Hello there :D

his is my first (proper) Sherlock fic, so please feel free to leave lots of concrit ^.^

I have no beta and it is not brit-pricked, so I apologise in advance for any errors.

Finally, I have not seen season 2 (it hasn't screened in Australia yet), so I also apologise for any errors that may be present because of this.

Enjoy~

'Sherlock Holmes, as brilliant as he is, can't deny that he spends every waking hour fearing that John might leave him. That he might meet some lovely girl one day, and just run off to get married, leaving him all alone. Sherlock had previously assumed that this fear was merely due to the fact that John was an excellent colleague, nothing more.'

He has since learnt that such assumptions are stupid and usually false.

Sherlock had been doubting the correct-ness of his assumption for a while now, but all that doubt certainly came to a head when he, the cold heartless bastard, the freak, took a teary-eyed John Watson into his arms, and told him everything was going to be alright, even if he didn't quite believe it himself.

It was about 7.30 in the morning when John woke to a certain consulting detective poking his face.

'Bloody hell Sherlock! It's 7.30. Don't you ever sleep?' John swatted away Sherlock's hand and sat up.

'I've told you before, I don't sleep, not when there's work to be done.'

'I would really appreciate if you just knocked on the door or something, it would be much more…tolerable than you poking my face with those ridiculously bony fingers of yours.' Sherlock poked his tongue out at John, earning him a grunt as John finally mustered the energy to get out of bed. 'What is it this time?'

'Murder, I should think.' Sherlock was now perched on the end of John's bed, fiddling with his phone, as usual.

'Lestrade didn't tell you?'

'No. He just said that I better come here straight away. It's a bit of a bugger though, all the way in bloody Tring'

'Tring?'

'"A small market town and also a civil parish in the Chiltern Hills in Hertfordshire, England. Situated 30 miles north-west of London." Straight from Wikipedia. '

'Right, Tring, lovely. I'm just going to take a shower, ok?'

'I'll be downstairs. Don't be too long.'

20 minutes later, John Watson emerged from his shower, to find Sherlock pacing impatiently by the door.

'Sherlock?'

'Ah. John. I see you're ready at last.' Sherlock stopped pacing and handed John his coat.

'If you were that desperate, you could've gone by yourself.'

'I prefer to wait for my...partner.'

'Partner?' John cocked an eyebrow.

'You dislike the term?'

'No, it just...' He trailed off.

'Just what?'

'Makes us sound like a couple.'

'Oh.' Sherlock's face fell. 'I shall no longer use it then.'

The 45 minute long cab journey passed almost completely in silence. Sherlock just stared out the window, whilst John wondered about what Sherlock had said earlier. John had tried to make some simple conversation, in an attempt to make up for earlier, but Sherlock was clearly disinterested, so he gave up and went back to thinking.

Many things about Sherlock puzzled John, but this one was one of the most so. As soon as John mentioned a(how could one put this?)…dislike of being labelled as a couple, the detective's face had fallen, and he had been silent ever since. He began to wonder if maybe Sherlock wanted more from their friendship, but John quickly dismissed that thought (or was it a fantasy?). Sherlock Holmes was married to his work. He was most certainly 'off the market'.

'Yes.' John told himself as they stepped out of the cab an onto the dewy grass, 'Sherlock most certainly does not fancy me. Not in a million years.'

Not that John would mind if he did, of course.

The pair exited the taxi, and while John paid the fare, Sherlock took in the surroundings. They were on a small village green, and a large banner, bearing the words 'WELCOME TO TRING FAIR' greeted them. Before Sherlock had a better chance to snoop around, Lestrade came striding up to him and John, who had come to stand next to Sherlock after paying the cabbie.

'Let's walk and talk, shall we?' Lestrade got straight to the point. This was unusual, not even a hello or anything. Sherlock suddenly realised that this case might be slightly more disturbing than he first realised.

'So, um, what's the situation, Greg?' Even John seemed to notice Lestrade's agitated manner.

'Murder. Like something out of a horror film. I was so convinced that nothing like it would happen in real life that I got Anderson to check if the blood was real or not.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It should have been obvious on first glance if the blood was real or not. What an amateur

The trio continued to walk in silence until they reached a small tent, and Lestrade ushered them in. John was about to go in first, but Sherlock pushed ahead of him, feeling quite protective.

'John...you may not want to see this.' Sherlock's voice sounded genuinely distressed. In fact, he was. Sherlock had seen how badly the pool incident had affected John. The last thing he wanted was a repeat.

'Sherlock, I've been in wars. I think I can handle a little bit of...' John's voice trailed off as he took in the scene. It wasn't so much the gore that scared him, to be honest. The decapitated head wearing the creepy mask, the comically oversized teacup filled with blood, all of that was nothing compared to the message on the floor:

Welcome Sherlock, welcome to the tea party.

-Moriarty

Those words took a moment to sink in. Once they did, John couldn't help tearing up. In fact, he was surprised that he didn't completely burst into tears. All those long nights he spent, sitting in the hospital, wondering if Sherlock was going to make it. All those nightmares, that Moriarty somehow wasn't dead, that he would come back and finish Sherlock off, once and for all.

When Sherlock stood there, and saw John cry, it was one of the most scary things he had ever seen. These tears were not the happy tears he saw John cry when he had woken up in the hospital, no, these tears were tears of fear, of pain.

Although he wasn't too good with emotions, even Sherlock knew that right now, John needed a hug. So that's exactly what John got.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around the shorter man, held him close and let him bury his face into the crook of his neck. Sherlock pressed his face into John's short blond hair and they stayed like that for a while. Eventually, Sherlock moved his face so that his chin was resting on the top of John's head, and said, ever so softly, 'John, I promise you, this time I won't let him hurt me. I won't mess around, I wont play his games. I won't let him hurt...I won't let him hurt you.I promise. Besides, I'd be lost without my wonderful blogger, wouldn't I?'

John had once thought that Moriarty died in the blast, that him and Sherlock were safe and they could be happy, dysfunctional flatmates, living in their twisted version of domesticity, he had assumed that Moriarty's game, the great game, was over, and that everything had gone back to normal and that it would always be that way.

It was now abundantly clear that it wasn't.

Especially since his already-massive crush on Sherlock Holmes had just gotten a tiny bit bigger.

Ehehe. Thanks for reading.

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