John wakes up the next morning startled to find Sherlock sitting across from him, perched on the back of his chair expectantly. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes to fully wake up, the events of the previous night come back.

"Where the hell have you been," he starts.

"Out," Sherlock replies curtly.

The doctor scrutinizes the younger man for any signs of drug use, but finds none. "I'm still waiting."


"Well?" John inquires, "Why now? How long has it been? Why did you scamper off last night?"

"Don't know. Years. Needed to think," he replies in quick succession.

"You couldn't think here?" he practically shouts, "And what do you mean you don't know?"

"If I consciously knew what caused this… inconvenience, besides boredom of course, it wouldn't happen."

"Bollocks," John huffs, "It's an unhealthy copping mechanism, Sherlock and there's something bothering you that you need to deal with."

"You don't know that," he challenges.

"Need I remind you about my sister's little problem?" He stands moving about.

"Alcohol is a depressant, this is hardly the same thing," Sherlock drawls, watching the other man pace.

"An addiction is an addiction, regardless," he snaps, "She drinks to cope with what she thinks and feels while still experiencing them, you on the other hand…" He glares, as the younger man squirms at the scrutiny. "Use it as a distraction, not just from the boredom…"

"Are you done?" Sherlock asks quietly, his eyes down cast.

"No, not until you tell me what is bothering you."

"What do you want me to say?" he snaps, "You won't understand! Yes, it's a distraction, because my mind doesn't stop!" He shouts, "Everything going on at once, and it's hard and I think of things that…" He runs his hands through his hair in frustration, "Have you ever thought about death to the point that you realize that if you died, you'd no longer exist and you have no idea what that possibly means because logically there's no god and the data on the supposed afterlife is insufficient at best so you dwell on that for so long that it paralyzes you, the body dies, but does it take the conscious mind with it? Because death is the one inevitable thing on this planet, it will happen no matter what I do or what any one does. So sorry for wanting to use something that makes me normal."

John stares at him agape, as Sherlock storms off to his bedroom. The doctor trying to process everything that was just divulged as his flat mate sulks because he showed his hand a bit. The doctor realizing that everything Sherlock does is in some form a distraction, something to focus his mind on. In theory he understands, but Sherlock was right that he doesn't fully comprehend it. There's no way for him to know what it's like to need distraction to that degree because of fear that you'll tear your own mind apart. Yes, John does over think situations and isn't the most forth coming with his own emotions and such, he did have a therapist that he never really opened up to after all. When left to it, Sherlock delves so deeply that he plays over the various outcomes of situations, realizing what would have been the best action and hating that that wasn't what happened.

When time seems to catch up to the good doctor, he realizes he is indeed alone in the sitting room still staring at the spot Sherlock vacated. Quickly coming to a discussion he goes and raps on his flat mate's door, "Sherlock?" There's no reply, but he presses on anyway, "You're right, I don't understand…" he sighs, "But I can listen and help any way I can… a trifle better than the skull I reckon," he chuckles a bit awkwardly. "I am a doctor remember…" he adds after a beat. "Right, well the offer's there." He shrugs, heading to the kitchen for a spot of breakfast.

Sherlock strides in as soon as the teas done, taking the mug offered to him, "Noted," He replies simply to the doctor's earlier offer, heading to the laptop.

John shakes his head, but smiles a bit at the recognition of his words; the men falling back to normalcy.