This is my second Sherlock fic, so I hope that it serves the characters justice. I'm worried that I won't stay true to their character… This starts literally just after The Great Game, right after Moriarty leaves. It is before A Scandal In Belgravia, though. I'm really nervous about this fic, so I hope you guys enjoy it~*!*~*!~

Also, I am not British in any way (except through blood). I have never been to anywhere in Britain, so I'm sorry if I don't use the right words to describe things, etc. If I make a mistake, feel free to make fun. I don't care. Just remember that I tried!

(P.S. I know my deduction skills are seriously lacking, and that the scenes where Sherlock does use his deduction skills…are…badly written…but I apologize in advance! Again, I tried my best! I'm really nervous about this fic, haha. Well, I hope you enjoy this.)

Oh, and, um, a warning for about...one curse worse? Possibly more, give a few or so. And...a murder.


Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat, like clockwork. Programmed into his brain subconsciously until he takes the final breath. He was glad that the final breath wasn't mere minutes ago. He still had time. But with Sherlock, John wasn't sure how much time. He never knew, not with Sherlock.

Sherlock extended his hand towards John, and he took it. Of course he would take it. On shaky legs, like rubber, John stood. He wavered for a second before tightening his grip on Sherlock's forearm. Sherlock didn't seem to notice, only placed his other hand securely on John's elbow. John cleared his throat.

"Thank God for the Bee Gees," John remarked, casually, as if his heart wasn't lodged in his throat. As if he wasn't just about to vomit everywhere. And despite himself, John laughed. It's a quiet thing, but it elicits a chuckle from Sherlock. They walked side by side out of the building, backs of hands brushing briefly, without notice. When they got outside, John inhaled deeply through his nose. Sherlock regarded him cautiously. John took another few breaths of air, like they were the last breaths he would ever take, and felt suddenly light headed. Late panic flooded his chest, stemming from his gut, and he swayed on his heels. Sherlock placed a reassuring hand on his back and John nodded in thanks just once.

Sherlock hailed a taxi once they were on the main street and it rolled up beside them. John got in first, sliding in carefully. Sherlock followed in after him.

"221b Baker Street," Sherlock ordered instantly. The cab drove off down the street, the buildings trailing behind them.

Sherlock glanced over to his friend who seemed to be hyperventilating and rose an eyebrow. "John, are you all right?"

John turned his head slowly to face Sherlock with an expression he couldn't quite read. His eyes were on something else. "Hm? Oh, yes, yeah, no, I'm fine."

Sherlock didn't believe him. He was obviously still feeling the after effects of the scene at the pool. But there was nothing Sherlock could do. He placed his hand on John's and patted it twice.

John finally looked at Sherlock, his expression still unreadable. This was beyond frustrating.

"What are you thinking, John?"

"I don't know," came his quick reply. He pulled his hand from Sherlock's and rested it in his lap. "I don't know. I'm just…I'm trying to…I don't know. I really don't. I'm trying to process what happened, but my brain doesn't want to. I think—oh God, I think I'm going to be sick—" He suddenly covered his mouth with both hands and Sherlock yelled at the cabbie to stop. John got out and just as his second leg swung out of the cab, vomit spewed past his lips. He coughed and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He wiped that hand on his jeans and then pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes lightly.

When he was finally done dry heaving, he sat back in the cab. Eyes vacant, left hand shaking slightly, breath shallow and in small gasps. Sherlock noted this, of course. "John," he started.

John turned to face his friend and gave a weak smile. "I'm fine now. Cabbie, we can keep going."

"You sure, mate?" the cabbie asked, obvious disgust in his voice.

"Yes, go," John commanded. The cabbie continued driving.

When they were up the stairs and in their flat, John raced to the bathroom to vomit once more. Sherlock heard liquid hit liquid and considered, for a moment, that he should go into the bathroom and console him. But thought better of it. John would want to deal with this on his own. Stubborn.

John came out of the bathroom. His face was wet, as were his hands.

"Tea, Sherlock?" John asked, headed towards the kitchen as though nothing had happened.

"Yes, thank you. Just what the doctor ordered."

