As it says in the topic section, this is a sequel to Of Pets and Text Messages, the first real fanfic I've written. Mostly from Sherlock's point of view, and beginning with a dream sequence. I have not seen any new episodes yet, including the special, so please, no spoiler alerts!

Sherlock knew he had crossed a line. He didn't know what, but it explained why John was standing there and glowering at him, fists clenched, eyes burning, very much like he had just when the detective came back from the dead. But they weren't in the restaurant; they were in the flat, in the kitchen. Nearby on the counter were Sherlock's assorted experiments, and he realized that something about them was what had angered John. But what? WHAT?! He was wracking his brains, trying to figure out what he'd done this time, when John spoke, in short, clipped tones unlike any he'd used before.

"I have had it, Sherlock. I've had to put up with a lot from you, but this-this is it. I'm done." And with that, he turned and started to exit the kitchen.

Irrational panic shot through Sherlock, and he instantly made himself appear in the doorway to the kitchen, blocking the older man's way.

"John, wait, I can explain." Even if he didn't know what he'd done, surely he could come up with something.

"Get out of my way."

"No, wait, I'm sorry, let me try to fix this-"

"Why should I believe you?!" John suddenly shouted, startling him. "Why should I ever believe anything you say? From the moment we met, you have found it perfectly acceptable to lie to me, manipulate me for your own selfish needs, and in general toss me around like I'm a piece of your equipment! The only difference is that when you talk to me, I answer back! You didn't even care enough to tell me you weren't really dead, so you let me go through hell for two bloody years! The only reason you keep me around even now is because you need someone to ooh and aww every time you say something spectacular, because it fills your enormous ego! Well, you know what? I'm tired of being your doormat, and I'm done helping you! This is the end, Sherlock!"

And with that, he shoved past him, towards the front door.

No no no, don't let him leave, have to say the right thing…

"John, please! I faked my death to save you! They would have killed you if they had any suspicion I was alive, and-"

"Save it for someone who cares," the doctor snarled. "I tried caring for you, and it just meant that I got hurt. So goodbye." And he went out, slamming the door, leaving Sherlock alone in the flat…

Sherlock awoke with a violent jerk, flopping back down onto the sofa and even gasping a little bit. He lay there, trying to calm his pounding heart, and berating himself for being so perturbed by a ridiculous dream. He knew John, John would never get that fed up with him, John was always going to be trusting and loyal and his best friend…

But would he?

The detective knew it might have something to do with the lateness of the hour, but he was gripped with a sudden fear. What if John had finally reached his breaking point? After everything that had happened with Magnussen, and Moriarty coming back, and Mary turning out to be an assassin, and finding out about more lies and secrets that the detective was keeping from him...even a tough army doctor had his limits. Even though he craved excitement, he could probably get that from Mary in some form or another, since he'd chosen to stay with her. How could he ever trust Sherlock again? Why should he?

Even though it was ridiculously late (for most people), Sherlock felt a sudden longing for his doctor's presence. Even if it was just to sit in companionable silence, since there was probably no way he was going to tell John about this silly dream he'd had, and there wasn't much else they could talk about at this juncture; despite his best efforts, he had not yet received any news about Moriarty's whereabouts. So he retrieved his cell phone, and sent off a message: Come to Baker Street immediately. -SH

To his surprise, a short time later his phone received a reply: Why? Is there a case? Or have you found a new clue about Moriarty's whereabouts?

Of course. His priorities had acquired a slightly larger spectrum as of late. Sherlock grumbled a bit mentally about Mary entering their lives; even though he liked her, it meant John was being kept away when he needed him. He answered tersely, No.

After a few moments in which he imagined John giving his phone an exasperated stare, and perhaps wondering why else Sherlock would want him to come this late, the next text came: Is there a fire?

No. -SH

Have you blown something up?

No. -SH

He almost admitted what was bothering him then, but he didn't want to be subjected to any patronizing ridicule. Which, of course, led to the stream of questions that followed: Has there been a flood, death, or any danger to you, Mrs. Hudson, or the flat? Are you, Mycroft or anyone in your homeless network sick, injured, or in any other way, shape or form in need of a doctor?

Sherlock then considered lying, just to get John to stop asking probing questions and get over here, but his hand seemed to develop a mind of its own (ridiculous saying, that), and told the truth: No. -SH

John, now thoroughly exasperated, and probably tired, sent back what he thought was the end of the conversation: Then it can wait until morning. Go to SLEEP!

He doesn't care, hissed a voice in Sherlock's Mind Palace; he suspected it came from the bottom of a flight of stairs, and that its speaker wore a straitjacket. Despite his attempt to ignore it, it only called out more loudly: He doesn't even think you have enough feeling to need him just for the sake of needing him, because he thinks you don't care, so he's learned not to care either. He still thinks you're just a machine, ha ha, ha ha…

He was not desperate. He refused to admit that he was desperate. But he was a little frenzied in the way he sent the next message, hating himself for being so manipulative, but also knowing it was the raw and unvarnished truth, and might get the intended result: I'm lonely, John. -SH

There was no reply. But he sat and calculated how long it would take his friend to get there from his place, adding in the level of traffic this late at night, how long it would take him to get dressed, the speed at which cabbies drove...despite Moriarty's chanting of he's not coming, he's not coming, he's not coming, he continued to count down.

Five more minutes should bring him to the front door of Baker Street, for which he still owned a key.

Three minutes.

Thirty seconds.

Ten-

There was the click of the door opening, and footsteps up the stairs. He was early.

Soon enough, there was a tentative knock at the door.

