So this fic was inspired by All Time Low's song 'Therapy'. It was really a couple of lines that inspired me to write this fic:

'In a city of fools,

I was careful and cool;

But they tore me apart like a hurricane.'

If you haven't heard the song I strongly recommend you do. It is a beautifully sad song. I hope you enjoy, I'm afraid that I did write some more angst but this fic is slightly different to my usual. Do please let me know what you think in a review, they really do make my day.

I do not own Sherlock or 'Therapy.'

Therapy

"Please listen to me Sherlock; I have something really important to tell you." John fought hard to keep his composure; he really needed to be calm for this because there was no telling how his friend was going to take this news.

"Hmm?" asked Sherlock distractedly as he gazed down the microscope intently at what appeared to be some kind of purple goo. His bony and deft fingers carefully twiddled the knobs of the microscope to lower the stand to bring the unknown substance into focus. There was no way John was getting his full attention, unfortunately the best way to do that would be simply to tell him the news. Not the kindest way of doing it but unfortunately it was necessary.

The doctor took in a deep breath knowing that what he was about to say would be a huge blow to the detective whether or not he would admit to it. "I proposed to Mary tonight, she said yes." There, he'd said it and there was no doubt that Sherlock had heard. His fingers had instantly stilled, though his gaze remained fixed down the eyepiece. John said nothing, he was probably trying to process the information whilst trying to figure out what an appropriate response would be, gazing down the microscope simply served as a means of hiding whilst he figured out what he should do.

After about thirty seconds John grew uncomfortable and shifted about nervously, fingers tapping subtly against the side of the teacup as he awaited a response. The movement seemed to snap Sherlock out of his reverie and he turned his head and raised his eyes to look in his general direction. No eye contact was made and, despite Sherlock's constant reminder that he did not have the observational prowess of the world's only consulting detective, he did notice this. Instead of trying to figure out what it meant he catalogued it for future reference if it ever became relevant. But right now Sherlock was doing his best to be happy for John. A fake grin was plastered on his face, it was so close to his genuine full smile which was rare for anyone to see but John, but yet there was something strained behind it. But that didn't matter to the doctor; all he cared about was that he was getting married to the woman he loved and that his best friend was trying very hard to be happy for them.

Sherlock stood up, grin still in place, and stepped towards John. His movements were hesitant as if he didn't know what the rest of his body was supposed to be doing. "I am very happy for you John," Sherlock stated in a very convincing manner. However John knew how much Sherlock disliked Mary; according to him she was stupid and dull, more stupid and dull than most people apparently. She's almost as much of an idiot as Anderson although admittedly she is less obnoxious. Either way, she wouldn't be able to work out who'd committed a crime if they signed their name in their own blood at each crime scene after committing the murder.

John smiled at the memory. Sherlock really didn't like his fiancé (wow, that sounded weird to say) and his fiancé wasn't exactly fond of Sherlock either. But she tolerated him and was very understanding of the relationship he and Sherlock had. That was part of why she was so brilliant. John turned his attention back to Sherlock whowas looking less sure of himself than John had ever seen. It looked as if he was debating giving John a hug or shaking his hand so John made the decision for him by sticking his right hand out. Sherlock took it obligingly. "I am truly glad for you John; I hope you two are very happy together." With that the eccentric detective left the room, dressing gown swirling behind him, his microscope and experiment apparently forgotten. "Are you alright Sherlock?" John called down the hall after the younger man.

"Fine." He closed his door effectively ending all possibility of further conversation.

Sherlock nearly missed the wedding despite the fact that he was the best man. He had been helping out on a case and it was thanks to Lestrade that he made it there at all. But as the wedding started he wished that he could be anywhere other than that church. The walls were too white, the clothes were too bright, the flowers were too pungent and the singing was too loud. Unfortunately he had promised John that he'd be there so he had to be.

It hurt a little to see the way John smiled at her, he was happier with Mary than he had ever been whilst they were working on cases together. But then again Mary probably never experimented on random objects; she probably never lounged on the couch for days on end without speaking or shot holes in the wall. She probably never annoyed John the way he did, Sherlock knew John would always be there but now he wasn't. He had left Sherlock for this woman. Things which Sherlock had never thought about before started presenting themselves as flaws in his personality which had driven John away. If only he had treated him better, perhaps he wouldn't have abandoned him.

Sometimes Sherlock really hated his mind. He needed it always to be working because if it wasn't it would turn on him. It was doing than now and he just wished it would stop. If John was by his side then he would have noticed Sherlock's distress and helped calm him in some subtle matter. But John wasn't by his side; he was standing next to that woman and promising to waste the rest of his life with her and away from Sherlock. He'd better get used to it though; soon John would abandon him completely because he'd be too caught up in his ordinary life. Boring.