John grinned at that, but Sherlock saw it hadn't reached his eyes.

His eyes. They had glossed over. With…something. John's breathing was still quick and fluttery, but his hand had stopped quivering. John just looked…dazed. Lost. Like he was a ghost with a horrible past. Sherlock swallowed. He really hoped this wouldn't be permanent.

John took the kettle from the stove and poured the water into two cups. He set them both on little saucers and left one teabag beside the cup. Like some sort of subconscious ritual, John brought over the two saucers and then went to get the small ceramic pitchers of creme and sugar. He brought them over and placed them on the table beside Sherlock. He poured some of the creme into his own cup, the teabag floating at the top. John then dropped two spoons of sugar into the cup. He sat in his chair opposite of Sherlock and carefully blew on the steaming liquid.

After several minutes of pleasant silence, Sherlock cleared his throat again. "What a night, hm?"

John looked up ever so slowly from his cup and regarded Sherlock. Again, Sherlock couldn't read John's expression. It was as if John had pulled a mask right over his face and was hiding from the world. Sherlock didn't like it. He stared back into those glossy eyes.

"Yeah, what a night…I think I might head off to bed, now. If I'm not needed, or anything…" John spoke in a quiet voice, one Sherlock hadn't heard very often.

Sherlock nodded and bid goodnight to John. John headed back into the kitchen where he set his half-finished cup of tea in the sink and trailed up the stairs.

Sherlock counted—seventeen scuffled steps until John was on the floor above him. He heard John continue to scuffle around, into his room, where Sherlock then heard John collapse onto his bed with a loud thump.

It was nearing three A.M. when Sherlock went to check on John. He snuck up the stairs, minding the one that creaked when pressure was applied, and stood outside of John's room. Like a spectre, he turned the doorknob to the right and pushed open slightly. Just enough so he could see inside. Just enough so he could see John tangled in the mass of blankets, his clothes still on. Sherlock watched him sleep. John's back rose and fell evenly, obviously in a deep sleep. From here, Sherlock couldn't tell whether or not John's eyes were moving beneath his lids. John's face was pressed into his thin pillow, tilted ever so slightly to the side so he could breathe freely from his mouth.

Sherlock watched his friend sleep for what seemed like ages. He had managed to surprise himself when he finally realized he had stepped into John's room, only mere feet from the end of his bed. Sherlock wanted so badly to sit on the blankets beside John and hold his hand. He wanted to thank him, thank him for his bravery—thank him for attempting to sacrifice his own life for Sherlock's. But he couldn't bring himself to step any closer consciously. So he turned on his heel quietly and left down the stairs.

He hovered above the sink for a moment before deciding to wash the two cups quickly. Once his hands were dry, Sherlock fled into his own bedroom and stripped of his clothes. He left them on the floor in a crumpled heap before slipping under his blankets in only his underthings, chest bare.

He lay in bed, eyes open, staring blankly at the ceiling, for at least thirty minutes. He had begun to count, but lost track once he hit twenty seven minutes and forty two seconds. His mind had gone utterly blank. As though it had been wiped completely. For the first time in a long time, Sherlock's brain had shut off. The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips before he fell into unconsciousness.

Three weeks had gone by since the scene at the pool. John had already bought the plane ticket to New Zealand to visit an old friend.

"Sherlock, I'm leaving now. I'll be back in a few weeks. I've asked Missus Hudson if she could buy the milk, as I know you will forget. If you need me, I'm bringing my phone. I've left a number with Missus Hudson, as well, just in case you can't reach me. All right?" But John's goodbye had touched deaf ears.

Sherlock was reading the newspaper, engrossed in the obits.

"Sherlock, did you hear me? I'm leaving now. Goodbye!" John readjusted the suitcase handle in his hand, regripping it. But still, Sherlock wouldn't listen.

"Oi! Holmes!" he shouted rather loudly.

At last, Sherlock looked. "Hm? Oh, hello, John. Off to somewhere?" He regarded John's suitcase with a quick eye.

John just turned his gaze to the ceiling and let out a long sigh. He closed his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock. I'm leaving. New Zealand. We went over this when I bought the ticket last week. Do you ever listen to a thing I say?"

