Sherlock scrunched his nose as he scanned the colorful cereal packages lining the shelves. He took a step closer and swept the filthy, cold metal with his finger. Gaping at his grey fingertip, he muttered, "Dear God."

John huffed, snatching two Cheerios packages and dropping them into the small shopping trolley. "This is why I told you not to come."

Sherlock straightened up and asked indignantly, "What did I do?"

"What did you do?" John shook his head, rubbing his eyes impatiently. "You've been gasping and pleading to God ever since we got here. It hasn't even been five minutes." John placed his fist on his hip, the other on the trolley's handle. "You obviously don't want to be here. So why did you come?"

Sherlock looked away, avoiding John's eyes, and made a sweeping motion with his arm, gesturing to the general direction of the inside of the small supermarket. "I came to help you, of course. Why else would I come to this abominable place?"

Eyebrows knitting together, John let out a dry laugh. "Funny how you've always told me 'no' when I asked you for help grocery shopping, but the moment I mention the cute checkout girl–"

"John, John, John," Sherlock said, turning his back to him, and padded along the aisle. "Leave the deduction work to me. Just focus on things you can do. Like shopping."

Behind Sherlock, there was a sigh, followed by those familiar clunks that he could recognize anywhere anytime, following behind him. Sherlock smiled. Those sounds were as comforting as a delicious cup of tea on a rainy day.

But his good mood soon faded, when he reached the checkout counters, separated by shelves holding magazines and candy. His eyes darted to the only open counter, the one on the right with a line of four people. Behind the counter, handing change to an old lady, was a strawberry blonde with a navy shirt and a symmetric, pearly white smile. Her face was round, her eyes large as a cat's, and her full lips colored in pastel pink. It can't be her. The face was too baby-like for John's taste. Sherlock's gaze lowered to her chest, each breast the size of a pineapple. Sherlock rolled his eyes. That's her.

Frowning, he turned his head to John, who then stood next to him. Sherlock opened his mouth to complain, but John shot his hand up, and stared down at the floor. "Just," he said with cheeks flushing, "just…don't." During the short moment of silence between the two, John's hand slowly descended. "All right."

"You're a pervert."

John jolted and shouted, "I'm not a per–" He stopped, and gaped around them as his voice echoed in the supermarket. People walking by shot them suspicious looks.

John covered his mouth, glancing between the air conditioner on the ceiling and his old, unpolished shoes. Leg shaking, he frowned at Sherlock and hissed, "I'm not a pervert, all right? I'm a man! I'm a healthy heterosexual man."

Sherlock froze. His muscles tensed. A painful heat burned in his stomach. He remained erect, willing his knees not to buckle, his legs not to tremble. Sherlock kept his eyes locked on John's, holding his glare. They stood there, unmoving, as their slow, long-paced breathing broke the silence between them.

The draft coming from the air conditioner prickled Sherlock's skin and brushed John's air. The sweet scent of John's cologne wafted in the air.

Sherlock's hands itched–no, they ached to touch John. He gripped his hands and stabbed his nails into his palms, forcing the hurt away with a pain he could actually bear.

"Fine." Sherlock spat the word. He turned around and strode to the open counter.

Behind him, John began to call his name, but stopped midway, then muttered unintelligible words.

Sherlock passed by the people waiting in line, and bumped into every single one of them. People complained, but who cared.

He left and walked home, struggling to keep himself from glancing back. He shook his head, biting down his lip. He's not there, Sherlock. He's not following you. He could tell by how much he missed those clumsy clumps.

Once he returned to Baker Street, he was feeling better. The walk and the fresh air had done him some good. His anger had diminished. That was until he opened the door to his apartment.

John's couch sat in the center, as if mockingly staring back at Sherlock. He lurched to the couch and kicked it with all his strength. Pain shot up his foot and reached his knee.

"Ahhh!" he screamed, more due to frustration than being hurt.

With his hands clutching at his foot, Sherlock dropped on his couch and moaned, filling the emptiness in the apartment. He gazed at the ceiling, breathing heavily, and failing at keeping John off his mind. Why am I so angry? I've always known he was an heterosexual ape. And why should I care that he likes young girls with big breasts?

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. He didn't know the answer, but he didn't have to to blame it all on John. And as he sat on the couch, the place where he had spent most of his time in the past few years, he couldn't help but notice that even though he was back at 221B Baker Street, he didn't feel at home. Because the only thing that felt like home was the strong, sweet scent of John's cologne.

- Thanks for reading this far. I plan on writing a part two because I don't like sad endings.

So, what do you guys think? What should be improved? Any criticism is welcome.

PS. This has probably quite a few grammatical errors. Sorry about that. I'm still learning the English language.