Disclaimer: Not mine…still.

"Christ," John hissed as he opened his eyes only too quickly squeeze them shut again as the light from the window assaulted them. "What the Hell?"

"Sorry," Sherlock whispered from beside him. "I forgot about the curtains."

"Oh," John sunk back into the pillows. "How'd I get home? I don't remember much after I texted Greg to meet me at The White Stag."

"I came and collected you and brought you home," Sherlock slowly sat up and moved off the bed. John swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. "Would you rather sleep some more or do you want some toast?" Sherlock was being very solicitous this morning and it worried John.

"I…" John swallowed again and then jumped from the bed and rushed to the bathroom to void the contents of his stomach.

"Here," Sherlock passed him a glass of water and two tablets when he'd finished. "Go back to bed. I'll wake you later."

John took the water and the tablets and nodded weakly. He knew that he had something he needed to discuss with Sherlock but at the moment he was too ill to remember what it was.

Lying in their bed ten minutes later he remembered what it was and nearly groaned. He'd proved again exactly how useless he was. Feeling sorrier for himself than he had in his entire life he curled on his side and tried to muffle his tears in Sherlock's pillow.

Sherlock stood outside their bedroom door and listened as John sobbed into the pillows. How was he ever going to fix this colossal mistake?

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John woke that afternoon with a blazing headache and a stuffed up nose. He lay for a few moments simply listening and heard only complete silence in the flat. It didn't surprise him, not now, not after the row, not after all this time of being left behind. Sherlock had gone out, obviously. Sherlock was always going off somewhere without him anymore.

John weighed the merits of just going back to sleep and forgetting everything for a while against the merits of a cup of tea and an empty flat. Sleep nearly won but his stomach was growling in hunger and his bladder was insisting on being emptied, so he forced himself out of the bed and down the small hallway to the bathroom.

He winced at the stab of pain the bathroom light caused in his head but left it on as he took care of his business and shed his clothes with the thought that a hot shower might help the headache.

The shower did help his head but he still didn't know what to do about this situation with Sherlock. He knew he wouldn't leave no matter what and he wondered if that made him a masochist. Sherlock wasn't being malicious and John knew it, had known it from the beginning, from the first time Sherlock had run off and left him behind at the crime scene with the Pink Lady. Still, it hurt so much that Sherlock found him useless and worthless.

John opened the door to the bathroom and let some of the steam escape. He swiped a hand across the mirror with the intention of shaving and winced at the sight that met him. He'd never thought himself handsome but hung over and depressed he looked even worse than normal.

John decided that shaving could wait and that tea was for more important. He was actively not thinking about Sherlock. The other man would be back eventually. Back with his excitement and danger and rush. Back with all the things he was denying John now. John shook his head, he wasn't thinking about that. He could live without all of that but he couldn't survive without Sherlock so he would make the necessary sacrifice to keep his husband.

Still rubbing his hair with a towel to dry it he walked into the kitchen and headed for the tea kettle. There, on the counter to the side, were two steaming mugs and a note with his name.

John,

Come to the roof. Bring the tea.

Sherlock

John felt a stab of irritation. What if he didn't want to go up on the roof? What if he wanted to curl up in his chair and watch telly? But, Sherlock had made tea. Something that he never did. Never. Why had Sherlock made tea?

John pondered the mystery for a moment and took a sip of his tea. It was made just the way he liked it. Not altogether surprising considering who his husband was. Sherlock wasn't one to miss details, especially about John. And yet he'd missed a big one, hadn't he? He'd missed how unhappy John had become.

When John had first come home from the hospital he could understand and even agree with Sherlock's protectiveness. He'd been very weak and still on morphine for the pain. However by the time the Pink Case came around John was better. He'd gained his strength back and was beyond bored with sitting in the flat. But Sherlock hadn't stopped. He'd continued to shield John from everything.

John didn't like to think about what would happen when he gave in and allowed Sherlock to work without him though he couldn't stop himself. If things didn't change the future was bleak indeed. John would sink into obscurity and they would see each other only rarely. And then they'd have the meaningless conversations of two strangers sharing housing. One night, Greg would come and tell him that Sherlock hadn't been quite fast enough, or quite strong enough and John would be as alone physically as he already was mentally.