Sherlock feigned an appalled expression. He folded the paper and set it on the table beside him. "Of course I do, John. I just don't bother registering it."

John returned his gaze on Sherlock, his eyes slitted. "Well then. I'll see you in a few weeks."

Sherlock gave a tiny smile and picked up the paper again. He didn't bother saying goodbye formally.

John turned on his heel and left the flat. There was a cab already waiting for him. Mrs Hudson gave a quick kiss to John's cheek and patted the other side of his face.

"Safe trip now for you and Sarah, you hear? Call me right when you land," Mrs Hudson instructed.

"Of course, Missus Hudson. I'll talk to you soon."

"Not soon enough, John! Goodbye!" She waved goodbye to John as he slid into the cab, pulling in his suitcase after him.

The cabbie rolled down the street in blissful quiet and John actually smiled.

It was downright boring without John to accompany him. There was a murder or two, but Sherlock wasn't keeping track of that. He would visit the scene, mindlessly go on about something irrelevant (yet still somehow relevant), and Lestrade would round up the murderer soon after. Several clients had dropped by 221b Baker Street, and Sherlock helped them all without a care. His mind was focused on more important things. When was John coming home? It had been some time, now, but he was't sure exactly how much time. Days rolled into nights, and Sherlock only slept when he collapsed into unconsciousness. He didn't keep track of the dates.

"Missus Hudson!" Sherlock shouted from his usual chair. He waited several seconds before yelling down to her again, louder this time.

Hurried footsteps made their way upstairs and the front door swung open. A frazzled and worried Mrs Hudson stood in the open doorway. "What is it, love? What's the matter?"

Sherlock crouched on his chair, his arms wrapping around his knees. "When is John coming home," he said, rather than asked.

Mrs Hudson brought a shaky hand to her forehead. "Goodness, Sherlock, you gave me a right fright…" She let out a sigh and went into the kitchen where a calendar hung on the wall. John's return date was circled in red marker. "April twenty second, dear. You could have just looked yourself. Not your mum, you know."

Sherlock sneered. He pulled a hand from his knee and rubbed his temple. "Yes, thank you."

Mrs Hudson turned and left the flat to return to her own. She grumbled on her way down the stairs, but Sherlock wasn't paying any attention.

What bloody day was it? Sherlock should have asked. It was too late now. An opportunity lost. He cursed himself. Perhaps he would text John.

What day is it?

SH

-Message Sent-

Sherlock pressed send and waited for a reply. He expected he would be waiting at least an hour, but he had no idea in retrospect. He slumped in his chair, head between his knees, for at least ten minutes before his phone buzzed in his hand. He startled awake, not realizing he had been asleep.

-Message Received-

? sherlock, its friday

john

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the lack of capitalization and proper punctuation. And then he let out a frustrated sigh when John didn't answer him in the way he wanted.

Yes, but what DAY is it, John?
What is the exact date? How
many days until you return?
It's boring. I'm bored.

SH

-Message Sent-

He waited for only two minutes and nineteen seconds before he received another text from John.

-Message Received-

sherlock… its april 18. only
a few more days before i
come home, yeah :')

john

-Message Received-

dont worry ill be home soon
how many cases have u
sovled?

john

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose before typing away at his phone furiously.

John, really. Must you use
"u" to substitute "you"?
It's difficult to read. I hate
it. Stop.

SH

-Message Sent-

And I'm not keeping track
of how many cases I solve.
They don't matter. Trivial.
Petty. Boring. Hurry up and
come home already.

SH

-Message Sent-

Sherlock placed his phone on the table that sat beside him and he let loose another sigh. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs and Sherlock's ears perked up.

"Sherlock? You've another case, love. Just what you needed, hmm?" Mrs Hudson started, letting herself into their flat. She had a bright smile on her lips. A teenaged girl stood behind the elderly woman awkwardly, hands wringing gently. The girl played with her middle finger on her left hand most predominantly. Right-handed. She wore a red beret along with a red pea coat. Underneath the coat, she was either wearing a dress or a skirt, knee in length. Dress. Her shoes were shiny, black Mary Janes. Slightly scuffed at the toes, shine dulled to the leather underneath. Middle class. Her long, brown hair ran down her back in a tight braid. She wore thin white gloves.