The body lay out rigidly on the floor. She had been dead for a while. Decomposition had not visibly set in yet but rigor mortis had. The victim had obviously been laid out like a soldier as soon as she had died and now there was no getting her out of the attention position. "John!" Sherlock shouted over his shoulder before he froze on the spot. Stupid, stupid, of course John wasn't with him. John was married and on his honeymoon which meant he was not in London so could not help out on cases. He felt a hand land on his shoulder causing him to flinch despite knowing who the hand belonged to. He turned to look into the detective inspector's comforting eyes before he was called out to look at something elsewhere. This left Sherlock, Anderson, Donovan and the body in the room.

"Where's your boyfriend then freak?" Donovan demanded with a smirk spread over her face.

"Sorry Donovan, to whom are you referring? I do not have a boyfriend."

"Don't start that smart-arse act again," sneered Anderson. "I heard that he dumped you and got married. It doesn't surprise me really; I can't see how he can stand to occupy the same space as you for more than 5 seconds." Sherlock huffed at this but did nothing more to exacerbate the situation, he'd had specific instructions from John before he left and was trying to follow them, he wanted John to keep talking to him when he came back which meant he had to be careful what he said to them.

Quietly he started to examine the body but in the background he was ever conscious of the whisperings of the two incompetent police officers. There were many snickers and he could feel their eyes watching him. It was really rather distracting. Without thinking he opened his mouth to shout for John again but managed to clamp it shut before any noise managed to escape from it. Unfortunately this did not go unnoticed by Anderson and Donovan who began to laugh at him. "Are you really that lonely Freak? You can't even go two days without seeing that boyfriend of yours," Sally sneered.

"You had better get used to it though, Mr Detective," Anderson snarled with even more vehemence than Sally did, stepping threateningly towards the detective who stood his ground, albeit it silently. "Now he's got someone else he doesn't need you, not that he ever liked you. You gave him something to talk about but now he has his wife he's going to leave you to rot. I'm surprised he didn't leave you before; you belong hidden in an asylum away from everybody's view. He could have done so much better if he had never met you; all you served to do was drag his name through the mud."

Even Donovan looked a little surprised at how harsh his words were and Sherlock stared at the smaller man in surprise and confusion; he didn't know what to do next. His mind was telling him that he should punch the arrogant man, his mouth wanted to hurl all his insults and deductions at the man, his heart told him to remain silent for John's sake but a small voice in the back of his head told him Anderson was telling the truth. So instead he simply turned his back and stalked out of the room, catching Lestrade in the doorway. "It was the sister," he whispered sounding almost unsure of himself, but this was Sherlock so he couldn't possibly be unsure of himself. After this the consulting detective carried on and the DI turned to Donovan and Anderson angrily. "Once we're back at NSY I want to hear what this is about and you two better have a damn good explanation for this, he fumed before chasing after Sherlock down the stairs. But once he looked out the front door he saw that Sherlock had vanished.

Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and even Molly had come to talk to him after the incident at the crime scene but he was in no mood to talk. Anderson hadn't got to him, of course not, that was too great a feat for such a babbling idiot. He was just sick of all the stupidity which kept pouring out of his mouth in an incessant torrent of absurdity. But there was no explanation for the timid tone his voice had taken, it's not like Anderson's presence affected his vocal chords in anyway. But of course Lestrade fretted and told Mrs Hudson and Molly and they all thought he had been affected emotionally. Fools the lot of them. He didn't have emotions to be affected, did he?

So instead of facing them he ignored them as they knocked on the door of his flat and then again when they knocked on his bedroom door. When they decided enough was enough and that they'd go into his room anyway he would pretend to be asleep which worked. They left him alone but that was until John phoned, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to miss a phone call from John.

"Sherlock Holmes," he answered out of habit.

"You could just say hello you know," replied the teasing voice of John.

"Ok, hello, what do you want?" Sherlock heard John sigh down the other end of the phone and nearly hung up. He could tell that Lestrade had been talking to him.

"Is everything ok? Greg phoned me about an hour ago and sounded quite worried."
"Yes, I'm fine. How's the honeymoon?" Sherlock tried to distract John but he wasn't being deterred, the doctor was no fool.

"It's good Sherlock, I'll tell you about it when we get back. Have you been eating?"

"Yes, of course," came the instant reply as he reminded himself to make sure there was no more of the pre-made meals Mrs Hudson had made for him for when John was away. Of course, when he did return he would be living with Mary and still wouldn't be monitoring Sherlock's eating habits as closely as he normally did.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you listening to me?" John's slightly frantic voice sounded over the phone. Obviously the detective had been thinking slightly longer than he had anticipated.

