This chapter is full of angst, but, somewhere in my tired brain there is a solution to this angst and when I've finished writing this it will occur.
Ship: at the moment John/Sarah but as this chapter dwells on Sherlock it will change
Word count: 1256 (this chapter)
Please review? (: And as always, enjoy.
A/N: I write angst when I'm depressed

It wasn't that Sherlock hadn't felt pain before, quite the contrary he was always getting hurt and risking his life, no, Sherlock was quite accustomed to pain thank you very much; but he'd never felt pain like this. Emotional pain was not something Sherlock was accustomed to. But now, seeing John and Sarah holding hands and sharing a kiss now and then he realised what he'd been denying all along. He loved John. His heart thumped fiercely and he longed to pull John away and tell him everything, scream it at him until he was hoarse. As this flashed through his mind, he turned away and thought he saw a flicker of sadness in John's eyes as he took off running, away from Sarah and John and away from everyone else.

His ran until his sides burned, his eyes welled up and his throat felt curiously thick. He placed his hands on his knees and breathed heavily, drawing as much air into his lungs as he could and wiping his tears away. His phone buzzed and he ignored it, shaking all over with jealousy and pain. He had hoped his furtive looks at John in their time living together had made him notice, how he stood too close to him than was normal for normal people and all the signs had been there. John seemed oblivious to everything Sherlock had wanted to show him and it hurt. His chest felt queerly tight and his hands were shaking, ripples running under his skin. His phone vibrated again and this time he checked it, the two messages from two different people. The first was from John.

Are you okay? You looked distraught.

Dismissing it, he flicked through and looked at the next one.

John said you ran off, part of a case? Call me if it is - Lestrade.

Sherlock felt a bubble of emotion grow through his chest. Dismissing Lestrade, he replied to John.

I have to go. You have my credit card and don't worry. I'll be back eventually –SH

Shortly after he sent it, his phone buzzed again but he ignored it. Knowing John would get Mycroft to trace him through his phone; he made his way to the nearest bank of the Thames and launched it over the wall. Still trembling, he hailed a cab and dived inside, relaying an address and staying low as the cab pulled out of London and away from everything that he knew.

It took a while to get away from London, traffic and the fact that it was rush hour when they left meant that it was gone eight o'clock when they finally arrived at a small village, somewhere a fair way away from London. Sherlock paid the man, tipped him generously and made his way to the local inn, the landlady knew him; once, in the days before John, he had cleared her son of all charges laid down against him by a gang. He swept inside, not looking where he was going until he was at the bar and could see the landlady staring at him, a grin stretching her face. She wasn't beautiful as such, but there was something about her that made the breath of many die in their throats and something striking that meant people followed her every move through a crowd. Everyone, that is, but Sherlock. She swooped down on him and placed a quick kiss on both cheeks, grinning radiantly.

"Sherlock dear, how are you keeping? Still as skinny as ever I see. Same as always?"

"Hello Laura." Sherlock managed a smile from somewhere. "Yes, please, my usual room at the usual rate, I'll pay weekly." He flashed a grin at her, something he didn't feel.

"Staying for a long time then?" Her smile wavered for a moment and then it was back, false and fixed, showing the smudge of lipstick on her teeth. Applied hastily Sherlock thought, eyes on her angular face.

"A while." He murmured evasively, and after that she handed him a key and a card with all the phone numbers for the inn and the village on and made to lead him to his room. "I know where it is, Laura." Still remaining calm, he pulled a smile from nowhere and disappeared up some rickety stairs and kept on going up until he reached the top floor of the inn and pulled a small ladder down from the ceiling. He scrambled up it and was welcomed by the old attic room he used to live in before John and before Baker Street, just after he'd been hurt so badly. He lay down on the small bed and just stared at the wooden ceiling, watching the dark red curtains move in the slight breeze. His eyes closed but he wouldn't sleep. Not tonight. Tears were prickling beneath his lids and he didn't try to fight it, but he stuffed the corner of the plain white duvet in his mouth and bit down, stifling his low whines.

It took a long time before he even tried to move, his hands clenched around his pillow, cheeks wet with tears and his hair damp with sweat, the black curls sticking to his cheek. When he did move he was in agony from being in the same position for so long, all of his long limbs clenched and tight. He made his way to the window, leaning out of it and breathing in the surprisingly cool air for summer. There was a scent in the air that stung in his nostrils and he ducked back inside, closing the window and stuffing his hands in his pockets. His fingernails of his left hand got snagged in something soft and he pulled it out of his pocket, dropping it the moment he saw what it was. It was a scarf. John's scarf. He remembered vividly how it got in its pocket.

It had been a cold morning, but it wasn't any more, in fact the frost had already melted and it was only eleven am. John and Sherlock were walking towards a crime scene, uncomfortably warm in the scarves and jackets they were wearing. John hung by the edge of the crime scene as Sherlock did his thing, carefully relaying everything back to Lestrade and then turning back to John, a quirk of his lips telling him everything he needed to know. Sherlock, now finished, walked back towards John and John handed him the scarf that had been wrapped tightly around his neck.

"It's too warm and I don't have any pockets." He muttered by way of explanation. Sherlock took it, slipping it into his pocket and almost instantly forgetting about it.

And now here he was, fifty miles from London with the scarf in his hand. It had been in his coat since February and now, as he pulled it from the depths of his pocket, he raised it to his face. It still smelled like him, musky and faintly of deodorant and aftershave, but beneath it all was a smell that was so delectably him that it couldn't be identified. Sherlock staggered back to the bed and kept the small folded piece of cloth in his hands, hoping to god, or whatever power there was in the universe, that this would fend off the nightmares the way John did by simply existing. As he began to fall asleep, he realised that it wasn't enough and that for the first time since John moved in, he'd have to face the nightmares alone.

Angst galore. I apologize. I'm sleepy. More to come

Please tell me what you think (:

Much much love

Erin