Mrs Hudson waved the girl in, and she took a seat. In John's seat. Sherlock fumed, but it didn't show on his face. He feigned a quick smile before it vanished under his mask.

"Mister H-Holmes, I, um…I came here today to ask you to find something for m-me," the girl stammered out, obviously embarrassed. Embarrassed? Why? No, not embarrassed. Sheepish. Her eyes held a certain twinkle—star struck? He wasn't that big of a celebrity. Yes, he had been in the papers once or twice, but really. Sherlock scoffed.

"A ring," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly.

The girl's mouth parted slightly. She nodded, slowly at first, then more vigourously. "Y-yes, actually…" Under her breath, she muttered: "So it's true, he is psychic…"

Sherlock caught the remark and rolled his eyes, mouth open. "Not psychic, I merely used the power of deduction. Really, it wasn't that difficult. You are wringing your hands, mostly your middle finger of your left hand. You most likely played with a ring of some sort, and now you fiddle with an imaginary one. You're nervous—probably only fiddle with the ring when you are. Gold or silver?" He paused. "No, gold. Possibly a small stone encrusted in its centre. Am I correct?"

The girl nodded once again. "Y-yes, how…M-my name is Cecily Jones. My Grandmother gave me that ring before she p-passed a few weeks ago. We were very close…I believe someone has stolen it. It was quite valuable. W-will you help me, Mister Holmes?"

Sherlock let out a sigh. "I suppose. So," he started, steepling his fingers upon his lips. He dropped his legs from the chair, resting his elbows on his spread knees. "Where did you see the ring last?"

Cecily clasped her hands together in her lap. "My vanity. I have a small trinket b-box, and I always take the ring off after I get h-home from school. Yesterday, I went to go get the ring, but it was…gone…I don't know where it c-could have gone. I remember putting it in the box the day before…" The girl stared down at her hands awkwardly.

Sherlock sighed. "Do you have a sister? Older, perhaps? Not as close to your grandmother as you were?"

Cecily looked up, in mild shock. "Y-yes, Annie. She's three years older than I am…She was always…jealous…of my relationship with m-my grandmother. Why, d-do you think she stole my ring?"

Sherlock sat up straight, palms on his thighs. "Yes, I believe so." He sat back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for a second before muttering, "Boring."

Cecily didn't catch it. She stood up and held out her gloved hand. "Th-thank you, Mister Holmes. I a-appreciate it."

Sherlock snapped his head upright and took her fingertips briefly in a quick shake. He jumped out of his chair and went to the window. He brought a hand to his lips and stared.

The girl left quietly seconds later. Sherlock heard the door close behind her and he let out a sigh. He picked up his violin and began to pluck a few notes.

April 20th. Approximately 9:34 A.M., when Sherlock received the call from Lestrade.

"Sherlock, there's been a suspicious suicide," Lestrade said in his usual, controlled voice when dealing with this sort of thing.

"Suspicious? How?"

Lestrade audibly sighed. Sherlock suspected he was rubbing his forehead with his free hand. "The girl was apparently home alone, when she viciously pushed herself down a flight of stairs, then kicked herself down a second flight. I'm texting you the address."

Sherlock's lips sparked with a smile before he pressed end on his phone. He waited only a minute for Lestrade to send the location of this suspicious suicide. He did like a mystery, after all.

Sherlock arrived at the three storey house in under twenty minutes. Sgt. Donovan scowled at the man as she raised the police tape to allow him passage. "Hey, Freak," she spat as he headed towards the house.

Sherlock dismissed her petty attempt to get a rise out of him. He entered the house and scanned the foyer for Lestrade. When he found the graying man, he nodded. He slipped on his leather gloves, as always. "So, where is the body?"

Lestrade lead Sherlock around the corner and revealed…the same young girl from two days prior. Cecily Jones. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he hovered over the crumpled body.

