I close the bedroom door behind me, but I can barely register the sound or the feel of the knob on my fingers.

My brain...what the hell has happened to it? It's clear. Agonizingly so. Not the normal functioning efficiency, it's like it's been fed steroids and all the malformed areas have been stripped out.

My muscles are a different story. I thank the God I don't believe in that he saw fit to allow my legs to work long enough to get me in here as I collapse on the bed. Trying to control the shaking isn't helping so I resolve to lie here until it does. Of course, being temporarily bed ridden would be easier if my mind wasn't racing.

I'd be lying if I said I couldn't process what just happened. No, the what isn't the problem. It's all down to the bastard why.

So I come home bleeding and angry.

I yell at John and he yells at me.

We fuck against a wall.

...No. I definitely don't understand the logic here. All I know is that the flatmate relationship I might have had with John is utterly and completely out of the question. I have seen a few movies and watched a few insipid sitcoms in my time and I know that sex in a friendship has supposedly disastrous consequences.

Fuck.

I go to run a hand through my hair and I remember that John was right. I have had the shit kicked out of me earlier tonight. My hand finds my neck which is a bloody mess, and then there's the added bonus of embarrassingly stained pants and trousers.

Getting up is hard to do so I settle on wriggling out of clothes and blindly fumbling around for pajamas I think I left somewhere on the bed yesterday and wriggling into them. All the while I continually ask myself how everything came to this. Apparently I'm too fucking disordered these days to conduct a proper flatmate to flatmate interaction or even drag myself through a goddamn case without it exploding into my face.

I start to consider that my brother may be right and how absolutely depressing that is. I'm a liability, I need to be supervised at all times, I'm a fucking mental patient. And the worst part is that I fucked up someone I actually was quite fond of, who didn't deserve any of this.

Fond of? No, that doesn't really describe it. John saved me time and again and did more for me than anyone I have ever known. Even beyond the damn pool, he actually lived with me and all of what that means. Head in the fridge? I sincerely doubt anyone else would just close the door and ask why.

I hate people, I have no friends, I don't care. But I'm still ashamed of myself for this. What the fuck is wrong with me?

Then I hear it.

There's a slight tapping on my bedroom door.

He must be about to tell me he's mortified and can't bear to see my face again so he's going to go ahead and pack now. Alright. I can deal with that.

"Sherlock? I never got...to look at your hands and face." John's voice is small and timid and...worried. Very worried.

What? When will he leave?

"If you don't take care of it, you might get a really nasty infection."

What will it take?

"If you don't want to see me, it's okay."

This isn't real. No one could possibly, should possibly, care this much.

"I'll leave the antiseptic outside your door and some gauze."

Oh god, what do I do now? My stomach clenches. There are way too many emotions competing for me to pick just one. Remorse. Depression. Anger at myself for being such a twat. Others I can't name.

His footsteps begin to retreat. And I only know one thing for sure right now.

I don't want him to go.

It's still pretty damn painful but I manage to get off my bed and make it to the door, flinging it open.

"John!"

He turns around from where he's gotten to in the sitting room. There are tears in his eyes, as he smiles meekly at me.

I'm hit with a flood of unquantifiable feeling, as I take a step into the living room. I'm a mess inside and out, but I can't let him go. I just...can't.

"Can you..." I don't even know what I'm saying. My voice doesn't even sound like my own. What the fuck am I even doing? I feel colour rush to my face, and I'm praying it's indistinguishable from the swelling. I look away, shame and uncertainty forced my eyes away from his face.

Footsteps approach and stop in front of me as I look back up. John's standing there, politely distant.

"Do you want help? I know you don't exactly bandage yourself up often." He smiles again trying to keep it as light as he possible, considering the circumstances.

John's reaches down for the gauze and I can tell he's going to bury all of what just happened, but I don't think I can deal with that. Not now. Not after that.

As I watch him stand back up and start mumbling about taking care of wounds, I realize I'm actually scared. Not just nervous, but frightened.

I've never been to this area before, but I'm pretty sure that this is it, and if I pause I might make a mistake I can't fix.

I reach out both hands and catch John's so he has to cease ineffectual fidgeting.

"Stop."

"I'm sorry." He sighs, and seems to crumple under the weight of what must be the guilt he feels. "I'm so, sorry. I didn't -"

Silence hangs in the air. It's like I can't breathe all over again. I'm struggling to shut off my brain and the panic that threatens at the edge of what it is that I want right now.

"Don't." It's all I manage to get out, the moment is so thick and cloying. It's now or never and I don't want to be a coward.

I take my arms and wrap them around his waist as I draw him close and bury my face in his shoulder.

Nearly immediately the gauze falls to the floor as John's arms encircle me. He holds me closely and firmly. It's almost painful but I don't care. John's here. He's not packing. He's here.

I don't pretend to understand it but I don't care.

"It's alright, Sherlock." John whispers, his voice reassuring.

"We're going to be okay."

Clinging to those words, I hold onto John, allowing myself to for once think...

That they might be true.

Sherlock seems uneasy these days. He fidgets, he worries, and changes his mind almost instantaneously. It seems like the genius is confused and maybe a little bit lost. It's so rare I almost don't believe it's true.

I'm a doctor, not a psychologist, but I'd like to think I know the general reason.

We're sitting on the couch, and it's been a quiet night. Sherlock's hand is firmly in mine as we watch the telly. I take advantage of my new found privileges to take a long moment to examine his eyes and face as they stare ahead, wondering how the hell I got so lucky.

Suddenly his lips curve into a smile.

"What is it you find so interesting, John?"

Laughing slightly, he turns his head toward mine. And I'm sure of it now.

Sherlock Holmes is happy. And the best thing is, so am I.