"Come in, John," he called out. The door cracked open, and sure enough, the sturdy form of one Doctor John H. Watson was standing in the doorway, with slight bags under his eyes, and his hair sticking out because he hadn't bothered to brush it, but still unmistakably there. Despite everything, and despite how late it was and his duties to his family, he had come when Sherlock professed a need for his friend's company. Why?

John closed the door after him, and slowly hung up his jacket on the peg nearby. Stifling a yawn, he smiled at the detective. And then he asked, "Why did you really want me here?"

It couldn't have hurt worse if he'd stabbed him in the foot with an ice pick, or some similar implement.

See? He doesn't trust you, he just always expects you to be doing something to manipulate him, he doesn't believe you're capable of expressing genuine feelings or needing anybody, the Mind Palace Moriarty taunted him.

Shut up, he mentally hissed. But the hurt he was feeling was quite real, and at the moment, quite omnipresent.

Looking up, he saw John frowning in confusion, and starting to scrutinize him more closely.

"Sherlock?" He approached with some hesitancy, and then sat down on the couch next to his former flatmate. "Are you okay?"

The detective looked over at him, and asked, "Why do you not hate me?"

After a moment of startled silence, John's eyes narrowed a bit.

"Hate you? Why, what have you done?"

That caused the detective to let loose a harsh, rather bitter laugh. "Oh, just ruined your life and caused you years of grief, pain, frustration and feeling underappreciated, with a side dish of constantly betraying your trust. Other than that, nothing."

He glared down at his knees, unwilling to look John in the face. That was far more than he'd intended to say; when had he allowed himself to become so emotional?! It was a d_ stupid idea, whenever he'd done it.

There was another moment of silence, longer than the previous one. And then a finger poked Sherlock in the chest.

"Hey. Look at me," the doctor ordered.

Sherlock looked up. John was still surprised, but there was also understanding in his face. And, of course, the compassion that made him such an incomparable companion.

"Was that keeping you awake?" he asked.

"No!" Sherlock retorted defensively. Then, to his horror, he admitted, "I had a dream."

That caused an interesting reaction in his friend; John blinked, and his expression went through phases of slight fear, reflection, and a touch of humor (which seemed out of place).

"You had one too?" he deduced.

John nodded. "About the pool."

So not quite the same issue. Rather more horrifying than mine.

What's this? The great Sherlock Holmes thinking someone else's problem is more horrifying than his? What is this world coming to?

I told you to shut up!

Come down here and make me, Sherlock.

The mental debate was interrupted by John asking, "What was your dream about?"

Lie. Make something up. Don't let him know that you know that he doesn't care-

"You were tired of getting hurt by me, so you left for good. Made it clear that we're no longer (he didn't even need to hesitate over the word) friends."

John actually looked hurt this time. But not just for himself; he was hurting for Sherlock, once again exercising that compassion that he held for his friend whether he deserved it or not (more often not). He pursed his lips, and then said, "Well, I won't do that."

"It might be smarter if you did. Especially now, after-everything."

He knew John was smart enough to figure out what he meant by 'everything.'

The doctor snorted. "You're the one who keeps telling me how stupid I am."

Sherlock gave a slightly relieved chuckle; this was the good sort of squabbling he was used to. "You know I mean it as a term of endearment."

"No you don't."

After another moment of quiet laughter between them, John spoke up, "But seriously, Sherlock-" his eyes were still smiling a little- "there are times-I mean, that last stunt-last few stunts, actually-did seem like the last straw. But I would have done the same for you, if your life were at risk. In a heartbeat. And that's the part that I trust about you; that when you do something stupid like fake your death, it's to save my life or stop a dangerous criminal or both." He blinked, and rubbed his face. "Sorry, that sounded so maudlin. I must still be a little slap-happy."

Sherlock smiled a little bit at both the warmth of the sentiments and the embarrassment that followed; it was so John. Then the smile faded.

"But how?" he asked, a little insistently. "How can you possibly trust me after so many lies?"

John thoughtfully shrugged. "How are you smarter than nearly everyone else on the planet?"

The detective bristled, even as he accepted the compliment. "Nearly?"

"Mycroft kind of gives you a run for your money." John outright grinned at his indignant scowl. "I knew that would get you."

After a few more jibes traded back and forth, Sherlock finally asked, "Fancy some bad telly?"

John looked surprised at the invitation (and now quite sleepy). But he nodded. "Sure."

Maybe it was selfish, but Sherlock was glad that he had agreed. Mycroft had people watching the house, so Mary and the baby would be safe. He could keep his blogger a while longer.

Halfway through a cartoon about a cheese-loving inventor and his dog, Sherlock fell asleep, slumping against John's shoulder. The doctor smiled at him fondly; with a flash of deja vu*, he shifted the detective so that he was using his legs for a pillow instead. It would be marginally more comfortable. Then he picked up an afghan from the floor (hoping that there were no infectious diseases or parasites or anything on it), and draped it over his friend. Leaning against the arm of the sofa, John yawned. Once again, he was looking after his pet detective.** And glad to do so, even if tomorrow he'd be moaning and asking God and Mary and anyone else who might be willing to listen why he was stupid enough to keep doing this day after day. But after all, what were friends for?

*See Human Blanket

**See Of Pets and Text Messages

Sorry if it's cheesy (and yes, I know I apologize for that a lot); I just felt like the prequel to this was incomplete, or that I just needed to show why Sherlock was feeling lonely (and more than that, willing to admit it) at such an hour.

Personally, I still don't have an answer for why John keeps trusting Sherlock after all the lies. My best guess is that he gave him a purpose after the war, and has been a source of excitement and vitriolic affection that is irreplaceable. Does that sound right?