Disclaimer: don't own the characters. Wish I did, cos if I did there would be more kissing.

It doesn't kick in until he's alone. Until he reaches the cold, dark silence of a strange bedroom in a house he's only just begun to call home. Until he realises that there isn't really anyone to talk about this, because the idea of talking about something serious to Sherlock is akin to banging his already aching head against a brick wall.

The past couple of days are like a blue. A frightening, unreal, horrific blur, and it's just starting to set in that this, this, is what he gets off on. Apparently. But the 'apparently' is only there in his head, because there is a cold reality in this, in the fact that his hands have stopped shaking; that his leg hasn't hurt at all in the last few days.

And with that thought, a full-blown wave of pain shoots out from his leg, and he cries out involuntarily as he barely manages to remain upright; clinging on to the bedpost. He pauses, to catch his breath against this sudden onset, then drags his unwilling body round until he can lie down.

He figures if he can just sleep, just close his eyes, then he can begin to forget, begin to just feel better, instead of having this twisting knot in the middle of his stomach. After all, he's already seen so much death, why would the death of one girl affect him so much?

But as he lies there, a noise rips through the room; a deep, gutteral noise, that has him starting in surprise, until it comes again and he realises that the noise is coming from him; that his whole body is shaking with the force of the sobs tearing through his body.

He tries to hold it back, but it's like trying to stop the tide, and then he can't hold back the waves anymore.

They're pulled from him, one after the other, after the other, until he can't tell the end of one heart-wrenching sob from the beginning of the next. And the appalling thing is that he doesn't know why. He doesn't understand why this is suddenly the way that he deals with death, it's never been this before, and he's trying to understand but the thoughts in his head are just whirling and twisting and he can't make any sense of them and all he wants is for it to just STOP!

He doesn't know how long he lies there for, how long he is curled on his bed wrapped up in his own head, and he doesn't know when the door opened, and a silent presence made it's way over to him. He doesn't remember the long arms being wrapped around him, and he doesn't know how long he lies there in that embrace.

But he does know when he starts to calm down. He does remember lifting his tear-stained face to the calm, concerned eyes above him. He remembers vaguely registering the fact that man holding him doesn't tend to like being touched, and this must be a remarkable situation for him to suddenly change all of that.

A few moments more, and he clears his throat, averting his eyes as he looks down at his fingers twisting together.

'That was different.' Sherlock observes, and he doesn't even bother to ask how the detective would know how this reaction differs from the norm. And that thought makes him flinch, because he thinks that no person should have a 'normal' reaction to death.

When he looks up again, the eyes are questioning, and he sighs.

'I don't know.' He admits, but the eyes clear above him, and he thinks that maybe Sherlock does.

'You think it's your fault.' His voice is low and calm, but the reality of what Sherlock is saying still slams into him like a wave.

'You think it's your fault that she died, because you left her to help me. You think that it's your fault because you think you could have saved her if you'd stayed and watched over her.' Sherlock pauses, but when he continues, he is incredibly sure of what he is saying, as always.

'You're wrong.'

Watson opens his mouth to reply, to protest against something, but Sherlock cuts him off before he even starts.

'If you'd stayed, you would have died as well. She would have died, and you would have died, and then where would that have left me?'

His brow furrows at the self-centredness of what is coming from the detective's mouth, but he's halted in his tracks again.

'I would be without you. You….you are the first friend I've ever had. If you had died, I would have been alone. Again. And then who would I talk to? Because the skull is gone.'

That last sentence breaks through something, and Watson feels his lips twitch slightly. He looks up again, into the colourless eyes that have become so familiar, and he is held there, captivated by something he can't explain.

But apparently Sherlock can, and he hesitates only slightly before leaning down and pressing his lips to Watson's. The older man sighs slightly, and shifts, but doesn't pull away, and as the kiss deepens, the only thought now in his head is how he can stay like this forever.