Sherlock lay his head against the brick wall, letting his breathes come harsh and unfettered. He knew John was coming, would be here any second. He finally heard the familiar steps, and he relaxed. His attacker was knocked out in the nick of time, and the case was solved. Lestrade had enough evidence now, just like old times. But something was wrong, off. He couldn't pinpoint it, what was between now and old times, what had changed...Sherlock waited as his various welfare signs were checked, watching his doctors oceanic eyes flit around his body nervously. The doctor relaxed visibly as he found that the gun had only grazed him, and began to chuckle. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, because this was not routine. HE watched as the mad chuckle turned into a laugh. An awful, sardonic laugh that make Holmes chest ache.
"Well, you're still here. No cliff to jump off this time, so you found a man with a gun?" Sherlock paused, frozen, as he realized that which had evaded him these past months. Watson was waiting. Waiting for him to find a criminal intresting enough for him to leave. To Watson, it was just a matter of when, not if. He noticed gentle arms carrying him to a cab, and he let the smelly and stained car carry him off...because...Watson was just waiting. They were home and Watson was begining to be worried, but Holmes wasnt responding. Judging by the Doctors frantic watch-checking, hour had passed. But it was his fault. His doctor was in a state of life paryslsis because of him. He was gaunt...grim...lifeless and unhappy. And it was his fault. But John was speaking now, and he had to pay attention.
"Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock, you need to move. Please? Sherlock?" his face hovered half an inch from his own, and want, so thick and unnamable grasped him. He knew now, and almost smiled, as he leaned forward and took the doctors lips. The Doctor immediately froze, Unwillingly, Holmes pryed himelf off of Watson, and searched his eyes for emotion. He found it. Watson wasnt even aware of the tear falling down his cheek, or the many that were going to follow it until Holmes brushed it off.