Too Close

Out of our many adventures together, there is one that I have, up till now, kept the most secret. It is a story which I shall never publish, but I believe it must be written down, if only for my own happened on a night after a particularity disturbing case.

We had just arrived back to our flat on 221B Baker Street after a tense investigation, which I have previously blogged under the name The Engineer's Hand. It had been an exhausting, and admittedly, somewhat terrifying adventure on my part. I had seen much cruelty and evil, but the incident we had just endured had somehow left a more bitter taste in my mouth than I was used to. It had, readers will recall, ended violently, with Sherlock and I narrowly escaping. To make matters worse—for my nerves and Sherlock's temper—the perpetrators had escaped.

I followed Sherlock up the steep steps to our rooms on trembling legs. Blood covered my trousers and jumper from the unfortunate woman we hadn't been able to save in the murderous Stark's house. She had been pushed into the hydraulic press upon our arrival. Some of the blood, I realized, must also have been from our client, Victor Hatherley, who had arrived to our door the night before, hand severed by some heavy, blunt instrument, an axe, I supposed. Hatherley was alright, but unfortunately those who had done him harm had not yet been brought to justice.

I was beyond tired-out.

As soon as we arrived upstairs, Sherlock collapsed into his usual chair, tucking his feet up under him like a child. I looked down at the state I was in—a little jealous by Sherlock's contrasted clean clothing and sighed. 'I'm just going to get cleaned up.'

'Mmm,' was all Sherlock said in reply. He was staring into space before him, no doubt brooding over his failure to capture the counterfeiters.

When I came back to our sitting room some time later, Sherlock was still in his same position that I had left him.

I sat down, trying to steady the trembling in my hands which I hadn't been able to stop since we'd arrived back. I glanced over to my friend. His sharp features were set in a hard, unhappy line.

'You alright?' I asked after several long moments of silence.

He didn't glance my way. 'Of course, fine.'

He clearly was not.

I stretched out in my chair in an attempt to ease my nerves. 'Well, I know it must irritate you, knowing that they got away.'

He now looked briefly my direction, eyes sliding over me, no doubt taking in every loose thread, every slight wrinkle round my eyes, every slight tremble in my fingers. He didn't share what he saw. 'There isn't a place for a bumbling criminal like Stark to hide. Counterfeiting can always be traced back, if you're clever enough. Lestrade will have them by the end of the month. With my assistance, of course.'

I nodded and tried to shake the noises and images of the night from my head. The part I couldn't come to terms with was that we hadn't arrived in time. The woman who had helped our client escape the first time he had been trapped had been thrown beneath the press as we'd arrived. There had been nothing we could do to save her. Pulling her out had been a horrible job. I couldn't stop thinking about my fiancé, Mary, as I did so. The woman's mangled corpse had been so crushed it was hard to even identify her as human.

Her screams were something I would never forget.

My trembling increased. The previous dump of adrenaline in my system was wreaking havoc on me now. The sound of the press as it lowered rattled through my brain, shoving everything else away. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will the shaking to stop, trying not to see the blood or hear the snapping of bones. Her skull crushing…

I opened my eyes, feeling ill. I couldn't handle it. Sherlock, across from me, was completely impassive but I was not as blessed as him in that aspect. I was about to have a nervous breakdown. It was a horrible prospect to go to pieces in front of my calm friend, and I debated locking myself in my room, else I completely have a panic attack.

'I need a drink,' I managed to gasp.

I shakily pushed myself from my chair and made my way towards the cluttered kitchen. I could feel Sherlock's sharp eyes follow me with disinterest as I moved across the room. Embarrassment coloured my cheeks as I fought to calm down.

This is what lack of sleep, constant running, no food for two days and deathly peril did to me. I would like to say to all humans. All humans except Sherlock Holmes.

I checked the cupboards in desperation for some sort of a glass. I needed a whiskey. Or brandy. Anything alcohol would do. I was extremely disappointment with the results of my search.

'W—where are all our glasses?' I asked, trying to keep my voice as calm as possible.

'Oh,' Sherlock said, slightly distracted. 'They melted.'

I clenched my teeth in frustration. 'They—ugh, never mind…'

I turned round and cast about the room. Again, the grinding and screams echoed through my mind. I ran a hand over my face with a curse, wondering for the hundredth time what I'd gotten myself into by meeting Sherlock Holmes.

I needed a drink.

Now.

And that's when I spotted it.

On our cluttered kitchen table, so full of test tubes brimming with liquids, equipment, formulas and various other unseemly items, was one small glass tumbler at the very centre, fairly clean, and not a victim of Sherlock's violent experiments.

Unfortunately, getting to the tumbler was going to be a feat in itself. I have stated earlier the state that our kitchen table was in, and trying to manoeuvre through such a maze, considering how greatly my trembles were increasing, wasn't going to be easy.