Hair in the same braid, must be routine. Fingers of left hand curled around something, possibly—no, nothing. Was previously clutching something. It's been taken. Possibly the murderer has it with them. Mouth open, eyes wide with shock. Obvious the girl had not been expecting to be shoved. Head placed at odd angle, must have snapped on her way down. When? Before she fell down the second flight, or after? Shoe print on her chest. Sherlock stood up straight and removed his gloves. He shoved them into his coat pocket as well as his hands.

"So?" Lestrade pried. "What do you think?"

Sherlock still regarded the body. "She was holding something before she died. Murderer must have taken it with them. Shoe print is petite, size six. Possibly a female. Victim has an older sister, Annie. Two days ago, she stole the victim's ring, given to her by her deceased grandmother. They must have fought over it. I'll be at Bart's, waiting for the body. If she was indeed pushed, there will be bruises on her chest, as well as the shoe print. I would track down the sister, if I were you."

And with that, Sherlock left the house and down the street to hail a cab.

Just as Sherlock had suspected, there were two blossoming bruises on Cecily's chest from where she had been shoved. A third bruise, the shape of a shoe print, sat in between the other two. Molly let out a sigh and Sherlock looked at her.

"It's sad, really, to see such a young, pretty girl in here," Molly let out.

Sherlock grunted in response. Molly looked up, eyes glossed over.

"They're all just bodies to you, aren't they? No, of course they are. Why would I think any—"

"I met her a few days ago," Sherlock interrupted. Molly's eyes went wide.

Molly turned her gaze back to the girl before her and pulled the white sheet up over her chest. "Oh." She didn't say anything else. Molly scraped under the girl's fingernails and continued with routine. Sherlock turned on his heel and headed towards the morgue's exit.

He paused just before pushing the door open. "If you find anything interesting, let me know."

Molly nodded, though he couldn't see her gesture. Sherlock left to pay another visit to Lestrade.

Sherlock walked through the front doors of the station and went to the front desk. "Is DI Lestrade in currently?" he asked.

The plump lady behind the counter looked up at him from over her glasses. On the desk was an open book of sudoku and she held a pencil in her hand. "Yes, Mister Holmes, he's interrogating a suspect right now, if I recall. Would you like me to page him?"

"No, I'll find him." And with that parting statement, he fled off down the hall.

Lestrade was sitting across from an older teenaged girl, same shade of hair, same eye shape, definitely Annie Jones, a stern look across his face. Sherlock stood behind the one-way window and watched. Sgt. Donovan stood beside him, regarding him with the Devil's eye.

"Miss Jones, we found your shoe print on your sister's chest. She was kicked down the second flight of stairs in your home."

The girl looked petrified. Guilty. The ghost of a smile licked at Sherlock's lips. He turned to Donovan and raised an eyebrow. "May I?"

"May you what? Interrogate our suspect? I don't think so—"

"As you might recall, I was the one who suggested you track her down," Sherlock interrupted.

Donovan stared, wide-eyed, and shut her mouth with a loud snap. "You don't even know how to interrogate a suspect…" she grumbled, knocking on the window.

Lestrade looked up, his lips parted, and his tongue darted out across the lower pink. He nodded, and Sherlock let himself into the small, cold room.

The graying man stood up and stalked to the window-now-mirror. He folded his arms across his chest and watched Sherlock. He was definitely not allowed to let this happen, but it was happening. He let slip a sigh as his eyebrows crashed together.

"Annie Jones. You stole your sister's ring. Your grandmother's ring. Correct?"

The girl gaped at him.

"Correct?" Sherlock tried.

The girl then nodded. She didn't say anything.

"Cecily was your grandmother's favourite. She spoiled her. Took her on fancy trips to foreign places. She bought her nice dresses, fancy coats. She probably didn't even remember your birthday, while Cecily's was marked and circled on her calendar. The ring was probably her engagement ring. Possibly a widow, because why else would she will such a ring to her favourite—and seemingly only—grand-daughter? Yes, most definitely widowed. To replace her lost love, she coddled Cecily. Treated her like she would a spoiled fat cat. Didn't even give you a second glance. Like you weren't even there, yes? First born to the family, but not even on the list when it came to importance.

