Part Three:

Jen didn't hang around him at the bar for much longer. They did talk a bit, John growing increasingly more comfortable referring to Sherlock as his boyfriend, and Jen was apparently either sober or drunk enough to give him some good advice. That advice was still ringing in his ear when one of her friends came over to collect her.

Apparently her group was moving on, finding some other place to haunt.

She asked him if he would like to come with them, but he declined.

He had figured something out.

It wasn't a really big thing, but he needed to think it over.

It wasn't even something he'd figured out. Rather he had figured out that he had already figured it out. Like it had always been there, and he'd always been reaching for it, unable to push everything else out of the way to wrap his fingers around it, but now there is was. All it took was a few words from a strange girl in a random bar.

He would not leave Sherlock. Not on this night, nor on any other.

That was the thing.

Why not?

That was the question.

John felt that there was something else there, stuck behind even more layers that he had been somewhat reluctant to look past. But now there was no Jen to supply him with a mass of small epiphanies. And he didn't know if he had the ability to get there himself.

So, John, stick to the basics.

Why not?

He didn't want to leave Sherlock. God, even the thought of leaving felt like a betrayal. Despite everything, he owed Sherlock so much, he didn't know where he would be without the younger man.

He would willingly sacrifice his life for him, even if the instinct was reciprocated. He would happily, well unhappily, continue to play the bait in Sherlock's schemes. He just hoped that Sherlock would always want him to. If John was being honest with himself, and by this time he had consumed enough alcohol to make that a distinct possibility, He didn't want Sherlock to change. For all his ranting and raving about the man, John didn't know what he would do if anything happened to him, changed him in any way.

Sherlock had begun to embody an epitome, in John's mind. A wacky, possibly undeserved title, given the propensity of the man to fill their fridge with heads and their walls with bullets, and John was left feeling increasingly...disposable.

Sherlock could easily find another flatmate. Another blogger, they really were becoming a dime a dozen in today's modern world. Another person to use a bait.

But John would never meet another like Sherlock. He was an amazingly unique individual, who, to John, embodied a dichotomy between order and chaos, between human and perfection.

John didn't want to loose him.

Though lost in thought John had a vague notion that it was getting darker outside. He absent-mindedly checked his watch. It read seventeen past six.

He had reconciled himself to his fate by six thirty. He was going to go home, act like nothing had ever happened. Like nothing had changed. Perhaps nothing would change.

And he would never know why.

There was no possibility of Sherlock bringing up their fight (well, John's fight), since Sherlock didn't do emotional confrontations. Or emotion.

It really did make it harder for John to swallow the guilt he still felt about the insults he hurled at the man, who hadn't so much as batted an eyelid in reaction. Still being honest, John knew that his true motivation was to try to get through to Sherlock on an emotional level. He felt as though they had broken down so many barriers since he had first met the man, but there was one last obstacle that it was impossible to transcend.

He looked down at his glass. It was only his second, so much for drinking his way into oblivion, and it was still half full. Yet he could feel the affect of the alcohol on the edges of his mind and knew that he was being influenced by it. His watch still glared at him. 6:31. he wondered if he should call it a night, and head home.

It took him five more minutes to assure himself that all the answers where not contained in the last few dregs. He places the glass back to the bar and leaned back, intent on freeing himself from the chair, succeeding in getting his coat caught on the back of the chair and nearly taking it down with him.

"Whoa... steady there. Where do you think you're going?" John was most definitely not unstable on his feet, now that he was actually on them, but he noticed that there was no rebuff in the female voice that accosted him. He turned. For the second time in one night, a fairly attractive female was smiling at him.

"Um...I was ah... planning on leaving?" he trailed of on the last word, making it seem like more of a question than the statement he had intended.

"What, so early?" She took a step forward, effectively blocking his chance for an easy exit. John wondered if it would be easier to play the gay card again.

"Look, I-"

"No need to panic, just being friendly." Another step.

"No, really-"

"Let me buy you a drink?"

"Actually, sweetheart, he's with me."

She turned, looking the speaker once over before turning back to John, who gave her a weary smile.

"Suit yourself."

"Lestrade. Ah, thanks for that."

"No problem." John had been too preoccupied to see Greg come in, but he was grateful now for the intervention.

"What about you let me buy you a drink."

"No, I think you should let me do that, after what you just did for me."

Greg shrugged, leaning forward against the bar while John once again took his seat.

They sat in a companionable silence until the barkeep had poured their drinks, John's third, and set them out before them.

"So, what brings you here?"

Greg took a drink before he answered.

"You, actually."

"Me?"

"Yes. It seems you upset a few important people with your disappearing act."

John didn't belong to important people, but Lestrade's evasion of any actual made it clear that either he did not want to dob, or that he truly didn't know exactly what was going on. John knew the feeling.

He settled for what he hoped would be an easier question.

"How did you know where I was. Even I don't really know."

Lestrade turned to him, looking just as lost as John.

"Umbrella guy?"

John suddenly understood. He didn't belong to important people, but Sherlock did. Mycroft.

"Some guys picked me up off the street, took me to some warehouse where Umbrella guy gave me a whole lot of information, I don't think I understood half of it, and then they drove me here and kicked me out."

John so knew the feeling.

"That's Mycroft. Wait a minute, surely you know better than to get into strange cars."