Again I fought down my irritation with my flatmate as I reached for the glass, grumbling, doing my best to ignore the shaking of my hand or the precariously piled objects around me.

'John, wait!' Sherlock lurched from his lethargic state out of the chair, hand outstretched to me, but the damage was already done. My trembling wrist knocked against one of the many phials cluttering the kitchen table and the contents inside went sloshing out across my hands and onto the floor.

'Argh!' my skin burned as if set on fire. 'Damn it, Sherlock!' Was all I could really come up with. I gripped my wrist, watching in horror as my skin burned away before my eyes. I dashed to the sink and tried to douse the pain under the cool water. It only made it worse.

Sherlock was at my side in an instant. 'Corrosive acid. Water won't help, you'll need treatment, I have a salve which I found in South America which I think will do the trick—' His eyes were gleaming with an almost delighted light. He caught my hand and turned it over to examine.

I yanked my hand away from his, anger flaring. 'I'm a doctor, Sherlock,' I snapped. 'And if it wasn't for you and all your bloody experiments I wouldn't be having this problem now, would I? CORROSIVE ACID, SHERLOCK? WHAT NORMAL PERSON HAS CORROSIVE ACID ON THEIR KITHCEN TABLE?'

The pain was definitely growing worse. And my nerves were clearly shot. I might have, at that point, started to say things which I no longer remember, nor wish to.

'John,' Sherlock gripped my wrist in his surprisingly strong grasp. His voice was just as firm. 'Let me help. You've been a nervous wreck since we arrived back. You are in no mental state for this right now.'

I stared down at his pale hand wrapped around my wrist, just below my burned skin, and then glanced up to his face. Sherlock's cold blue eyes were fixed on me. Sharp and steady and serious. Something about that stare, how close he was, sent a strange, unfamiliar wave of something through me. Something I'd never felt before. Like a jolt of electricity or as if someone had thrown ice-cold water across my face. It took my breath away and the idea of it terrified me. I, distantly, as if it were not my own body, felt one of his long fingers slide across my wrist as he shifted his grip slightly.

Struggling, I came back to myself. To my senses. I told myself to not think about the cool contact of his skin against mine, or look to his sharp, strong features. It was foolish of me and completely alien. I had never experienced such a reaction to his touch. The realization of what was now distantly fluttering at the pit of my stomach terrified me. And he didn't even know. Small mercies, I guess.

I looked back to his eyes with new composure. I knew that look by now. He wasn't going to take no for an answer.

'Fine,' I sighed, defeated. 'Fine, do what you want, just don't turn this into another one of your experiments.'

His eyes shone. 'Wouldn't dream of it. Go and sit down next to my chair in the light. I'll be back.'

I reluctantly did as I was told, feeling in a daze, and sat down across from Sherlock's chair, still painfully aware I hadn't had my drink, just as Sherlock reappeared from his room, glass jar in hand.

He sat across from me in his leather chair, all business, and he swiped up my injured hand once again in his grip. His touch brought me somewhat back to my situation.

'Made from an endangered palm from a small island in the Caribbean. Wasn't exactly easy to come by, supposedly it does wonders for acid-based injuries…'

I no longer heard what he said. My mind drifted in a drunken haze of emotion. Sherlock's voice became a monotone murmur, an undercurrent in my mind as I tried to shake away the pain and nerves of the night. I felt his hands, burned from chemicals and marred from scars, as he, with surprisingly gentle movements, rubbed the salve into my wounds. His close contact was unfamiliar to me. He wasn't exactly a tender, tactile man. Perhaps it was guilt that had spawned this sudden need to make right the events of the evening. At the moment I found I didn't quite care. The insides of my stomach tightened at his touch in a way I found too much like nervous desire for my liking. I found myself dazedly questioning what I was allowing myself to feel. This wasn't me…wasn't my train of thoughts…

My eyes drifted to Sherlock's full, soft lips as he talked. I didn't know what he was saying. Hardly new there, but this time it was different. I couldn't concentrate. It was as if his sudden proximity to me had put me under some sort of spell which I could not shake myself from.

'Well,' Sherlock said, pulling me free from my disjointed thoughts, 'it should be interesting to see how that heals.'

'Thanks, Sherlock…I think…'

I looked up once again into his almost hypnotic eyes. The blue pulled me in, catching my heart to my throat alarmingly. I felt drugged. Sherlock was starting to turn away, his lips parted slightly, perhaps about to say more. Without thinking, all I could concentrate on was the fact I wanted those lips. The soft curve of them. Distantly, I wondered, had he ever kissed someone before?

A wild, uncontrollable panic filled me. The moment was going to slip away. Without thinking, I leant forward and pressed my lips to his, shocked at myself even as I felt the soft contact. I could feel his breath against my face as he exhaled in surprise. My lips lingered over his for a moment, half-frozen in shock at what I'd just done. He didn't respond. I pulled myself away from him, flushing with embarrassment and surprise at my actions. I could not meet his eyes. I wanted to run for cover, lock myself in my room, race back to Mary's flat. Anywhere to get away from that damned, wide, cold stare of his.

