John, wake up. "Please"

Elastic bands can snap

Maybe the loss of Mary hadn't truly sunk in for ether of them, John managed to appear to be living a normal life as a single father, Sherlock helping out as much as he knew how. By eyesight you wouldn't realize his wife had just attempted to kill them all in a car crash.

But it was a week into living with Sherlock back at 221b when Mrs Hudson was taking care of Rosie that John broke down, the realization that Mary was dead.

John had got angry in his misery, had shouted at Sherlock, and for once, Sherlock had reacted in an uncontrollable way,, he had no control over his actions and had began pacing, rocking back and forth when he was sat down, his knee bouncing when he attempted to sit straight and by the end of it the build up was inevitable.

Sherlock had begun crying uncontrollably, the crying turned to shouting at John when ever he tried to approach him, the noises of cars going by was too much, the lighting was too bright, he could feel the flicker of the bulb prickling his skin.

"Sherlock?" John asked carefully, he felt guilty now. He should have realized. He was a doctor. Maybe he wasn't specialized in this area but he should have seen the signs. He remembered his joke to Greg, outside the pub when they'd found Greg undercover checking up on them, he had made a joke about Sherlock with Aspergers.

He never knew it was true.

How did he not realize?

Carefully however he approached Sherlock, talking to him in a soothing voice and gently taking Sherlock by the shoulders.

"Hey, hey it's okay" John assured him, rubbing his hands gently up and down Sherlocks shoulders in an attempt to sooth him. Mrs Hudson came by a few minutes later and she asked what was wrong in concern.

"Don't worry Mrs Hudson, could you possibly make a cup of chamomile, not too hot, I don't want him to burn himself" John asked and she went off to the kitchen muttering to herself.

The coat made sense too now, in some ways it was similar to the weighted blanket, a heavy weight on ones shoulders to simulate protection and being cared for and held. John carefully reached over to his chair, only a foot to so away from them. He took the plaid blanket from the back of the chair and dragged it towards them.

He gently draped the blanket over Sherlocks shaking shoulders before leaving to stand and close the windows, turn the lights off and make the place more suited but Sherlock suddenly clutched at his jumper covered sleeves. So another favor from Mrs Hudson and soon the curtains were drawn, the window clasp done up and the light switched off. She handed the tea to John before leaving.

John held the tea to Sherlocks face, and after a while Sherlock was visible calmer, his eyes shut still but his breathing had regulated and the grip on John's arms had loosened to a weak hook of his fingers against the worn and bubbling material.

"Sherlock can you open your eyes now, look at me" John asked quietly as Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and looked up at him, his green grey eyes meeting John's dark blue and he felt it as it grounded him a bit more, he'd most likely me acting as if nothing had ever happened within the next half hour, creating experiments and tests, back to see Rosie.

The occasional melt down was inevitable, the lead up to each varying from subtle to obvious signs. When John thought about it, all of his characteristics lead to one of autism, the pacing, the coat, shouting, the attacks of boredom on his overactive mind, the ability to see patterns that no one else could, bad judgement of emotions. It made sense now.

It was the same at the wedding, he didn't know why everyone was crying, he didn't know what he had done, he couldn't read people's emotions, they confused him.

There was also when John had insulted his website and he had just walked away. Withdrawn himself from contact and socialization.

Then there was the anxiety attack that had built up to a meltdown in the pub in Dartmoor, when he had seen the 'hound', when John didn't believe him. There is nothing wrong with me!

And it's true, because no, there was nothing 'wrong' with him, he was just different, his brain was 'wired' differently, his mind an enigma to the modern man.

But what was wrong with that? All those criminals put behind bars because of that mind that was high above the average IQ, competing against the intellect of your average computer, but he wasn't a 'machine' because no, he was better than that, he saw emotions but he didn't understand them but he'd been training himself.

He was learning but sometimes it was bound to happen, for it all to become too much, it was to be expected. To be shouted at and shoved about until his mind snapped. Until his tongue would curve around the cruelest deductions, spit out ones darkest secrets or maybe just to confine himself into a room with no stimulants. Turn off his mind for a few minutes.

Like an elastic band or a spring, he would eventually snap or disfigure, would uncoil and wouldn't retract back to shape, he had reached full elastic potential, and then he was unable to go back by himself. Like an enzyme with too much heat he would denatured and not fit into his surroundings, he wouldn't react properly, he would have less successful collisions and he wouldn't function.

John cared for him that night, even after Sherlock somehow managed to brush it off like a meager event. He kept a careful eye on him, even whilst tending to Rosie's bottle, and watched him carefully as he went about the flat, checking dust and fibers.