This is unbetaed. I do not own them therefore I do not profit from them.

Sherlock sat huddled on the sofa in 221B Baker Street, his arms wrapped around tucked up legs. Chin resting on his knees, he drew in a shuttered breath. No amount of determination could stop a tear from escaping the corner of his left eye just before it ran down a sharp cheek, following a track left by its brothers before.

It was here, one of the dark times. It had crept upon him suddenly and taken hold of his very being.

Despite wrapping up a case only two days earlier, the great detective had been hit with a wave of hopelessness an hour before. The experiment sitting on the kitchen table had been abandoned. A text to Lestrade had proved fruitless. Having tea downstairs with Mrs. Hudson had not helped and he had left immediately after. No reason to worry the poor woman. John was at work and not due home for another four hours.

Sherlock considered leaving the flat to take a walk around the city he loved so well but chose not to for two reasons. One, it would be just like Mycroft to have him kidnapped so that he might show condescending concern for his little brother. Two, he did not want to be surrounded by noise and humanity. There was nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass.

As a little child there had been no storms. Only wide eyed fascination of the world surrounding him and encouragement for the questions he asked. School quickly turned into a disappointment as had the classmates surrounding him. By his later teens the clouds had started to descend and drugs would soon be the choice of medicine the young man would turn to.

Once the drugs were no longer an option, The Work helped to create a distraction and many times Sherlock could push the troublesome emotions down far enough so pretending they did not exist was easier. The Work also provided an audience to perform for and it was always pleasant to be seen and noticed, even if there were negative reactions at times.

But now there was nothing to distract him and despite the burning need inside of him for someone to connect with, to help relieve some of the pain, Sherlock was alone. Alone with his fears and the words that whispered in his mind and heart like freak, useless, abandoned, worthless, pathetic. Unable to find a way out of his head, the tears continued to assault Sherlock's cheeks.

A short time later, the position of the sun had not changed; a calloused hand ran through his curls as a shorter body sat in the space next to him. Sherlock lifted his head and met the concerned expression of one Doctor John Watson. After all their time together, John now had the ability of gauging the strength of a storm in seconds.

Wasting no time, the good doctor moved each of the men until Sherlock's head rested against John's chest. While arms wrapped around his thin frame, the consulting detective took a breath as he listened to the strong beating heart beneath his ear. Not asking how John had come to be home so early, for surely Mrs. Hudson had phoned, Sherlock hummed when a kiss was placed on his forehead.

No words were spoken. The two men clung to one another as they waited for the storm clouds to pass.