"You must have hated your sister for all the attention she received. You should have been the one being coddled and spoiled. Not your younger sister. What a joke. Pathetic. It was you who should have been most important. You were the first born, after all. So, you took your grandmother's ring from Cecily. The one thing connecting your sister to her late grandmother. Your late grandmother. You wanted a piece of her all to yourself, so you snuck into Cecily's room and stole the ring right from under her nose.

"But you couldn't have suspected that she would come to me, world's only consulting detective. I figured it out quite easily. You couldn't have suspected her finding out about what you had done. She finally got the ring back, but you wouldn't let her have it. So you shoved her down the first flight of stairs, and when she was gasping and wheezing out her last breath, you kicked her down the second flight for good measure. She held the ring in her hand, and you stole it back from her. What should have been rightfully yours, yes? And you left your sister for dead.

"Where is the ring now, Annie?" Sherlock had not broken eye contact with the girl since he had begun speaking. Annie was visibly twitching in her seat, eyes blinking rapidly. She kept glancing around, trying to find a way out. But there was no way out.

Annie bit her lip, but a sob escaped past her teeth anyway. She dug into her coat pocket and curled her fingers around something. She placed her fist on the table, the tears now streaming down her face freely. Annie held onto whatever it was for at least three minutes, still sobbing, until finally, her fingers uncurled and a small, golden ring dropped onto the metal table.

"I didn't mean to kill her, I just wanted to scare her. But then—after I had pushed her, and she was at the bottom, on the landing, she just—she…she kept trying to croak out my name, please, I'm sorry, don't, but I had no control over my body. I was outside of it, watching myself kick my only sister down the second flight. I heard a crack, but it was far off. Like someone had put cotton in my ears. I floated down the stairs…I floated down them, like a ghost—and then I was before her body, and…and I just took the ring. I took it, shoved it in my pocket, and ran out the door. I couldn't stop shaking. I just…I went to school, like nothing had happened. Oh God, what have I done?" Annie began to wail loudly, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her.

He had gotten out a confession, and Lestrade was content. He nodded to Sherlock before the man drifted from the room and left back for Baker Street.

John was enjoying his time with Sarah and his old friend. New Zealand was beautiful, in every possible way. Their trip was nearing an end, and secretly, John was glad. Though he was having a good time with Sarah, things were…amiss. They had little arguments here and there. It always led to an awkward apology.

"Are you even listening, John? I asked what you'd like for dinner," Sarah let out, rolling her eyes.

"Hm? Oh, sorry, Sarah, I—I guess I let my mind wander for a moment there." John cleared his throat. "It really doesn't matter to me, anything is fine." He went back to rereading Sherlock's texts.

-Message Received-

I miss you

-Message Received-

When are you coming home?

-Message Received-

John, I'm serious. Answer me.
When are you coming home?

SH

-Message Received-

John, hurry up and get on
that plane and come home!
The flat is boring without
you.

SH

-Message Received-

John come home

-Message Received-

I bought milk. It's skim; I
know how much you don't
like it. Sorry.

SH

-Message Received-

I ordered take away. Chinese.
Your favourite. Now, come home.
I'm hungry.

SH

John smiled as he scrolled through the messages, some signed, some not. Sarah placed a plate with a toasted sandwich before John on the table and frowned.

"What are you doing?" she asked, obviously implying that she wanted to be paid attention to.

John continued to scroll through the messages until he reached the last one he had replied to. He finally looked up, a confused expression washed over his face. "Is it any business of yours?" he snapped, involuntarily.

"It's Sherlock, isn't it? You're reading his bloody texts again, aren't you? God, can you give it a rest, John? This is our time. Not your time with your boyfriend."

John stood up, hostility rising within him. "He's not my boyfriend, Sarah, he's my best friend. There's a difference."

"Oh, so I'm not your best friend, then? If there's such a difference?" she spat, arms folded across her chest. Eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

John threw up his hands and rolled his eyes. "Sarah, you are my best friend; the only difference is, is that we're shagging. I am definitely not shagging Sherlock."

