Summary: Sherlock is having one of his danger nights, and all John can do is hold him and watch the strong man fall apart. Johnlock, protective Mycroft.

Rated: T for very mild drug reference (not use)

John got the call just two minutes ago, and already his feet were hitting the bottomstep of 221 Baker Street, launching him forward and through the door. he wasn't even sure if he closed the front door; he didn't really care. All he cared about was Sherlock.

John got the call while he was out shopping, getting the milk that Sherlock never bothered to get. Though, to be fair, he didn't use too much of it to begin with. John struggled to balance to jug of milk and a box of cereal in one hand while pressing his phone to his ear with the other.

"Where are you?" Mycroft's firm voice demanded the very second he heard the line pick up.

"At the grocery, just like I told Sherlock. Did he refuse to answer your texts, or did you just not bother this time round?"

"Oh, he answered," Mycroft muttered. His voice sounded faint and worry seeped into his tone. John pressed the phone closer to his ear, almost dropping the milk. "You need to go home now, John. He needs you."

"What's wrong?"

"He was upset earlier, very upset. He completely shut down. I think it's a danger night. Please, John, go home."

Mycroft's pleading was unnecessary; John had already shoved the milk and cereal onto a random shelve and was halfway out the door before Mycroft's words even registered.

"I'll be there soon." He pressed the off button and started running.

John wasn't sure what to expect, but whatever thoughts might have been cropping up in the back of his mind were tossed right out the window when he opened the door to the flat.

The room was an absolute mess. Papers were throw askew, crumpled or torn in some cases; an entire shelve seemed to have been destroyed, all it's contents somewhere on the floor. A box in the corner was overturned and a tea cup lay shattered near the coffee table. It looked like Sherlock had been looking for something, and didn't find it. Or maybe he did; maybe he found something he wished he hadn't.

John's eyes rested on the bundle laying on the sofa and his heart twisted in his chest. Sherlock was curled up in a tiny ball, a major feat for someone so tall, with nothing but a sheet wrapped around his thin frame. His head poked out one corner, a mess of curls sticking to his forehead, and tears dried against his pale cheeks.

"Sherlock," John breathed, falling to his knees next to the man. Something cracked under his left knee and he lifted it to find a broken needle.

"Leave me alone," Sherlock whispered. His breath came in short gasps when he talked, and he was holding back fresh wave of tears.

"Sherlock…Did you….Did you use this?" John held the needle in front of his face and Sherlock withdrew as if he had been shocked by some invisible force. He pressed his face into the pillow, teeth clenched.

"No," he spat out. "I couldn't d-do it."

"That's not a bad thing." John placed the needle carefully on the table and pressed his palm to Sherlock's forehead.

"I'm s-so useless, John. And useless, and ugly, and a freak!"

"Stop it, stop it right now!" John pushed Sherlock up, sat on the sofa, and pulled the taller man on his lap. One hand wrapped around his waist while the other came to rest of his chest, holding him in place. Sherlock's held fell back against his shoulder and his body shook.

"You're not useless. You're not ugly. And you're not a said it yourself, once: there's nothing wrong with you."

"THERE'S EVERYTHING WRONG WITH ME!" Sherlock ripped his body away from John, lost his balance, and fell to the floor. A sob broke free, a sharp, painful cry that had John literally clucking his chest. This wasn't the Sherlock he'd come to know, this wasn't his Sherlock. Now he understood why Mycroft was so overbearingly protective of him.

"No," John breathed. He slid from the couch and pulled Sherlock to him. The man didn't resist this time, instead clutching to John's shirt and sobbing against his chest. It was maddening, watching his usual strong flatmate fall apart, become so unbelievably harmless and vulnerable. Worse, knowing he could do very little to help him.

"You're beautiful, Sherlock. Beautiful, inside and out, when you let people in, when you give them a chance to see all of you."

"I just-I don't-"

"Shh." John leaned backwards and pulled Sherlock to the ground with him, flush against his chest. Sherlock never let go of the iron-tight grip he had on John, and John couldn't bring himself to care. All he cared about was Sherlock.

They stayed like that for over an hour, curled up on the floor together, John stroking Sherlock's back and Sherlock breathing hot against John's neck as he slowly calmed down. And when his eyes finally fluttered shut and his breath evened, John snagged the sheet off the sofa and threw it over them, not daring to move them off the floor. He pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's forehead and prayed, with everything he had in him, that he never had to see Sherlock like this again. It was heartbreaking.

I should probably apologize to anyone who author alerted me, because I'm pretty sure you just got like five or six emails from me, and that might be getting annoying, so sorry! I really shouldn't put off transferring these from tumblr.