John's mobile phone beeped the alert for a text as he was truly, seriously contemplating ignoring Sherlock for the first time in his life. He pretended to ignore Sherlock a lot but he was always listening. Always knew where Sherlock was, even when he pointedly turned his head away from his arrogant husband.

Stop moping and come to the roof, John.

-SWH

John's eyebrows rose to his hairline. Sherlock never put the W in his initials. He rarely introduced himself as Sherlock Watson-Holmes either though he made sure everyone knew John was Dr. John Watson-Holmes. Suddenly curious about this aberration he drained his cup of tea and set the mug on the counter then lifted Sherlock's mug and headed for the bedroom and the fire escape to the roof.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"Why the roof, Sherlock?" John asked as soon as his head was above the wall. He knew Sherlock would hear him. The roof wasn't that big.

"Wanted a bit of privacy to talk to you," Sherlock said as he took the mug from John's hand and lead him to a set of patio chairs and a table near the chimney. "Where's your tea?"

"Drank it. Didn't want to chance those rusted stairs with no hands," John told him distractedly. Privacy? This was not going to go well. "The flat isn't private enough?"

Sherlock shook his head, dark curls flying. "Mycroft's got cameras in the flat."

John's felt his eyes widen. "Seriously? Why? And why haven't you removed them yet?"

Sherlock eyed him shrewdly. "They serve a purpose." He said simply. "And my brother isn't why I wanted to talk to you."

John sighed. "Well, out with it then," he swallowed. "Tell me what you wanted. I do need to go find another job today."

Sherlock looked rather startled at that. "What? Why?"

John sighed again and rubbed a hand over his face before leaning forward and propping his chin in his hands and his elbows on the table. "I told you Sarah fired me days ago, Sherlock. Did you delete that?"

"No," Sherlock growled. "I remember that! I meant why do you need a job anyway? It's not like you really need the money. You haven't touched what your parents and Father left you and the money from the army that you sent to me was put directly into your account and I haven't touched it. That's not even counting what I have. You, we have plenty to live on, John."

"Sherlock, that's not why I want to work," John tried to explain. "I like having something to do. I don't take to being bored any better than you do."

Sherlock nodded. "I know." His lips quirked up in a quick grin. "I've seen you bored." His grin faded. "I don't like it when you're in danger, John. I don't think that will ever stop now." He held up a silencing hand when John started to speak. "But it has been pointed out to me that you're in more danger away from me than you ever could be at my side."

John nodded. "True. And so are you, you know?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed. "I will try to stop running off without you." He promised. "I do trust you to have my back. I always have. No amount of time apart or rows is ever going to change that. I simply grew too used to having no one at my back."

John smiled at him and took the hand that was resting on the table in his own. "We shall have to learn the art of compromise."

Sherlock swallowed. "I'm not all that accomplished in art, John. But I'll try."

"Good. Finish your tea. Then we'll go back to the flat and convince Mycroft to remove his cameras."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and stared at John. "How do you intend to do that?" He asked genuinely curious. "Mycroft can be even more stubborn than you."

John grinned, sudden and wicked. "I have my ways."

Sherlock caught on and his own wicked grin spread across his lips. He tossed back the last of his tea and held out a hand to his husband as he stood. "Brilliant."

Twenty minutes later Mycroft turned on the computer monitor that recorded events inside 221B Baker Street and his face turned green. "A!" He called out. "Have the cameras in 221B removed if you would."

"Yes sir." A answered and then switched on her own monitor. She suppressed her snickers at her boss and wished for some popcorn while she enjoyed the show.

A/N: That's the end of "The Consequences", I know it's rather abrupt but seriously how did you expect it to end? They've known each other their whole lives arguments over things like protectiveness aren't ever going to be a serious problem they just needed time to cool down.

I tried to do a long drawn out explanation and resolution bit but Sherlock and John seemed to have other ideas, so this is it. However there is a fourth chapter. The smut. Let me know if you want it posted though I'm going out of town so it will be Wednesday or Thursday before I can post again. Thanks for reading.