Prompt:

John has a crush and admits it in a fit of anger

Well he's done it again. Sherlock has pissed John off beyond what anyone thought possible and the rant was glorious. The entire workforce, officers and medics, paused as the man spat and screamed; partially to watch what would unfold, mostly out of fear for being the next victim. "Honestly Sherlock, why? Explain to me why in the bloody hell would you go in when there were plans and agreements, all of them specifically indicating that you were not to go in alone. Don't you dare give boredom, or confidence in knowing what they would do. I swear if you utter anything that sounds similar to you being steps ahead in all directions, there will be no one able to stop me from beating you to bloody pulp." The man on the stretcher stayed quiet, carefully analyzing the smaller man; taking in his body language in an attempt to make an answer that would calm him down. He came to a dead end. John never showed this kind of anger towards him and it was obvious that if he so much as shifted a hair's width in the wrong direction, John would blow. "Nothing. Really? You're oh so eloquent every other insult but now you choose to be quiet. You love explaining yourself everyone who requests it, so any am I hearing crickets now. Go on, give me the brilliant reasoning beyond what I can truly comprehend." John crossed his arms and glares even harder at his dark haired irritant. Sherlock can to the conclusion that he might as well try, who knows what ignoring him would set off "I had it under control" "oh like hell you did. That's why you're on a damn stretcher filled to the brim with bullets and shrapnel." The acidity of his words caught everyone, flinching at how it seeped into their bones; some feeling sorry for the man who was the intended target.

"People were in danger"

"Cut the crap. You know damn well you could have gotten them out safely without doing this."

"It was the best chance for optimal distraction, everyone is on their way home in the arms of their loved ones"

"And what of yours?" His voice broke and so did the hearts of others. "What if you hadn't been wearing a vest, one that no one knew you were wearing by the way? What if all that metal had gotten to something vital?" Sherlock stayed silent as he watched John's eyes water, he still shook in anger but his posture hinted at exhaustion. "So it was just to hell with us if you didn't make it out." Sherlock's confusion makes an ass of him again as he speaks. "Everything would have been fine. The department would make easy cases unnecessarily complicated, Mycroft, Molly, and would barely blink if I died. Mrs. Hudson would rent the flat to someone else, and you would move on with some woman you met in the street and assimilate in to normalcy." Those who paid attention just barely caught the bitterness of his speech. John shook his head, a slight grin fought its way to his face. "After all these years and you still assume that's possible. Like you haven't completely demolished my ability to do that. Fuck you, Sherlock, You unconcerned bastard. Only you would ever believe that I'm not in love you as much as I am." The tears run down on his face faster that he can storm out of the crime scene, faster than the medics can get the stretcher into the ambulance; they're like cheetahs compared to the span of time that it takes Sherlock to come back from shock. The word wait slips from his lips, too quiet to be picked up by the keenest of ears, especially the person sitting next to him; going as far as to fall on deaf ears once repeated by Lestrade, desperately chasing down John.