Chapter Rating: PG-13

Summary Plot: After the incident at the pool, John Watson begins to feel uncomfortable of how he currently stands with Sherlock Holmes. No longer wanting to remain the 'loyal pet', he takes a stand and confronts the sociopath. Meanwhile, Moriarty's plans are back in motion and Sherlock has to take him down quick, but he's finding progress to be proven difficult as he begins to unwillingly succumb to his connection with John.
Comments: Hey guys. This is a combined fic between (LJ) eyesofsociopath as Sherlock, and (LJ) idkhowtodothis as John. I'm not sure if this will be any good as the format might be confusing. It lacks the transition since I'm too lazy to edit haha.

But either way, there is a very long plot to this and we spent several months on it already. So if you would spare the time, please enjoy : )

*P.S: Please excuse the mistakes!

Chapter 3 - Confession

It started raining. The light tapping of the droplets on the misty window panes and the rumble of a distant thunder had a certain calm effect within Baker Street. Sherlock sat comfortably on the living room sofa. The room was dimming down as it approached late evening, and the faint sunset glow of the lamp beside him was the only source of light. He hadn't moved from his spot since afternoon which was a surprising feat considering his recent habits.

The silence within the house was long missed now that Sherlock wasn't terrorising the furniture. For a few times, Mrs Hudson had even summed up enough bravery to pop in for a little check up in his living room- as if thinking there had been something wrong that would induce this sudden peace. And as she stepped in, what brilliant sight that greeted her couldn't make her any more relieved.

It was as if the scene was brought out of a story book. The classic image as the detective sat slouched over, with elbows resting on his knees and hands pressed to his lips. There was faint crease on his brow, and his quicksilver eyes darkened as he delved into deep concentration.

Sherlock Holmes was back. And it was time to work.

It was almost as if the room was buzzing with the unnamed energy that radiated from his mind, the piercing clarity of his thoughts powerful and precise. He missed this. He missed mind work. This was what he lived for. And he couldn't be any happier saying that.

The clock struck seven, complimented with the faint rusty chime. It was then when Sherlock finally tore his eyes away for the first time in hours, and having to re-adjust to the change of lighting. He could go on so long without realising the time, and his muscles were stiff from sitting still.

John should be back soon, and if he didn't come back within the next half hour Sherlock will sure text him. After all, it was almost time for tea, and he was bloody thirsty.


Work at the office was okay sometimes and dreadful at others. He loved being a doctor but this was hardly like any of the action he saw in Afghanistan. Back there, he felt like he had a purpose- because he did. He had to deliver quick and efficient services or else people died. Here, he was treating people with made-up colds or people who were addicted to painkillers.

Granted, there were the people who honestly did need a bit of help, and he was more than happy to serve them. But they were just a small handful in the sea of all the others.

John did get a bit of a break when it came lunchtime. Sarah snuck into his office and locked the door. He barely was able to get through half his sandwich before she was in his lap, snogging him. And how could he resist? He cared deeply for her and this was certainly a nice surprise. They had barely gotten to groping when lunch break was over and John had to stuff his food down his mouth in order to finish it before the next patient.

Once six rolled around, John clocked out for the day, kissed Sarah good-bye, and then made his way down the road back to 221B Baker Street. He stopped on the way to pick up a dozen doughnuts, figuring it had been a while since he brought sweets home.

He went to the flat, surprised to see a calm Sherlock sitting on the sofa, looking involved in something. What it was, he didn't know- and either way, it was nice to see Sherlock up and running again. "Productive day?"

The moment he heard the front door rattle, Sherlock had immediately seized all of the stolen documents on the table and stowed them under the sofa. As the doctor walked in he simply passed him a glance, the innocent contemplative look in his eyes were nothing but deceiving.

John hadn't known anything about his progress yet. He wasn't too sure if he wanted to tell him, despite that debate they had weeks ago, he still found himself reluctant to bring him in. It was childish, he knew, but it was too late now. He had already done most of the action after breaking into the Government building twice, and it was mostly brain work from now on. So even if he wanted his flatmate involved... well... there wouldn't be anything for him to do.