"Well, isn't that wonderful! You have such a skill in the art of lying, John. I see the way you react when you get a text from him. You look at the goddamn phone like it's the love of your life. You don't even smile like that to me!" she screeched, leaning slightly forward.

John let loose a chuckle, void of any humour. He threw his head back as he laughed, eyes closed. He let his gaze return to Sarah's face and his eyebrows scrunched together. "God, Sarah, must everything be about you? I'm apart of this relationship, too, you know!"

"Yes, and so is Sherlock bloody Holmes. It's either me, or him, John."

John's lips parted and he let out a tiny gasp, inaudible. "What? You're really giving me an ultimatum, here? Sarah…" He brought a hand to his forehead and rubbed it gently as he tried to think of the answer. Through his anger, he still found himself smiling. "This is utterly ridiculous, and you know it. You're just jealous because I have a friend, someone else to split my attention with."

"No, John, I'm jealous because you love him! You love him more than you love me, and—"

"Didn't I just tell you that I wasn't in fact gay? Especially not for Sherlock. Or were you not listening, like always?" John interjected, rage seething through his teeth.

Sarah's jaw fell and her eyes went wide. She dropped her hands to her side and picked up John's plate, still full of the sandwich. "I don't care if there's only two days left before we leave. I'm buying another ticket and I'm leaving, John. In every sense of the word. Don't call me, don't text me, don't even look at me. The only communication we'll have is at work, and I'm beginning to wonder if I should even let you keep the job. I hope you're happy with your friend, John. I really do." Sarah tossed the sandwich into the bin and dropped the plate loudly in the sink. She let the tap run for a few seconds before she turned it off and stormed off towards their shared bedroom. But as she passed John, he shot out his left hand and yanked on her arm.

John pulled her in close and slammed his lips to hers. Sarah's eyes went wide, but eventually closed tightly. She entwined her fingers in John's short hair and leaned into the kiss. Their bodies pressed together, both knowing this was the last kiss they would ever share.

John finally tore away, panting heavily. He stared into Sarah's eyes before she turned away and broke the connection. John sighed, plopping down into the kitchen table's chair. He set his elbow on the table and placed his hand on his cheek. John rubbed at his eye and then let his hand drop, palm down, onto the wood.

Damn her, damn Sherlock, John thought.

John lie in bed, eyes open. He was on his right side, staring out the window with the broken lock and the too-thin sheer curtains. Wind whistled through the open crack of the window.

John shuddered and rolled onto his other side, the blanket rising with him. He cursed under his breath, fumbling to pull it down over his bare back. He shifted on top of the blanket, completely frustrated now. Sarah's words echoed in his head, the scene replaying over and over and over and—

John wasn't in love with Sherlock, was he? He was enamoured, fascinated, dedicated, loyal…slightly obsessed. With everything the mad man did. John's brain avoided all and every mention of the thought—the feeling—of love for his best friend. In the few short months they had been living together, solving wonderful crimes together, almost dying together…John had become accustomed to Sherlock's ways. He couldn't predict them, no, but he was completely used to them. Fine with them. The late nights (or early mornings) waking up to Sherlock violently stringing up notes on his violin; the acidic smells that sometimes radiated from their small kitchen, a terrible byproduct of the things Sherlock kept in the appliances; the sickening amount of running; the Obviously, John's; the…everything. John loved it all. Every last second. At the pool…John had assumed that would be the last time he would ever see his friend. Ever see his friend's angular face, his high cheek bones, his precise jaw line, his eerily gray-blue eyes, his elegant fingers attached to equally elegant hands—John felt as though he might throw up.

He sat up in his bed, the wind whistling louder now.


John brought a hand to his face and rubbed the—the what? The doubt? The confusion?—from his eyes and let his legs fall freely over the side of the all-too-soft mattress. His feet hit the cold, hardwood flooring and a shiver raced through him. He held out his left hand and wasn't surprised in the least to notice it silently quivering in the moonlight. He held it up higher, as if inspecting some important piece of evidence. Trying to deduce something from it. Anything. But nothing came to mind.

The man managed to bring himself to the bathroom. John laid his palms, face down, on the rim of the sink and hunched his back. He finally managed to look up into the mirror, but the face he saw was not truly his own.

