Warnings: Johnlock, but not heavy Johnlock (it's established, but affection only really comes into play at the very end of the entire fanfiction), Unbeta'd, I wrote this because I really wanted to write some deep angst, and I'm not British

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. More notes at the end of Chapter.


It was all because of his damn pride, and he took his anger out on the one person who did not deserve it. He knew he shouldn't have said it. As soon as the words had escaped past his treacherous lips, he instantly wished he could take them back. He would give anything to banish the look of absolute anguish that passed across Sherlock's angular features as he nodded and left the room. John had seriously screwed up, and he has no idea how he was going to fix it.


The day started out relatively normal. John had awoken to ebony curls tickling his nose and a comfortable weight settled along his right side. The blogger smiled and pressed a gentle kiss against the detective's lax forehead. He slowly extracted himself from Sherlock's constricting grasp and made his way to the kitchen to make his usual morning cuppa. He opened the refrigerator, took out the milk, but quickly discovered something odd about the liquid inside the plastic jug—or the solid mass that should have been milk. Somehow, the milk had solidified into a plastic-like substance with the same milky exterior. John angrily threw the milk away and decided to calm down with a nice cup of coffee instead, which would have been fine if there weren't eyeballs in the microwave. John blew out a slow breath to calm himself down. 'No matter,' he thought, 'I'll just make some toast and go up to get dressed.' As John made his way to the breadbox, he checked the empty container only to remember that he had made the last piece of toast yesterday. The blogger's patience, which had long since been exhausted, finally snapped as Sherlock made his way down the stairs, only in their sheet, and over to the couch to bemoan loudly that he was bored.

Just as John was about to say something he would probably regret, Sherlock's phone pinged with an incoming message. One long lanky arm unwound itself from the tangled sheet to bring the phone up to the detective's face. The infuriating man lunged from the couch, dropping the sheet, and ran up the stairs starkers all the while yelling down to John about a new case. Normally, Sherlock's antics would have stopped this infuriated mood, but with all the stress from work, the recent divorce from Mary, finding out that the baby wasn't his, and now being thrown back into Sherlock's insane lifestyle, John was at his breaking point. The blogger gripped the edge of the counter tightly as Sherlock breezed into the kitchen, now fully dressed, and looked into the fridge for the missing milk. He then unhelpfully informed John that they were out and that he would need to go and get some more. He then wanted to know why John wasn't dressed yet.

John slammed the breadbox closed, ignoring Sherlock's raised eyebrow, and stomped up the stairs to get dressed. The doctor, just to spite the detective, slowly put his clothes on and calmed down slightly in the process. When he finally made his way down the stairs, Sherlock had put on his signature coat and scarf and was waiting impatiently by the door, and, as soon as the detective saw the blogger, he was out the door making his way quickly down the stairs to hail the cab. John can't help but huff out an amused laugh, anger momentarily forgotten, as he makes his way down the stairs after his madman of a lover.

When the dynamic duo arrives at the crime scene, they are met with flashing blue and red lights. Sergeant Donovan snarls at Sherlock but begrudgingly lifts the tape for the two men. As soon as Sherlock steps foot into the small room, he effortlessly locates the scene of the crime, which just so happens to be a dimly lit, homely bathroom with beige walls, an earth toned bathmat on the floor, a large tub, a toilet beside the door, and two sinks that take up one side of the room. Lestrade meets the pair and begins debriefing them on the victim, Brian Barkley, but Sherlock tunes him out. Unlike he would normally do, Sherlock forgoes the body in order to walk over to the bathroom counter. There on the counter sits a broken razor with the blade separated from the rest of the debris. On the blade, in a small hole that would connect the screw to the razor, unseen by the rest of the populace there, Sherlock noticed specks of dried blood, which were hastily wiped away to avoid detection.

When his eyes eventually landed on the victim, Sherlock's mind began to formulate deductions based on what he could see and he already knew that the D.I. and his team had come to the wrong conclusion. 'Army man in his mid-to-late 40's, still in seemingly good physical condition, skin slightly off-color with a pinkish hue, recently divorced.' The amateur detective then picks up the deceased man's hand, checks under the man's fingernails, and unbuttons the man's shirt and notices what appears to be almost 200 scars littering the man's ribs and stomach, some old and others fresh. Lastly, he opens the victim's mouth and smells inside.

'Almonds,' he thinks to himself. He quickly leaves that room; with Lestrade following close behind, and discovers an empty wine glass sitting beside Brian's bed. He picks up the glass, holds it up to the light, and on the rim, he sees the faint impression of lips. He again smells the inside of the glass and discovers the same trace of almonds present. When the amateur detective gazes at the room as a whole, he notices things that no one else seems to see. He notices the empty pill bottle that was not supposed to be empty for at least another two weeks, and he noticed the broken bar in the man's closet along with a rope thrown with out care on the floor beside a turned over stool. To others who could not see what Sherlock saw, they would have incorrectly assumed that the man had drowned in the shallow waters, but no, this man willingly drank cyanide poison periodically over the span of one week to kill himself. His next deduction weighs heavy on his chest as the thought: 'Suicidal,' appears before his eyes.

