Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock

AN: This fic was inspired by 's story Don't Touch Me, which is a really awesome Johnlock fic and if you haven't read it you should go and check it out. I hope you guys like this and I'm sorry that this chapter isn't all that long, I will attempt to make the others longer, but going by past experience that might not happen. :/ Please enjoy.

This time when John woke, it wasn't to the screaming of his alarm clock, but to the frantic calls of Mrs Hudson.

"John, John! Wake up John!" Oh no, come on, please wake up John. Oh what will Sherlock say? I've knocked out his boyfriend!

John snapped his eyes open and glared angrily at the woman.

"Mrs Hudson, how many times do I have to tell you? Sherlock and I are not dating!" Mrs Hudson looked momentarily shocked as she jumped back from John's body, which was still lying back on the stairs, before she seemed to realise something and smiled knowingly down at the doctor.

"I don't remember saying you were, John," she said, a smug victory in her voice. Aha. Got you there John, I always knew…

"Mrs Hudson you just said-Oh, ouch" The pain in his head from the fall had just hit him and he winced as he went to grip his head in his hands. He'd come down surprisingly hard on those stairs and could already feel the start of a sharp headache coming on. Mrs Hudson's face instantly transformed from smugness to worry and she started helping John up from where he lay.

"Come on, dear, let's get you lying down on the couch now and I'll find you some painkillers." I hope he doesn't have a concussion; are you supposed to give painkillers to people with concussions?

"Not ibuprofen or aspirin," said John, "but if you've got paracetamol that's fine."

Mrs Hudson looked confused.

"For a concussion, ibuprofen or aspirin could cause more bleeding but paracetamol is fine. It doesn't matter though, I don't think I have a concussion," explained John.

"Oh, I was just wondering about that, are you sure you're feeling alright though?" said Mrs Hudson, concern tingeing her voice. He really doesn't look good…

"Er, yes, I might just lay down for a little bit though, and those painkillers would be great," he said with a wince, "thank you Mrs Hudson." With that John stumbled over to the couch and lay down softly. He was wondering why Mrs Hudson felt the need to tell him she was just wondering about the concussion when she had already asked him the question about it. Everything about they're conversation had seemed a little bit strange, as if Mrs Hudson had been unaware of half of the things she said. John shook the thoughts away; maybe he really did have a concussion.

John could hear Mrs Hudson muttering to herself in the kitchen and smiled. Her constant concern over himself and Sherlock was nice to have, and John felt a pool of gratitude for the kind woman rise over him. At the same time he realised her mutterings sounded a bit, well, strange. It didn't really sound different, but it felt like he wasn't hearing it normally. He was receiving the knowledge of the voice being there and hearing the words in his head, but he wasn't actually hearing it. It was like how her voice would sound in a memory, or a thought. It was… odd. John listened closer.

Paracetamol, paracetamol… There's got to be some somewhere. Maybe in here… No, what was in this container though?

"No! Mrs Hudson, not in that one!" Mrs Hudson paused with her hand on the lid of the container and stuck her head around the corner.

"What are you talking about, John?"

"The container you were just about to open, with the white lid and the orange sticker? It's not paracetamol, and you really don't want to open it. It's one of Sherlock's less pleasant experiments." John scrunched up his face at the thought of the smell opening that container would cause. Mrs Hudson looked even more confused.

"Um, thank you John, but how did you know what container I was about to open?" John looked at her blankly.

"Oh, ah, just a guess Mrs Hudson, try the container that was next to it on the left."

"Thank you, John; that was a very good guess. Rivals some of Sherlock's!" John snorted as Mrs Hudson brought out a glass of water and the correct container.

"I don't think Sherlock just guesses everything, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh nonsense, of course he does, he's just very good at it," says Mrs Hudson, "now I really must be going but do not hesitate to call for anything John Watson and I don't want you gallivanting about with Sherlock all day. Rest is what you need and I won't have him interrupting it with some silly errand of his." John smiled.

"Yes, Mrs Hudson." He felt rather as if he was being ordered about by his mother.

"Goodbye, John."

"Goodbye, Mrs Hudson." With that, she left and closed the door softly behind her. John breathed a sigh of relief.

How had he known about the container?

