He'd ruined it. He'd ruined everything.

John walked as fast as he could down the dirt-track, trying to the best of his ability to get as far away from that room as was physically possible. He'd have to get a taxi to the airport, send Sherlock a text, maybe endure a week or two of forced conversation before he...

Moved out? Oh, god. He paused to catch his breath, sitting on a rock beside the road, watching the sun begin to appear over the edge of the horizon. He looked behind him, the villa was long out of his sight, he'd been walking for a good ten minutes. He knew...hoped Sherlock wouldn't follow him. The wide-eyed shock on the face of the detective had been confirmation of that. What did he think of him now?

"John, I feel you should know that I'm married to my work"

Of course he was. Sherlock would never have feelings for anyone, ever. Let alone feel attraction. He massaged his forehead, shivering slightly. It was cold out here. And he'd only managed to put a shirt on over his boxers before leaving the house. And – fucking hell – it was Sherlock's. Fantastic, John, well done. He growled angrily, kicking the ground, feeling a fresh spark of humiliation creep up on him. He was not. Gay. Gay was...disgusting. Unnatural. What he'd been feeling, what he'd done was unnatural.

Why had he done it? He remembered the nightmare clearly; it was the same as every time before. But wait, no, this had been different. He'd hidden behind the tank, watched the bombs go off around him, but this time – it wasn't Clarke, his old comrade, that he'd seen run to his death like before, it had been Sherlock. He remembered the stab of pain, of cold, harsh, horror that he'd felt as his dream self had been unable to hold the detective back, save him, stop him. And then he'd woken up.

He went a brand new shade of red. His stupid, stupid half-asleep self had been convinced Sherlock was dead, and had wanted to - jesus – feel him, make sure he was still alive. But –wait – it was Sherlock who'd pulled him in for the hug, Sherlock the infamous high-functioning sociopath, Sherlock who never made bodily contact with anybody. John sighed, confusedly. It was Sherlock's fault. That hug – the contact, the closeness, the warmth and the comfort, it had all made him in his idiotic sleepy state want to show him.

Wait, show him what? John frowned. He'd thought it had just been sexual, some strange, animalistic urge that had probably surfaced from a dry spell rather than anything else. But no, he remembered the hurt, the unimaginable hurt he'd felt as he'd watched Sherlock leave him, run to his death. A fresh stab hit his abdomen, and he hugged himself against the cold. This was deeper than that. Oh, fuck, what was he DOING? Why was this happening? Why was he considering this? Why couldn't things just stay the way they damn well were before?

He winced as images of the kiss continued to haunt him. He remembered looking up into Sherlock's eyes, those incredibly blue eyes. Thinking of how wonderful it was to have him back. Thinking of how beautiful he looked, in the feeble half-light, his pale skin alight with life, his eyes wide with what had seemed to be concern, but John knew it was probably annoyance, the nightmare couldn't have been quiet. And then he'd gone and fucking kissed him, even managing to pull him down by his neck out of what had no doubt seemed like desperation. WHY, John. WHY. His eyes screwed up with humiliation as he remembered how the other man had stiffened in his grasp, inhaled with disgust, probably only moved his lips to tell John to get off him rather than anything. And the horrible, animalistic arousal that had hit his body like wildfire, he'd thankfully stopped himself before it had progressed any further.

But...those lips. John's face grew hot as he remembered how horrifically good it had felt to feel those lips against his own. And the warmth, the heat, the contact of their two bodies moving together, the hand on his cheek. John placed his hand where Sherlock's had been not so long ago. Had Sherlock...enjoyed it? He had kissed back, albeit uncertainly. He'd felt the other man shake against him.

With shock. With disgust. No. He wouldn't entertain these stupid thoughts for one minute longer. They were the reason he'd ruined his relationship with the other man, with his best friend. He'd gone and sacrificed his life at Baker St. for a second of measly sexual gratification. Sherlock probably wouldn't ever look at him again. He needed time to formulate a plan of action, to separate himself from what had happened and Sherlock in the least stressful way possible.


Sherlock was a mess. A shaking, jittery mess. He had been for almost half an hour after the kiss and wasn't sure how he could stop it. He paced around the bedroom, his hand placed on his mouth, where it had been since John had left the room. Intrusions of new, unfamiliar, unrecorded data kept bombarding his conscious and sub-conscious and he couldn't comprehend it all. This was maddening. All he could think about was John.

The scene replayed in his mind like a tape recorder stuck on loop. John's face, John's hands, John's eyes, John's lips. John. John. John. The plan had backfired. These were no longer stable, laboratory conditions. He couldn't focus on anything long enough for it to surface; his train of thought kept changing platforms, turning corners, continuously moving in random, untraceable directions. What was he feeling?

Excited, Overjoyed, Aroused, Wanting, Frustrated, Angry, Sad, Rejected, Concerned, But overall confused. This infuriating confusion. He was never confused. He always knew what to do. He knew what to do. He..

Had no idea what to do.

Was this what it was like to be human? God, it was terrible. It was tiresome. It was...oh god...

He felt something stir in his chest. Emotion? No. But it had to be, it was weighing on him like a ton of bricks and he hated it. He closed his eyes, sitting on the bed, closing his hands together and placing his thumbs on his lips. This was his thinking position. He needed to think.

This was a problem. Therefore, there was a solution. In order to reach a solution, it was necessary to analyse the problem.