Sherlock stared at me for a moment, face a blank canvas. 'John…'

I should write here a quick clarification. I am not gay. I've never been gay, I am married to a wonderful woman named Mary and I have always adamantly denied the accusation that Sherlock and I are a couple. But…there is something about Sherlock that is different than other men. He is…amazing and fantastic and brilliant and something about him is just different. It's not all men that I'm attracted to. Not at all.

It was just him.

'I'm so, so sorry,' I stammered, 'I don't know what came over me, I—'

Sherlock still hadn't moved. He swallowed, throat clicking in the silence that followed. His brows lowered ever so slightly. He seemed to decide something. Perhaps the ending of our partnership. The look on his face felt like a death-knell inside of my head. I had just destroyed everything we had worked so hard to build over the past few years. All in one foolish kiss. Sherlock's head tilted ever-so-slightly as he regarded me.

And then, much to my shock, Sherlock leant in with alarming speed and kissed me back. The contact of him against me sent a rocket of feeling pummelling through my body. It was forceful and clumsy, not exactly unsure, but more inexperienced. It didn't matter, it was more than enough for me.

I was pushed back in my chair by the force of him, our lips exploring each other with an intense curiosity. My nerves were set on fire by his strong touch. This was the man who, just a month ago, I had thought dead. I had buried him. And now here he was, not only alive but…

My breath came faster, my whole body responding to him with growing intensity. I couldn't stop it. I didn't want to. I knotted one of my hands through his dark curls. His lips were moving more confidently now, making my insides pull with a strange breathless sensation. He let out a dangerous growl from somewhere in the back of his throat. I felt his teeth pull against my lower lip, bringing a slight pang of pain somewhere into the swirl of everything else I was experiencing. He pushed himself further up into my chair. It creaked beneath us, protesting.

Distantly I worried about Mrs Hudson walking in. How exactly could this be explained in an appropriate way? It couldn't. This couldn't happen here.

I started to stand as best as I could, which was quite a difficult feat. My head spun dizzily, filled with the scent of him. I was on my feet now but hadn't made much progress. He was pushing me towards the far wall, kissing me with a furious intensity that was staggering.

His long, nimble fingers were suddenly at my shirtfront, working at the buttons.

'Sher—'

I lost my footing. Or he tripped me, I'm not sure which. We hit the leather, much abused sofa hard. The breath left my lungs in a painful gasp on impact. My mouth parted and he pressed himself against me hard, figuring things out with an almost scientific curiosity.

Sherlock was still at work on my shirtfront and making good progress. Tentatively I fumbled with the buttons on the front of his purple shirt. It didn't look like we'd be able to make it to his bedroom. I could only pray no-one would walk in.

For being such a thin, gaunt man, Sherlock had powerful muscles.

Sherlock was through with struggling with buttons and seemed to decide the hell with it. He ripped my shirt open, scattering buttons, pushing it clear of my shoulders—and effectively trapping my arms. I struggled with it a moment before running my hands up over his chest and back into his hair. His knees knocked against mine as he pushed himself further up onto the couch.

His mouth found my neck and he sank his teeth down. I had a dizzy view of our wallpaper and the skull painting on the wall just above his head. My heart thudded with a wild, almost painful beat. I heard two thumps as he kicked his shoes to the floor.

Sherlock's shirt was free now. I wasn't exactly aware of accomplishing that. Perhaps he had. I slid one of my hands down past the top of his trousers, my touch guiding him on.

His hungry intensity, unchecked by previous denial, was growing. Long ago I'd lost control of the situation. Somewhere I accepted that, as frightening of a thought as it was. Thanks to our work, my life was often in his hands…but this was different and I wasn't used to it. As always, Sherlock was in charge now. I was simply along for the ride.

My body was tightening with growing tension, my insides melting into a helpless pool with each move and fierce caress I received.

One of his cool hands slid down my side, growing lower, finding the fly on my trousers…

I don't think I need type the rest about what transpired. Some things should still be left private. But for the next hour, what passed between Sherlock and I was intimate in a violent, unconstrained way unlike anything I had ever experienced. I had never felt such desire or desperation. His touch was enough to send me into trembles. I wouldn't be afraid to say he was beautiful, with the dull light shining off of his bare, pale skin, feeling his touch. The way I reacted to that touch in a way I didn't think possible…

Every slight move I'll remember forever. And never want to forget.

When I finally passed out, I was filled with a strange sense of satisfaction. Something that I'd ignored the entire time I'd known Sherlock. Something that I'd not even recognized to exist had finally been acknowledged. And, deep inside, I was happy it had.