"Yes, yes of course I am."
"What did I just say?" Oh, of course, John was the only person who would be smart enough to check. Sherlock desperately searched his mind palace but nothing came up so instead he went for something John was normally saying.

"You wanted to know if I was sleeping."
"No, but that is a good point. I was saying that if you throw all that delicious food Mrs Hudson kindly made you I will find out and I will not be impressed."

"Oh," commented Sherlock in disbelief. "And how, may I ask, will you know?"
"I have my ways," John replied with slight mirth in his voice. "Look, I need to get going. Are you sure you're ok. I'm not going to come back to find you unconscious on the floor am I."

"I'm not planning on it but I can't promise anything. After all, I can't see the future."
"You know what I mean. Well, if you're sure I'll take your word for it. Oh, I know I'm away and everything but you are my friend, I don't mind if you phone me if you need anything." Sherlock smiled because he knew it helped to add sincerity to his voice.

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself John, and, so you don't ask again, I am fine I assure you." And with that Sherlock hung up, the smile instantly slipping off his face.

The people of London rushed past Baker Street, eager to get out of the strong wind which had been blowing the whole day. Taxis glided up and down the road, all in all life seemed normal. Nobody seemed to notice the black sedan pulling up or the mysterious looking man stepping elegantly out. His suit billowed in the wind but apart from that he seemed un-phased by the unpleasant weather. He stepped confidently towards the door and pulled out a key, anyone who stopped long enough to observe him would have seen he clearly did not belong in such a place. But nobody stopped, all rushing to get home after a long day at work, so he entered the building unobserved. The car which had transported him slipped away soundlessly.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open as he heard the distinctive tap, tap, tap of an umbrella on the stairs and he internally moaned. The detective had known that realistically it wouldn't be long before Mycroft began to meddle but he'd hoped for a little longer in peace.

Neither brother greeted each other when Mycroft entered the flat; instead he went to the kitchen and put the kettle on and wordlessly made two cups of tea. He placed one cup next to Sherlock, who kept his eyes closed and then sat in the chair opposite the coach and fixed him with a look. Normally this in itself would get Sherlock talking, albeit angrily, but the younger Holmes really couldn't be bothered with his brother so proceeded to ignore him, and the cup of tea.

"There is no point in moping Sherlock," Mycroft commented eventually once he had realised that silence wouldn't cause his brother to speak. "John's got married, he isn't dead." Sherlock didn't reply, he merely opened his eyes and glared at the government official. "This is pathetic Sherlock, he got married, deal with it." Silence. "I told you once that caring is not an advantage and this is why. Look where it's gotten you. What would Father say?"

"Shut up Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted whilst angrily sitting up from his horizontal position on the couch. He had to fight to prevent the inevitable dizziness from sitting up so quickly from showing on his face. When was the last time he had eaten?

"Ah, it speaks!" Mycroft commented mockingly. Mycroft could see that Sherlock was having to physically force himself not to reply scathingly, he was obviously hoping his silence would drive Mycroft away. "You need to get out of this Sherlock; doesn't John deserve to be happily married?" Still no reply but there was a fire in his little brother's eyes that Mycroft had not seen before. "Come on, he wouldn't want you being so pathetic over him."

"Leave," Sherlock's voice growled fiercely.

"Not until I've achieved what I wanted to do here."

"What? You want to fix me? Well, let me say this nice and clearly. There. Is. Nothing. Wrong. With. Me. Now I hate repeating myself but leave!" Sherlock's voice was becoming gradually louder and louder.

"This isn't healthy. Come on, we'll sort this out."
"What's made you into such a family orientated man this weekend? Why are you trying to pretend you care? You have never liked me Mycroft so I don't see why we have to make up now. I won't tell you again. Leave." The elder Holmes could see that it was no good. Sherlock did not want help so Mycroft was not going to make the effort to help him. The government official nodded curtly and left.

The Stradivarius was held gently under his chin and his spindly fingers pressed down on one of the strings. The bow was clasped in his other hand and poised over the strings. Cool air flowed through the open window, biting at his pale skin. A violent shiver tore through his body but he didn't move, he just didn't know what to do with himself. He had stood at the open window about an hour ago in just a pair of trousers and a t-shirt intending to play something but he couldn't think of anything to play. Quite often he would play music which would reflect his mood, even if that meant composing, but nothing came to mind this time so he just stood there, hoping.

