A/N: WARNING: The chapter contains spoilers for A Study In Pink!

"Please, Sherlock, don't be like this!"

"No, John. We're not taking this any further. What happened happened and I thought it right at the time. I'm not apologizing for my actions and we're ending this now."

John rested his forehead in his palm. "Sherlock, it's not the end of the world. It won't kill you to apologize to the man you had up against the wall and were screaming at." The detective was sitting on the couch, long legs drawn up to his chest. He had his arms crossed and a childish, indignant expression set in stone on his face. John had to hold back a smile from his spot in his armchair, relaxing, trying not to hurt his back or shoulder. His head still hurt, but he had taken something for it, and the swelling had gone down quite a bit after two days of multiple ice packs.

"I'm sure Dr. Pennypacker won't even come in if he knows you won't attack him again," the doctor said as he rustled the newspaper. Sherlock picked up his violin and plucked the G string. "Then maybe we can get you out," the brooding man suggested. John rolled his eyes behind his paper. "That's what the therapist is for, Sherlock. You can't do everything on your own, we tried it, remember?"

"Well, let's try it again. Right now." Sherlock was instantly out of his seat, the instrument discarded for the time being. He went to John and placed his hands on the arms of the chair, leaning in so his face was a millimeter away from the other's. He had a rare smile pulling on his lips, as did John. "Do you trust me?" The words were a whisper. John wanted to answer yes, that he trusted Sherlock with his life, with his family. John wanted to reply that he would willingly give him his own heart, had it not already have been stolen quite successfully by the detective. He wanted to scream it to the world, but their lips were only just touching, and-

That was when someone knocked on the door. Both men started and looked over as it opened. There stood Mycroft, who smirked when he saw the position his brother and the doctor were in. "Excuse me if I'm intruding on anything, but I'm here to deliver the therapist, who has decided not to press charges." He stared pointedly at his sibling, who, swift as a frightened bird, backed away from John. Mycroft departed, leaving Dr. Pennypacker alone with the detective and the doctor.

At John's request, Sherlock picked him up and placed him in his wheelchair; both men wanted to kiss, however quickly, but though it inappropriate with the therapist here.

Sherlock cleared his throat and moved away from John. "Well," Sherlock announced in his usual condescending drawl, ignoring his lover's gestures towards the therapist,"I must be off to make sure Lestrade hasn't gotten too many people killed with his stupidity." He swiftly left the flat.

John sighed. "Dr. Pennypacker, I really am sorry for the way he acted last week. He is very...protective, I'm not sure why..."

"Well," the therapist sat down on the couch and opened a notepad with a pen in his hand,"I'm afraid we can't do anything for him at the moment, as I am payed to talk to and about you, John. So, please, tell me, have you made any improvements with your phobia?" The doctor shook his head, swiveling in his wheelchair to face the newcomer. "No. I hurt my back and my head when I fell. I've mostly been lying down for the past few days."

He wrote that down. "I'm sorry you were hurt. I do hope you recover." Neither wished to speak of what had happened to the therapist in that predicament, so the subject was changed.

"So have you been experiencing any unpleasant memories from the incident?" Dr. Pennypacker inquired. "Nightmares, sudden daytime flashbacks?" John nodded in consent. "Nightmares, definitely. They're not about him, though- Olsewski, I mean. They're about his- his obsession. He had this thing with World War II. His grandfather and mother were in a concentration camp, and his grandfather was murdered in front of her. He said she had a nightmare, then suffered a heart attack from the fright and died. I wish he weren't so ill. He seemed smart. But he had an entire room covered with pictures, of the most..." John grimaced,"...gruesome things from that time period. I have nightmares about those pictures, that I'm part of it and I continue to die...that Sherlock continues to die."

Scritch, scritch, scritch, went the pen.

"Sherlock was the man who..." the therapist cleared his throat, his eyes on the man in the wheelchair. "That man who left right before our session." John said,"Yes. He is very stubborn, I asked for him to apologize..."