I awoke on the floor, face pressed to the slightly dirty floorboards. My head was tilted sideways so I had a good view under the coffee table. A few empty bullet casing were strewn about amidst crumpled paper.

I sniffed heavily, breathing in dust, and sat up heavily, banging my head on the table mentioned previously. I let out a groan, rubbing my head. I had a pounding headache. Sniffing, I groped for my trousers and pulled them on.

I was alone. Sherlock's door was open and from my position—still on the floor—I couldn't see him inside.

The events of the night flooded back to me in graphic detail.

I groaned. What the hell had I done?

The silence of the flat pressed in on me, an additional weight to my now rising guilty panic. It wasn't possible. I hadn't slept with Sherlock last night. I was engaged to a woman…I wasn't gay, I didn't love Sherlock…did I? I desperately tried to calm down. It didn't much work.

'Sherlock?'

Silence greeted me.

I went to pick up my clothes, which were scattered like my thoughts. My hands trembled.

'SHERLOCK?'

Nothing.

I went to the kitchen, stared at the burn marks from the acid on the floor, and went about making a cup of coffee. I wanted something stronger but felt it wouldn't be appropriate. Not that I'd made very good choices lately, as last night's encounter clearly showed.

There was a ping! from the next room—my phone. I practically flew over towards it and, after some time searching for it, finally found it and pulled it up.

THREE NEW MESSAGES.

I swallowed, fingers trembling, and opened them.

To my disappointment—and my disappointment at my disappointment—they were not from Sherlock. They were from Mary. I read through them distractedly, feeling a weight of guilt begin to grow and fester in the pit of my stomach. She was wondering where I was, why I hadn't come back to her flat last night, was I alright?

I fought down my irritation, no doubt brought on by my guilt, and typed out a quick reply, explaining I'd slept over at Baker Street and that I was fine and that I'd see her that night. Wasn't quite sure about that last one but I figured I'd better at least make some goal for myself to try to get back to what my normal life was supposed to be.

I sighed heavily, standing still in the silence of the flat, struggling with what my next move should be. Sherlock had gone and he'd left no sign to where he was going. That wasn't unusual, but after what we'd just experienced the previous night it made me nervous. Butterflies swarmed my stomach.

After some convincing I managed to clean up and have a quick bite to each. Then I sat down in my chair, staring across as Sherlock's empty one, and tried to work out where he might have gone. I was, of course, nowhere near as good at deductions as Sherlock was. He could be in a million different places.

I frowned. If Sherlock were confused, which he might have been after the encounter we'd had the previous night, if he needed to think (this was, of course, assuming that he was indeed bothered by what had happened last night, as I was) then where would he go?

I could think of only one place.

St Bartholomew's.

'Right.' I jumped out of my chair and made for the door. I was down the stairs and in my haste almost crashed into Mrs Hudson.

'Oh my, look at you dashing off. Going to meet up with Sherlock?'

I stopped and took a deep breath. 'Yes. So he's left, then. Did he say where he was going?'

Mrs Hudson shook her head. 'He was out the door before I was properly up. Sounded like he was in a great hurry.'

I nodded, stomach twisting uncomfortably. 'Thanks, I'll see you later.' I desperately hoped that was true.

I left hurriedly, not wanting to be caught chatting, and caught the first cab I saw. I arrived at the hospital at ten o'clock and tried to not look at the building as I exited the cab. The place turned my stomach ever since Sherlock's stunt. I hurried inside, not wanting to think about that day.

I made it down to the labs as quickly as was socially acceptable and as the lift doors opened I ran straight into Molly Hooper.

'I am so sorry,' I stammered. My distraction was turning me clumsy.

Molly smiled tightly, ponytail swinging. 'Hullo, don't' worry about it. You're looking for Sherlock, aren't you?'

I let out a deep breath and bobbed my head up and down. 'Yes, have you seen him?' I glanced over her head towards the lab doors. I could just make out his form inside, hunched over a microscope. 'Ah, never mind, I do.'

Molly looked to me nervously. She bit her lip. 'Sherlock has demanded that no one disturb him.'

I nodded my head. I'd expected as much. 'He's put you on guard duty, then?' I smile as best I can manage.

Molly blushed. 'N—no. But I wouldn't go in there if I were you. He's in quite a temper. I was just going to get coffee. He…wanted some.'

I stopped her. 'Actually, I'll get it.' I smiled at her again, feeling it come off a bit better than my last attempt.

I couldn't quite tell if Molly was disappointed or relieved.

I went to get coffee, mind whirling. So, he was in a terrible temper, then. My stomach twisted up nervously. The mistake of last night was growing greater, more alive now in my mind. I knew why Sherlock was angry. He was most likely confused…conflicted by what had happened. Much like me…but…Sherlock was different…he didn't…process things the same way. What I felt as an awkward uncomfortable mistake…I could only imagine how he was taking it.

This meeting was not going to be pleasant.

