Chapter Two

It had been weeks since Sherlock's time with Moriarty behind those luxurious closed doors. New cases had come and gone. His heart pounded each time he received a call from Lestrade, hoping for the next clue, but none ever came. Life was beginning to fall back into its monotonous routine. The good doctor went to surgery each day, went on his frivolous dates in the evening. Sherlock criticized each one that was introduced to him. Sherlock wasn't sure why John carried on with these women. John's attraction to his flatmate was more than evident; even if he didn't believe it was. As the days wore on, Sherlock toyed with the idea. He had never considered himself a sexual creature, but what Moriarty had done, that was interesting. Not this. Moving throughout each day.

Even the cases had begun to take on a dull tune. They ranged from sibling rivalry to terrorism, but nothing took that edge off. His thoughts obsessed over Moriarty's game. How brilliant it was, how he was never bored when a new clue was handed to him like a precious jewel. Sherlock noted the signs of addiction. He craved it. Every waking moment, he longed for it. Not only the game, but the reward of solving the mystery. The second he walked into that room the world no longer annoyed him. All of his senses were alert; his mind was actively engaged every instant. Sherlock sighed. Damn this addiction.

All that was left was John. Dear sweet, kind, caring John Watson. The doctor's crush made his cheeks flush whenever Sherlock stared at him for too long or if they brushed against one another. It was kind of cute, really. But Sherlock didn't want cute. He wanted those dark eyes to penetrate him. To have that constant feeling that his life was in danger every second he was in the presence of the man who was making him feel so good. Not comfort, not love. He wanted to be taken, not to be gently cooed to.

Ah, John noticed his intense concentration on him. There go the cheeks. Sherlock was certain his own face did not hide the disappointment his internal dialog had brought on. He almost pitied the man for the feelings that seemed to plague him. Then he thought of his own circumstances and decided pity was not the appropriate word.

More days and nights passed. It was now a month since their rendezvous. Sherlock's self-control was now a long forgotten figment of some insignificant person's imagination. The wall in their sitting room now appeared to be more hole than wall. Mrs. Hudson had to call someone to replace it much to John's bank account's despair. Not only one, but two experiments had gone horribly wrong in the kitchen. One led to an appalling odor that nearly seemed permanently steeped in the construction of the entire room; the second ended with mercury splattered on every surface. John suddenly didn't feel concerned about his retirement plan anymore.

Sherlock had snuck out to take a smoke early one morning when the amount of nicotine patches he scattered on his body was beginning to make him feel ill. The smoke that filled his lungs calmed his frantic mind for the few minutes it lasted. When he realized that he needed another right when the first finished, he quit the idea of taking up cigarettes again. Another addiction was not what his mind needed.

With another possibility struck off his board of potential distractions, Sherlock walked disdainfully back into their flat. He knew he stunk of cigarette smoke, he knew that John would scold him, but his level of care had plummeted. He had been mean to the poor doctor in this last week or so, he knew this as well. Honestly felt bad about it at times. But he was going absolutely mad. Given the taste of paradise only to have it snatched from his mortal hands.

Without even bothering to cover the reek of the smoke, he fell onto the couch in his usual style. As his head hit the pillow, he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. He didn't move to get it. It was Lestrade, he knew it. Lestrade with another case that held no merit for him anymore. Someone killed this someone because the first someone slept with this other someone so that someone needed to die so this someone could feel better about the whole ordeal. Now the thought of it made him nauseous. Why was the world so tedious?

John walked in from his bedroom at some point; the reprimanding began once the smell was identified as tobacco. Sherlock nodded, agreed, suddenly feeling like a husband being told by his wife that everything he thought and did was so obviously wrong. To help the situation move on, Sherlock broke out his phone, hoping to derail this conversation into whatever case Lestrade had texted him about.

Tick tock. –JM

Sherlock froze. John quickly quieted seeing Sherlock's sudden tense stance. "What is it?" he whispered as if the person who had sent the text could hear them. The cloud that had been stalking Sherlock for a month now broke. The world swiftly came into perfect clarity. This was it, this was his clue. Sherlock exhaled the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and felt his chronic despair evaporate with it.

After several moments, Sherlock finally graced John with an answer, all the while trying to mask his internal dubious delight. "The game continues," he breathed.

A/N: And that is all for now! I should have the next chapter up next week. As always, please review!