A/N: Hello everybody! :) A new instalment, just for you! Hooray! Any who, I am deeply sorry if there are any mistakes here, I was correcting this in a half conscious state, so I might have possibly missed some things. I don't think I have... but you know, sleep deprivation, it does stuff to you. :P

ENJOY! :D

"A husband?" Sally asked in disbelief, "He hasn't even got any friends, and now suddenly he's married, and to a man?"

"He said that he was married before we knew him," Lestrade countered.

"Blood hell, who ever want to marry that freak? I mean what kind of person… He must be just as loony. I bet he's just like him. If he even exists. Where is he? I mean, if he is real, why haven't we ever seen him?"

"Apparently he's in that army." Lestrade shrugged.

"Ha, figures," Sally snorted.

"What?"

"Well, of course, now that makes a bit more sense. Some people join the army to serve their country, some do it to honor their families, some do it to just feel that they are doing something for the world, and some do it for their own psychotic, selfish reasons. What kind of person do you think the freak's tied down?"

"Oh, come on Sally, don't be so harsh," Lestrade said, he was getting tired of this constant banter.

Sally ignored him. "What did you say his name was again?"

"John."

"John? That is an easily made up name, don't you think?" Sally questioned, waggling her eyebrows suggestively.

"Even if that was true, this is Sherlock we are talking about. He wouldn't do something so obvious."

"Or would he? Maybe he's just trying to trick us by being simple!"

"Now you're just being ridiculous." Sally huffed indignantly. "Anyway, why would he lie about being married, for god's sakes? Also, he did have a ring…"

"Oh, come off it, he could have easily have bought any old ring, or stolen one. You don't know. Also, he was wearing it around his neck, which is a supposedly good excuse for why we never saw it, which means we don't even have proof that it was there before! I say that as long as we can't see this John fellow, he isn't real. Sherlock is just making it all up. He has to be. I mean really, him married?"

{***}

Now it had been a few months since Sherlock had slipped up and the Yard had found out about John. At first there were many sneers and jokes shared around, for no one really believed he existed, which Sherlock really should have expected, and he ignored them, but in reality it hurt. It hurt more than whenever they called him freak or psychopath, because now they weren't just taunting him, which he was used to, they were making fun of John, which was not acceptable. John was exactly what people like them looked for in a person, honest, kind, brave, level-headed, handsome, funny, and now they taking John away from him, claiming he was not real, the one good thing he had to be proud of: his brave soldier. Rumors and shared mockeries had died down since then though, but he could still feel the speculations, so, excluding the first time, he never mentioned John's name again, not to any of the Yard.

John was due to come home in one month, just one more month. Then he and John would have two blissful weeks together, and Sherlock would not take any cases. He would spend everyone moment with John, if it was only to just watch him make tea and sleep. His heart clenched in anticipation every time he thought of it, but no matter how excited he was for John's return, he knew it would be short lasting. The weeks would pass by too quickly and then John would leave him again, and then he'd have to wait an entire year before John returned again. The mere thought made him want to crawl up in John's bed and sweater again, and just lay there for hours, something he had refrained from doing since the first time, because no matter how much it might feel better in the moment, it only made him miss his lover more.

In the next month of waiting, Sherlock continued to act as normal as possible, quickly and efficiently solving cases and never speaking of John. Lestrade of course never asked after the first time, and pretended as well as he could that it had never happened, bless him. Of course it was blindingly obvious what he was thinking though. Two days before John was set to arrive, Sherlock went to inform Lestrade that he would be on a two-week leave of absence, and that no one was to disturb him, not even for a level 10 case.

"Not even then, do you understand? And no checking up on me either," Sherlock clarified.

"Uh, yeah, okay, but why are you…" Lestrade's eyes dropped to Sherlock's fingers that were unconsciously twisting something that was underneath his shirt, through the fabric. Sherlock, realising what he was doing, suddenly stopped and gave Lestrade a very cold look.

"Oh, shut up," He snarled.

"I didn't say anything," Lestrade protested, putting his hands up in defense.