I took a moment to compose myself outside of the lab doors and then pushed inside.

He snarled at me without looking up the second I stepped through the door. 'I don't want to be disturbed!'

I held up the cup of coffee and set it down next to him with perhaps a little more force than necessary, for a small amount sloshed out onto the sterile table. 'Sherlock, we need to talk.'

'No. I'm busy.'

'Sherlock!'

Sherlock whirled on me with the venom of a viper. 'Oh,' he snarled, dark sarcasm flashing in his pale eyes, 'I see what this is about, you all are all the same, something that you consider important happened last night and suddenly you have to talk about it and make it all better, is that it?'

'Sherlock—'

He slammed his fists down on the table, making the coffee mug jump. 'John, when we first met I told you that I consider myself married to my work. I am not looking for attachments or relationships and that still remains true to this day. What happened between us was brought on by strained nerves and exhaustion. If you are going to justify it as anything more than that, or continue to bring it up, then I do not believe that we can continue to work together. NOW PLEASE, leave me alone!'

I froze. His words were a slap across the face. Everything that I'd wanted to say to him, about how it had been a mistake, about how I felt, about the strange new attraction I couldn't ignore as much as I hated it, it was all struck from my mind… We had something now, something I couldn't just shake away like he apparently had. It wasn't just a one night stand to be ignored. I wanted to tell him that what had happened last night had been a mistake, that I didn't want it to go any further, but I didn't want to lose him. But now Sherlock was pushing me away.

I didn't know what to say. Anything, I felt, would be dangerous. He was a landmine just waiting to blow.

Weakly, I cleared my throat. 'I agree.' He was back, staring into that damn microscope of his. No longer paying me any mind. I knew from experience I'd get no more out of him. I turned on my heel and walked shakily for the door. 'I'll be at Mary's tonight.'

He didn't answer.

As the door closed behind me, I couldn't help but feel that it was a rather good symbol to the ending of our relationship.

With a heavy heart, I left Sherlock Holmes behind me.

Two days later, as I left Mary's flat, I had still not seen Sherlock Holmes or heard word from him. He had sent me no texts or contact of any kind, despite my desperate attempts. Still, I thought it was safe to perhaps see him. He had to have cooled down by now and I needed to make amends. We could not part on the note we had. After two days away from him, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I needed Sherlock Holmes in my life. Ignoring what had happened to us, he was still my best friend and quite honestly, the best thing that had happened to me.

I needed to make it right.

I was just about to hail a cab and make my way over to Baker Street when a familiar black car slid up.

Oh, no… I managed to groan.

I knew the drill by now and got inside.

The drive was a silent one and when the black car finally slid to a stop we were in an abandoned warehouse on the far side of London. I got out and wandered the area, wondering what exactly this meeting could be about. Surely not…

Mycroft stepped out of the shadows, looking just as tall and sly as always. 'Ah, John,' he said by way of greeting.

I nodded my head cautiously. 'Mycroft, what's the matter? Why have you brought me here?' I'd learned long ago that it was better to get straight to the point with Mycroft and his brother. They didn't care much for beating about the bush.

Mycroft tilted his head slightly and regarded me for a moment. 'You haven't been to Baker Street in a few days.'

I blanched. 'I don't see what business that is of yours…I was taking some time off—'

'Of course.' Mycroft smiled thinly. 'Do you remember Irene Adler, John?'

The question took me off guard. 'Yes.'

Mycroft began to walk again, slowly circling me. I clenched my teeth in irritation. 'Whatever the press or others wish to say about my little brother, the truth still remains that he is quite an…asset…to this country.'

I nodded. 'I agree.'

Mycroft paused and studied his nails. 'I'm not going to begin to imagine what happened between you two. Something sexual, I'd imagine…'

I bristled. 'Now wait just a minute!' I flushed. How the HELL did Mycroft know all of this?

Mycroft continued as if I'd never spoken. 'My little brother, John, doesn't have much experience when it comes to such things. Sex is not something he has ever really had to deal with. What he's been thrust into now he's having trouble coping with. As unemotional as he is, he's now forced to deal with things now that he is finding hard to come to terms with…'

I swallowed, guilt hammering at my insides once again. I wanted to be sick.

'That is why I bring up Irene Adler. Sherlock is in depression, John, you know how he gets. He is not eating or sleeping…'

'How do you know all of this? Surely he didn't tell you!'

'HE DIDN'T HAVE TO, JOHN!' Mycroft roared.

I looked away, squeezing my eyes shut. 'It was just…just a mistake. I didn't mean for it to go so far. Sherlock just…' I swallowed. 'He told me he didn't think anything of it.'

Mycroft smirked nastily. 'Of course he did.'

I took a deep breath. Was it really true? Surely I couldn't be responsible for sending Sherlock into an emotional state as drastic as that. I didn't think it possible. The idea made my heart punch in my chest a bit harder.

