A/N: For Master of all Imagination, she came up with the idea. Welcome back to the internet and I hope you like this, love. :D

May 10th, 1889

There are many reasons as to why a person wakes up in the morning. Whether it's from an unpleasant dream or the pleasant song of a bird, the human body will always come back to the living - where it belongs. On this particular day of May, Dr. John Watson woke to the sound of a light drizzle hitting his bedroom window. The raindrops shone like little diamonds as the early morning sun hit them at just the right angle; the green leaves were the most appealing of all colors, matching the grass as well as a woman could ever coordinate her clothing. And the Sun. Ah, the sun was just above the horizon making everything around it light with life; it had just the right amount of joy, excitement, and calmness in one ray of perfection. Pleasant enough, eh?

If only Holmes could have been able to take in the beauty, instead of sulking. Watson was expecting to see his fellow flat-mate fully dressed with his combed as usual, not the complete mess he was. Holmes was ensconced in his armchair; his hair was sticking up in all directions. He was still in his nightgown; a pipe stuck out between his lips, and dark circles rested under his eyes.

"Good morning, Holmes," Watson greeted, venturing into the smoke filled sitting room.

Holmes responded with a sort of noise. With a sigh, Watson moved to open a window, letting in a few drops of rain. There was no reaction from Holmes except an annoyed sigh and a slight shift in his seat. After that he refused to acknowledge his friend's existence farther more; no eye contact was made and he ignored all of Watson's comments. He tried to make a conversation about anything from the beautiful weather to crimes. And still nothing.

"Did I do something?" Watson asked bitterly, awaiting a response and receiving none.

"Holmes, why are you being so childish - and today of all days!" Watson nearly yelled.

"Why can't you just leave me be?" he stood up quickly, disturbing his chair. "I believed that you were used to my habits but it seems as though you're just as dim-witted as the inspectors at the Yard! Try observing something instead of me having to point it out to you for a change! I'm tired of having to tell you and every other person in this city what is going on and then acting amazed when I say it – No! Let me finish, if you are all so amazed at my knowledge then why don't I deserve a day when I am left alone? Does that seem reasonable or do I have to explain that too?"

And he locked himself in his bedroom.

It was several hours before Holmes emerged from his dark shelter (finally dressed and presentable looking). He quietly resumed his seat across from Watson, trying not to let the doctor see the pain in his eyes.

"I apologize for earlier," Watson finally spoke up after a few seconds of silence that added to the tense atmosphere.

"It wasn't your fault," Watson was slightly confused by his unusual behavior.

"Yes, it is, I shouldn't have been crossed with you for being in a bad mood."

"That's hardly your fault; it's a reasonable reaction."

"Holmes, are you feeling well?" Watson asked, concerned masking his voice.

"I'm fine; I just didn't sleep well last night… Watson I think I'm going to go out for a walk, I wish for some time alone."

"You just had hours to yourself," Watson sounded hurt as he spoke.

Without another word, Holmes put on his top hat and left.

An hour passed and Watson was growing more and more worried. It was nearing 6:00; Watson could only hope that Holmes had tried to stay from trouble.

"Holmes?" Watson called out when he heard stumbling on the steps.

The door opened to reveal the detective a little worse for wear. He unsteadily hung up his hat and coat, making his way to the sofa.

"Holmes?" Watson repeated. "Are you drunk?"

"Yesh," was the slurred reply.

"Well, why?"

"You should know why one gets drunk – no matter who the one is."

"You've never turned to drink before, please tell me what's wrong."

Holmes shook his head. Tears formed in the poor man's eyes. If only Watson knew what was wrong then maybe he could have provided the right comfort but the best he could do was pull the younger man into an embrace. He could feel hot tears on his neck as Holmes let out the emotional pain he had been trying so hard to keep locked up.

"I know you didn't only go to a pub. Where were you?" Another shake of the head.

"Why won't you tell me? Do you not trust me?" And another shake.

Watson pulled away and took a good, long look at Holmes – whom was hiccupping quite frequently. He took in the gaunt features; the bloodshot eyes, the pale face, and the tears drying on his cheeks. He handed Holmes his handkerchief, which was gratefully accepted, and poured him a glass of water.

"I do -" hiccup. "Apologize," Holmes took the offered water after another hiccup.

"There's no need to," Watson said softly.

Holmes finished the water, banishing the insulting hiccups from his chest. He gave both the handkerchief and the glass back to Watson.

"You look exhausted, Holmes."

"I feel exhausted."

Watson stood up and fetched an afghan, telling Holmes to stretch out on the sofa. He was asleep almost immediately with Watson tucking the blanket around him.

Whatever has gotten you this way? Watson thought. He knew that there was only one way to figure it out if Holmes wouldn't tell him himself. And that was Mycroft Holmes.

A/N: Brother Mycroft knows all. So, how was it? Good, pretty good, or did it make no sense to anyone? I'm pretty tired and writing about a tired Holmes isn't helping… so... to bed!