A big thank you to all readers! I know, the story may be appearing a bit strange right now, but believe me, it is heading towards somthing you all wouldn't have imagined at all! Any guesses? Anyway. let's move on...

Chapter 3: Breakdown

The club today is too noisy for my taste- so much so that I have to strain my ears to hear Sherlock and Victor, who are standing right next to me!

"Come on Sherlock, just once!"

If looks could kill, Sherlock would have Victor Trevor's blood on his hands by now.

"Oh come on Sherlock! You can't just keep standing here, you have to dance!" Victor's voice is close to pleading now.

"No way Vic!" Sherlock is getting slightly annoyed. "I came to the club at your insistence as you wanted to introduce me to some of your friends. It isn't my fault that they ditched you at the last moment! Why are you punishing me by making me dance?" He said the last word as if it is the worst torture on earth.

Oh God. Sherlock has had an aversion to dancing ever since he was made fun of by one of his cousins, who said, and I quote, that he looked like a tall gangling monkey while he danced. I've tried several times to get him dance, but to no avail. Looks like some things just don't change.

"Come on Lock! Just this once, please!"

.

.

.

How can it be that when your world crashes around you, you hear only silence?

Lock. This was the nickname I had given to Sherlock after the Irene incident. A small gesture, but my voice shows all my fondness for him whenever I say it, and the smile that comes to his face as a result is the smile of angels, innocent and pure, just a bit shy, but lights up his eyes. It is one of my most cherished and closely guarded possessions, this name. And now it is Victor's too.

Not a big deal really. He is Sherlock's boyfriend, after all! He has the right to call him whatever he chooses. No big deal. But somehow, this one act has proven to be the pinprick to the explosion of my long suppressed emotions.

"Hey John!" Victor's voice brought me to reality. "Will you join us on the dance floor?"

Oh! So Sherlock agreed. Great.

Right now, I am really glad that I have my back turned to them, or Sherlock would have easily caught the look of utter devastation that crossed my features. It is only with years of practice that I manage to school my features into a neutral expression. Only then do I turn to them.

"Sorry guys, but I really need to leave now."

"John" Sherlock's voice has an edge of panic. "What's wrong? Are you alright?"

I really don't know how I managed the small smile that seems to have calmed my friend (friend?) somewhat.

"Don't worry Sherlock! I just have a splitting headache. I really need to get back now, or else I won't be able to go to class tomorrow."

"If it's that bad, then I'm coming with you. I'm not leaving you alone when you are sick John!"

Oh Sherlock! Please don't make it more difficult for me than it already is! I need to escape!

"No Sherlock! Please don't spoil your night for me." I raise my hand to stop the forthcoming argument. "Really Sherlock! I'll be fine! I just need some rest. Now go and dance and enjoy with Victor. Don't let my stupid headache spoil your fun." He still looked conflicted.

"Let's go Sherlock." said Victor. "Ah! Looks like my friends are here at last! Come on! I really want you to meet them!" Sherlock hesitated.

"Go on Sherlock. It's all fine." When will I be able to say these words and mean them as well?

With that, I left, intending to go to the only place where the tumult of my emotions can be released safely.

About an hour and a half later, the door to 221B opens as silently as possible as Sherlock Holmes enters the room. He walks on tiptoes literally, in order to avoid further aggravating the condition of his roommate and best friend John Watson. Although John had insisted that all was fine (honestly, didn't he tire from saying the same thing over and over?), Sherlock is fully aware that things are not fine. Not at all.

First of all, John Hamish Watson has never left Sherlock so abruptly. He remembers the one time in high school when John went with him to the garden, where they collected soil samples all day, and never once insisted to leave despite realizing that he was not feeling well. Sherlock had been so engrossed in his field work that he missed all signs of his best friend's deteriorating condition right up to the point when a loud thud made him aware of the fact that John had fainted! So no, John would not leave him like that for something so trivial as a headache.

Secondly, and most importantly, John called him Sherlock. John never, never calls him Sherlock outside Uni. He always calls him Lock whenever he can, the only exception being infront of bullies like Anderson and Donovan. Oh, Sherlock has been called names before, but only out of spite. Freak, crazy, robot are some of the kinder ones. But never once had Sherlock been called a name with fondness before John. John knows that Sherlock loves it, this sign of friendship and genuine affection between them. And yet he called him Sherlock.

These were the two major reasons that led Sherlock Holmes to leave the club just an hour and a half after John despite Victor's protests. He tried to stay to please his boyfirend, but his heart was back at 221B. He needed to know what was wrong with John- with his best friend.

Still using, Sherlock enters the kitchen to find the sink empty- not even a cup of tea. Odd. John never skips his tea. He has three cups a day, and never misses them, especially not when he has a headache. Similarly, it indicates that John skipped dinner- another rare occurrence.

