Summary: "Everyone has their breaking points. I don't care how smart you are, everyone has a breaking point, Sherlock. Even you, you can't just keep this all in."

Authors Note: Alright, plot bunnies attacked and I just had to write this one-shot down. I'm not sorry. I'm still working on the second chapter of Thy Kingdom Come, and it will hopefully be up by this weekend. Sunday possibly. Anyways, this little shot is set during The Empty Hearse. It kind of irked me on how Sherlock seemed perfectly fine after spending time in that war zone. Sure, he's probably someone who had a very high pain tolerance, but he has to draw the line somewhere, right? I mean, he was whipped and beaten probably bloody with the possibility of major wounds, he couldn't have walked away form that perfectly fine. So, that's pretty much what this is. It also only follows the first couple moments-up until Sherlock gets home form seeing John and their little spat, as I'll call it, so it's also a bit of an AU, too, see as it doesn't follow the normal storyline.

Spoilers: First episode of Season 3

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Mary M.

Warnings: Possible trigger warnings for violence, torture, and among other things, briefly mentioned, but nothing graphic.

Pairings: Johnlock if you really squint, but more of a friendship aspect, but whatever floats your ship-hehe, see what I did there? Ship? Okay…

Breaking Point

His eyes tracked movement of the cab as it quietly drove his blogger assistant and his now fiancée away. He gingerly touched the cut on his lip, winching at the sting. That wasn't the only sting though. His entire body ached and screamed, and not just form John's attack. His vision was a bit hazy, and he needed to sit down before he collapsed. His eyes glanced down slightly, eyes tracking the blood that stained the tissue. He'd seen a lot of blood, but not much of his own until recently. His pale eyes slowly wandered up, searching for an available taxi. For once, he couldn't flag one down. His body felt like lead, and his throat was rough like sandpaper. He gingerly licked his lips, tongue running over the split in his lip. He briefly considered calling Mycroft to come get him and take him home, but brushed the thought off, because that would be admitting weakness to his older brother.

He walked quietly down the street, knowing where he was heading as he trotted quietly down the sidewalk, the cold breeze hitting his cheeks, making them sting. It was a welcome feeling, because the sting took his mind off things. Things he didn't want to think about. His eyes wandered around the area, the streets quiet, peaceful, unaware of the looming threat of terrorists lurking in the dark. He straightened his shoulders, ignoring the stabbing pain the movement brought. He trended silently, heading to Baker Street, pausing at the door. His eyes studied it briefly, just how he left it. Slowly, he moved to open the door, turning slightly as he pushed his way in. He welcomed the sense of comfort this place brought.

The door creaked as his fingers grasped the bass handle, pushing the door open. The orange light illuminating his figure as he stepped into the door. His eyes landed on Mrs. Hudson, holding a frying pan, clearly ready to defend herself form the intruder. He snapped his gaze up to her face, noting the way her mouth opened, clearly ready to scream in fright. He shot forward, raising a long, slender hand to cover her mouth. "Please, don't shout Mrs. Hudson." He breathed, his voice a bit rough as he slowly lowered his hand form her face, shoving his hand into his pocket. He watched her nod uneasily, still looking frightened, and Sherlock felt his lips twitch into a smile, hoping to calm her. "Now, if you don't mind, I would like my flat back." He added briskly, moving to head up the stairs, not giving her time to protest. He wanted to sleep, he wanted to curl up in his bed-or the couch, the couch seemed closer-and sleep. He didn't sleep often, but right now, today, he wanted to sleep. He moved to open the flat, taking out his key and unlocking the door, stepping into the flat with a smile. He shucked off his coat, turning to watch Mrs. Hudson follow him in, still looking shocked.

"Don't look like that, Mrs. Hudson, I was never dead." He said, winching a bit at how short his voice sounded. He tossed his coat onto the leather green chair-his chair-and collapsing on the couch. He clamped his jaw shut tightly, landing heavily on his back, pressing his palms together as he willed the pain away. He shut his eyes, exhaling softly through his nose as he relaxed the tension in his muscles. He was aching pretty badly, well, a lot, but he could manage. "Now, if you would be kind enough to get me some tea, it would be wonderful." He said quietly, folding his hands under his chin, crossing his ankles.

"Oh Sherlock, how I've missed you." Mrs. Hudson said affectionately as Sherlock listened to her walk away. He exhaled softly, his head swimming as he tried not to drift off. He need to at least accept the tea. The room was quiet, as always, that's what he wanted, that's what he liked, but something was missing. John. His mind supplied, and he shoved it away. John had moved on, moved on from what, Sherlock didn't know. He was John's life, or so he assumed. No, he didn't assume, he knew. He knew he was John's life. His eyes popped open as Mrs. Hudson set the cup of tea on the table, but he didn't say anything, keeping silent, eyes tracking the ceiling for anything new to deduce. Apparently nothing had changed, except John. John had changed. He grunted a bit in thanks as Mrs. Hudson walked out, ignoring the smile that pulled at his landlady's lips. "It's nice to have you back." She said, her gentle voice cutting through the silence that had settled over them.

