Chapter 37: Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

                                    

                                          
(A/n: Two years later and I'm back! Leave nothing left undone. Per everyone's request, I will finish this story for you all if it kills me. Chapters will be slightly shorter now but if you find errors let me know.)
                          
(Your POV)      
                          
"He's coming." 
                          
            We both stare out the window in horrified awe for a few moments longer. Lestrade and Donovan go on about something in the background, but I can't bring myself to focus on it. Another moment passes.
                          
            "Sherlock," the sound of John's voice pulls us both suddenly from our trance and we turn to see him standing looking expectantly towards us. "Let's go." Sherlock quickly and roughly shakes his hand from mine, as if disgusted by the fact that he was holding it at all.
                          
            I feel my heart sink a little "Sherl-" I start, but he's already walking swiftly down the corridor, coat billowing out behind him. I look to John, defeated. I've really lost him. He gives me a tight smile and puts his arm around my shoulder.
                          
            "Come on, let's go." I nod and give him the best smile I can manage. "He'll come 'round, I'm sure he's just stressed." I ponder that for a moment, knowing that I probably shouldn't tell him about the IOU windows unless I wanted to lose him to the mind-consuming stress of Moriarty as well. At least I still have John. 
                          
            As we step into the chilly breeze outside, I see Sherlock already getting into a cab without us. I stop for a moment, confused. "Hey!" He freezes. "Where are you going?"
                          
            Sherlock looks at me with ice in his eyes, his words jabbing into my chest. "This one's mine, you two get the next one." What the hell?! I want to retort but he's already sped off.
                          
            I look to John, exasperated. "Are you freaking kidding me??!"
                          
            We call a cab and ride in exhausted silence, the long day taking its toll on the both of us. I close my eyes and try my hardest not to think about the hurt I'm feeling on the inside- to no avail. I just don't understand what I did wrong.. My anxiety kicks in, repeating the phrase over and over in my head. What did I do? What did I do? What did I-
                          
            "STOP THE CAB!" John screams, and my eyes fly open. He leaps out and I follow a little slower, confused as to the sudden pit stop. My eyes widen when I realize that Sherlock is standing on the curb panicking, a dead body at his feet. My stomach turns over. Oh God....
                          
            Sherlock speaks quickly and frantically. "I- I don't know! He got shot and Moriarty was driving my cab-"
                          
            "Moriarty?!? MORIARTY was in your cab??" 
                          
            "Yes! And I was almost hit by a bus and this man saved me and-"
                          
            John and Sherlock continue their screaming but I stand frozen, unable to speak. I watch in a dissociative daze as Sherlock's curls bounce perfectly with every shake of his head. How the light from the streetlamps cut across his cheekbones just right. My vision starts to blue. What did I do wrong? What did I do?
                          
            It's not until I collapse to the pavement on my knees that I realize why I can't see; I'm sobbing.
                          
(time skip)
                          
(Sherlock's POV)
                          
            Back at 221B, I pull the tiny camera out from its hiding spot on the bookshelf, looking at it with frustration. "Don't you see, John?! We're being watched!" I ignore the commotion behind me and continue to search the bookcase for more of the little devils.
                          
            "Sherlock Holmes, look at me!" I feel a hand on my shoulder and John whips me around to face him, his lips pursed and anger glaring behind his usually soft eyes. He lowers his voice and speaks in the whisper-yell he loved to use. "Your girlfriend, (Y/n), is on the sofa having an anxiety attack while you're over here going on about cameras! I know you're stressed and that this is a hard thing to handle but you need to suck it up, get over there, and be there for her because you're not the only one this situation is affecting."