AN: aaaaand...second chapter so soon to thank everyone who have read it and appreciated it. I promise that all this mess is leading somewhere, but I can't promise I know the "where" at all. All I have to say about this chapter is that I highly sympathize with John. Highly. As always: read and review, every word is kindly appreciated by me. They warm my heart :)

All the rights to BBC, you know.

Two o'clock p.m.

Exactly five hours since Sherlock had left the flat and two hours since John Watson had discovered the letters. The door opened with a bang and Sherlock appeared in the room. John noticed he was sweating under his black curls, like he had run for a long time.

"Hello, John. Where were you this morning? I had a very interesting case. You would've liked it."

John stared at the detective for a while, trying to process what he had just said. He was dazzled and sensed the anger growing stronger. So he really didn't notice him in the end. Oh God, he was so going to kill him sooner or later. Although sooner seemed a far better option.

"I was HERE, Sherlock. On the chair. Drinking my tea. Didn't you see?"

Sherlock blinked twice, and looked up to the ceiling as he was trying to remember something.

"Oh yes.", he finally said "Now I remember you."

"Have you just said that you didn't remember me being HERE?", John still purposely underlined the word "here".

"I might have noticed you, yes."

"Don't twist my words, Sherlock! Why have you forgotten I was HERE?"

But Sherlock didn't answer the question at all. He just seemed to mumble something to himself, and, after a minute of silence, he completely changed the subject of the conversation .

"Have you cleaned the rooms again, John?", asked the detective in a neutral, but annoyed tone.

The doctor snorted. Why was he still living with that impossible man? By discovering the letters, he had even thought Sherlock was trying to be nice with him! What a fool he had been! Now, in front of his eyes, he had just simply admitted he had almost forgotten about John living there. And now, again, he had simply changed the subject. He was totally going to kill him.

"Yes.", he finally answered in a rough voice "But how is that more important than you forgetting me? My presence in the room? Me making your breakfast before you bolted off?"

"It was a very interesting case, John. Too interesting. I didn't have the time to notice…"

"That I was here?"

"Yes, John. But the case was totally worth it. A girl disappeared leaving apparently no trace, then three days later her cousin went missing too, and one day later she reappears with his cousin clothes on, no sign of him, though. It was so obvious that the two were secret lovers and tried to escape together, but somehow that night while she was asleep, the cousin disappeared and someone stole her clothes, so she had to wear her cousin's ones. The cousin had obviously been taken and killed by his father who couldn't accept such love, because he also had a crush for the young girl. And Lestrade couldn't see it! It took me only four hours to solve it, while he had had the case open for three weeks. Why don't people observe?"

"Like you.", John remarked, still angry for the whole matter.

"What?"

"I mean, Sherlock, since your high functioning brain seems to miss the obvious…LIKE YOU DIDN'T OBSERVE THAT I WAS HERE, this morning. In my goddamn chair, Sherlock!", that came out louder than he thought.

"I've already stated that it was a very intriguing case."

John waited at least for a sorry, but it didn't come out from the detective's mouth. It never did. Why would it change now? For those useless letter he had previously found? The reason why Sherlock couldn't finish them was, he eventually understood, that he had never wanted to thank him for his contribution. Probably someone (was it Mycroft or Greg? The latter seemed more appropriate) told Sherlock that he should show some gratitude or respect to John, so he had tried to write it down, only to discover that he couldn't even find the right words to express such absent feelings. No, Sherlock wouldn't thank him for anything, in the slightest.

"Can't we just forget about that, John?", the detective concluded.

John didn't agree at all with that conclusion, but he had no more strength for answering in a civil manner. He just shrugged his shoulders, knowing that probably it would happen again and by that time Sherlock wouldn't get away with it so easily, even if it had to be the last thing doctor Watson would have done in his life.

Now the detective went to the kitchen and stopped in front of the table.

"John! I told you a hundred times to not touch my lab equipment!", he shouted.

"It needed to be cleaned! This flat would be a proper dump if it weren't for me and Mrs. Hudson!"

"I could do it by myself. Now it's a complete mess, don't you see?"

John barely gave a glance at the matter, instead he insisted on reading the newspaper. He started hearing some sort of noises from the kitchen behind him, followed by snorting, grunting, grumbling and other unrecognizable mutterings.

One hour later Sherlock was apparently done, because the noises ceased all of a sudden.

"I need to take a shower.", sentenced the detective, rushing to the bathroom.

The water started flowing seconds later, and the scent of his shower gel filled the room. John had to admit he liked it. It was a white musk scented one with a hint of pineapple, which gave it a rather exotic flavour. He closed his eyes, meditating on the events of the day. He had been left alone, had cleaned the rooms, discovered the letters and quarrelled with Sherlock. That was a rather unusual day even for him. He had seldom been angry at Sherlock like he had been one hour before. The point was that he felt betrayed in some way he couldn't even precisely explain. Every case was him and Sherlock. He had saved his life before. But there was a lot of that man that remained a mystery to the eyes of John Watson. At last, but not at least, the letters. Those were still bugging the doctor. And Sherlock was about to go into his room.

The water flow stopped twenty minutes later. He heard Sherlock's steps on the floor to his room. He waited, almost holding his breath, but letting a little giggle escape his mouth. He couldn't hide he was nervous. Would Sherlock notice that he had read them? He had no doubt about that, but what would the man do after the discovery, that was another question. He imagined him noticing that John had touched them, read them. He imagined him remembering that he was going to write them to thank John for his job. He imagined him coming back to the living room and saying he was sorry for that morning; saying that he, John Watson, was very useful during his cases and that he, Sherlock Holmes, sometimes was an asshole. No, Sherlock would never refer to himself as an asshole. But whatever the term used, John would have been completely pleased anyway.

Some seconds later, Sherlock walked in the living room.

"John?"

John raised an eyebrow and looked at the man in his bathrobe.

"Yes?"

"You have cleaned my bedroom, too.", it wasn't a question.

"Sure.", John answered nevertheless.

There was something in Sherlock that wasn't right. His eyes seemed to express no emotion and his voice was cold. It looked like he was staring at some criminal, not at his perhaps-friend John. John felt it in his guts. The man also seemed to tremble under his white towel. Drops of water were falling on the floor, but Sherlock stood silent, still eyes fixed on the doctor.

"May I ask you to leave this room, this flat, John?", he asked politely, but with a tone that seemed to cut flesh.

"Sorry, what?", John was confused.

"GET OUT OF THIS FUCKING ROOM RIGHT NOW!", the taller man indicated the door.

John didn't understand what was happening. He was completely at loss. Was it about the letters? But he didn't do anything wrong. Yes, he had read them, but they had no real content, so why that rage outburst? He stood up from the armchair, put down the newspaper and looked at his flatmate.

"Sherlock, whatever it…", he tried to speak.

"OUT - OF - THIS - ROOM!", the other shouted louder.

John was only able to walk in a state similar to trance outside the flat. He turned to Sherlock as soon as he was out of the threshold and stared at him for what seemed a century. Sherlock eyes were burning with rage, and at the same time he could feel the cold emanating from them. He suddenly glanced down, not able to bear the sight anymore. The door slammed right in front of his eyes, almost hitting his nose. He heard the detective moving quickly away from it and also slamming his bedroom door.

Mrs. Hudson peered out from her flat, a bit worried about "her two boys", as she called them.

"What's happening, John? I heard Sherlock shouting. Are you two having a little domestic?"

John didn't know what to answer.

"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he managed to mutter "I think it's no time for such a question."

And he went upstairs. Angry, puzzled, perplexed and with the strange feeling he really did something terribly wrong, even if he couldn't guess what.