A quick study of his flatmate told him as much what he'd been doing that day. A faint scent of a woman's perfume- no doubt he caught a moment with Sarah during lunch break, seeing as that was the only time they had free, and judging by the prompt arrival on his way home with the full bag of doughnuts told him that he did not walk back with her otherwise he would offer her at least one.

"Not really." Sherlock didn't hesitate to lie, pushing the tiny corners of the documents further under the sofa with his foot. "How was work?"
Poor John had no idea that Sherlock was deceiving him and already had a more eventful day than John certainly had. Right now, John was happy enough to find that Sherlock wasn't bored anymore. Not like it should matter to him that much, but it also was a hell of a lot easier to deal with the consulting detective when he had a case he could sink his teeth in to.

He placed the bag of doughnuts on the coffee table and took a seat on the sofa, figuring that Sherlock would help himself if he wanted one. Speaking of wanting one, John pulled out a doughnut with jam filling and began to eat it. He didn't feel like cooking just yet but he needed something to hold him over.

"Well, 'not really' to you means you were up to something decent. Did Lestrade pull you in for a second opinion today?" Maybe the poor guy couldn't last as long as he thought without Sherlock.

John shrugged. "Normal, easy. I don't exactly get to put much of my skills to use there. But it was nice."

Sherlock merely gave the bag of doughnuts a disapproving look as it was placed on the table, though he hadn't said much about it. He liked a bit of sugar in his system, be it from his coffee or his tea. But a hefty snack was too much, and it will bound to slow down his thought process.

He merely shuffled on the sofa as John further questioned him, obviously he was appearing suspicious that he could read past his lie. "Oh, no Lestrade hasn't come back to me, yet. Not that I have time for him anyway." As he said that, he took out his Blackberry from his pocket and flashed a text to John, "This, however, came up. Someone obviously went onto my website and saw that I was open for cases. A petty problem with a disappearing house pet. Usually I wouldn't bother, but it was something to do."

That case was sent to him a week ago, but John didn't need to know that. As long as he didn't suspect Sherlock of gallivanting through the Government buildings without him, it's all fine.

"You should work in the A&E department at the local hospital. I'm sure you'll have more fun there than a clinic."

Okay, so that was a no on the doughnuts. More for him, then. Maybe he'd take some of the leftover to Sarah's next time he went there for dinner or to spend the night. He should probably set something up with her since Sherlock was getting back into his cases and he wasn't sure how long it would be before he'd start getting dragged into their little adventures again. He liked them, though.

John glanced at the telephone screen and nodded. "Well, it certainly is better than nothing," he said, grinning a bit. He didn't suspect the man at all even though he found it a bit peculiar for such a simple case to put him in such an alert mood. Maybe the guy was just so happy to finally have another case.

"I probably would, but their hours are irregular and I have to be on call all the time," he said, shrugging. "I wouldn't be able to help you out if you need a doctor's opinion if I'm stuck at work. Besides... work is the only set time I know I can have with Sarah."

Sherlock had to admit, the thought of John working for the A&E department wasn't too pleasing to him either. John was right, his hours would be irregular and that would mean less time with him. Why he even suggested that at first was beyond him.

And again, going back to Sarah. He couldn't help but to roll his eyes at that. It seemed that John's world revolved around her regardless. Honestly, Sherlock couldn't understand this constant need for attention. What made it so that people attach themselves to another so much? He was just as fun as her, surely.

After a small period of silence, Sherlock finally made a move to get up. He wasn't one for small talk, and seeing as John hadn't had much to say himself, it was time to make his leave. The sofa scrunched under his weight as he slid off, delivering a small performance as he stretched out his stiff back, his arms and straightened down his shirt. He might call it a night for now, and it wasn't like he could freely examine the documents when John was still walking about. Perhaps he'll get back up in a few hours... that way he had the whole night to himself.