"Well, that's of no concern, John. We're here to talk about you. Somehow you keep forgetting that..." The man with glasses smiled and continued. "Do you believe that you could go outside without having an episode, John?"

"I..." the doctor struggled with the answer. "...I- I don't know know. I haven't tried in so long, but I do trust Sherlock."

"And do you trust me, John?"

"I...suppose I do. I don't see any reason as to why I shouldn't. I want to leave," he explained,"but my mind won't let me. It's just too frightening, for some reason. But it is rather silly," John continued,"because Olsewski's in jail. It's ridiculous to be afraid of something that can't hurt you." John remembered when he was younger, and he had been mortally terrified of thunderstorms. When he was twelve, and a storm struck the sky, John would clamp his hand over his ears and crouch in the stairwell where there were no windows, his eyes closed. One time there had been a huge thunderstorm, and the power went out. John couldn't stay by himself in the dark stairwell, and was reduced to jello by nature, sobbing and shaking. It was a full-blown phobia. His grandmother told him to imagine that it was the angels bowling in heaven, and whenever the ball struck the pins, it hit so hard that the sound boomed for the Earth to hear and created the lightning. John was never afraid again, even after he stopped believing any religion in the deserts of Afghanistan.

The pen stopped scratching the paper. The therapist looked up from the notepad he was jotting down notes on, his his face bunched up in a confused expression. "In jail? What are you going on about, John?"

John gripped the arms of his wheelchair tightly, his eyebrows knitting together. "Olsewski is in jail for murdering that woman, and for shooting me." Although it wasn't a question, John didn't feel very confident in the statement.

"John, didn't anyone tell you?" Dr. Pennypacker's voice had taken on a tone of worry and pity.

"Tell me what?"

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock groaned as he strode out the door of the flat. His older brother walked beside him. "I just want to say congratulations," the older Holmes shrugged, his tone so aggravatingly nonchalant.

"On what?" Sherlock growled, knowing full well what had been meant.

"On you and John. I knew it would happen someday. Perhaps you won't die a virgin after all..."

"Yes, perhaps I will, and although that hasn't happened yet, it will be far better than dying after having sexual intercourse and remaining alone with no one to love." Sherlock knew he shouldn't have been so cruel to Mycroft, he wasn't even in that bad a mood, if he was in one at all.

But his older brother merely offered a faux-smile and a quiet,"Not everyone finds true love in their lives, Sherlock. Only the very lucky few. And the Holmeses were never known for their affection and hospitality. John isn't like you. He needs attention, and visible love, I'm sure. I hope you're prepared to give it to him."

Sherlock wanted to reply that he was ready in every way to give John anything he desired at the drop of a pin, whether it be love, sex, money, food, silence. The list went on. He loved John and would truly do anything for the man that he desired.

All Sherlock did, though, was turn his gray eyes to look into Mycroft's. His older brother looked back and stopped walking. His sibling's eyes, usually gray and as cold and hard as stone and ice, now had thawed and showed a new depth. They were now deep like a warm, bottomless tub of mercury.

For Mycroft, it truly was a beautiful sight.

A nod was all the older one had to give the younger one to communicate that he understood. They broke eye contact and started to walk again, at a slower pace this time.

"He's quite a catch," Mycroft quipped, which had Sherlock smiling, and Mycroft smirking wider than usual. They walked in silence a little while longer, before Mycroft sighed.

"You lied to him, didn't you?" If he had been wrong, Sherlock would have turned on him in a split second, ululating at him and spitting on his shoes for ever incriminating him of lying to the love of his life.

But Sherlock just replied,"Yes and no. I never fibbed-"

"But you never actually told him," his brother finished for him. Mycroft sighed, knowing it to be the truth. "He only wants to help, you know. You would be dead by now if not for him. He has to know what's going on or the worst could happen. Don't you remember the cabbie? If not for John, you would have committed suicide and wouldn't have known Moriarty's name in advance. He saved your life."

"He didn't have all of the information then and he was fine."

