Spoilers for season 4 episodes 1 + 2. Taken place after 'that hug', I am putting a few weeks between then and 'that' session John has with the therapist at the end, so just a lot of angst, hurt comfort,references to the episode, i might add to it
some different stuff,

i don't know yet. Please tell me what you think.

Chapters 5 and onwards are set after episode 3: The Final Problem.

"Sherlock, you've been in there a while-"

"It's my own bedroom, John, what do you expect?" Sherlock scowled. "I'm getting changed," he replied grumpily from through the door.

John sighed and lent on the wall outside Sherlock's room.

Sherlock carefully pulled the t-shirt over his head and winced at the pain in his ribs. He scowled at the t-shirt, but apparently it's more 'comfortable' and 'breathable' than button-up shirts, so he had to wear comfy 'loose' clothing while he was
/recovering, including jogging bottoms.

He was going recover anyway, and the type of clothing was not going to massively alter that, was it?

But John had insisted, so he did what he said, begrudgingly.

Hang on.

Where were his slippers?

His slippers were important. They made his feet warm when they were cold.

He frowned and looked around him. Weren't to be seen. No, not there. Last time he saw them were...Hmm. Don't really know. Can't really...remember.

He shook his head and blinked rapidly as he went over to his bed and bent down to look underneath it. Nope, not there either.

He stood up quickly, and suddenly the whole world tilted and his vision swayed as he fell in front of him - onto the bed - no, he was turning, stumbling - he hit something - argh - his head was turned towards the blue wall - needed to

process where it would be best to land -

He let out a small gasp and opened his eyes. He was looking at the ceiling. How much time had passed?

He was on his back lying on the floor, and his head felt exceptionally light, and empty. He lifted his hands in front of him. Slight dusting from the carpet, but not ingrained or dark, so he had only just fallen, and can't have been on the floor for
/more

than a few seconds.

Well about half a minute by now.

"Sherlock, the kettle's just boiled."

He heard John's voice and slowly he sat up, and rubbed his throbbing head.

He hasn't had pain meds in a while. He had a thought he would be needing them about now.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

"Huh- uh-" Sherlock cleared his throat. "Yea, I'm fine; coming," he called out. He knew they were just trying to help him, but it annoyed him how they treated him like a child all of a sudden, who needed constant attention.

Although, perhaps for a different reason than Rosie.

He did actually like the company though. Makes a change after being in an exhilarating, wild drug haze for weeks, not even able to escape his manic brain for one second.

He stood up painfully as he held onto the wooden edge of his bed. Frowning again, he looked down as he felt his abdomen and ribs, which were still sore from bruising, and - oh. He looked up to the bed. That's where he must have hit his ribs - just now,
/on the wooden poster at the end of his bed as he apparently had fainted from light-headedness.

He sighed as he pressed a hand to his stomach, and padded over to the back of his door, where his dressing gown was hanging.

He held onto the fur.

But however much he tried, he could still feel the hard slam against his ribs.

No, he can't think about that now!

The painful, tormented shouts coming from John as he hit him against the wall.

No- stop -thinking-about-it-!

But how could he ignore it?

He had caused his only friend - his one best friend - immeasurable pain. He had now caused John two painful losses in his life, and though John had said that Sherlock didn't kill her, he still couldn't imagine.

He loved John Watson as a best friend, his closest companion, like Mary had said. He even felt compassion towards other people, like Mrs Hudson or Lestrade. He knew he would be - well, he couldn't even imagine it - probably somewhere along the lines of
/being sad -if something happened to them, which is why he tried to protect them.

But for John to lose Mary? His wife, his love? The mother of his child?

She was my friend as well.

He could hardly imagine, and he couldn't blame John for what he did, for being angry, upset.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?!"

He blinked tiredly.

"Er-mm...'m just getting my dressing gown..." Sherlock slurred. John could hear that he was close to do the door so stood away from it as he expected him to come out.

Sherlock pulled the dressing gown down and tried to swing it around him, but it slipped out of his delicate hands and he tried to catch it.

"Wo-" He swayed but his knees buckled and he ended up on the floor, clutching onto the gown as he gasped in pain and crunched forwards, laying his head on his knees, breathing heavily.

There was knocking on the door.

"Sherlock?" John thought he had heard a bump in the room."Oh, for Christ's sakes, I'm coming in."