"Shower." He said simply as he lazily started his way to the bathroom.

John didn't take any offense at the sudden leave. He just gave a little nod and watched the man as he left. Sherlock was an amazingly brilliant man, but the poor guy never knew how to keep up a conversation. Oh well.

He was going to make pasta, but that involved using the water and Sherlock was in the shower. He didn't feel like making the water too hot or too cold for the guy and end up making him grumpy, so he decided to clean while he waited for Sherlock to finish up. The flat was always a mess no matter how hard he tried, but he was at least able to tame it so it didn't get too out of hand.

He started with the living room, first. He put the doughnuts in the kitchen and then straightened up the rest of the contents on the coffee table- books, pocket watches, pens. He looked on the floor to make sure that there wasn't anything small that he could step on with bare feet and hurt himself and he noticed a few handgun shells he had missed. John got down on his knees to pick it up and accidentally brushed one beneath the couch. He reached under to grab it, but felt his hand hit against a small stack of papers.

Thinking nothing of it, he pulled it out and figured that it might have been some old case that Sherlock didnt' feel like filing away and forgot about. But then he saw the government seal and it was all downhill from there. His heart skipped a beat and he started to feel a bit sick as he continued to read through the documents.

No. No, that bloody bastard. At least before, Sherlock would blatantly tell him to bugger off if he didn't want John's help. Now he was blocking him out entirely even after their conversation to keep that from happening. John began to feel angry and foolish for being so loyal to a man who lied through his teeth at him, used him as his housekeeper, and refused to let him join in on something that he knew kept him sane. His chest felt tight and his left hand began to tremble again.

John stood up and stormed into Sherlock's room to throw the papers down on a random shelf. Fine. If Sherlock wanted to be a selfish bastard, so be it. But the least he could bloody do was keep his case files out of the parts of the flat that they shared. On his way out he brought a hand up to brush away an angry tear that threatened to fall and in his moment of blindness, he accidentally knocked in to a flower pot and it came crashing down onto the floor and the clay shattered and the contents splashed over the floor. At first, he though nothing of it since Sherlock's room was a disaster. But he looked down and found something that enraged him even more. A considerably large stash of heroin, and Sherlock's trusty needle. He didn't even bother to pick the drugs up, but he took the needle and sat down on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

That was it, they were having a talk. No, not a talk. It was John's turn to have his rant and Sherlock damned well better listen. He held the needle in his right hand since he didn't have as much control over his left- damn it- but he'd occasionally lift it to wipe away another tear as he waited for Sherlock to return.

Sherlock relished the feeling as the water gently fell on him. It had been a few days since he last took a shower, he didn't have the time ever since he started on his case.

A thorough scrub down on his body and he felt a lot better, and not long after that tweaking the shower off and stepping back out. Thankfully there hadn't been that much steam so he could easily check the mirror as his combed his matted hair. He didn't quite like the water too hot, usually having it as cool as possible without making it uncomfortable. It was always a case of feeling alert with Sherlock, and a cold shower complimented him spectacularly.

As he slipped on his bathrobes he perked his head up as he heard a distant shatter of clay, but didn't think much of it as it was probably an accident that John dropped a cup or Mrs Hudson knocking over the corridor vase.

By the time he was back out in the corridor, the flat had been relatively quiet. He had expected some noises from the kitchen, surely John couldn't have gone to bed right away? Sherlock naturally went back to the living room to check. The light was still on, and there had been signs where John had scuffled around the carpet to clean up. He called out for him, just to be sure that he won't suddenly appear, then after hearing no response, swooping down and reaching under the sofa.

Then he froze. Where were his documents?

With a swift strong push, Sherlock lifted the end of the sofa so he could scan the floor. He was surethat he left them here... How could they possibly-?

Oh. Sherlock felt his chest tighten. Obviously.

