It had been years since Sherlock had faked his own death, not a single day going by where John didn't cross his clever and quick witted mind. The detective had no idea what these feelings were that he was feeling for his former flatmate, at least, not until he had returned to London, only to find the army doctor had found someone else while he had been away destroying Moriarty's men. That was when it had hit him like a ton of bricks, he loved John... But now... Now it was too late. He had moved on whilst Sherlock, he was stuck, never moving. A wall of grief crashing down upon onto his shoulders as if someone close had passed away, but John was very much alive... So what were these feelings the great detective was feeling...?
After the realisation, Sherlock had spent weeks, in a drug den, getting high to take away those memories, those feelings, that made him feel so weak and vunerable; he hated being vunerable. Which questioned him to wonder why John was so angry when he came to pull him from the filthy place and take him back to Baker Street. Was the blonde hiding something from the great Holmes brother? He couldn't tell, he brain was hazed from the drugs, yes it usually made everything clearer to him, but not this time. It slowed his brain funuction for once, and he most definitely didn't like it!
TBC...