'Well, what do you want from me?'

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. 'Sherlock is important to this country, John, and, even though you have been a great deal of help to him, I see now that you have turned into a distraction. You need to end it.'

'What?'

Mycroft walked closer to me. 'End it. Sherlock cannot be tormented by what he's feeling now any longer. Do not contact him. Do not go to his flat. Forget him. Close down your blog and move in with your fiancé.'

I glowered. 'You can't just tell me to do that…' I had a sneaking suspicion that he could.

'Don't test me,' Mycroft warned. 'If you do truly care about Sherlock, you will do this.'

I straightened, fighting for any solid argument to save me from this sentence. 'Won't ignoring him make it even worse?'

Mycroft's lips twisted. 'He will forget with time. That is one of the blessings of having a mind like his. You not speaking to him will help solidify his temporary confusion back to his regular unemotional state. It is,' he paused, 'for the good of the country.'

'But…' There is so much I wanted to say, I didn't know where to start. 'Sherlock…needs me.' I'm not even sure if that's true. But, after all this time I couldn't think of another explanation for our partnership. It's not like Sherlock Holmes really did need me, but he'd kept me around this long, so he must have, on some deep level, wanted me. Wouldn't my leaving simply…destroy him?

'That was before you decided to turn your relationship on its head by sleeping with him.'

I stared at him, seething. Mycroft wanted me to leave Sherlock Holmes forever. Never speak to him again so Sherlock could what, exactly, push whatever emotions he was feeling now away from him? Forget he had them? By my leaving, Sherlock would be convinced that what we'd shared had, in fact, meant nothing, when that was absolutely not the case. And what about me? I was still fighting with what had happened. Ever since our encounter I hadn't been able to get it from the mind. His touch, the look in his eyes. I squeezed my eyes shut tight and let out a deep breath. Perhaps it was for the better to forget, but not to abandon! After all I'd been through with Holmes, to just leave him now, after I had him back in my life, was pure torture!

And yet, I didn't see any real choice in the matter. I felt trapped. 'Fine. Fine, Mycroft, I'll play your little game, but if he comes to me, I'm not going to ignore him!'

Mycroft turned from me, walking back to the shadows. 'I can assure you, Doctor Watson, that that will not happen.'

I stood alone. The black car humming behind me as it waited. Tears I couldn't stop welled in my eyes. I was overwhelmed by the gravity of my sentence. Banishment from Sherlock Holmes. Forever. I couldn't remember what life like that was. What was I expected to do now?

I stared into space for a moment, fighting with myself, trying to compose my tossing emotions and then I spun on my heel and marched back towards the waiting car and wherever it was going to take me.

I had not seen Sherlock Holmes in two months. He hadn't texted me. If one had not known me before our adventures, one would have thought I'd never known the man.

The separation did not grow any easier with time, as I had hoped it would. If anything, it grew worse. Everything about him grew more poignant in my mind as I thought of him, and I thought of him often. His deductive skills, his strange ways and habits, everything we'd experienced together.

It had all come to one clear conclusion in my mind that I had been reluctant to face: I loved Sherlock Holmes. Loved him in a way I could not explain. My chest ached at the thought of him. He had made my life so meaningful once I'd met him. I'd buried him, and then he'd come back and my whole life had changed and now…now I could never see him again.

I still read of him now and then. The papers would sometimes report of his feats. I kept up with them as much as it hurt. I couldn't forget.

Mary still asked me now and then why I wasn't with him. I was running out of plausible excuses. I couldn't tell her the real reason. Never. It was yet another layer to our whole relationship which left me feeling ill with pain.

One day during my exile, someone rang at the door. Mary came for me, saying it was for me and that they would not leave their vehicle. I went to the door with apprehension. Two men, both looking anxious, watched me from the foot of the stairs.

'Yes?' I asked.

'Doctor Watson, thank god we found you.'

I frowned at them, not recognizing either of them. 'Can I help you, gentlemen?'

'I certainly hope so,' one of the men said. 'We need your help, immediately. Our grandfather is very ill, dying. We need you to come out to our house. It's just out of town.'

I paused. This was hardly the thing I wanted to hear today. 'I'm sorry…I don't normally do house calls. Why haven't you taken him to hospital?'

The men exchanged a look. 'He's too ill to move. Please, Doctor Watson.'

I couldn't ignore their pleading faces. For a moment I wrestled with myself. I sighed. 'Right. Let me just get my things.'

I was back in a moment and climbed into the car after the two men. The car pulled away from the pavement. The doors locked.

'So,' I said slowly, 'what did you say was wrong with your grandfather?'

'Less than what you'll soon be, Doctor Watson,' one of the men said. And then he plunged a needle into my arm and I knew no more.

I awoke in the dark, head swimming. I was immediately aware of the fact I was in trouble. The events which had led up to my capture will still fuzzy, but I knew one thing: where I was now was not pleasant.

