This is a collection of Sherlock drabbles that I felt were too angsty to include as part of my 'Day by day' drabble set. The second and third ficlets are about the same thing, just from different points of view. I hope you enjoy them. Love Rose.

He'll leave you one day. They always do. No one ever stays for you, just for you. They stay because they need your mind. None of them care for you. Lestrade, using you to save his own skin. Mycroft, using you save his own precious time and energy. Alone. Forever. Always. Lonely. Why would anyone care about someone like you? Arrogant, rude, sarcastic, smug. You play the part well, oh yes, a marvellous actor. Could be a professional. Sociopath, freak, morbid. Labels that have been sewn on, incorrectly, because you play the part so well. Why let people who hate you see into your very heart, when all it leads to is hopeless despair, being ignored or mocked. Vulnerable. Unsure. Bullied. You can dish it back, with confidence and ease, but it still hurts deep down beneath the mask. It's so easy to pretend not to care, not to feel, when there is no reason for either. Until now. But he'll go. No one ever stays, because no one ever gets close enough to be let in. Except him. And that will be why he goes. He'll get too close, you'll shut down, he'll lose interests as you drown in your own pity, sorrow, misery, and fear. Alone forever, living a lie. The dead never judge. Neither do those desperate for help of any kind. There is no emotion needed in scientific endevours, just intelligence, speed of mind. That is why you find it so exciting, why you thrive on it. It makes you feel alive, makes you forget how dead you feel on the inside. Except he does that too now. Every smile, warming from the inside out. Strength, happiness, comfort, all radiate from him whenever you are near. He completes you. Which is why you will be devestated when he finally leaves you, just like everyone else.

_
A single tear rolled down Sherlock's cheek.
"Sherlock, are you okay?"
John watched, concerned, as his friend slowly raised his head, eyes clouded with tears.
"I'm fine John. I'm fine."

He's finally gone. No coming back. You've really done it this time. Another one, driven away. Another one, hurt by your fear. Why do you always do this? What does it achieve? Always having to prove your smarter. Your faster. Your stronger. Everything is a competition because second just isn't good enough. Why? Why isn't second good enough? Mycroft is always going to be the smarter one, so why can't John be sometimes? Why did you always have to comb through every little thing he said? Analysing every last detail. Nothing left to rest. How does he put up with you? No. How did he put up with you? You shouldn't have said it. You didn't even mean it. You just saw vulnerability, weakness, and you panicked. How could you lie to his face, and tell him that you don't love him? Why do you torture yourself like this?

Sherlock let his head drop into his hands, as tears splashed down his face. He wasn't supposed to cry. Crying was an expression of emotions Sherlock insisted he didn't have. Only one person had ever seen him cry, and that was when he was a little boy. Mycroft had always been there to comfort him when he needed it. But now Mycroft was busy and Sherlock was an adult. The childhood bullies who had been the cause of all his trust issues now had grown up and moved on. But Sherlock was stuck in that same boylike state, afraid to get close to anyone because it meant you might get hurt. John had been the first person to have broken through any of the defenses that Sherlock had put up, and there were a lot of them. Now Sherlock was alone, with no one there to comfort him, because the only person who knew that Sherlock ever needed comforting had just been driven away. Just another self inflicted wound on Sherlock's part.

A shadow passed over Sherlock's face, bringing him out of his trance-like state. Looking up, Sherlock saw a silhouette, a vision in the doorway. It was a familiar shadow. Sherlock knew those shoulders, recognised that stance. Surely he was dreaming, seeing things, hallucinating. But the vision stayed. He had come back. With complete abandon, Sherlock threw himself at the man in the doorway, drawing him into the tightest embrace he could manage.
"I thought I'd lost you this time. I…I can't lose you John. I…I need you."
Silence.
"John. I love you."
"I know Sherlock. I know. That's why I came back."

What have I done? The phrase was repeating itself, an endless loop of regret and misery playing through John's head. It had been another fight between them. They had been becoming more frequent the closer to Sherlock he had more John knew about Sherlock Holmes, the less the other man wanted to share. John had seen him at his best and he had seen him at his worst. Today was one of those worse times. All John had wanted to hear was that Sherlock cared, truly cared for him. But yet again, Sherlock had shut down emotionally, becoming cold, distant and unresponsive. The final straw had been when he had asked if any tiny part of Sherlock might actually love John, and the answer had been no. John had left shouting abuse, leaving only silence behind. Sherlock hadn't even cried out to stop him from going. That was how John had found himself, head in hands, sitting in the gutter of Baker Street. People were staring at him as they passed, but he didn't care. There was only one person in the entire world that matter to John right now, and he was sitting on the sofa of 221B. A hot prickling feeling at the corners of his eyes told John that he was on the verge of tears. He didn't bother to try and hold them back. As each drop of water splashed on to the ashphalt below, John felt as though a part of him was slowly draining away. He only wanted to hear, just once, that Sherlock truly cared. He had to go back. It didn't matter that his parting words had been that he was never going to return. John could just feel that it was the right thing to do. He couldn't explain why, or how, he just knew.

Standing in the doorway of the living room, John was greeted by the sight of his friend in tears. He looked so thoroughly miserable that if there had been any doubt in John's mind as to the true depth of Sherlock's feelings for him, it would have instantly vanished. Slowly, Sherlock raised his head, staring as though in disbelief. John realised that Sherlock had honestly believed that John had walked out on him, permanently. Suddenly, Sherlock had leaped off the sofa and thrown his arms around him so tightly that John struggled to breathe. Loosening his grip, Sherlock continued to hold John close to him as he choked out the words that John had longed to hear.
"I thought I'd lost you this time. I…I can't lose you John. I…I need you."
Then, finally:
"John. I love you."
John smiled, his eyes swimming with tears again.
"I know Sherlock. I know. That's why I came back."

Blood. There was so much blood. It was everywhere. A thin, sticky film of red that coated the floor where he lay. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to be untouchable. No one was supposed to be able to get to him.

Time seemed to slow down to a standstill as Sherlock's brain ran overtime. Listen for breathing. None. Check for pulse. Cannot be found. Test for responses. Nothing. No, no, no, no, no. This couldn't be. Sherlock's whole world shattered, everything jumbling about in swirling mess of colour and pain until he collapsed sideways into the pool of blood. He was gone. His brother, his protector, his teacher. Gone. Leaving Sherlock alone. His lip began to quiver, as he reached out a blood soaked hand to softly stroke affectionately at his older brothers hair. "But you promised you'd never leave me." Tear drops slowly began to work their way down the younger man's cheek, before succombing to gravity and falling to the floor, intermingling with the blood. Gently, Sherlock drew his brother in close, arm draped lovingly over his torso, embracing death. It was then that he began to truly cry, heaving sobs that shook his entire body. This wasn't how it was supposed to end. It was never supposed to be like this.

Sherlock woke up in a cold sweat, pulse racing, and breathing heavy. He could feel himself shaking uncontrollably, the pillow he had been clutching in his sleep lying to his side. Gradually, as he became more certain of his surroundings, Sherlock began to relax. It was just a dream, none of it was real. Nothing, except for the dried tears that were now streaked down his face.