"He wound up in the wrong building, Sherlock. If it weren't for the luck that you were only separated by two windows and four feet of grass-"

"I was probably right-"

Mycroft took ahold of his brother's shoulders and looked him dead in the eye. "Yes, probably, Sherlock- but not absolutely. You couldn't have known. It was only a guess. You have to tell him."

Sherlock shouldered his way out of the older man's grasp. "And what?" he snarled. "Have him afraid to leave his room? He can't look out of the house, Mycroft, that is how overwhelmed he is! The memory of Olsewski is what's holding John back and he's only getting better with the knowledge that the man who rendered him unable to move his own legs is behind bars where he can't escape! I don't care if it's a lie or not, I just don't want him to be afraid!"

Mycroft's gaze softened. "If-" he began, but was cut off by Sherlock's cell phone ringing. The detective answered it, and saw it was John. "His session isn't over yet. What does he want?" he asked aloud, curious, not aggravated. He answered.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock, would you come back to the flat? I need you, now." John's voice was urgent and Sherlock replied,"I'm on my way," before hanging up, and was off without a second glance at Mycroft.

When Sherlock returned to their flat, Dr. Pennypacker was gone. John sat in his wheelchair, his back facing his newly returned lover. His head was bowed and his body was tense.

"John, what is it? Is something wrong?" A thought crossed his mind that reminded him that he was probably- Sherlock visibly flinched at the word- right about the therapist. What if he had forced John to call him and then drugged him? Or killed him?

The latter thought sent Sherlock's mind and emotions into a whirlpool of panic, and he strode over to the forever-seated man. "John, what's happened? Are you alright?" He let several tentative fingers drop onto his lover's sandy hair, which were, quite suddenly, batted away. Sherlock deduced quickly,"You're angry. And tense. Your back is hurting you." He reached forward to massage the hurt from his partner's shoulder and back, but John swiveled around to face the detective, his face twisted into a horribly furious expression. He had a newspaper in his lap. "What is this?" was all the doctor demanded.

"What's what?"

"Don't ask me what it is- you know what it is!" John thrust the paper into the detective's hands, then turned so only the right side of him was facing his lover. Sherlock didn't need to read the headline to know what it said.

MENTALLY ILL MAN, COMMITTED OF HOMICIDE AND ATTEMPTED HOMICIDE, ESCAPES AUTHORITIES

Sherlock didn't know what he was going to say, but he was going to say something. "John-"

"You didn't tell me he had escaped," John cut him off, his eyes fixed on some point on his lap. His voice was very quiet, almost a whisper, yet so intense that it made Sherlock want to curl up on his bed and be left to shrivel up and die.

"No-"

"But you knew," the doctor clarified. After a moment, Sherlock looked down at the paper, then back up at the right side of John. "Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?" John breathed in that same earnest voice. Sherlock tried,"I-"

"Why didn't you tell me," John swiveled so he was facing the detective,"that the man who shot me and paralyzed me, the man who tried to kill you, the man who has a room covered in pictures of sick, dying people and blood and death-"

It was in his mind, John was one of them, he was so sick, so frail, wearing lice-ridden striped clothing. He was being beaten in the mud by a soldier, who had no mercy, and two feet away was Sherlock, and John was picked up and forced to watch as the gun was pressed against the side of the detective's head-

John began to shake and sweat and his gaze became empty as it left Sherlock. The detective knelt in front of him and took either side of his face. "John! John, look at me!" He planted kiss after kiss on his lover's wet face, wanting the expression to become whole again, for the chapped lips mouthing incomprehensible words to kiss him back.

"It's alright, it's alright," Sherlock assured, and eventually, John returned to him, but he wasn't afraid of the sudden vision or of Sherlock's closeness. John's eyebrows narrowed and his mouth twisted into a scowl, and he placed his hands on the man's chest and pushed. Sherlock stumbled back from the force of it.

"I cannot walk!" John roared, his hands balled into fists. "Because of that man, I cannot move my legs, and you failed to tell me that he is still at large!"