'So nice for you to join us, Doctor Watson. I sincerely wish your friend Mr Sherlock Holmes could be here as well to enjoy this.'

I sat up with a struggle. My hands were tied behind my back. 'Who are you?' I shouted.

There was a laugh. 'I'm a little offended that you don't know. You and Holmes ruined my life, after all. Ah, well, it's time I returned the favour. Holmes destroyed my little counterfeiting operation, now it's time I destroyed something he cared for. He'd be disappointed, knowing how easy it was to fool you.'

I sat up straighter. 'Stark!'

'We've set up operations again, Doctor. How do you like my new hydraulic press? It's even better than the one we had before, the one that was destroyed in the fire. This one has twice the crushing power. Would you like to see for yourself?'

Sudden realization of my situation hit me like a sledgehammer. 'No, no! Stark, no!'

There was a loud mechanical noise from above and the ceiling started to lower.

'I think slow and steady will be the best, don't you agree? It'll give you time to appreciate this new machine.'

'NO!'

The ceiling started to lower, faster. I checked the wall behind me, looking for any way of escape. To no avail, it was made of concrete. Sweat poured down my back. I fought back my rising panic, trying to not think about the woman's mangled body I'd pulled from the machine my first time dealing with Stark. I cast about, pushing myself to my feet before I completely ran out of room. There was a door at the far end. Metal, bolted. I made a dash for it and slammed my weight against it.

No good.

I let out a constrained cry of panic as the ceiling brushed against the top of my head. I began to stoop. I turned my back to the door to try and find some opening with my hands. There was no handle of any sort. No way out.

No way out.

I sat down hard, desperately trying to not look at the ceiling. It was halfway down the room now and barrelling steadily closer. I rocked back and kicked at the door again, breath rasping faster and faster. The press was again at the top of my head, straining my neck. I flopped to my back, chest heaving. I kicked at the door, knowing it to be no good. My mind started to turn to morbid thoughts. The press would soon be against my nose. I had to decide now. Would it be best to be crushed to death from the front or back? I would have to choose now. With my face forward I would see it coming…

I was almost out of time. Sweat streamed off my brow, blinding me.

'It's a pity,' Stark said, 'Holmes could not be here for this.'

'Well then you should be happy,' another voice said from outside the chamber. 'Looks as if I've arrived just in time.'

Holmes!

'SHERLOCK!' I screamed. 'GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!'

'All in good time, Watson—'

'NOW!'

There were sounds of a struggle. The press began to push against my nose, straining my neck, about to snap the frontal part of my skull.

And then, suddenly as it came, the pressure released.

The press let out a groan, froze for a moment, and then began to rise.

I pushed myself to my feet once I had the room and pressed myself against the door. It swung open and I stumbled out, gasping and swearing, and came for the first time in two months, face-to-face with Sherlock Holmes.

'Am I—' I sucked in a deep breath, unable to get it back. 'Am I glad to see you!'

Lestrade was there, too, rounding the corner, muttering to himself. He brightened when he saw me. 'Good to see you, John, it's been too long, sorry way to end your holiday!' He laughed amiably and cut my bonds.

Holiday? My mind whirled. People must have used that to explain my absence…had Sherlock told them that?

Behind him, two officers were struggling with Stark. Lestrade turned back to the madman. 'Right, guess I better get this scum out of here.' He shook his head with a disgusted mutter and hauled him from the room after a quick word to Holmes, who was still standing there, staring at me.

Once Lestrade was out of sight I threw my arms around Holmes, shaking uncontrollably. I pulled away almost immediately when he didn't respond. Embarrassment coloured my cheeks but at the moment I didn't really give a damn. I tried to stop my mind from spinning. 'How the hell did you find me?'

Holmes, looking slightly ruffled from my embrace but not as broken as Mycroft had described him, smiled slightly. 'Do you think that just because we've been separated for these two months I haven't kept an eye on you? I knew Stark would be back. He's a madman, after all.'

I smiled, trying to control my shaking. 'Thank you. Just, thank you. Sherlock. I…' I swallowed. I looked back to his sharp, cold gaze. It was agonizingly hypnotic. I was briefly caught in it, hating myself. I had missed him achingly. I could feel that same strange desire wrap itself around my insides and pull them apart. My chest clenched up.

Sherlock glanced away after that, perhaps realizing. 'Well,' he said, distracted. 'We'd better get you back to Mary. No doubt she'll be worried her fiancé did not arrive home.'

'Right…' My heart sank.

The sound of Lestrade's return reached both of us. I struggled to find something to alleviate the new tension in the air between us.

'Well, you didn't catch him by the end of the month, like you'd predicted.' I gave him a wry smile.

He returned it, seeming somewhat relieved. 'I underestimated slightly, but I always get them in the end.'

