The sun finally showed its face at a brisk 9 A.M., a little late for London. The residents of the rainy city, though, moved through the fog as if they were hunters on the trail of fresh prey. John hoped that Sherlock didn't see him as prey.

Surgery was blissfully climatic, no calm in the room. Blood flowed freely from a half-dead man's chest and a woman screamed as her daughter flat lined. It was these conditions that John thrived in, when he could lose himself in the magic of the fire. It was like his shackles were unlocked, and the man soon found himself twitching as the clock clicked down to his leave. He had to go to 221B- not home, no, never home-eventually, right?

His cuts thrummed with sweet pain, mixed in with a drug like feeling of nirvana. The blade called to him just like danger did- a jealous lover with touchy hands a little too eager to please the target. It was sickening yet so captivating at the same time.

The rain greeted him as Sarah's talons left his body and quickly through himself through the downpour, as if the purity of the water would wash away the memories and venom. Nothing, not even the strongest acid or a bullet to the brain stem could wash away Sherlock's wordless betrayal.

Like a dancer who lost herself to the song, John swayed, lifted his head a tad bit and closed his eyes. Oh, if only his flat mate knew- knew the pain that was flushing through his veins, pouring out of the precise cuts that marred his flesh.

He reached the flat with a slick stride, forgetting the limp; oh the razor took care of that better than any chase through blood-soaked alleys. Sherlock was hard at work doing something he deemed worthy of his time, and John whisked past him without a glance.

John was lost in the ecstasy of the pain, blind to Sherlock's worried look. The blood was flowing again, pumping faster and faster as the cuts pulled wider and wider under his sleeves. It licked at his thin paper arm and curled down his fingers. A single drop hit the floor.

Sherlock's arm shot out, and the blood soaked portion of the shirt was warm against the cold man's palm.

"What?" John snapped, snapping his arm back. The pain was gone, now, and the memories came back. John almost cried the dryness of the situation. That man who caused the pain took away his salvation. For what?

"What the bloody Hell do you think you're doing, Sherlock?"

John growled like a wolf, and Sherlock's eyes glowed with hate. They both glared and bore teeth like animals ready to slaughter.

"What happened to your arm?" The taller man asked, hissing and twisting his thin body. Actually, for the first time since their meeting, John's frame was slimmer. Bones peaked through skin, ready to burst through and burry themselves in the ground.

"Hurt myself at work." John snapped, almost smiling at how professional he lied. "You grabbing me isn't helping, now is it?"

Sherlock did not seem amused, but nodded sharply.

"Let me take a look."

"And what? Have you pour acid into my veins instead of alcohol? No thank you, I can take perfectly good care of myself.

"Apparently not." Sherlock huffed and turned around to grab the first aid kit. It was no surprise it was in arms reach, especially with Sherlock as the flat's resident.

"Now roll up your sleeve." Sherlock ordered and turned around with gauze and antibiotics in hand.

John was nowhere to be seen.