AN: So, my two weaknesses are posting too quickly and notes that are too long. I'm working on fixing that, so I'll just give a brief explanation as to what this is.

This story will have thirteen chapters, three parts in whole. The first two parts are five : ones, so that's twelve chapters right there, and the last part is the conclusionary piece.

This particular chapter is part one of 'Five Times Sherlock Did Not Know John Was Watching and One Time He Made Sure of It'. Phew, that's a lot of capitals!


John tried to move as quietly as possible as he entered the flat, not wanting to disturb Sherlock (if indeed the man was asleep—you could never could know, with him). John didn't know why he was trying to be so courteous—Sherlock certainly never returned the gesture.

John felt a little prickle of anger as he reflected on the events of earlier that night. He'd thought he'd gotten over it, out on his little midnight walk, but apparently not.

He'd entered the main room feeling refreshed from his quick shower, having just gotten dressed and toweled his hair dry. He was planning on updating his blog and going out for a quick stop at Tesco's to get some small necessities. It was a nice, open night—the kind where he really could do anything he wanted with his suddenly ample amount of free time, and the night seemed to stretch unbroken before him. There were no cases, no shifts at the clinic, and no other pressing matters that might send him out at a moment's notice.

Except—Sherlock.

Sherlock was curled up in his chair, scowling into the distance and savagely picking at the fraying hem of his silk housecoat, muttering under his breath. "What's wrong with you?" John had asked idly.

Sherlock, jerked out of his musings, had been offended, to say the least. "Isn't it obvious!?" he'd demanded with a histrionic, the-world's-against-me, frustrated-to-no-end kind of huff. "I'm—"

"Bored?" John guessed, cutting him off.

Sherlock had glared at him, eyes narrowing so sharply that John immediately knew that what he said next wasn't going to be pleasant—because whenever Sherlock was offended, he took it out on the offender by deducing him.

"Yes…" he'd replied slowly, silvery eyes darting purposefully, looking John up and down so thoroughly that John couldn't help bracing himself for whatever came next.

Such a barrage of deductions ensued that John had trouble keeping up with them, but for once he didn't find them brilliant. They were invasive, they were rude, they were caustic and hurtful. And finally—John had had enough. His weak, annoyed protests escalated into arguing, which escalated into something more.

"Why do you always do this?" he demanded, breathing heavily. "Look, Sherlock, I am sorry that you are bored, okay? And I am sorry that you feel the need to lash out, but this is going too far!"

"Oh, so now you're my mummy?" Sherlock bit back in disgust. "Going to boss me around, are you?"

"No, but I am not going to take this!"

"S'not my fault you're so sensitive."

And it escalated more, into shouting.

Finally, heatedly: "Do you treat all of your friends like this?!"

And the furious reply: "No, because I don't have any!"

Silence. John had stared at Sherlock for a long, long moment, processing that.

Then in flurry of movement, he'd stalked out of the room.

Mrs. Hudson had met him at the door, asking him where he was going and why he didn't have a jacket. He'd heard Sherlock's voice, petulant and cross as always: "I hope you freeze!"

John, in his anger, had shouted back, "Yeah? Well me too!" And then he'd slammed the door and stalked off into the chilly night air.

John heaved a quiet, mournful sigh now as he remembered. He knew he could've acted better there, been more understanding. He knew Sherlock by now—knew the detective's ways. It was always his first impulse to defend himself the only way he knew how—by lashing out, by observing, by noticing, by deducing. It wasn't entirely his fault. John could've waited it out, ignored it.

But it hadn't been the deductions that had made John leave. It had been that one admission: I don't have any! That hurt more than any deductions Sherlock had made about John's current girlfriend.

A light was on in the kitchen. John gathered his courage now. He had to apologize; maybe Sherlock would return the courtesy, maybe not, but John knew that he at least had to recognize that while Sherlock had been in the wrong, he himself had also overstepped the line, if only a little. So he stepped into the room, quietly, instinctively not wanting Sherlock to know he was there yet—afraid he'd still be irate, still set in 'attack mode'.

He peeked around the corner—and stopped. Sherlock was sitting at the table, but he wasn't bent over an experiment or peering into the lens of a microscope. He was staring into space, chin propped on hands, elbows set on tabletop. And the look on his face—he looked so lost, and confused, as if something tragic had happened and he still hadn't figured out how it had come about.

He hadn't noticed John, standing in the shadows, which is how John knew that he was preoccupied with something very concerning.

Sherlock blinked, still staring at a blank expanse of wall, frowning slightly in some terrible sorrow. Then, abruptly, he shoved his chair back and shot from his seat, pacing the kitchen and muttering to himself, fingers tapping, snapping, running through his dark curls.

"Idiot, stupid idiot…" John caught the words and his puzzled expression darkened slightly, thinking Sherlock was talking about him. The next phrase he heard, however, erased that theory and he realized with a start that Sherlock was talking to himself. He heard only snatches, but they sounded worrying. "How could I be so dense?...Gotta do something…idiot…moron…what to do…"

What had Sherlock so upset?

"Got to talk to him…yes…apologize?...No…yes…I have to…I wonder if he's cold…"

Then John realized he was talking about him.

"Didn't even take a jacket…death'll be my fault…should text him…but…apologize? How…?"

With a frustrated, agonized sigh, Sherlock collapsed into his chair, letting his head drop into his hands and clutching at his hair. He looked so distraught that John couldn't take it anymore. He knocked lightly on the door. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock jumped up as if jolted. "John!"

John reflected again on the fight—and this time, felt no anger. He knew now that Sherlock hadn't meant it, was just as bothered by it as John was. Now he smiled comfortingly and stepped forward, extending a hand. "Look, I think an apology's in order…"


AN: So, this is part one. Five times Sherlock didn't know John was watching, and one time he made sure of it. You'll notice I forsook the capitalization this time.

Now, these next couple chapters, I'll warn you, aren't connected chronologically. It's a 5:1. It's just five instances in their lives where a particular type of scenario took place. In the second part, they might seem a bit more connected. However, overall, this whole piece will tell one long story. :) Their story.

Here's to the hope that y'all will enjoy!