Dropping the sofa back down with a slam, Sherlock was back on his feet and striding fast back to his room. He could tell that John had already been here, the faint smell of that perfume was an evident trail. Without hesitation, he threw open the door and the first thing his eyes landed on was John's face. And then the needle.

It was as if something crashed down on his shoulders. He could feel a sudden dead weight, threatening to pull him to his knees. He was still clutching the door handle, and now starting to feel the abstract tingle from the cool metal on the palm of his hands as he watched with bated breath at what was to come. Oh- and there the documents were, sitting on the shelf. Right. So John found them. Oh... bugger.

"John..." Sherlock could feel his voice croak, he hadn't realised how much he was straining it. He'd never seen him so angry before, so angry that even he couldn't mistaken it. The very air in the room was thick. John had been crying- no... just tearing up. Oh- damn, when did Sherlock ever become a coward to look into someone's eyes? He could glare straight into a psychopath's gaze without breaking, he could look right at a gun point and laugh at it. He could watch as someone died at his feet, and merely care for his own sake. And yet...

Here he was, feeling the heart throb in his chest, and feeling the nauseating feeling as the beatings rose to his throat. This was guilt. He knew now. This had to be, but he couldn't relish the accomplishment that he would usually feel when he first truly understood something. And for once, wishing he never knew what it was.

John tensed when he heard the sofa being pushed about. No doubt, Sherlock was wondering where those bloody papers were. Damn him and his papers. And despite his hurt and anger, there was the grim satisfaction that he (accidentally) managed to catch Sherlock when the man thought he had covered his tracks so well. He hoped that Sherlock was regretting hiding them from him, already. Because John felt like an absolute fool for trusting him so easily.

When he heard the footsteps approaching, he grit his teeth and forced the threatening tears to stop so that, by the time Sherlock entered , he was giving him the most angered look he had given in a long, long time. John was typically a quiet, easygoing and understanding man...but Sherlock crossed the line and he wasn't going to stand for it.

"Don't," he growled when Sherlock said his name. John found himself on his feet and gripping the needle so tightly that his knuckles were white. "Just don't." He felt his throat tighten because he saw that Sherlock was starting to feel whatever guilt a sociopath could have, but he wasn't just going to let it slide.

"I told you not to go behind my back, Sherlock. If you didn't want me around you could have at least said it to my face, rather than leading me on and just lying to me!"

He held up the needle. "And then there's this! You godawful drug addict- you're lucky I'm not calling Lestrade on you." He threw the needle into the garbage with more force than necessary. "Get rid of it, Sherlock. Right now, every last bit."

Sherlock stayed at the door, cold and still, his eyes never leaving John as he stood from his bed. He almost flinched when the needle was thrown down, the loud clang as it hit the bin and ringing in the silence.

After what seemed like hours, he then let out a slow breath to release some of the sick tension in his chest, and slowly slipping his hand off the door handle. It was bad enough that John had uncovered the heroin, but what would be much worse was that if he'd ever found out his cocaine stash. Heroin hardly pleased Sherlock enough, and he only temporarily went on that to calm him down. Yet it was mostly the cocaine he ran on, and as Lestrade remembered clearly at the first day Sherlock had burst into a crime scene, high off his head as he hammered him down with facts and solutions to the case he'd been stuck on for months.

He knew he wasn't going to reveal that if anything, he was more of a coke addict, but it was the same thing either way. John didn't care what Sherlock took, the fact that he's even touching illegal substances seem to infuriate him.

"John." Sherlock tried again after a moment, taking a tentative step forward.

Now came to the other problem. His lying. Yes, Sherlock was a liar. He was a heartless pathological liar when needed to be. He could easily manipulate people with his false acts, his empty words, the fake charming smile enticing his victims. John fell for it, John fell right in. And Sherlock felt bad. Why did he feel bad?

