, really heavy, and not easy to drape over him he figured before trying. He piled it lengthwise behind Sherlock's back planning to then gently drag it over him when Sherlock interfered by trying to roll onto his back to see what he was doing.

John stopped his movement and rolled him back on his side again gently, then carefully letting the thing settle down on him instead of dragging it over him. Sherlock didn't resist.

"'s heavy…."

"It's supposed to be."

"Why…"

"Because that feels good."

"'kay."

John rounded the bed and sat down in front of Sherlock on the edge. Sherlock looked beyond exhausted, the past days taking his toll. The blanket covered him up to his shoulders.

"You need to sleep, Sherlock…. Just sleep."

"No…. " he whispered. An painful expression on his face.

"Are you in pain?" John saw it, wondering in alarm if the blanket was not good or too heavy or if Sherlock had hurt himself somewhere else.

Sherlock only grunted softly, there was no answer in the noise.

"Sherlock… where do you hurt?" John tried again.

"Slight headache."

Well, that didn't surprise John at all. Sherlock looked as if he had had a crying fit for hours, though he doubted Sherlock ever cried alound. Well, crying or holding back crying for hours were both reasons to get headaches, both ways not pleasant.

"Anywhere else?"

"No…."

John bent over him slightly and rested his hand on his hairline, putting gentle weight there, too. He didn't want to cover parts of his head with the blanket.

"I'm sorry, too, Sherlock… I know your decision to fake your death and the consequences were hard on you, too. I shouldn't have yelled at you the way I did. I am sorry. I know you long enough to should have known you are not able to wear your feelings on your face and that it does not mean you don't have them…. and that you use sarcasm to cover your hurt…. Why didn't you stop me when I threw all that in your face?"

"Des'rved it…. "

God, Sherlock had been in a slightly self-harming mode for weeks, John realized now. Barely sleeping… barely eating… he was not doing those to be able to concentrate better this time, he was punishing himself… as was he with his sarcastic remarks, and probably playing the violin until he bled… hating himself for all that had gone wrong and all his weaknesses that Moriarty had used against them.

"…and … didn't wantto do'r say …'nthing wrong…'gain."

"Oh, hell…. " John had his right still on Sherlock's forehead and rubbed his own eyes now with his left one. They needed to work this out… but not now, later…. He didn't know what to say….. Concentrate on the present, he decided.

"Okay… I want you to rest. You are beyond exhausted and I want you to feel safe. And I want you to know: the fact that you are back from the dead is what I need most…. and I want you to know that you are loved and needed here…. How do you feel under that blanket?"

Sherlock hesitated, probably not able to find appropriate words. "… like … safekeeping…"

"Good.… I think the last thing we both need right now is alone and hurting…. I will stay here and you will feel save and sleep…. I will wake you in case you have bad dreams, I promise…. We've done this before…"

John started to press his thumb - with slight pressure - down on Sherlock's third eye point.

Sherlock did some deeper and harder breaths and John interpreted his facial expression as one of ease. The pressure was good for headaches and good for relaxation. He pressed a bit harder and Sherlock sighted soundlessly and his jaw unclenched.

"Don't fight it…. " John soothed.

….

….

Please review! I am a bit nervous about this one and would really like to knwo what you think.