After.

There's something bothering John. I can always tell. But this time... well, I just can't tell what the matter is. Everything changed after the traumatic events of last week. Which is normal, all things considered. He did get chained to the bottom of a well. But even for being in shock, or having post-traumatic-stress-disorder, this is out of the ordinary, and completely unlike the usual John.

He had shaky hands when we first met, but the tremor had gone away with the limp. Now it's back. He barely eats, barely sleeps. Barely talks.

It's driving me mad.

This is something I'd expect from me, not John, of all people. I think even Mrs. Hudson is catching on. It scares me-- the fact that he's reminding me of myself. No one should be as tortured by themselves as I am. And the worst part is, I can't get him to tell me what's going on in his funny little head.

John Watson, what's the matter with you?

He comes into the room now, his usually smooth hair wet and ruffled from a shower. His new grey and blue robe hangs about his too-thin frame. The cuppa in his hand rattles a little against the porcelain saucer. There are dark circles under his eyes, looking like two identical bruises. He looks so... tired. He almost looks pained as he lowers himself into his chair across from mine.

"John?" I ask, my voice softer than usual. It's always softer when I talk to him (I couldn't tell you why). He looks up at me with those tired, lacklustre eyes.

"Yeah?" Even his voice, normally so enticing, now sounds scratchy and exhausted. A huge sigh escapes my lips without my permission. I plop backwards into my chair, so I'm looking straight at him.

"Tell me what's wrong?" I ask, my voice almost a whisper. Immediately, he bristles, his expression hardening.

"Nothing. I'm fine," He replies in an sad effort to sound nonchalant. Part of my heart breaks to hear him say that. Can't he trust me?

"No," I say, standing up, " You're not. Don't lie to me, John, I can always tell." John sighs, running his fingers through his damp hair.

"It's nothing, Sherlock, okay? Don't worry about me," he attempts to smile and fails miserably. Raising an eyebrow, I step up to him.

"John... Please? I'll worry about you anyway. Won't it just be easier to tell me?" He rolls his eyes, then pinches the bridge of his nose like the movement gave him a headache.

"Seriously, Sh--"

"No," I interrupt him. He looks up at me, irritation glinting in his eyes.

"What?" he asks.

"I said, 'no'. I won't drop the subject until you tell me. I'll keep ask--"

"Fine!" He bursts. I stop, surprised. "Fine..." he sighs, "I'll... I'll tell you." I sit down again, looking at him expectantly.
The other man inhales deeply, running his fingers through his ruffled hair.
"Listen, Sherlock, I..." his voice trails off and his eyes squeeze shut, "Jesus, how do I say this?"
Worry starts to boil again in the pit of my stomach. John Watson, what's the matter with you?
"John...?" I whisper, reaching out to him to put my hand on his shoulder. His tired eyes snap open, surprising me, and I pull away.
"Did you mean what you said?" He asks abruptly. My brow furrows.
"I don't--"
"Did you mean what you said to Molly Hooper?" His voice is so insistent, so angry. My mind whirls dizzyingly, trying to fathom what he's about to say.
"At the mental institution?" I ask, just to be sure. John gives a curt nod in reply, then looks away. I sigh.
"No."
His gaze wanders back to mine.
"You... didn't?" He breathes. I shake my head.
"Of course not. She's my friend, but... my sister convinced us she would've killed her if I didn't say that..." I bite my lip, "why do you ask?"
I can almost hear Mycroft yelling at me, "curiosity killed the cat!" Mentally, I yell back, "and satisfaction brought it back!"
John looks almost pained at the question. He clears his throat a few times, fiddling with the edge of his robe.
"Well... erm... because... because..." I can practically see the tears in his mind turning rapidly, trying to find an answer other than the truth. What is he hiding?
Finally, he huffs, dropping his gaze to the floor. The gears stop turning. He looks... defeated.
"You want the truth?" He asks, his voice as tired as his eyes. I nod once.
"Yes... please?" I whisper in reply.
"I asked because... I... I was jealous, Sherlock..." his voice is so quiet I can barely hear him, and my hearing is superb.
It takes me a moment to process what he's saying. He was jealous? Because I was forced to tell Molly I loved her?
"Jealous?"
He lets out a sardonic little scoff.
"Yeah, jealous. Ever heard of it?" He pushes off from his chair, standing up with a grunt. Slowly, he starts to make his way towards the kitchen.
"John, wait..." my fingers pinch onto the edge of his robe, stopping him. He glances over his shoulder at me.
"What?"
"I... I would've been jealous, too. If you were in my shoes, and I in yours."
John turns to face me, his brow furrowed.
"What are you trying to say?"
I swallow hard against the emotions rising in my throat.
"John... I love you."