A/N: Omg why do you guys read this rubbish? I don't even. What has become of my little one-shot? Well this had taken a turn. I guess I'll continue it for a while... I hope you like it.

Warnings: There will be some making out, a little undressing, but nothing major will happen obviously since this is rated T. Anyways on with the chapter.

Unsent

Chapter Three

The door opened slowly, not moving hardly an inch more than it had to. John pushed the door open the rest of the way, revealing Sherlock now sitting against the wall, hugging his knees and hiding his face. Faint whispers fell over them, closer, they begged, you must be closer. John didn't find much need to stand, instead he crawled forwards, his lips parted, ready to speak. The words died on his lips. What was he to say?

Sherlock was tense. He could feel John's presence nearing him and it made his skin crawl. He wanted nothing more than to disappear, and if that were scientifically possible, Sherlock would be sure to have found the way. He felt a hand on his wrist. Pull him close, something in him beseeched. Run away, another part screamed.

"Sherlock?" John found words. "Look at me."

Sherlock held his knees tighter. He knew he looked pathetic. He hated himself for crying at times like these, but it was inevitable. His toes curled, his shoulders tensed, he made himself even smaller as if he could shrink through the wall.

The hand on his own burned like the scorching sun as it held tighter. He couldn't decide if it was a good or a bad burn.

"Look at me," John demanded.

Sherlock knew he couldn't evade John forever. He gave a shuddering breath and slowly lifted his head, forcing his eyes to John's so not to see his own face in the mirror. He didn't want to know how pathetic he looked, broken over something that could never be. It was illogical, and Sherlock Holmes was never illogical.

He regretted it the moment he showed his face, but he couldn't hide himself once John had seen. There was something in John's eyes he didn't quite recognize. Sherlock's eyes wavered, lowering slowly to the tiles on the floor when he was pushed backwards.

His eyes flashed up, shocked and searching for an answer. There was something over him—John was over him— with his face mashed up to his, his lips on his. He tasted of tea and bitterness, smelled of evergreen cologne. His lips were chapped and rough against his own . They were John's lips.

Sherlock's face heated up, his arms searching for something to anchor him but finding nothing. He was too shocked to kiss back, instead just receiving as John towered over him criminally. His eyes were wide. John's were slightly closed, his hands fisted in Sherlock's shirt.

"How can you look at me like that?" John said breathlessly, "How can you look at me like that and not expect me to bloody kiss you?"

Sherlock's body shuddered. "L-Like what?" he asked hoarsely.

"Like I just ran over your dog with a truck," John said bluntly, adding, "Twice."

Sherlock felt John's lips moving again and he pressed back timidly, inexperienced. "I don't have a dog," he said dumbly.

John's laughter shook his body.

Sherlock was a quick learner. He kissed back harder, yet uncertainty was still woven between them. Time was frozen in the room, and it was only he and John in the entire world, and they were content. Bliss and only bliss was coursing through their veins.

Sherlock felt John's hands start to unclench from his shirt. He's pulling away, he realized with a heart that sunk lower than the Titanic.

But he did not pull away.

His fingers fumbled with the top button of Sherlock's shirt.

Oh.

His heart hammered louder and he opened his mouth to try to speak. John's tongue poked in inside. Oh my God, was Sherlock's only thought. He made a small sound akin to a moan but more like a squeak. He felt John's fingers moving faster, the last button gone.

"John," Sherlock mumbled, his voice building up slowly. "John, stop."

Sherlock's hand pushed at the older man, but he seemed lost in a daze. He shivered from the cold morning air hitting his chest. His chest. The hand slid—

"Stop, John," he said louder, pushing him away.

John blinked dumbly, awakening again. His pupils were blown wide, hazed with lust. He refocused again, seeing Sherlock looking rather disheveled, lips swollen and partially undressed. He did that. His eyes fell on his chest.

What?

Sherlock caught his gaze and quickly held his shirt back together, pulling his knees up again.

"Sherlock, what's on—Was that a scar?" John's voice peaked with disbelief. He'd seen Sherlock shirtless before, being flatmates with him, and he'd never seen anything like that.

"It's nothing," Sherlock mumbled. His eyes flickered to the door and window. Escape routes.

"You had a scar running from your shoulder through the middle of your bloody chest," John raised his voice. "I just saw it, now let me see it again."

"You just saw it, why would you want to see it again?"

John narrowed his eyes. "I'm a doctor, just let me examine it."

"I've already been treated, doctor," Sherlock said sharply.

"I don't care. Who knows how many rubbish doctors there are? Let me see it."

"No!" Sherlock shouted, pulling his legs closer. "It makes me look… weak," he added softly.

John sucked in a small handful of air. Why do his eyes always look so sad now? "It isn't weak," John argued. He rested a hand on Sherlock's arm. "Please," he asked his wordless question again.

It wasn't immediate, but Sherlock eventually lowered his legs. He looked down at himself in apparent self-loathing. But it was for John. If anyone else on the planet had asked, he would never had made himself look so weak. But this was John. He would count each of the stars for John. They shined for him anyways. He shrugged his shirt off.

John gasped softly and moved closer, running his fingers over his chest. There wasn't one, there were more. The largest seemed to divide his chest diagonally, fewer other incisions scattered around and two gunshot wounds—both flesh wounds. There were burn scars on his sides. One part of his stitches were ripped at the very top, near his shoulder. John narrowed his eyes.

"You said 'almost'," John said softly.

He did that.

"You were angry, John," Sherlock said tiredly. "You had every right to be."

"I didn't have the right to hurt you like this," John sounded angry. Was it at Sherlock or at himself, Sherlock couldn't tell.

"You had no qualms with a bloody nose, but suddenly you see me so weak and you pity me. I don't care if you kicked me when I was down. I deserved it."

When put like that, it only made John feel worse.

"Why did you do all of this?" John ran his thumb over the ripped stitch.

Sherlock didn't answer at first. If it hadn't been proven with Adler, it was definitely proven after The Fall. Caring is definitely a disadvantage. Then how could it feel so right?

"As cliché as it sounds," Sherlock said quietly, "It was for you."

John made a face. "How could this all be for me?!" he yelled. What had he ever done to Sherlock to make this happen?

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. He tried John's tactic.

"Do you remember when I was on the rooftop?"

Unlike Sherlock, John responded with a nod.

"Do you remember how Moriarty was up there, too?"

John's gaze snapped up. "What?"

"Do you remember how he used the only weakness I ever had, or will have for that matter, against me?"

John was quiet.

"He threatened to kill you if I didn't jump," Sherlock swallowed. "You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. If I made contact, he may have killed you. I couldn't risk it."

Sherlock paused again, but John knew he wasn't finished after a moment, Sherlock took in a shuddering breath.

"I was meant to spend the rest of my life away," he admitted. "I was supposed to stay dead… You would have moved on and had a happy life some way or another, which I realize now is with Mary," Sherlock paused again. "But I got selfish."

A longer pause, as if Sherlock was debating whether or not to say the words.

"I wanted you. A life with you. So I had to do the only thing I could to insure you were going to be safe and that I could see you again. I had to destroy Moriarty's network," he gave a short, humorless laugh. "And that's how all this happened."

"Sherlock…" John started, but Sherlock wasn't finished.

"There was only you that ever stopped me from giving up. Each time… I felt like screaming… I thought of you. And somehow it made the pain less."

Sherlock felt John's arms holding him, tighter than before. His breath tickled his neck like flowers brushing against his skin.

"You blasted idiot," John choked on the words, "How could you…" the words soon found their graves.

Sherlock answered simply again: "You."