Because John was the only person Sherlock had ever trusted? Because John was truly loyal to him and that Sherlock unfairly deceived him? He knew it was wrong... yet he wanted to protect him. It was selfish, everything he did was selfish. John was being selfish that he should use Sherlock's unnatural life habits to help heal himself of his trauma.

"I didn't want you getting hurt again. And even if I told you, you would still follow me. That's what I'll do if you ever told me you were about to go risk your life." It was true, he was being honest. He was afraid that he would lose John. Such a disgusting vulnerability that was brought to his attention by no other than Jim Moriarty. He had never panicked so much before as he first saw John strapped up in the explosives- his life hanging by a thread. Any wrong move, any mistake Sherlock made...

Unfortunately for Sherlock, John was at wit's end. He wasn't thinking as clearly as usual and whatever came out of the man's mouth wasnt trusted.

"Stop lying to me," he snapped, tensing up. As much as those words would have made him feel better in any other circumstance, it only hurt John more...because he thought this was just another one of Sherlock's twisted manipulations to get John to do what he wanted. Because Sherlock was a heartless, pathological liar and the only reason why he would follow John into danger was just to get a rush.

"Don't talk to me," he growled, knowing that he was starting to get irrational and he'd react poorly to whatever the other said. So to save them both the risk of saying something crippling and venomous, he was going to have some time to cool down.

His limp returned a bit as he made his way to the heroine and picked it up since Sherlock wasn't. "You have no idea how angry I am with you," he grumbled. Once he gathered it all, he stood up. Sherlock was in his way, though. "Move."

There was no chance of Sherlock letting this one go. He was much too stubborn to let John walk off like this. He needed him to understand.

He could see the effects this was having on John, his trembling hand- the psychosomatic limp, it was painful to watch. There was a temptation to kneel down and help him collect the heroin- but seeing what state John was in, it was much of a risk even being in the same room as him now.

Sherlock didn't move as his friend turned to him, no intention on budging one bit. His eyes were firm and reignited with determination. John was planning on leaving him here like this? Not so fast.

"I'm not done talking to you yet." The detective said firmly, his voice low and growing steadily impatient. People did not ignore him. Ever. "John. Listen. Please."

No. He was not in the mood for dealing with this right now. He was more than forgiving and accommodating to Sherlock and after being stabbed in the back, the least Sherlock could do was give him his space. He seemed to like spacing them, anyways, if his excursion was anything to go by.

So yes. Somebody did ignore Sherlock Holmes, and his name was John Watson. It killed him to be so honestly upset with Sherlock but he couldn't stand being in the same room with him right now.

So now Sherlock wanted him to listen? Too late. Maybe another day, but certainly not now. He shot the man a glare. "No," he growled. "I listen to you all the bloody time. Now you listen to me!" He had to raise his left hand and tried to keep it steady as he pointed a finger at him and jabbed his chest. "Get out of my way."

So this is how he wanted to play. John didn't know full well how aggressive Sherlock can be, and he can be so much if he wanted his way. He was losing patience fast, and he wasn't the best man to argue with. It mattered not now how angry John was, because walking away doesn't simply solve the problem, he had to deal with it now.

The moment he felt John's finger on him, he immediately shot his hand up to grab it. Then wasting no time as he pushed him back roughly, flinging him down on the bed and pinning him there with surprising strength from his lean body.

"John. I'm warning you!" He hissed, white knuckle and furrowed brows as his glare drilled deep into the man's eyes.

John, as much as he hated to admit it, was taken by surprise. And it was one of the most ego-crushing things for a soldier to be caught off guard. All too quickly, he found himself pinned down to the bed. His blood boiled and his cheeks went red in frustration. And then survival instincts kicked in.

John was on the short side, but he was a trained soldier and packed a considerable amount of power. He used his legs to force Sherlock's weight off balance and spun so he was the one pinning Sherlock. He had his right hand pinning Sherlock's hands above his head and then his left forearm pressing lightly down on his throat to keep the man from lifting up.

