Sometimes when Sherlock said his name, it was like a blackness was lifting from the world and he was about to be inducted into some sort of heaven where there was no boredom or tedium or thoughts about being unable to cope on the day to day. Sometimes it left him asleep at his desk at the surgery and sometimes he was dead on his feet days at a time thanks to Sherlock Holmes being his brilliant, wonderful self. And sometimes hearing his name was nails on a chalkboard.

His stomach sank down into his feet but he could absolutely not let Sherlock go alone.

He looked about ready to say a hundred horrible things but in the end he marched back to his room like a good little soldier and got himself dressed.

Again.

He ignored the headache. He'd had to power through worse on the rocky hills of Afghanistan.