"They said you were in danger." John could see the fierce loyalty in his friend's eyes, and was more glad than ever to be on Lestrade's side.

"Well, you saved me from the only danger when you came in."

"Well, I have to admit, I don't know what I was expecting, but it was a little more dire than an overly flirty female and a few pints."

John chuckled. Mycroft was always one for exaggeration.

"So, why are you here John?"

"I just couldn't stay in the apartment for a minute longer, You know how he gets. All moody and reclusive."

"Not really, but then, I don't live with him. And thank god for that."

"Well, I know. It's just that he comes up with these completely brilliant plans which more often than not involve using me as some form of bait, but he never tells me, and then I just get pretty angry and..."

He trailed off. Now, in retrospect, it all seemed so ridiculously childish, just like Sherlock had said. He frowned back into his glass.

"He does, you know."

"Hmm?" John looked up.

"He cares about you."

"I know, but not-" He broke off again.

"Not what?" Greg prompted.

John continued frowning, trying once more to pull that thought in.

"Not...? Not enough? Not in the way that you care for him?" Greg's words were careful but patient.

That was it.

That thing that he had begun reaching for so long ago and was now in his grasp.

Exactly how much he cared about Sherlock. And it wasn't just in a his-lips-are-so-beautiful-wouldn't-leave-a-mark-an d-my-hypothetical-boyfriend-is-the-hottest-thing-o n-two-legs-sort-of-way. Sure it was all that, in John's epiphany addled alcohol affected state he was allowed to admit that he was very much attracted to his flatmate, but it was more too.

He wanted to see the man happy, truly happy. He wanted the man to experience love and life, and have everything that he could possibly want. He wanted to feel the pulse quicken beneath his fingers, see Sherlock's sharp, knowing eyes glazed over, blind, with lust.

Okay, stop for a moment. There are some things that a good room-mate should not do, and undressing their co-inhabitant with their eyes is one of them. Especially when that co-inhabitant is the asexual Sherlock Holmes. He's pretty sure that any romantic gesture would be completely lost. Sherlock would be able to pick up the physiological signs of an emotional response, but he would be unable to read the intention behind them.

John blanched. Sure this idea was not completely foreign to him, he had flirted with it, trying to grasp it's significance, always retreating when he got too close, but now it seemed like there was no going back.

He was in love with Sherlock, and he was committed to that realisation. No denying it now. Suddenly everything seemed to make sense. His earlier conversation with Jen took on a completely different hue.

Sherlock would know. Sherlock would be able to read the signs, he would know that John was- Oh God- Now he's done it, did he think he had broken things beyond repair before? Because this was worse.

Sherlock would ignore it at first. Perhaps he would suggest that John give himself a once over, or visit another doctor, to make such that he was not falling ill. But, when you've ruled out the impossible, what remains, however improbable, must he the truth. And Sherlock was great at finding the truth. John damned himself and his new realisation. Things would get awkward, Sherlock would retreat now more than ever. Dammit.

John was well aware that he was panicking. It wasn't long before Greg became aware of it too.

"John. Look, was it something that I said?" Lestrade took a moment to replay the last few minutes in his head.

"Oh God, John. Look I'm sorry if I...I didn't mean it. You know me, I'm so...well..."

"No." Lestrade's confused apology served to calm John a little. He wasn't that freaked. Lestrade sent him look that spoke confusion to new bounds.

"What you said, it's true. He doesn't care about me in the same way."

"I know you've always been a little defensive about it. I mean, you denied it to the point where even I..What?" Lestrade stopped at the look on John's face.

"How long have you known? That I...care for Sherlock?" John clarified.

"Ah... let me think. It must have been that case, you know, the only with the pink and everything?"

"Greg, that was my first case."

"Oh. Well then I guess I've always known. Why?"

"Because I just figured it out five minutes ago. "

"Oh...um, right then. Should have let you know sooner?"

"Maybe."

They sat in silence for a while. Then Greg started beeping. John looked at the man as he scrambled to get at his pockets. He took the call, moving just far enough away that he was mostly out of earshot. When he came back, John was still thinking about everything that had just been said. It surprised him how little the questions mattered any more. There was suddenly a simple answer to all of them.

Why did he stay? Because he loved Sherlock.

Why did he fight with him? Because Sherlock didn't feel the same way.

What was he going to do about it? Absolutely nothing. There was nothing that he could do. He was already resigned to his fate, there was nothing that he could do to change it, so he did what he had to. He accepted it.

"I've got to go. There's a situation at the Yard. No, we don't need him." John had already pulled out his phone and opened a message to Sherlock. He hesitated for a moment.

"I know how to do my job." John closed his phone.

"Well, I'll come with you." He went to stand, but Greg pushed him back.

"No."

John shot him a questioning look. Lestrade looked weary.

"I got a text message. Anonymous." Lestrade showed John the screen of his phone. There was a single message, no contacts or initials.

You had better not let him leave. It's my turn.

"I assume they meant you. I think it might be umbrella guy." John nodded, feeling distinctively like he was part of a conspiracy that he knew nothing about. Lestrade rushed out, leaving money on the bar. As soon as he was out the door, John finished his drink. He no longer found the taste enjoyable.

He considered walking out, but he assumed that there would be some force in place to stop him from leaving. These people were connected.

All that he could do was wait.

It only took twenty minutes.