"Shut up!" He was feeling terrible for treating Sherlock like this, already, but he couldn't take being betrayed like this. "I'm stronger than you are! I'm not going to die if I go along with you! And god damn it, you're going to kill yourself with an overdose one day!"

The flip had been so sudden- so unexpected. It never occurred to Sherlock that he had never been on a one-on-one wrestle with John before. True, he was faster than him. Much faster, much more agile. But the soldier was naturally stronger and built for combat. It didn't matter either way. He went up against guys twice his size before and pulled it off, but in those times he wasn't so mindlessly frustrated.

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he was pinned down in return, his arms shaking as they pushed back with the hand holding them down. "Why does it even bother you so much? I'm just your bloody friend!" He could feel his heart racing now, blood rushing to his ears as he glared hot fury at the man above him.

He couldn't understand. No one, no one has ever done this before. Why must it be that John had to be so goddamn difficult! Perhaps he was approaching it the wrong way- if that's so. Then fine. "Fine. Let's do it your way. Yell it all out! I'm listening!" Sherlock snarled, twisting his arms out of John's grip and wrenching it away but making no move to fight back.

Why did it bother him so much? What did it matter if Sherlock overdosed or left him out of his adventures? Sherlock didn't have any obligation to involve him in the first place. And even friends didn't take each other around all the time to do break-ins or keep each other updated when they were about to do something dangerous or incredibly foolish.

And yet, John wanted to be involved in all of that. And when Sherlock finally gave in enough to let John rant and rave and carry on, no words formed. His mind was racing and his throat went painfully dry. No words, just one action.

Before he could think twice about it, he buried his hands in Sherlock's damp, dark hair and kissed him with more emotion than he ever gave Sarah. He pressed himself down on the other, giving in to that impulse to just hold on to him and be close to him and never let go. His heart pounded in his chest and his pulse roared in his ears until he pulled back, immediately realizing the repercussion of his action. He had crossed that line that Sherlock had clearly set their first night out. He let his emotions take over basic logic, and he cheated on Sarah.

And incredibly large wave of guilt washed over him. He was supposed to be helping Sherlock. Trying to prove that he could be a good and useful friend- not some git who wanted to snog him. Suddenly, he couldn't look Sherlock in the eye and he numbly pushed himself away. "That's why," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper before he quickly turned away, headed out the door, and went to his room.

Whatever Sherlock was expecting, whether it was a five hour non-stop angry rant or a slap to the face or even a kick to his groin, nothing, in his thirty four years of his life, could prepare him for the next move.

Sherlock laid still- paralyzed- as something warm, something rough and something sweet swooped down and pressed against his lips. It hadn't been the first time his mind had gone numb with shock- but it was this same man who had done it before, and he did it- he was doing it again. The siege of his brain power could almost be heard as it slowly shut down to a standstill. Sherlock was being kissed, not by anyone, but by the man he had just been wrestling with, just been wrangling a full out debate with knives to their throats.

He couldn't figure out how it managed to come to this. But then, he had never been kissed before. Could kissing be regarded as an aggressive attack? No, that was silly, that was just his dead brain speaking.

Sherlock remained speechless the doctor broke off. His eyes now widened with surprise, but not disappointment or disgust. Rather, he was intrigued, studying John- studying him like a test subject. The taste still lingered in his mouth, the faint sweet tang of the jam, the light bitterness of coffee he had for lunch, some fragrance of some sort- no doubt from Sarah's lipstick.

But it didn't matter what it tasted like- Sherlock had realised, it was the action. The presumable emotion that had meant to be behind it. His mind was clicking again- so what did this really mean? People kiss when they're in love, that he knew. But people also kiss when they lust for another. It was rather stupid to think John had 'loved' Sherlock, and he knew himself that he had experiences with men and women who had wanted him physically before.

The weight that had pinned the detective down had suddenly lifted, and before he knew it, the doctor had already been on his way out the door before Sherlock could even call him back or come to his proper senses.

This... was very interesting.

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