Lestrade glanced to us, maybe seeing the strange gulf that now separated us. He cleared his throat and turned to address me, 'Right, John, well, I hate to say it, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you down to the station for some questions. Shouldn't take long.'

Sherlock has already drifted away, silently engrossed by something on his phone.

I nodded, broken by Sherlock's distance. 'Of course.' Miserable, hating to part on the awkward terms we were, but unable to think of what to say without making it a million times worse, I thanked Holmes and followed Lestrade from the room. On my way out I cast a glance over my shoulder back to the familiar tall form of my friend. Hollow emotion, mixed with strange relief welled inside of me. He'd come, he'd saved me, and now we were parting yet again. I didn't want to accept this new reality. I did my best to divert any of Lestrade's questions about my absence. The lies were becoming so familiar these days they came easier.

Two hours later I was released and rode back to Mary's flat alone, lost in my thoughts. After my two months I'd been given another brief taste of my old life. As terrifying as it was, I did my best to memorize and store every second that had transpired. Every expression of Sherlock. He'd saved me…even though he hadn't spoken to me in two months he'd still kept an eye on me. He'd still known... It sent my stomach spiralling in confusion.

Somewhere along the way it began to rain.

The cab pulled up to Mary's place and I stepped out from the car into the rain.

Thunder boomed overhead. I hurried to the stairs of Mary's flat.

'John,' someone said suddenly.

I whirled around and watched a hunched figure I hadn't noticed before stand from its sitting position on the stoop next door. It was, I realized with jarring surprise, Sherlock Holmes. 'Wait.' He dropped down the stairs and stepped towards me. He looked slightly bedraggled in the pouring rain.

I swallowed, a rush of emotion hitting me hard. 'What is it, Sherlock?' I glanced back at the flat. Mary was home. A light was on upstairs. I felt terribly awkward. 'Would you like to come in?'

He shook his head. 'What I need to say needs to be said here.'

I wrapped my arms around myself, heart thudding.

'Look, John, things…haven't been the same since you left.'

I nodded. 'I'm glad I'm not the only one feeling that way. I've been damn miserable! You didn't return my texts…Mycroft.'

'Mycroft,' Sherlock clenched his teeth, saying his brother's name like a curse. He gazed back at me. 'John…what I said before. I was wrong. We cannot ignore what happened between us, it happened and now it's part of our history.'

Our history.

Again, all I could do was nod.

'But,' Sherlock continued. 'I do not want that to be a closing of…us. Before you…' The corners of his mouth pulled down. 'What I want to say is, I've had a lot of time to think it over and I know now that I cannot be…happy…without you. We're a team and I want it to stay that way.' He huffed his breath. 'The past three years of separation should have been enough of a clue to tell me that.'

'You…you want me to come back?'

'Yes.' His dark hair hung limply around his face, dripping water.

I took a deep breath, feeling my clothing stick to me wetly. There was still something I had to make clear. Something I had to say. 'I'm still…' I looked out across the street, blinking water from my eyes. Maybe it's tears. In the rain it's hard to tell. 'I still…love you, Sherlock.'

It was his turn to nod. His eyes were strangely compassionate. 'I know.' Thunder booms overheard again. A cab drives by, spraying water. 'But John, what I said before still remains true.' He glanced up at the lit window above us. 'Now, with all in my life, my work, I cannot entertain the idea of a relationship…even if it was something… I regret saying no to.'

I press my lips into a firm line in an attempt to hold back my emotions. I hadn't expected to hear this from him. Ever. His words fill me with strange warmth. I feel hollow but happy upon hearing them. 'I…don't know what to say.'

Sherlock heaved a deep breath. 'John, my feelings for you have to remain as they always have. You have Mary, a wonderful life ahead of you, you have to simply forget. Forget what we shared…even if it's something that I…want. It has to go back to the way it was…before…It's the only way we can make this work…' His words settled inside of me heavily. I couldn't believe them.

His gaze was almost pleading. It ripped through me. Breaking down all of my defences I'd been working so hard to build up over the months. Now it all fell away. I wanted to agree to anything he asked of me. Anything but leaving him. If that meant ignoring my feelings, pretending they didn't exist then I would obey. I would obey because I could not imagine doing anything else. Life with him, even if it meant living a lie, was better than life without him acknowledging the truth.

I looked back at the window to my flat, back to the new lie, the lie I'm going to have to accept. Funny, I don't feel the guilt I should. I feel relief. 'Would you like to come inside for tea?' I asked, dashing a hand through my hair to rid it of the constantly falling water.

Sherlock smiled slightly, a smile that was rare and honest. 'I would be delighted.'

And thus began my new life with Sherlock Holmes. Much the same, on the surface, to most people, as it always had been, but deeper down, in the back of our minds, different. We both knew something of each other now that we hadn't acknowledged before. We both kept it silent, hidden, but it was still there, with ever glance we shared and word we spoke, it was there, and oddly, that was enough.