"What do you mean he isn't awake?"

"So sorry, sir, fell into a coma directly upon arrival," the nurse responded, flipping through the pages of her clipboard.

"Hepatic encephalopathy," John murmured. "Hepatic coma, stage four."

"What are the chances he'll be waking up anytime soon?" Sherlock asked, turning to John.

"It's anyone's guess, really,"

Sherlock groaned, putting his hands on his head.

"Fantastic, just fantastic."

"Sherlock, maybe don't be so insensitive-"

"He is his own reason this happened, I will not be sensitive to someone's own poor choices," Sherlock said cooly. "And you shouldn't be either."

"Right," John said, nodding.

"Thank you for your time," Sherlock said to the nurse, he then turned to John. "Quickly, we must speak to the mother before she decides to croak too."

As Sherlock led him away, John couldn't help but notice the nurse's shocked expression at Sherlock's words. He quickly mouthed an "I'm sorry" before Sherlock pulled him out the doors.

"We need to find out where she lives, I might have found clues based on the position of the cotton on Huy's wool sweater-"

"What? No, Sherlock we already know," John said, looking at Sherlock incredulously. Sherlock paused.

"We do?"

"Jesus- I wrote down the address, see?" He flashed his notepad to Sherlock, who crossed his arms, pouting like a child.

"Well, my way was cooler."

"Yes, but mine is more time-efficient. Think ahead, you always say," John said, tapping the side of his head with his pen.

"I fear you're becoming more like me."

"Heavens no, that's the last thing we need."

"I couldn't agree more."

As the two made their way across town, John noticed the light dusting of snow across the city. Though Sherlock thought nothing of it, John drew a link between the snowfall and the series of events that took place just months before. He stood on the sidewalk, looking around as it began to fall heavier.

"I'm not crazy, Sherlock, something bad is going to happen," he said, lightly jogging to catch up.

"Since when have you been a conspiracist?" Sherlock asked, eyes fixated in front of him. John rolled his eyes.

"I'm serious, I have a bad feeling. The snow is just a coincidence, but the gut feeling-"

"-is your mind playing tricks on itself," Sherlock finished.

"Even if it is," John said, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, "I still think we should be careful."

"What brings you to that conclusion?"

"I don't know, but-"

"Then we are safe for the time being," Sherlock said as he tied his scarf around his neck. John groaned.

"Well at least keep an open mind," John said. "Anything can happen."

As the two continued walking, John began to notice his leg growing sore. At first, he tried ignoring it, hoping it would resolve itself on its own. After they made it a few more blocks, however, it just grew worse. Naturally, he didn't say a word. Sort of.

"So, erm, why didn't we take a cab again?" He asked.

"It isn't that far, besides I think better with fresh air. Why?"

"No reason, just curious."

"We're almost there now, anyway."

They stopped in front of a rather large apartment with two doors sharing a conjoined porch. One side was obviously well kept, freshly painted an alarming shade of yellow and decorated with peonies in pots hanging happily from the ceiling. while the other was nothing more than a sad shell of a fairly nice building. John pulled out the slip of paper he kept in his pocket.

"Uhh, says here apartment B..." He said, glancing at Sherlock.

"Interesting. Well, go on, knock."

"What? Why me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John.

"Are you scared?"

"What? No, I just-"

"Then go ahead."

John trudged to the door, mumbling every curse word under the sun. He knocked on the wooden door, waited thirty seconds, then knocked again. He would've expected at least some shuffling within the apartment, but it was dead quiet. Without thinking, he went to jiggle the doorknob. When the knob turned, he looked back uncertainly at Sherlock who nodded, a clear indicator he should go in.

He walked in and was overcame by the putrid scent of must and rank. He covered his nose, making his way deeper into the dark apartment.

"Why on earth is Sherlock making me do this?" He complained to no one in particular. "He should be in here too-"

He was cut off as he ran into a short end table, to which he thoroughly cussed out before continuing. He almost made it past the couch when a black mass caught his eye.

...

"Bodie's been in there for God knows how long," Lestrade said to the two, reviewing a clipboard list of notes. "Already begun to decompose, a hazmat team will clear it out."

"After they're done, then can we search for clues?" Sherlock asked, resembling that or a bartering child. John would've laughed, but instead, he stood off to the side, swaying queasily.

"Uh, is he okay?" Lestrade pointed his pen at the John.

"He's fine."

Lestrade watched on incredulously as John nearly tipped over.

"Are you sure? He looks-"

"Yes, he completely fine," Sherlock said annoyedly. "Now about the corpse, what do you say the cause of death was?"

"I'm not sure," Lestrade admitted, crossing his arms. "Nobody could stay in there long enough to check."

"Oh, John!" Sherlock called out in a sing-song voice. John widened his eyes.

"God, no, don't make me-"

"Just for a quick second-"

John huffed at Sherlock, who looked on with pleading, puppy-dog eyes. He hated to admit that look worked on him.

"Fine. You're coming with me, though," he grumbled. He walked toward the house, grabbing Sherlock by the wrist in the process, like an angry mother almost.

They both painstakingly reviewed the corpse, Sherlock pointing out the clear indicators of her as a person while John determined the cause of death. Blunt force to the cranium, fracturing it in several spots. Massive brain hemorrhage, which was left untreated. A poorly executed murder, which frustrated Sherlock beyond belief.

"No thought, nothing except a sloppy killing!" He exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air. "A complete waste of human life-"

"Sherlock-"

"Oh shut up, John, nobody here knew her. The killer was an obvious dunce, or just was begging to be found." He said, shaking his head.

"That's what you always say, isn't it?" John said. "They require an audience, therefore want to be caught."