Well he'd seen it. He'd seen it right as she was looking at it even though he was lying on the lounge in a completely different room. It had felt like he was seeing everything she was seeing, hearing everything she was thinking; but that just wasn't possible. People didn't just sift through the thoughts of others, at least not in real life. In real life people couldn't read minds.

And that was it, wasn't it? He'd read her mind. John could think of no other explanation, and with this realisation came confusion.

People don't read minds. It wasn't natural. Was there something wrong with him? Yes, there was definitely something wrong with him. And suddenly John was angry. This wasn't fair, this wasn't something he had chosen, and he didn't understand it. He didn't know if he was even right in his assumption. Hell, this could all be a hallucination, made up from the mind of a badly concussed doctor. But he knew he was right, everything was too real for it to be a dream, and there was too much detail. And then the panic set in.

What if he couldn't turn it off? If he was stuck like this forever? If every time he stepped out of his flat he was assaulted by a million voices in his head and couldn't shut them out.

And of course, there was the most important question; what if Sherlock found out? Because Sherlock needed to know things. And anything Sherlock didn't know about would be experimented on. John scrunched his eyes up. He couldn't let that happen. He had to hide it. But what exactly did he need to hide?

John stood up. He needed to know. Now. He needed to know what it would be like. He'd banished the pain in his head already; he could hardly concentrate on it when the real chaos was going on inside of his head. He was still aware of it of course, but it didn't matter, he could ignore it. Right now he needed to go outside and find out if he was right – if he wasn't just imagining everything. So he would. John dashed down the stairs and over to the door, pausing a moment to breath in deeply. He had to do it now, before he lost his nerve. Preparing himself, John opened the door, trembling, breathing heavily, and all…

For nothing. Absolutely nothing. John let out a giggle of hysterical laughter. He had been wrong, he had been imagining things, everything was absolutely normal. And then they hit him. The voices, all of the voices. How many were there? He couldn't tell, he couldn't know. It was like asking how many grains of sand there were on a beach, how many stars in the sky. Immense, immeasurable. And oh, so very, very loud. And not just loud, it was the images, the thoughts, the ideas. Too much for one person to cope with, too much for one person to comprehend.

John slammed the door. The noise stopped. And John slid down onto the floor, shaking. He wondered if this was what it was like for Sherlock, all those ideas running around his head. It would explain the sociopathic side of his behaviour. And really, Sherlock would have been so much better suited for… for this. John wasn't sure what to call it. A gift? No. An ability, then? A curse?

It didn't matter, he needed to control it, find out how to shut it all out. He had to. Otherwise… well, otherwise John didn't want to think about it.

He was fine now, within the walls of the flat. Why was that? John thought. Why was it that as soon as he had stepped outside everything seemed to just open up. It couldn't be a physical reason, this wasn't a physical problem; it was all mental. Psychological. So the answer had to be psychological as well. Okay then, so it wasn't the actual walls around him that stopped the voices, it was the idea of the walls. So theoretically if he was outside, but thought about being inside, he could shut them out.

Theoretically.

John took a breath. He could do this. It was like falling off a horse, you had to get back on straight away. So he stood up, and for the second time that morning, he opened the door to the thoughts of every single person in London. And it hurt.

There were so many thoughts-too many ideas-he couldn't understand them, he didn't even know which thoughts were his. It was all rushing through his mind and he couldn't keep up with it. There were glimpses, here and there, of things his mind could actually comprehend, but overwhelming this were the endless senses of all of London. Sight, hearing, taste, smell, he could literally feel everything. John started hyperventilating. He needed to calm down. John took another deep breath, feeling the air move shakily in through his lungs. This was him, not the person down the road who left their phone at home, not the businessman in some office miles away worrying about share prices. This, right here, was him. And so he imagined shutting the door. Not the real one, the one in his mind. He thought about it closing, felt that feeling of being in his own little world, cut off from everyone else. And then it was silent.

John grinned and opened his eyes. It had been so easy to turn off; all it took was one thought. The relief he felt was overpowering and he sat down right there in the doorway, smiling at the people walking by. He didn't care what they thought so long as he didn't have to hear it.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. John took it out and looked quickly at the screen.

NEW CASE. WILL BE AT 221B IN 10 MIN. MAKE COFFEE – SH

John stopped smiling. Because now he had to keep a secret from Sherlock.

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