"It's good to be back, Mrs. Hudson." He returned, not in really no mood to exchange pleasantries. Mrs. Hudson seemed to notice this, as she nodded and stepped out, shutting the door behind her. That left Sherlock alone in the flat. Slowly, he sat up, allowing a grunt to escape his lips now, allowing his weakness to show now that he was alone. He reached for a cup of tea, long fingers curling around the cup's handle, slowly pulling it close to his thin body. How had no one notice his lack of weight-besides Mycroft, but he didn't care what his older brother thought. He had certainly lost a few pounds-maybe more than a few-during his two years of being dead. Most of those two years of which involved being captured, beaten, tortured, and among other things. He shivered despite himself, the silence seeming deafening to his ears. He gingerly sipped the tea, exhaling at the warmth the drink brought to his pale body. He allowed his eyes to roam the flat as he did so, smiling a bit. It was great to be back. He stood slowly, groaning in pain as his body trembled in protest, legs shaking. He just realized how weak he was. He wasn't malnourished, close to it, but he wasn't. He was exhausted. Then again, he wasn't a doctor, but he knew enough to know what everything he was feeling was. He brushed a hand along the wall, slowly making his way to the bedroom, sipping on the tea all the while. He set the mug down on the nightstand, moving to the closet. He carefully opened it, pulling out some pajamas and tossing them carelessly onto the bed. Slowly, almost painstakingly, he took off his suit jacket and button up. He glanced at his bandaged body, eyes trailing along the white fabric covering most of torso and chest. He knew he should change the bandages, but he couldn't be bothered.

Turning abruptly, he shoved off his pants, not glancing at his bruised and cut up legs and feet. They weren't as bad as his upper body thankfully. He grabbed the grey sweats and tugged him on, winching at the pain it brought to his body. He shifted the fabric over his body, gingerly lowering himself down to the bed. The springs creaked under him, and he shifted, moving to lay back, relaxing at the comfort the bed provided his body. He sighed softly, shutting his eyes as he shifted to get a bit more comfortable. He tugged the blankets over his form, burrowing deeper and breathing deeply as he finally succumbed to sleep.

About two days had passed since John had heard from Sherlock, and really, John was willing to see it as a bad dream if Mary would stop bringing it up.

"All I'm saying is, that you really should try to see him." She was telling him as he made their morning coffee. John sighed, closing his eyes, hoping his temper wouldn't cause him to snap at his fiancée. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself as the phone rang. He grunted, heading to grab the phone.

"Hello?" He asked, brows raised a bit as he sipped his coffee.

"Ah, John, I was wondering if you had heard from Sherlock." John groaned a bit, but tried not to show his displeasure vocally. Mycroft, of course, was a powerful man, and john seriously didn't need to be thrown in jail.

"Nope, can't say I have." He said, a bit shortly, maybe to shortly. "Why?" He asked, unable to stop his curiosity.

"He's not answer my calls or my texts." Mycroft said bluntly, and John felt himself laugh a bit.

"Right, because that's so new." He said sarcastically, about to hang up the phone. He really wanted nothing to do with this. He had his life. His normal, perfectly normal, life, and he hated it. He wanted to be back at Baker Street.

"Dr. Watson, all I'm asking you is to check on him. You know how he gets," Mycroft argued, cutting into John's thoughts. "I would prefer that my brother not fall into bad habits. And we both know he won't speak to me." He added, and John sighed in defeat.

"I'm assuming you'll drive me there?" He muttered, practically able to hear Mycroft's smirk from over the phone.

"There's already a car waiting outside."

Waking to the sound of someone coming into his flat was very disorienting. Often times, he'd jerk up in a cold sweat, body screaming at the protests of the movement as he sat upright, sweat causing his hair and clothes to cling to his body, thin lips parted to call out or something. His long, thin legs entangled in the white sheets. He held his breath, listening to the footsteps, his body stiff as a board, recognizing the still somewhat uneven walk. He felt himself relax, before confusion made its way into his brain. He listened quietly, untangling his long, still too-thin body from the sheets, his clothes baggy on him as he carefully made his way out of the room just as John was coming down the hall. "Mycroft sent you." He said, casual, calm, his voice a bit gruff and rough from disuse, but knowing. It's not like he had any cases to do at the moment. It had been a boring two days. Of course Mycroft would send someone to check up on him. He didn't expect John though. Thinking about it though, this was probably the only way Mycroft knew he'd let himself get treated. Sherlock hated hospitals with a passion, he blandly refused to go.