It had started with the nightmare. That odd, slightly painful feeling Sherlock had felt in his chest as he watched John writhe in anguish. That had then provoked the infallible need to comfort. The hug. The contact. John's hand on his chest. John looking at him. The kiss. Wait, rewind.

John looking at him. That look in his eyes of – what? Need? Gratitude? Sentiment. Sherlock had already seen sentiment stare him straight in the face in the form of Irene but this was different. This was John. His loyal, stupid, but fantastically helpful John.

This was different because he'd felt it too.

His eyes snapped open. This was sentiment. This was what sentiment felt like. Thinking, feeling, only seeing John. Idiot. He'd never needed to conduct this experiment at all. Because he experienced sentiment on a daily basis. Not as intensified as he was feeling it now, granted, but he felt it. Every time John made him laugh with a mindless, simple or sardonic comment. Proved useful. Helped without knowing or trying to. Existed. This wasn't all about sexual need at all. He shouldn't have provoked John. Because now – wherever he was – he was probably having a similar kind of internal conflict, if not worse due to him having been initiator.

This was the problem. But analysis had only worsened his agitation.

The solution was John. He needed to find him. Explain.

And...

He closed his eyes again as his mind drifted over to the sexual implications of what had happened. John wanted him. His lips parted sub-consciously as he remembered the mechanics of the kiss. So that was why people did it. The lips were one of the most sensitive parts of the human body, he knew that, but god when pressed against a matching pair – even John's slightly chapped ones, had almost driven him over the edge.

But the most sensational thing had been the brief yet complete loss of sense, of control, of reason. That kiss had awakened a part of Sherlock he'd never known existed, some kind of primal, basal demon, that cared only about feeling and cast thought aside. And never in his entire life had he been able to just stop like that. It was dangerous.

But delicious.

Was this what it was like to truly let go? He wanted it again. He wanted to stop again, and have his only thought be John. Oh, god, he wanted John. He absolutely needed him. He needed release, from these horrible, beautiful feelings that were building in his chest.

But wait, he couldn't. John wasn't here. Where was he?

Sherlock frowned. This wouldn't be easy. John was prone to self-hatred, he knew this, and despite having told him it was a fruitless endeavour that would only succeed in making John function less efficiently his words had never managed to penetrate far enough.

He'd left the villa, which was obvious. He'd heard the door slam, feet on the gravel. John would want to physically distance himself as far as possible. But for how long? He presumed at least an hour. Though it was cold, and he' d only have managed to find a shirt, probably his as that was the only one that had been left hanging downstairs. He felt a touch of something else as he imagined John in his shirt. What was happening to him? It was like his entire molecular structure had re-aligned to produce this unstable, unpredictable mess.

He needed to find John. And soon.


John lifted his head from his hands, glancing at his watch. He'd been out here for over an hour now. He had to stop dancing around the plan and actually get on with it. Partially because he was stuck outside in the open, in nothing but a too-long purple dress shirt and his boxers.

Right. So he was going to walk back in there. Apologise. Blame it on sleepiness and how it had been Sarah in his nightmare that had made him want to...kiss him. Tell him it was okay, he understood that he had to move out. He'd organise plane tickets immediately afterwards, either fly that evening or the following morning. Then he'd look for a new flat. He felt a jolt of hurt, but tried to ignore it. This was his fault, so he needed to sort it out.

He stood from his rock, dusting his bare feet off. Suddenly, he heard a tiny whizzing noise, barely audible – something moving rapidly through the air, towards hi-

He tried to dodge out of the way but it was too late. He felt a tiny prick of pain in the back of his left shoulder, he craned his head to see a small, black dart. A dart?

He frowned. His vision began to go fuzzy. He dropped to his knees, eyes heavy. Before he passed out, he squinted, seeing a large, dark, silhouette against the morning sunrise approach from across the track. And then nothing. He didn't even feel his head hit the gravel.


Sherlock kept tapping. Tapping helped him think, and passed the time. He hadn't brought any nicotine patches. Or cigarettes. Or the violin.

He glanced at the time. Two hours since John had left. This was over the estimated time he'd set for John's return. This was most unusual.

He heard his phone bleep and jumped up. John!

But as he picked up the phone he realised that John had probably, no, definitely not taken his phone. He sighed, clicking through to read the new message.

Oh where, oh where has my little dog gone?

Oh where, oh where can he be?

With his ears cut short and his tail cut long.

Oh where, oh where can he be?

JM

Nursery rhyme. Significance? Sherlock felt a wild stab of horror.

Moriarty had John.

Moriarty had John again.

He'd gotten so caught up in the events of the holiday and his stupid, stupid plan that he'd forgotten basic security measures. His fingers shook as he typed a response.

Where are you.

SH

He shook, waiting. He knew Moriarty wouldn't kill John...yet. He was going to play with him first. And play with Sherlock. Oh hell. His phone bleeped again.

Don't you worry, love.

I'll be seeing you later.

JM

Of course. Moriarty was going to make him wait stretch it out as much as possible. And in that time, who knew what would happen? He had no course of action, no plan. Just blind, cold, panic replaced it. And still, all he could think about was John. This was the worst thing he'd ever done - he'd sacrificed his mind in search of sentiment, and now it was coming back to haunt him.

Sentiment was an attribute of the losing side. And now that side was him.

Sherlock sat back down, putting his head in his hands.

John...


A/N: Hope you enjoyed - this chapter is pretty short but i don't have much time at the moment! Thanks so much for reading :)