John's POV

John went back upstairs still in his coat and sat down awkwardly in his chair. Ok he knew he had would hit a nerve when he came back empty handed but still… Sherlock never went to get the milk or shopping of any kind, it was a far to dull job to even be contemplated in Sherlock's mind. Did Sherlock even know how to get to the nearest store? Did he know which milk to buy? John shook his head, when Sherlock came back he would make a point of staying out of his way for a while he knew his very presence would irritate the man. John figured should probably look at some patient records in his file it was laborious but it was compulsory. However he stayed in the chair it wasn't until two hours later that he felt sore and cold and realisation dawned on him. Sherlock had not come back.

It wasn't the first time, sometimes the consulting detective would be gone for days and then return aggravating John greatly. He worried about Sherlock though he was unsure why. Sure Sherlock got into every kind of mess possible both legal and illegal but he always got out of it with relative safety.

By ten o' clock John was extremely tired, the cut was starting to sting as the morphine wore off and although he had dealt with far, far worse injuries his bodily state of health was at an all time low. He decided he should go to bed, Sherlock obviously wasn't coming back till later tonight which didn't surprise him, in fact he would have been highly surprised if twenty minutes after he left Sherlock had turned up with the milk. Peeling himself from the chair John headed up towards his room. It was small not much bigger than the room he had occupied before being introduced to the detective, but it was considerably more cosy and comfortable. John smiled as he entered the room, his military training rubbing off in the neatness of where everything was. He didn't even want to consider what bombsite Sherlock inhabited. Shrugging out of his coat he hung it on the door and went to lay on the bed, placing his shoes by the bed. He used to leave them in the wardrobe, then Sherlock started dragging him round London at the most ridiculous hours and he'd learnt to keep his clothes where they quickly accessible.

As John laid down with relative difficulty the cut was really stinging now he thought about where Sherlock was and a worried thought crossed his mind as he drifted off.

"What if he's not coming back?"

Sherlock's POV

In all fairness he tried to get the milk, but naturally by the time he'd reached the store the prospective notion of what he was wasting his precious mental capacity on kicked in and he decided not to bother. He may as well go back to Baker Street and tend to his coagulation of Saliva experiment. But upon rounding into Baker Street, John's failure slipped to the forefront of his consciousness. Idiot! Why couldn't he just think? Sherlock knew he was stupid but still! Pausing outside 221B Sherlock's mind divided unusually into two.

One half thought, "Just go in, ignore him for a bit, he'll get the message but he'll know your safe."

The other said "Why don't you worry him for a while, consider it payment for ruining your life. Remember your work is your life!"

Sherlock knew John both noticed and worried when he was not there, as much as he was a sociopath, Sherlock also recognised displayed emotion. He didn't really care after all what was the point? His welfare was not John's responsibility or concern. But John was starting to grate on him, he would never normally have considered of how his actions would make other people feel, but the previous division confirmed he was starting to. Still he had ignored that side of him up until now, why should he stop.

Turning away from 221B, he walked to a small cut through and stayed there watching the flat as the night drew in. By ten o' clock he knew his body temperature had dropped from 36C to 34C but it was no real cause for concern. Focused still on the main window Sherlock saw a shadow pass from where it had been at 55cm away from the fireplace. Then the light somebody an elderly woman, Mrs Hudson came to window closed the curtains and then turned out the lights as she left. Sherlock waited for another twenty five minutes precisely, then walked across to the front door, slipped silently inside and headed up to his room, mobile in hand.

His mind was formulating a genius but little revenge plot for John.

John's POV

John woke up at five thirty in the morning. It was still dark but in Afghanistan it would have been brilliant sunshine and he would have already been on duty. He laid still for a while yet listening. 221B was silent, not a sound to be heard. John decided not to move around, he didn't want to disturb the rare peace found in his home. Yet he was dying to know if Sherlock had gotten back last night.

He forced himself to wait for another two hours, until he heard Mrs Hudson get up. Then quietly he got up slowly, showered awkwardly and went into the kitchen. He was going to have to drop round Bart's today and get some more morphine from Stamford. Almost impossibly for such a small scratch he was in even more pain than he had been before, but ever the soldier he never let on.

After finding nothing for breakfast but discovering another saliva experiment, John turned his attention to the main room. He looked closely for any disturbance that might have indicated that Sherlock was back, there was none. John resigned himself to the fact that Sherlock had not come home. He was always up early and would have been around the flat now.

He sighed sadly, he should get to Bart's before it became really busy and Stamford became unavailable. Whilst there he decided he may as well ask if there were any jobs available, someone had to pay the third and final notices.

Grabbing his coat from the hook on his door, he ran into Mrs Hudson on his way out.

"Ooh are you off then dear?"

"Yes Mrs Hudson, I erm don't suppose he came back last night did he?" He asked not feeling hopeful.

"No dear, I heard no-one come in after I locked up."

"Oh well I'm sure he'll turn up." John replied to reassure her, she did care for Sherlock no matter how bad a tenant he was.

As he left 221B and hailed a cab, John groaned almost silently. Why did it hurt so much?

Sherlock's POV

Well the initial step had gone smoothly. He knew precisely when John would wake up, get up and leave Baker Street. Forcing himself to be silent until then had been a hardship. As soon as John was gone, he jumped out of his room and took up his Stradivarius. Mid way through playing Palladio, Sherlock was interrupted by a startled Mrs Hudson who had wondered who was upstairs.

"I didn't realised you were back Sherlock, John was asking for you." She scolded him but gently.

"Oh I came back early this morning. Case." Sherlock lied smoothly.

"Well you'd better tell him your back then." Mrs Hudson commented as she left taking the large pile of filthy laundry with her.

Sherlock resumed playing whilst his brain continued thinking.

One half said. "Stop this. Stop it now! Before you really do some damage."

The other said. "You are an utter genius creating this little plan. Why stop now?"

Traditionally Sherlock listened to that half and this was no exception.

Thank you to those who have reviewed and read my story. Your time is much appreciated.