When Sherlock does not instantly begin spouting off deductions as he normally would, Lestrade huffs out an expectant, "Well?" John decides at that moment to wonder into the bedroom, but notices that something seems to be off with the detective. It is almost as Sherlock's entire world has been thrown off balance. The amateur detective began spouting off deductions at a rapid fire, panicked, pace, barely stopping to take a breath, leaving Lestrade reeling. "So, wait a minute…Brian Barkley committed suicide? There was no fowl play?" Something snaps in John at that word. Sherlock notices, as he always does, and scoffs, but somehow it's lacking its usual bite, "Obviously." Silence falls on the room and Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest seemingly lost in thought. Greg mumbled something about getting their statements, but John, feeling more than a bit frightened, exited the room quickly; leaving Greg feeling baffled.

The ebony haired man follows John through the deceased man's house until they reach the kitchen. There, John stops and doubles over trying his best to breathe calmly through the panic. "John? John, what's wrong?" The distressed man only grits his teeth and shakes his head while he says, "Leave off it, Sherlock." The detective's brow furrows and hesitantly asks, "John, please, I can tell from your accelerated breathing, perfuse sweating, and full body trembling that you seem to be in a state of panic. I just don't know what is wrong."

John's misplaced anger, which had accumulated over many months, surges forward suddenly and it momentarily overwhelms him. He slams his fist into the wall, startling Sherlock, and he rounds on the detective, looking him square in the eye as he scornfully says, "You want to know? Really? The great Sherlock Holmes has deemed my mundane emotions as something significant? Don't I feel so special?" Each word that spills out of John's mouth is laced with pure disdain and bitterness. Sherlock opens his mouth to ask yet another question but John cuts him off, "Do you realize how close I was to becoming Brian Barkley? I was miserable for two years after your death, and I wanted to end it all. I had everything prepared. I was planning to go through with it until I met Mary. Mary was wonderful and sweet, and I was in love with her. You came back and everything went to hell. I found out on my fucking wedding day that she was sleeping with another man and the baby is his. I couldn't get over you, and my marriage fell apart because of it, but what do you care, right? Sherlock Bloody Holmes doesn't have or need friends, never mind relationships." Sherlock takes an almost imperceptive step back and stutters out, "John, I-I'm sorry. I thought things were okay. I don't unders—."

"You don't understand? Of course you don't fucking understand. It's because you're a freak! God, Sherlock. What the hell is wrong with you?! You take, and you take, until there is nothing left for you to take and I am left with absolutely nothing! Nothing is ever mine. You think you can do these things, but you can't keep doing them, Sherlock!" Sergeant Donavon, having long since entered before this heated argument took place, looked as if she were a bucket of popcorn away from enjoying a great show. John ignored her in favor of taking a moment to look at the detective. He bitterly laughed at the trace of tears he saw and sarcastically continued with, "Grow the fuck up, Sherlock. Stop the act. I'm not going to continue playing these games. I'm sick and tired of the bullshit. Just piss the fuck off."

By the time John finished his tirade, he was panting and his face was red, but as his dark blue eyes bore into Sherlock's watery, verdigris gaze, a voice in his head screamed at him that, 'Something is wrong.'

As he finally took a closer look at Sherlock, the trace of tears now threatened to spill over, and there was something absolutely wrong about the way the detective held his once proud frame. John's eyes widen at the sight of the man standing a few feet in front of him, his anger now long since forgotten. "Sherlock?" John inquires, but the detective seems to be lost in a world of his own and unable to hear him. When the doctor's mind finally caught up with what he said, he gasped at his own brutality. He took a small step forward and extended his hand to comfort his lover but Sherlock no longer walks forward to meet him halfway. Sally decided to take that moment to cackle out her disturbing glee at seeing the detective crumble. The spell over Sherlock breaks at the sounds and as he blinks, a few tears fall, which he had no intention of wiping away. John catches a small sense of anguish that passes over Sherlock's features as he nods and turns to walk away.

As John once again reaches out to comfort the detective, he briefly makes contact with Sherlock's signature Belstaff coat until the ebony haired man wrenches himself out of John's grasp, and the detective's long legs propel him out the bedroom door and down the stairs at a pace faster than John can keep up with. The guilt he is now feeling nearly sends him toppling to the floor, but he catches his footing at the last moment. John races to the opened window and watches as Sherlock disappears around the corner and out of sight.

The weight of John's outburst finally seems to hit the blogger, and he realizes just how royally he has screwed up.


Notes: Hello! I actually did a little bit of research on Cyanide poisoning. I couldn't include all of it, but what I put was just the basic understanding. Being on a college campus and researching, "How to kill someone with cyanide poisoning" isn't the best idea I've ever had... Fortunately I didn't get in trouble, but my roommate was a little worried about her safety for awhile. It's hard to tell normal people that you are writing gay fanfiction about murder and sadness and it not come off as strange.

Okay, so I know I've been promising a Disney crossover, but this idea was nagging at me for MONTHS. So, I started writing. It was only originally going to be about 1000 words long, but then more and more ideas would appear and I may have gone 6,000+ words over my original idea. This rating most likely will go up. I will add trigger warnings when they are due, but for now, it's just getting started. I wanted to get rid of some of my own demons and I thought, 'What better way than to write them down as my favorite characters!' That was probably not my best idea. I caught some of my own feels when writing this. Another thing, a lot of people left wonderful reviews! I don't know if I should write them on here or just private message (I think I'll go for private messaging. I'm not sure yet).

I, in all honesty, hope you will enjoy this even if there will be some sadness (it's just mostly sadness. I've been mean to these characters). Anyway! I hope you enjoy. If you see any mistakes, they are mine (I have no beta) and if you would, please point them out to me!