When John wakes up in the morning, he feels terrible. His eyes are gritty and raw, his limbs are trembling, just barely, and he's cold, so cold, even though he can feel the sun peeking in through his window, landing on his face, burning into his closed lids. He can't bring himself to move, to get up, to face the day. His mind is racing, trying to separate sleep-infused reality from his nightmares, and it's too much. Far too much for one person, he thinks.

He pushes his eyes open. It reminds him of the first time a commanding officer told him to do push-ups, makes him long for military training, where all he had to do was follow orders. For a moment, John lets himself be distracted by the army. Memories are enough to keep his mind occupied, to keep him from the screaming symphony of what did I do oh god what did I do and firmly rooted in the past. While John is usually very much in charge of his mind as a rule, today seems to be the exception. His thoughts slip back to cookie-cutter thrusts, timed to perfection, to the groan against his neck and the timbre of Sherlock's voice as he told him to sleep.

It hurts. It's a raw, bloody feeling in his chest that makes him curl up in a ball and stare at the wall blankly. He doesn't cry again, though he wants to. He's not some teenage girl bemoaning the loss of her virginity - he's a grown man, and knows he should act like one. It's not like it's the first time he's ever had sex, or sex with a man. It's not, and John is smart enough to know that sex doesn't always have to mean something, no matter how much he wishes it does.

There are things John knows he needs to think about - his feelings for Sherlock (and god, just thinking that makes him feel like a teenage girl) - right at the top of that list. He knows he needs to think, needs to pull himself together and be logical, to rationalize and think, but he can't force himself to do anything other than stare unseeingly for a few more minutes at the ceiling.


When John finally gets up, he gathers his clothes and makes a beeline for the bathroom. If nothing else, the hot water of a nice bath will help soothe his tense muscles, and with one problem down, maybe the others won't look so large and imposing.

The flat is quiet, and John counts his blessings. Sherlock is probably out doing god-knows-what, and John is glad because he cannot deal with him right now. The thought of seeing Sherlock, of having those jewel-bright eyes staring at him and seeing, makes him shudder, and he slips into the bathroom and locks the door behind him. The mirror above the sink shows him his reflection; blue eyes dull, face haggard. John tries to muster up some good old-fashioned anger at himself. "Watson, pull yourself together, or else!" He tells himself sternly, fixing his face into a grim mask in an attempt to bully himself.

It doesn't work, and his face falls back into it's previous expression quickly. John sighs, quietly, and runs his bathwater.


He's sitting in his chair by the fireplace, curled into himself with a blanket wrapped around his body, reading a medical journal, when Sherlock comes home. The man is a dramatic whirl of color and the scent of chemicals and warmth and something vaguely cinnamon follows him in. John tenses, sure that Sherlock is going to mention the night before, to say something, but he doesn't. John takes in his face - he looks excited, his eyes glittering with anticipation, and that can only mean one thing: there's a case.

John feels relief flooding him before he can stop it, because he knows Sherlock well enough to know that he won't be bothered with emotions when there's a madman to be chasing. So John lets himself relax, and thinks, okay, this is alright, I can do this, I can forget -

But of course, like always, it's Sherlock that derails his train of thought. This time though, it's with a simple proclamation that confuses him for many reasons, the mention of the elder Holmes not being one of them.

"John, I've accepted a case from Mycroft. Pack your bags - we're going to America!"


A/N: Wow, I suck, don't I? I make you wait a ridiculous amount of time for an update, and then when I finally deliver, it's barely long enough to constitute a chapter. You people have every right to hate me. In my own defense, I wanted to get something out, and I've been doing some research to help me formulate the case for the boys (which is going to involve some blatant copy-catting of existent criminals and mash-ups of a few of the famous ones) and I wanted to have that completely thought out before I wrote more. So, I give you this... thing. Honestly, I'm terrible at angst. I just want John to be happy, little BAMF soldier that he is. ):

Thank you for all of the subscriptions - I love all readers, even the silent ones... (Hint, Hint). If you have any ideas for the case, please leave them in a review! And have a good day. :)