"Yes, yes he did, and you're… Limping." John said, rather bluntly, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, puffing out a breath of irritation as he continued down the hall, seating himself in his leather green chair.

"Brilliant deduction. John." Sherlock said sarcastically, and John exhaled, clearly seeming not in the mood for his stubbornness. "Now, you can tell Mycroft that I'm fine." He added, pressing his hands together, resting his fingers against his mouth and crossing his legs. John had to admit, Sherlock had a great poker face. A bloody brilliant poker face. John was a doctor, and army doctor at that. Sherlock should know better than to try to hide whatever had Mycroft so worried, because Mycroft never worried like he did over the phone earlier.

"Sherlock," he started, sitting down in the chair across form him, feeling a familiar feeling hit his gut at the position. "What is wrong, Mycroft wouldn't just send me over here to see how you're doing if it was just a checkup, especially after only two days." He said, his voice patient-surprisingly, because Sherlock knew John wasn't a patient man. Sherlock studied him, noting the creases in his clothes. They were constantly folded, as if John would be ready to leave at any second. A slight smile curled at the detective's lips. John had missed this, he was right. He said nothing about it though, not really in the mood for a fight. He was silent for a few more moments, his eyes flicking with indecisiveness. Should he continue to brush it off, no, John had clearly noticed his limp, and he knew John wasn't like ninety-nine percent of the rest of the population. "Sherlock?" John voice piped up, cutting him from his thoughts.

"John, this isn't easy for me to say." Sherlock said finally, his eyes scanning the flat, not looking at his friend. "But…" His voice faltered, and this seemed to get John's interest. John finally looked at his friend, really looked at him. He took in how exhausted his friend looked, the way he sat was stiff, like he was in pain, and his eyes were red and tired, bloodshot, he realized dimly. He refocused, realizing that Sherlock was starting to speak again. "I might have gotten, hurt, several times the past two years." He said hesitantly, like he was unsure of how to say what he was saying. "And that must be what Mycroft wants you to check." He muttered, seeming angry at his brother. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock continued on. "I am perfectly fine of taking care of myself." He added, standing roughly, having the intent of hoping to avoid the subject. He stood to quickly, his lean legs giving out under him, giving John just barely time to react. Sherlock fell, stumbling to try and catch himself, falling roughly into John's arms as the former Army Doctor rushed forward, catching the consulting detective quickly.

"Yea, alright, come on, over to the couch." John said disbelievingly, slinging Sherlock's arm-to thin arm, he noticed now, how had he missed this? He felt guilty, realizing that just two days ago he was wanting to beat Sherlock to the ground. He swallowed, moving to help his friend onto the couch. "Alright, let me see." He ordered, and Sherlock looked surprised, then irritated, but reluctantly did as the shorter man ordered. Slowly, he moved to tug the grey sweatshirt up over his head. His dark curls-uncombed and a bit greasy form not showering a few days-falling into his pale eyes as he toss the shirt away. The lean man looked down, not looking at John. He didn't need to look to know that John was surprised. He could feel the way the man's eyes glanced over his bandaged torso. Finally, Sherlock's eyes peeked out from under his curly fringe.

"Yes, John?" He asked, voice calm, forced coolness, his body tense. He suddenly felt very exposed, an odd feeling for Sherlock. He didn't like it. He shifted under his friend's dark gaze, before he realized that there was a certain fury under those eyes. Sherlock met his gaze calmly, trying to relax as he waited patiently, the cold air form the flat making him shiver, or was it the face that he was pinned under John's gaze? He had never been in this situation before, and he now realized how exactly people felt when he deducted them. Would that stop him? No, of course not.

"Sherlock… What…" John started, hesitantly moving to prod at the bandages. Sherlock flinched involuntarily, causing John to pull back. "What happened?" He demanded, and Sherlock ducked his head again, his fingers interlocking together. John waited patiently before he moved head to the kitchen, already littered with Sherlock's various experiments. He waited for a reply as he grabbed a first aid kit Sherlock kept in case an experiment went wrong. "Sherlock?" He tried again, hoping to snap his friend out of his ravine as he headed over, taking a seat beside the man. He watched at Sherlock looked up sharply at the sound of John's voice, eyes wide.

"Like I said," Sherlock started roughly, clearly not wanting to talk about it. "I got hurt a few times." He shrugged, and John sighed, bracing himself for the horrors. He'd seen war, but this felt different. Maybe it was because that Sherlock was a close friend. That sounded right. John said nothing more on the subject, He knew better than to push him to talk about it. That could bring some rather nasty things such as panic attacks. Silence fell over the two as John slowly unraveled the bandages, letting them fall to the couch. John recoiled slightly, and Sherlock casted him a brief look, but said nothing. John gingerly took some tweezers, moving to carefully remove the carefully done stitching.