"Because I didn't want you to be under any more stress, John," the detective explained. "I don't want you to be afraid. You were getting better; I was sure that you would get over your fear very soon with the knowledge that you were safe, and you wouldn't be a hermit anymore, and if you found out after you were able to go outside, you wouldn't be affected and would still go outside." John's fingers laced in his hair, clutching at his throbbing head. "This is not about me being afraid!" he cried. "This is about you! This is about you not trusting me enough to let me know something! You can't just withhold that kind of valuable information from me!"

John lowered his voice considerably. "I- I love you, Sherlock. Don't you feel the same? Don't you love me enough to trust me?"

"John, of course I do," Sherlock whispered, taking a step forward.

"Well, apparently, not enough to trust me with the fact that the man who tried to kill you- not me, Sherlock!" Sherlock was frozen. "He fired that bullet at you and I'm paralyzed because I love you!" John yelled. "And you can't even say the words to me! We've been together for almost a week, now, and you haven't ever said the words "I love you"! You can't even apologize to the poor man whose throat you had your hands around!"

"I thought he was trying to-"

"Yes, of course you thought!" John interrupted. "You thought he was going to kill me! You are so dramatic! You thought he was a threat, but you didn't know that, Sherlock!" Sherlock was, for once, at a loss for words. It was all true. He didn't know anything. He had just wanted John to be safe. John wouldn't miss any of the major points. "Sherlock, I- I know that I can't walk, and I know I haven't left the house yet, but I am not a child. I can think, I can still protect myself. I have a gun, I know how to use it, I know how to protect myself and you!" Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John wouldn't let him.

"Yes, you!" the doctor continued. "You need protecting, because Olsewski didn't try to kill me, he tried to kill you!" John shook his head. "I can't walk because I love you, Sherlock Holmes. It isn't that complicated."

"John, I just-"

"Stop it, Sherlock." The plead came out as a breath. "Please, just- stop. I need to think."

Sherlock did. A hush fell over the flat, a heavy weight that was threatening to crush the atmosphere within.

There was absolute silence.

Outside their world, no birds chirped for entertainment. All the branches of the few trees sagged towards the black tar that grew stiff with anxiety. The wind held its breath, offering no tickled spirit for the leaves.

The world waited for John to decide, and it was killing him.

Finally, the pressure weighing on his shoulders was too much for the doctor.

"Leave."

"What?" Sherlock was sure that he had heard wrong.

"Leave, Sherlock. Please, go away. I need to be alone right now." John regretted the words ever leaving his mouth, and he wanted to take them back, have them be sucked back into his mouth and never return. But he knew that he couldn't. He could offer alternative words, but that would do no good, because, while he didn't want to be alone, he didn't want to take out his anger on the one he loved most, and he couldn't figure this out with Sherlock, who had lied to him.

He watched out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock stood, very laggard, lingering for as long as he could. Then, with no swoop of his jacket or know-it-all wink, he left.

The minute the door shut, John started to cry.

When Sherlock stepped outside, he wanted to cry. But he was Sherlock Holmes; he couldn't possibly! The last Holmes to ever shed a single tear was his great-great-great-great-aunt Imogene, who was an excellent actress.

Sherlock walked small steps, taking his time, trying not to cry. John would call him. He knew John. John would call. John would figure it out.

The second the detective stepped into the dark alley, the tear fell.

That was also when the strong-smelling cloth was slipped over his mouth and jammed up his nose, making him dizzy, making him struggle.

One last thought crossed Sherlock's mind.

John is loyal. He will come.

A cloudburst of utter blackness shrouded Sherlock's vision and trickled into his mind. It soon swallowed him whole, and the detective knew no more.

A/N: Hope you like. Looks like Sherlock's gotten drugged. Again.

Fun Fact: The famous deerstalker cap of Holmes was not ascribed to him by Doyle, but by the illustrator of the stories, Sidney Paget.

Please, please, please, Read And Review! I will take any reviews, positive or negative! Comments, concerns, compliments, angry hate reviews on how I could do a better job! Constructive criticism! It doesn't matter! Anything, PLEASE! I miss you people!