Thanks for the positive comments guys, this is my second story so I'm honored that you want me to continue so… back to the angst.

Ps. Jas, there will be milk buying soon, I promise.

Chapter 2

The phone in my pocket goes off. It won't be him so I don't look at it. I'm really not sure I ever want to look at it again as I am going to have to start quelling my 'Sherlock' based phone anticipation at some point. My phone will have to go back to being silent, like the desert I was in before I met him. I think that getting something to eat would be a good starting point when my phone goes again. I relent this time.

2 new messages

-Can you tell my dear brother to answer my calls- Microft Holmes-

-Are you with Sherlock? I can't get hold of him. Need some advice. New case. –Lestrade-

And so the real world awaits it seems. I'm going to have to deal with whatever the fall out of this is sooner or later so it may as well be now. I turn and start back towards the flat. As I walk I can only picture him, how he felt on my skin and how he looked in the dim light of his room. It feels like an age ago already, but as I shut my eyes I could recall everything about him, how he smelt and how his hair was still damp from the river. I hope he'd managed to clean the wound on his head already and feel guilty that my attention had been diverted when I should have been patching him up. Was I a bad person? Did I take advantage of him? I couldn't answer any of my own questions, but the thought of him pushing me away after last night was almost unbearable and made me nauseous. I'm sure he wouldn't require me any longer, It had probably been some sort of experiment and I'd rather leave on my own accord than experience that from the one man I had ever found myself drawn to in this way. I turn the corner into Baker Street and inwardly groan as I see a panda car parked up and Lestrade hammering on the door. He turns and looks relieved.

"Ah, at last," he shouts. "Can you let me in? I need to ask him some questions."

"It's not really a good time." I sigh.

I put the key in the door and dread having an audience for the first time I see those eyes after last night and knowing Sherlock, he wouldn't let company hinder anything he had to say.

"Oh for Christ's sake. Who let you in? Because I know Sherlock wouldn't have." I start, as I walk into the living room to find Mycroft Holmes sat in my chair.

"My brother, John. Where is he exactly?"

I feel the pressure of two pairs of eyes staring at me, waiting for a response and I busy myself with putting my keys on the side and shuffling papers on the table. Why can't they just leave him alone. They're always after a piece of him; his brother, Lestrade, the whole of Scotland Yard. All they can do is take. They are both awaiting an answer and I feel suffocated.

"He's not here, obviously. Why don't you please, both of you just leave and, when I see him, I'll...I'll tell him. Okay?"

Lestrade looks a little taken aback, takes a second to clocks the broken glass from last night and frowns.

"What happened here?"

I'm silent. I don't think I can even begin to talk of last night, not even the parts leading up to it without falling apart myself. I believe that Mycroft senses there being no point in an interrogation and stands to leave. He knows, somehow he knows and I don't want to dwell on how.

"My brother barely leaves the flat when there is no case John, we all know that. So please contact me when he returns to you. He has after all, Left his house keys ." He gestures to the keys on the fireplace where Sherlock threw them last night then walks towards the door and fixes me with that smug stare of his, "and you may want to tidy, John. The bedroom's a terrible state."

Lestrade is of course oblivious to the accusation, for which I am truly thankful. He sighs.

"Fine, Okay John, please get him to call me when he gets back, the clock is ticking on this one."

Where the hell is he then? I spend the next 15 minutes with the TV turned up, doing as Mycroft suggested. I have never been able to cope with silence unless Sherlock is sat on the sofa or bent over the kitchen table poking and prodding at something he shouldn't be. The TV only ever goes on when I'm worried he'll notice me watching him, which of course he undoubtedly has. He probably could see this all from that first meeting, and knew it would end like this. The flat is a bit of a mess, I 'd most definitely neglected what Sherlock referred to as 'my duties' in the last 24 hours. I'd been having a 'sort out' before I had chased him out of the flat, leaving piles of books and clothes on the sofa and so I went to my room to get down my army rucksack to shove them in. I may as well walk to the charity shop whilst waiting for the world to end. He'd been annoyed at my taking up 'paper-spreading space' until I had told him that it was so he could have more room for some of his case stuff. He'd looked at me in surprise and I could feel his eyes on me whilst he put the kettle on himself, for what was probably the first time ever. I had smiled to myself in recognition of his actions and I could feel that he was smiling too.

As I reached over to the fireplace to pick up a pile of the books to be removed, I knocked the skull and notice the corner of something now revealed from underneath. I find myself looking over my shoulder in a cartoon like fashion as I was forbidden to touch the skull on Sherlock's orders. As I pick it up, It's secrets fall to the floor. It is a collection of small newspaper photos of Sherlock and myself. The top one is from 5 months ago and we're just visible behind Lestrade. I'm handing Sherlock a bottle of water and I instantly remember the gesture as it had been so hot and I had been worried he would pass out. I stare at them for what feels like hours and then jump out of my skin as the door buzzer goes.