Sherlock stood back straight up from his crouched position next to the body.

"Even so, at least a little thought should go into it."

John sighed, rubbing his face. Sherlock knitted his brows.

"What? Am I boring you?"

"No, but maybe critiquing a killers method at the crime scene isn't the best thing for your image," he replied cooly. Sherlock scoffed.

"Who cares about image? It's a construct based entirely on opinion," Sherlock said, leading John out.

"Image can cost you cases," he pointed out.

"Hasn't yet."

"Well, it will."

After everything was said and done with the scene, the two took a cab back to the flat to review more material and do research until the body was shipped to the mortuary. Joh silently loomed over the computer while Sherlock paced about the apartment. He had been reading up on the father when Sherlock spoke unnecessarily close to his ear.

"The father, again?"

John gasped, nearly jumping out of his chair. He grabbed his chest.

"Jesus- don't do that!"

"Why are you still fixated on this man?" Sherlock asked, kneeling next to John.

"I still have a feeling-"

"Wonderful-"

"Hey," John said heatedly. "I told you something bad was going to happen earlier, and a woman turned up dead. What more proof do you need?"

"Logic, reasoning, the simple aspects-"

John stared, his mouth agape. His ears went hot.

"Are you saying that meant nothing then?"

"I'm saying that without anything to back up the occurrence, nothing truly is set in stone. Anywho," Sherlock stood up, brushing off the dust on his knees. "Hungry?"

"Uh, no," John said, turning his attention back to the screen.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

"You're angry with me," Sherlock noted, crossing his arms. John shut the laptop, staring at the empty space behind it.

"I'm not angry, I'm frustrated," John said.

"That's essentially the same thing."

"So what if it is?"

"John-"

"Why does suddenly everything I say hold no importance? Huh? Tell me that, Sherlock, I'm curious."

"I never said that-"

John laughed dryly.

"That's what's happening, though. And you can't deny it."

"John, I appreciate your involvement in this case- truly. I just think that maybe your own personal assumptions might be misled is all."

"Great, here we go again with this whole personal thing!" John shouted, standing up. "If you don't want me on the case just say something, why don't you?!"

"John, please stop yelling-" Sherlock said calmly.

"Why? Why should I?" John fumed, beginning to pace, Sherlock watched on silently.

"I tried letting it go the first time, Sherlock, I really did- but this just... it's ridiculous! It's not like I chose for any of that shit to happen to me!"

"I understand that John, I really do, I'm sorry, just please-"

"It's like nothing I say matters!" He snapped. He was essentially talking to himself at this point, but he didn't care anymore. "All because a low-life excuse of a father ruined my childhood? Because there are a few things wrong with me, that I can't do shit!"

He kicked the wall, with his good foot thankfully. He noticed he was breathing heavily, almost hysterically, but by God, he wasn't done.

"You go about your daily life not needing me, I don't even understand why you're keeping me around! It's not even now- all the time you forget I'm even there aw if I wasn't even needed yet continue to tell me otherwise, so which is it, Mr. Holmes?"

"John please-"

"No!" John screamed. "No, you can't fix this, okay? You can't fix this situation, you can't fix me, you just can't!"

John buried his face in his hands, backing up against the wall as he was suddenly overcome by a wave of lightheadedness. His breathing hadn't slowed by any means and if anything got worse. To the point, he couldn't talk anymore without passing out.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whispered. It was all he could think of saying between gasps. He felt Sherlock slide down beside him, placing an arm on his shoulder.

John flinched slightly, adverse to the touch he wasn't expecting. Sherlock recoiled immediately, then slowly reached for John's hand instead. He grasped it with his own, squeezing tightly.

"John, John you need to calm down, okay?" He said soothingly. "Just take a second and breath, breathe in with me, 1-2-3-4-5-6-7, now hold for a few, now exhale. Alright, keep doing that."

John took a shuddering breath, now staring at the ceiling. A couple more wild gasps escaped him, but with some more guidance form Sherlock he managed to control it. After a few more rounds of controlled breathing, he managed to catch his breath. He closed his eyes shaking his head ashamedly.

"God, Sherlock I'm so sorry," he said. He looked at the other and was surprised to see tears pooling in his eyes. He smiled, trying to play it off.

"Sherlock, no, no don't cry- I'm sorry-"

"You're right. I can't fix this. I can't fix you. I fear that might be my only regret," he said sadly. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

"I didn't mean it, I... never expected you to. I don't know, I'm sorry I freaked out. I guess with the injury and everything lately I've been feeling a bit unimportant."

"Don't," Sherlock said firmly. "You've been the biggest influence on my life to date, without you I'd be off my tits in drugs and God knows what else. I know sometimes I take everything, I'm still trying to adjust to sharing the load. Don't think that's a reflection of you, because it's not."

John smiled weakly.

"I think that's always been my main focus, in life. After I was sent home I sort of lost my sense of purpose. Now, if I even begin to think I'm not doing anything helpful I sort of lose it."

"Well I can guarantee you, you're doing a wonderful job."

"Thank you, Sherlock... that's... that means a lot."

"I try," Sherlock laughed wiping his face again.

John chuckled, then realized that Sherlock was still holding his hand. Firmly too, as if he was aware of it. Sherlock must've seen he noticed, as he pulled away awkwardly.

"Sorry," John said automatically. He hoped he wasn't flushed.

"No, no it's... alright."

A small buzz came from Sherlock's phone. He pulled it out, reading the message that popped up on the screen. He smiled.

"Body is in," he said, springing up. He held out his hand to help John up.

"You best be coming with me," Sherlock chuckled. John smiled, accepting the hand.

"Wouldn't trade it for the world."