Sherlock didn't notice Mrs Hudson coming into the flat but he flinched when her warm and caring hand touched his cold arm. Gently she took the violin and the bow off him and guided him to the sofa before placing a blanket around his shivering form. Suddenly he realised how cold he was so he drew his knees up to his chest, his landlady looked at him sadly before heading to the kitchen.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting on the sofa before the hot cup of tea was placed into his hands. For a few minutes Sherlock simply sat there, absorbing the warmth but then he began to sip at it gratefully. Soon after he finished a plate of spaghetti Bolognese was placed in front of him but he ignored it. Tea was comforting, food was nauseating. Mrs Hudson simply sat on the sofa next to him until it grew cold before sighing, getting up and taking the plate back through to the kitchen with her. The sound of cutlery scraping on the ceramic surface of the plate made him wince.

Mrs Hudson walked back through to the living room with the phone in her hand. "Sherlock dear, Greg from Scotland Yard wants to talk…oh." The living room contained a distinct absence of consulting detective. "Oh, he's not in the living room. I'll just check his bedroom." She hurried along the corridor and tried the handle before scuttling away again. "He's locked it. Do you have any ideas?"

"Calling John would be the best one."

"No, he's on his honeymoon and he's only got another five days left. He needs to enjoy it and he should not have to be worrying about Sherlock, not when we can handle it."

"Well I'll come over later. I have some tricks that I used to use when he was going through withdrawal. I'll give those a try. I'm afraid after that we have the choice of phoning John or sending him to a hospital. Neither option is a particularly good one."

"Let's not think about that, I'm sure your trick will work, I'll see you later." And with that she hung up and forced herself not to cry.

He was running down the wet London streets, the cool air blowing in his face. There was a grin plastered on his face, this is what he did. I solved puzzles and chased criminals, that was what he was good at and he was in his element. He saw the blur of a coat ducking into an alley-way so he skidded to a halt and dived in only a few second later than the suspect. Suddenly he stopped as he felt the cold metal of the gun touch his temple. The suspect said nothing, he simply backed away from the detective. Just before he disappeared around the corner there was a loud bang and Sherlock's shoulder suddenly exploded in pain. A small cry of both pain and surprise came out of Sherlock's mouth before he could do anything about it and he dropped to the ground, his jacket soon becoming soaked as he fell into a muddy puddle.

Footsteps approached and Sherlock groaned and braced himself expecting the suspect to return to finish the job. But no shot came and the detective looked up into the friendly eyes of John Watson and despite his pain he smiled, it was John, John would help him. But John did not help him, the same friendly smile Sherlock had come to know and appreciate was still there, however the caring personality was not. The doctor lifted his foot and placed his foot on Sherlock's wound. "John, what're you doing?" Sherlock asked, painfully aware of the panic which entered his voice.

"I'm simply getting rid of a liability." He began to grind his foot into Sherlock's wound which elicited a whimper of pain from Sherlock and the pool of blood which surrounded his shoulder began to grow larger. John laughed at Sherlock's suffering. "I have a wife now," he stated putting yet more pressure on the wound. The detective's vision began to blur. "I don't need you now and I don't want to be the one who has to look after you. I just thought I'd put you out of your misery." Suddenly there was no more pressure on his shoulder for which Sherlock was grateful but he felt too weak to say anything to the doctor. The last thing he saw before his vision went blank was John walking away from him without regret.

Sherlock woke up gasping, pain still radiating from his shoulder and, loath he was to admit it, his face felt slightly damp from where tears had seeped from his eyes. He found himself shaking and he couldn't stop. John had abandoned him, left him to die and even in an imaginary world that was traumatising. Maybe Mycroft was right, he had become pathetic. The detective felt disgusting, his t-shirt clung to his skin as it was soaked with sweat so he pulled it off and threw it in the corner in disgust. What was wrong with him? Why was he reacting in this way?

John had loved every minute of his honeymoon, there was no denying that. In fact he was still enjoying it; he was sitting on a train going through the most gorgeous countryside England had to offer with his arm draped around his wife's shoulder. They sat in silence, a comfortable silence which can only be had by those who truly know everything about one another and don't feel the need to fill every second with mindless chatter.

But despite all this he was glad to be getting home. He may be a newlywed but that didn't mean he didn't worry about his best friend still, in fact he did, constantly. The texts he had received worried him, there was only one which directly indicated there was a problem and that was when Lestrade had asked him to phone Sherlock. The rest of them were asking things like what Sherlock liked to eat and what brand of tea he liked. This could only really mean one thing and that was that Sherlock was refusing to eat the food Mrs Hudson had left him and that meant that there was something wrong.

