The first time Sarah said I love you to John, it caught him rather off guard. He was on the brink of orgasm when Sarah, in the midst of her climax shouted 'I love you John!' and he was so shocked by the declaration that he momentarily forgot what was going on until his body reminded him and he finished with an awkward kind of confused moan and collapsed onto the bed beside her. Laying in the darkness, post-coitus, and staring up at the ceiling, John's mind flashed back unbidden to the day nearly four and a half months back when his friendship/room-share/partnership/whatever abruptly ended and specifically to the last words he'd yelled to said friend/flatmate/partner-in-solving-ridiculous-case s.

'maybe I'll think twice next time before I fall in love with a selfish ASS like you!'

The words had tumbled out at the tail end of an angry tirade and it wasn't until later that night when John was trying to get comfortable on Sarah's couch that he'd even remembered he'd spoken them.

'fall in love.'

He had left it at that, acknowledging that they had been said and moved on. Shut them away. After all he was never going to see Sherlock again so what was the point. He hadn't meant them.

But shortly after his last meeting with Mycroft, the words had come back to him suddenly while watching some inane romantic comedy with Sarah.

'fall in love.'

The words had echoed in his head, lighting up the forefront of his mind with big neon lights.

I didn't mean it.

But you said it.

I was angry.

You still said it.

So what? People say things they don't mean all the time.

You don't.

It was true. John had never been one to speak without thinking. He liked to be sure of something before he gave voice to it, knowing the power and meaning words held. Still–

Why else would you have been hurt so badly by what he did?

The effect of the revelation had been enough to necessitate a visit to the toilet for some privacy. After a good, cold splash of water on his face, John had stared at his dripping, gasping refection in the mirror. He was in love with Sherlock. Sherlock! A man with the emotional range of a teaspoon! A man whose closest friend before John was a skull! A man period! (It wasn't that he had a problem homosexuality as a whole, he had just never had the interest).

He looked into the mirror and his own face had stared back wearing a shocked expression. Then he gradually calmed himself down, taking deep breaths until his face was mostly dry and Sarah was probably wondering what exactly he was doing in here.

He stared at himself.

The wound Sherlock had dealt him was still raw and even thinking about it now was upsetting him. He rubbed his hands down his face stopping near his mouth and pulling gently at the skin on his cheeks. Sherlock was an amazing person. A proper genius if ever there was one and he did brilliantly following a line of logic. Deducing and reasoning until he reached the concealed pearl of truth. But love was not reasonable or logical and Sherlock had already proven himself inept at dealing with strong emotions.

John knew, superficially that Sherlock had behaved out of fear and self-preservation that day but it did not excuse the way in which he had spoken to John, nor could John let go of the pain it had caused. He had shut that door. He had cut those ties. He could cut these ones too.

Now lying there beside Sarah, a woman he very much liked and had been sharing a bed with for four months now, John gasped as his heartbeat started to slow and he said into darkness,

"I love you too."

The rush of adrenaline fuelled him onwards as his mind recalculated and came up with an alternate route through the labyrinthine back streets of London. Down the ally, up the fire escape, through a family's flat as they were sitting down to dinner (Mother, father, five year old son, Mother: no sign of make-up, face hasn't been washed in a least a day – stay at home mum. Father: left bum – computer programmer. Child: boy, two and a half, possibly dyslexic if that drawing on the fridge was anything to go by), and out the building door just as the murderer came round the corner.

Sherlock took him out with one swift upper cut.

Later, after Lestrade had finished taking his statement and the adrenaline had begun to wear off, Sherlock walked back to Baker Street, easily avoiding the ever-present black car, and tried to ignore the now familiar yawning emptiness he could feel creeping back in.

A/N I know! It's super short and exactly the same as the last chapter but I promise well get to the good stuff in the next chapter.

P.S. Virtual high fives to anyone who can spot the blatantly obvious direct quote from Order of the Phoenix.