He looked haggard, worn down. Pathetic. Like he hadn't slept nor eaten in a week. He felt the sudden urge to dig his fingers into his eye sockets and yank until he tore himself from his skin. The fight with Sarah had been rightly justified—it was true, what she accused. John was, in some way or another, in love with Sherlock Holmes.

"Fuck!"

John slammed his hand against the sink and stared down at the drain again. He wanted so badly to pull himself from the person he had become over the past few months. It didn't feel like him. Not really. But then, what did feel like 'him'? Surely, he didn't feel truly himself when he had just come home from Afghanistan. He was empty, dead, a black void—he sat alone in his dingy flat watching crap telly and eating buttered toast and cereal. When he had come across Mike Stamford, by chance, by chance!, he was led to the most brilliant man he had ever come across. Mike Stamford must have been some sort of sign, some gift from God, no, that's not quite right, there is no god, because ever since that day at the hospital, he had finally felt alive again.

John Watson, so sure of his feelings and his thoughts, was utterly lost.

The thought of him pressed up against Sherlock, their lips crashing together like an angry wave licking at the sand, hands roaming free—finally… No, no. Nononono. John smacked the side of his head twice, hard, then raked his fingertips across the skin of his face. He stared at his monochromed reflection, the moonlight cascading across the fine lines of his face. The side of his face where he was dragging his fingers was pulled and distorted into something grotesque. He let his hand drop back to the sink, where he resumed his grip on the sink's rim. John stared long and hard at his reflection, thinking of nothing and everything all at once.

John considered texting Sherlock. He would probably be awake, the man never slept, but John thought better of it. He would say something stupid if he got his phone now. He then considered calling Sherlock—but that was an even worse idea.

The man simply stood there, in the dark, staring at the shadow before him.

you love him more than you love me and

John shut his eyes tight, trying to drown out the voice of his now ex-girlfriend.

more than you love me. You love him more than you love me and more than you love me you love him you love him

"God, shut up!" he bellowed, startling himself. John stared at himself, looking even worse than he had just moments ago (if it was even possible, it was). He raised one hand, his left, and shifted his gaze to that. He tried to find the lines on his palm palmar flexion creases and when he couldn't, he curled his fingers into a fist. For a split second, he considered bringing that fist quickly upon the glass. Would only end up bleeding, need stitches, how to explain the broken mirror? Seven years of bad luck—don't need any more, seven years seven years how long left do I have to live? With Sherlock, really, be reasonable, John, how long? Three years, four? Seven years John bolted his eyes shut again, fist tightening. Knuckles white against the taut pull of skin over bone.

John found himself on the balcony of the hotel room, phone in hand. He had dialled 221b Baker Street's number and was testing himself. How long could he go, how long could he resist the temptation to hear Sherlock's voice? It had been nearly three weeks, but could he go on for longer? He finally pressed call and brought the phone to his ear. He waited for the rings.

One.

What would he even say? Nothing. There wasn't anything to say. Nothing to tell, either. Would Sherlock know somehow? What the fight had been about? Surely, Sherlock didn't feel the same way—he had admitted that first night that he was 'married to his work'. But could John be that exception?

Two.

God, what was he even doing? Calling Sherlock in the middle of the night. But, no, it wouldn't be the middle of the night. It would be…what time was it? John didn't even know. It would be sometime in the afternoon.

Three.

John pulled the phone away from his ear slightly, considering pressing end. But then he pressed it back to his ear and waited. His breathing was quick and thin, his pulse racing through his veins.

Four—

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

John assumed he must have stood there in the cold air for what seemed like an hour. His breathing was rapidly increasing, if even possible, and he began to feel lightheaded.

"Is anyone there? I can hear you breathing."

John closed his eyes to the world and his grip on the phone tightened.

"Who is this? Answer me!"

John's eyes opened in a flash and he fumbled with the phone to end the call. He had heard a strangled sound, and could only assume it had come from himself.

John leaped back into the hotel's main room and tossed his phone—no, threw it, as if disposing of something on fire—onto the armchair closest to him.