He refused to think about that though until the train actually arrived in London. He gave one look to Mary who nodded, "Go and see him, text me to say if you're staying there tonight. Don't worry, I understand." John smiled and took her into a tight embrace before kissing her tenderly on the lips. "I love you so much," he said afterwards, gazing straight into her eyes.

"I guess that's why you married me." John grinned at her, gave her a final kiss, then exited the station hand up ready to hail a cab.

The flat was silent when John entered, that was until Mrs Hudson heard him, practically ran down the stairs and wrapped her arms around his neck. "John, I am so glad that you're home. Did you have a nice time?"

"Yes thank you, it was brilliant. I have plenty of photos to show you."

"Oh I am glad you enjoyed it. We didn't want to bother you while you were away but he's gone into one of his depressive episodes again." With that Mrs Hudson bustled him up the stairs, luggage and all, into the living room.

Sherlock sat on his chair, violin in hand yet no music emanated from it. He had lost weight, his cheekbones far more prominent than could be considered healthy. "How long has it been since he moved?" he whispered to Mrs Hudson despite knowing Sherlock could hear them perfectly well.

"A couple of days dear." John shook his head but proceeded into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

"I don't mean to be rude Mrs Hudson but would you mind going? I think this might be easier if he doesn't have an audience to worry about. She nodded in understanding. "Just give me a shout if you need anything.

The doctor glanced through to the living room where Sherlock sat motionless, his violin sat poised in his lap, a finger resting on one of the stings as if it were about to be plucked. It didn't appear that he had even registered John's presence. The next stop was the freezer to see how many of the meals had disappeared, about four of them had but that didn't necessarily mean that Sherlock had eaten them. He shook his head, the detective certainly had lost some weight and it wasn't like he even had any weight to loose in the first place.

By this time the kettle had boiled so John poured two cups of tea, putting generous teaspoons into Sherlock's tea, and then set them on the coffee table. The doctor sat down and looked directly at Sherlock who still hadn't noticed his presence. "Sherlock?" John said gently as if he were afraid of startling a frightened animal. No response. John reached over the table and touched Sherlock's arm which startled the man back into reality. "Sorry mate, you couldn't hear me. Were you in your mind palace again?" A brief look of confusion spread over Sherlock's face but he instantly schooled it behind his usual mask of boredom and indifference.

"John, what are you doing here?" Sherlock asked.

"You know technically I do live here still, I'm moving out tomorrow."

"Oh, right yes." There was something wrong but John couldn't put his finger on it.

"You know I will come and see you don't you?" Sherlock snorted in response. "What?" asked the older man, annoyance seeping into his voice.

"You say you'll come and visit, you may well intend to, but we both know that over time you'll visit less and less until I'm nothing more than a memory of a life past. A story to tell your new friends. Its ok, I'm used to it, nothing that hasn't happened before." John felt a tug at his heart and his eyes opened in realisation of what this was all about.

"Sherlock, I promise, I'm not going to abandon you."

"And what makes you any different from the others?"

"Oh, don't put me in a group with the rest of the idiots who fill our cities," John replied imitating Sherlock's voice causing the man to smirk. "Seriously Sherlock, I'm only a few roads away so you'll be able to come and bother me for cases and I'll be able to pester you to eat like I am going to in a few minutes. Sherlock shook his head.

"No, at first you'll visit, but things change… things have changed. You'll make new friends, better friends and then you'll just forget about me. It what people do, and don't feel guilty John, it's nothing I can't handle.

His elegant fingers began to pluck at the strings of the violin and John simply sat and watched him. The pale man looked almost vulnerable and it really did break John's heart to see such a great man in such a state. This was Sherlock's equivalent to hysterics, silence and stillness. John kept on going over and over again what Sherlock had said in his mind and each time it hurt a little more. "You know, you're right," John stated after a minute.

"Predictable," the detective commented before looking up at his friend. "Right about what?"

"About things changing and things having already changed. You were even right about me making new friends."

"I have told you before John, I am always right," Sherlock stated. It was supposed to be a joke but there was absolutely no mirth in his voice.

"Do you remember that first crime scene we went to together?"

"Yes, obviously."

"You told me you always miss something, I'm afraid you still haven't broken your pattern."

"What? What did I say wrong?" Sherlock asked, his voice full of curiosity.

"I will make new friends, but they won't be better than you." The grin on Sherlock's face caused such utter relief to John that he could feel a smile growing on his own. The detective leaned forward and picked up the cup of tea John had made for him and took a sip out of it. That was a good sign that meant, that at least for now, Sherlock was choosing to believe John. He'd have to be careful though because Sherlock did seem to get the wrong end of the stick when it came to emotions. Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat before looking at John. "Crap telly?" he asked tentatively.