"Who did the stitching?" He asked, hoping for some sort of small talk as he studied the wounds. They weren't infected-Sherlock was lucky he hadn't left the flat, because it was clear that Sherlock hadn't changed the bandages.

"One of Mycroft's men." Sherlock answered shortly, keeping his gaze fixed ahead as John worked. "They had to hold me down to do. Mycroft said I was delirious." He added, his tone offhanded, and John hummed, looking concerned.

"Must have been painful." He continued, slowly raising the now alcohol soaked rag to the wound. Sherlock flinched away when it brushed the large laceration along his back. John pulled back, not expecting the calm man to suddenly move, looking at him. Sherlock shot him an apologetic glance and hummed in agreement, but said nothing as John moved his hand up to touch Sherlock's bare shoulder, steadying him as he moved to press the rag to the wound gingerly. Sherlock flinched again, but remained still, his breathing hitching his throat. "Breath, Sherlock." John urged gently, feeling Sherlock exhale shakily the tension fading in his thin body.

"This is pointless." Sherlock said after a few minutes of silence. John looked up, surprised and confused as he stitched up a deep cut on the consulting detective's side.

"Whatever do you mean?" He asked after a pause, leaning back to look at his friend. Normally, he understood what Sherlock was saying-most of the time-but this time he was baffled. His eyes searched his friend's face, hoping to understand what exactly his friend meant as he lowered the needle and thread.

"This," Sherlock said plainly, gesturing to his body-all crisscrosses of cuts and burns, deep whiplashes along his shoulders, and a few just fading bruises. John still didn't understand, meeting his friend's gaze intently, searching them, but found nothing. That was what scared him though. Sherlock always had this odd intellect glow in his pale eyes, but there was nothing now. They weren't hollow, maybe pained, but they weren't the eyes of solider who was just returning home. John knew those eyes to well. These were the eyes of a man who was breaking and trying not to. John shifted slightly, motioning for Sherlock to settle back down so he could continue patching up the wounds.

"Everyone has their breaking points. I don't care how smart you are, everyone has their breaking points, Sherlock. Even you, you can't just keep this all in." John said gently, wisely, speaking from experience. Sherlock's pale eyes widened, meeting John's intently, lips parted in surprise. Any other situation, John would have laughed, but this wasn't the right moment.

"Watch me." Sherlock bit out, and John sighed in frustration, meeting his eyes furiously. Sherlock didn't flinch, staring him calmly, studying him. "John, I'm-"

"I swear if you say you're fine, I will punch you, injured or not." John snapped, his eyes furious as he stood up, folding his arms over his chest.

"I'm dealing with it." Sherlock said calmly, watching John's back, noting the rigged, tense way he held himself. "You're tense." He noted, offhandedly.

"Well maybe that's because my friend seems to have no care for his well-being!" John snapped, whirling around to face Sherlock, his eyes blazing. Sherlock did flinch this time, and John was taken back by this. He watched quietly as his head dropped, hanging low. He said nothing though, and John moved carefully, slowly touching Sherlock's shoulder. The consulting detective stiffened under John's hand, but slowly relaxed and leaned in slightly to the touch. The last action surprised John the most. Here was the great, cold, uncaring, Sherlock Holmes, leaning towards John, seeking comfort. "Come on, we should get these finished up, then you're going to eat something, and sleep." He said firmly, and Sherlock just gave a small grunt in reply, seeming to attempt to lighten the awkward atmosphere with acting indifferent. John pulled back, slowly returning to his work of stitching the wounds, rubbing some ointment on the burns that dotted his shoulders. It didn't take long after that, and before long John were slowly bandaging the wounds back up, making sure it wasn't too tight.

"I'm going to get Mrs. Hudson to make you something easy on your stomach, alright?" John said, hesitant to leave as Sherlock slipped the sweatshirt over his head once more. The taller man nodded, but said nothing, John knew he was thinking over his words, possibly even attempting to heal himself, brace whatever dark corners rippled through his mind and fight them. Everything suddenly seemed a bit more normal, like before, and John was welcoming it. He wouldn't ask about Sherlock's death, which was a can of worms to be opened later, after Sherlock healed physically, and whatever damage was done mentally. He didn't care how long it took, John just knew he'd be the one to pick up the pieces, because Sherlock had no one else to turn to that he trusted more, and John wasn't willing to betray that trust. Sure, he was still pissed as all hell at him for not telling him that he was alive, for faking his death, but they'd move passed it, just like everything else.

Author's Note: Well, that sure turned out a lot better than I expected, if you liked this one and are a fan of SuperWhoLock, please check out my SuperWhoLock fic, 'Thy Kingdom Come', which is under the Supernatural and Doctor Who crossover fics. I might even consider continuing this one, if enough people like it.

Until next time!