Pieces chapter 1.
The little voice in his head that had taken to sounding like Mycroft over the last sixteen months, smoothly informed him that he should have waited. It was too early. He should have seen a doctor first.
That was ridiculous.
John was a doctor, therefore, he should see John.
Well, that had worked out just perfectly hadn't it.
He vaguely remembered he had come here to explain. To apologize. Yes, that was it, an apology. That would help. That would stop the noise. What was that noise?
Focus.
John.
It was John. John was yelling at him. John was angry, he should explain, yes, he would do that.
He took a deep breath and remembered that breathing was not only boring, it was also extremely painful.
The apology that he had prepared didn't come out quite as coherent as he had hoped. It coincided with John angrily slamming him into the wall of his flat while uttering things that no doubt came from his army-repertoire.
Actually, it came out as a strangled moan, rather than an apology.
That was odd.
His head hurt. Why did his head hurt. It didn't hurt before. He should do something about that. If only John would let go of his coat. He didn't like being pressed up to the wall. Or shouted at. Or both.
He should try again.
"John."
Nothing, more anger. The anger was expected. He just hadn't expected it to hurt so much.
"Joh-"
He needed to breath, needed space, needed John to stop hurting him, and in a desperate bout of energy he managed to shove the doctor off.
The resulting emptiness was expected. The empty feeling wasn't. Neither was the sudden realization that, although john was hurting him, he was also holding him up, and his legs were not quite prepared to take over this job.
He leaned heavily against the wall, wanted nothing more than to melt into it, away from John's unbelieving stare, the angry huff of breath and the hands that curled up into fists. It wasn't supposed to go like this. He shook his head to clear it, ignoring the way the room seemed to spin slightly: it wasn't over yet.
"John," he stepped away from the wall, John didn't move, breathing hard trough his nose. "John, you need to -"
"Out," John spat. A very much non-trembling hand pointing at the door.
Sherlock blinked. No. No, no this was all wrong. "Listen, John, it's not over, Moran is- it's not safe! You need to listen to me, you need-
A quietly spoken "Out" cut off his ramblings.
John's hands – no longer fists – hung limply at his side. He looked tired. And, sad? Sherlock's gaze flitted trough the hallway trying to deduce, to find a cause, an explanation, anything that would explain why it was going all wrong.
John said "Please leave," so Sherlock did.
AN: And back to writing again! This is a WIP, there will be three parts, sort of chronologic. Enjoy and thanks for reading!
Also disclaimer-wise: I own nothing etc. Well, yes, I own a stuffed toy sheep. Which is totally brilliant. Ta