"Good bye, Lestrade," he said frostily, sharply turning away, "Oh, and if you even contact me, I will tell the whole Yard about your old gambling addiction," he threatened lowly, so that only Lestrade could hear, as he walked away.

"Jesus," Lestrade muttered under his breath, as he watched Sherlock brisk away, trench coat billowing after him and all. That man was a strange one.

{***}

Sherlock spent the rest of that day and the next, anxiously tidying up and removing body parts and various experiments from the eating area in anticipation of John's visit, but he only made a larger mess, trying to set everything out. 'Things always get worse before they get better', Sherlock repeatedly thought to himself. It was a ridiculous and inaccurate quote in many ways, but it was comforting, and in this particular case, was true. Sherlock did not sleep, of course, so he worked through the night, and was finished by around eleven o'clock in the morning. The flat was a clean as it was going to get.

There was still twenty-one hours and nineteen minutes of waiting to go. Every second felt like a minute, time dragging out at an impossibly long pace. It was utterly infuriating. He couldn't take; he just couldn't take the waiting. No case, no John, for god's sakes he couldn't even shoot at the wall (Mrs. Hudson had very explicitly forbade it). Then an idea struck him. It was granted not a brilliant idea, but it was better than this accursed waiting. People normally would sleep at times like this would they not? It would pass the time more quickly, even if by just a few hours.

Sherlock did not like sleeping, it was not something that came easily to him, which irked him because normally things did, excluding social skills, but that was a choice. The act of sleeping itself was not boring, as it was impossible to be bored in an unconscious state, but it was the falling asleep that always got him. It was ridiculous; you just had to lie there, doing nothing, it was dull, utterly dull, but if you tried to make it interesting you would just not fall asleep. It was so difficult to just turn his mind off too, to calm down his thoughts enough to just go to sleep. His mind constantly raced, all the time, it was not something he could simply turn off. But if it meant that he could possibly not need to wait as long for John, he might as well try.

He stopped pacing, which he hadn't realised he was doing until then, and followed in the direction where his room was. He stripped down to his pants and grabbed a tattered nightgown from his closet, pulling it onto his thin body. His bed was already in shambles, as he never bothered to make it, John used to do that. Grabbing a random edge of the duvet, he climbed onto the mattress and pulled it over him. The pillow that his head rest on was not right; it did feel right. He shuffled around, disturbing his otherwise comfortable positioning, trying to fix the pillow beneath him. He fluffed it, punched it, turned it over, but it just wouldn't cooperate with him. This was starting to annoy him. He spun over, hitting the pillow and placing in various places under his head, neck, even chin. This is why he did not like sleeping. Everything was wrong. Everything was just wrong. What was it the blankets? Where they too rough? Too soft? Was it the bed itself? He just didn't understand. He knew what it was, he just did not like to think of it. He knew exactly what was wrong, or more like exactly what was missing. The lack of heat radiating from neighboring body, the dip of the mattress, the rise and fall of another's chest; it all felt empty with out it. He could feel his absence as keenly as he would his presence, like he could hear the loud silence he left behind him. There was no soft snore, or low muttering in dreaming next to him.

After scrambling about for a while longer, Sherlock finally gave up and just stayed still, comfortable be damned. He stayed that way for a long time, trying to lull himself into oblivion. It wasn't working. For the second time that day, he gave up. He threw the bed covers off of him, and quickly exited the room. He spent the next few hours passively aggressively playing the violin.

Fifteen hours and thirty-six minutes. Just fifteen hours and thirty-six minutes more.

A/N: I am terribly sorry, but you'll just have to wait a little longer for the meeting, won't you. ;) mwahahahaha!

I hope that all you people found that reading my story was a pleasurable experience, and I would like to thank you all for you overwhelming amount of support! Ahhhh, I love you guys, my little happy nuggets (yes, yes I did just call you a nugget, but only in an endearing way, and in no way offensive). Of course, overwhelming, in a positive way... No need to, uh, stop. ;)

Until next time :)