At this moment, Sherlock's eyes land on a note on the fridge in John's distinctive handwriting (to him- not that it is anything extraordinary, but Sherlock can identify it among thousands of others)

Sherlock,

Sorry, couldn't wait up for you. Wasn't feeling very well and needed rest. Didn't feel like eating. But don't you worry; I'll be fine after a sound sleep. But this does not mean that you get away with not eating. You haven't eaten a proper dinner in four days Sherlock. I made some lasagna- it's in the microwave (which I had to thoroughly clean first, by the way, thanks to the fingers I found in them! Seriously Sherlock! Spare the bloody microwave or clean up after your experiments!) Eat it or I'll be really cross in the morning Sherlock. And then get some sleep- don't stay up thinking for too long or sorting your Mind Palace or whatever. See you in the morning.

John

P.S. - No violins please!

Warmth pooled in Sherlock's heart. Oh John! He was feeling so unwell, and yet managed to think about Sherlock's welfare! Dear God! What did I do to deserve such a wonderful friend?

A knock at their door brings Sherlock out of his reverie. He bolts to the door like never before, lest the knocking wake John up. He opens the door carefully, ready to chase away whosoever was on the other side. But Greg Lestrade's apprehensive expression stops him in his tracks.

"What's the matter Gavin? Did my brother finally manage to scare you?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "First of all, its Greg , Sherlock! Secondly, no, things are absolutely fine between Myc and me, thanks for asking. And lastly…" his face turned serious again. "…is..is John alright Sherlock?"

"Well, he said he had a headache, but otherwise….why do you ask?"

"Well, I may be wrong, you know I'm no genius like you Holmeses and I might have made a mistaken assumption but.."

"Get to the point Greg!"

"Alright, you nutter! It's just that, I saw John entering the room ten minutes ago, and…his face had a sort of blank expression. I tried to call out to him, but he seemed to be in a world of his own. Before I could approach him, however, he shut the bloody door right in my face! And never once responded as I knocked! It might have been because of the headache- God knows they can be troubling- but this is so unlike John…"

Outwardly, Sherlock is calmly listening to his words. But his mind is whirling.

"It must have been the headache Greg." He manages to answer nonchalantly, even though his mind is full of questions. "He's asleep right now, I'll talk to him in the morning."

Greg calms a bit. "Ok Sherlock. Just…do talk to him. I'm worried."

With that he leaves, and Sherlock is left alone with his questions.

Ten minutes ago? John had left the club an hour an a half ago! He should have reached Uni in half an hour max. Where on Earth had John been for over an hour? And why didn't he return immediately if his headache was that bad? And above all, why didn't he mention this to his best friend?

Right now, he wants nothing more than rushing to John's room, shaking him awake and demanding answers. But well, John's note said that he needs sound sleep, and well, after all that John has done for him, Sherlock can give him this at least.

So, he eats up the lasagna, has a shower, brushes and goes to sleep, determined to get answers the first thing in the morning.

However, little does Sherlock know that had he gone up to John's room, he would have been greeted with tear strained cheeks and a bottle of sleeping pills at the bedside table. Nor does he know that had he woken John up, puffy, red-rimmed eyes would have looked up at him. Had he asked questions, the answers would have been literally croaked due to a throat hoarse from sobbing and screaming.

Had he seen his best friend then, Sherlock would have found a broken man.

About an hour ago-

The cemetery was twenty minutes away from the club. However, the silence was such that it seemed miles away from the city. Miles away from the world, actually. When John arrived, not a single person was to be seen.

John moved with quick steps despite his limp being back. Tears had already started streaming down his cheeks, but they were nowhere close to his actual state of mind. Finally, he stopped in front of two graves.

Amanda Watson. A wife, a mother

Harriet Watson. A daughter, a sister, a friend.

John knelt down carefully in front of the gravestones. With a trembling hand, he proceeded to caress both the stones and brush some of the dust off them. This went on for about five minutes, after which he abruptly stopped.

Then, he screamed.

He screamed till his throat was hoarse. He screamed as if his heart was being ripped out. He screamed as if his world had crashed. When he could scream no more he sobbed. And when his tears finally dried out, he kept asking one question over and over.

Why?

Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?

Why?

Why?

It took about half an hour for John to calm down enough to be able to leave the place and return to 221B and maybe face the world again. However, the damage was done.

Today, John Hamish Watson broke down for the first time in about eight years.

What do you think will happen next friends? Will Sherlock get answers? Will John manage to hold on or will his emotions get the best of him?

Do hit the review button. It would be nice to hear your views, even if they consist of just criticism. :)