A/N: Chapter four :) I like this one a lot better than the last one.

Thanks to everyone who is following this story, or has favourited. Very special thanks and virtual cookies to Sherlock'sScarf, to whom this chapter is dedicated...you'll see why :)

Sherlock still doesn't belong to me, and Mycroft got sick because of all the cake I sent him, so no help from there for a time. Again, reviews would be very greatly appreciated!

OoOoOoO

Chapter Four

When John entered the flat, it was dark and empty. He had been examining patients and doing paper work all day, just so he wouldn't have to think. He had counted on Sarah´s help. He still did, but as she hadn't been able to give him any advice yet, he had just needed some distraction.

Around six Sarah had made a phone call and then sent him home, telling him that he had done enough and really needed to rest now. As he had known she was right, he hadn't contradicted her, but just taken the next tube home. Now he was tired, although it was only seven thirty.

He sighed, then decided to read a bit and went for the stairs. Passing the wardrobe, he saw one of Sherlock´s blue scarves hang there. (Sherlock had at least three or four, because he always wore one when he was going outside and always forgot to pick them up from the dry cleaner).

Without thinking about it, John took it and slowly lifted it up to his nose. It smelled like Sherlock in a way that made John´s knees feel like a pile of wet towels. He inhaled deeply, then he went upstairs, the scarf still in his hands.

He actually managed to read for some time, absently lifting the scarf to his nose every now and then, but when he heard Sherlock come home around nine, he quickly stuffed it underneath his pillow. Glad for a reason not to see Sherlock any more today, he went to bed not much later.

Maybe it was the scarf, he couldn't tell, but even though John had never had any dream about Sherlock, awake or not, that went further than a shy kiss, tonight, he did.

It was dark in his dream, but he felt the detective´s hands and lips on his body. Everywhere. He heard his soft moan," Fuck me, John."

He woke with a shock, all sweaty and breathing hard, panting like he had been running for miles. When he saw what had happened, John felt embarrassed.

It was not like he had never had a dream like that before, but thinking like this about Sherlock made him feel guilty, as if he was taking advantage of the other man without him knowing it. It was rather silly, really, but Sherlock always seemed so...innocent.

Slightly shaking, he left his bed and went to the bathroom. When the cool water came down on him, he finally started to calm himself.

He controlled his breathing and took a look at his watch that was lying on the shelf next to the shower. It was almost 5 a.m. Well, then he could as well get up. He started to wash his hair, taking a lot more shampoo than necessary, closed his eyes and just tried to concentrate on the smell.

Suddenly, the door was opened with a bang and there was Sherlock, only in his pyjamas and his dressing gown. "What are you doing, John?" He was obviously bewildered by someone who´d get up this early. Going to bed late, or not at all, yes, but why would anyone want to leave bed again only short after getting in?

John had never been more thankful to the fact that he had put up a shower curtain after moving into 221B.

"Showering", he answered grumpily after it was clear that Sherlock wouldn't leave without having got a response.

"Are you sick?", he asked, and his voice sounded so worried and concerned that John couldn't suppress a quick smile.

He closed his eyes. "Just a dream", he muttered. "Go back to bed, Sherlock."

He waited until Sherlock had closed left the bathroom and closed the door behind him, then he sank back against the cold wall and buried his face in his hands.

oOo

It was dark in the living room. Sherlock sat in his favourite armchair, which was turned to the window. He didn't react when John entered the room. John didn't even seem to notice him.

The doctor was fully dressed, but his hair was still wet. Both of them didn't move for quite awhile, Sherlock silently waiting, John, obviously sure to be alone, eyes closed, hands at his sides, clenched into fists. Eventually, Sherlock couldn't stand it any longer. "What was your dream about?"

John gave a surprised sound and turned around as far as possible.

"What are you...why aren't you in bed?" he asked confused.

"Why aren't you?", Sherlock asked back.

"As I said, I, er, I dreamt, uhm, something and I couldn't go back to sleep any more."

"Neither could I", Sherlock replied. He turned his chair around, hands on the armrests, eyes fixed on John´s face.

"After I was woken by you, I couldn't stop thinking about the things Sarah told me yesterday." For a few seconds, John just looked at him bewildered, but then, very slowly, his expression changed to total horror. He got up, stumbling a few steps back.

"No", he whispered, "No, she didn't, she couldn't possibly have told you...No!" Sherlock didn't take his eyes off his flatmate.

"She was right then, I suppose. You really are in love with me." John´s face was very pale now, he looked he might get sick any moment. He cleared his throat, obviously trying to pull himself together.

"I – I guess I am. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"You could have just told me, you know. Would have made things easier, don´t you think?" The detective didn't dare to smile yet. John just looked back blankly, then he seemed to understand. Sherlock asked himself what was going to happen. Would they kiss? He felt he wanted it, but he was more than just a little bit excited, too. John was so much more experienced than himself, after all. Surely he would expect something better? John, however, didn't make so much as a step to approach Sherlock.

"I...I see. I could have thought of that." Sherlock was confused. It didn't help that he could still smell John´s freshly washed hair. How very distracting.

"Well, I´ll pack my stuff then," John continued. The detective didn't understand anything any more. "What? No!"

John looked hurt now, and angry, too.

"Oh, if you can´t stand being in the same room like the gay idiot I obviously am to you, I can just leave right now!" he almost yelled. "I can understand that you don´t need another Molly around you all the time. I just thought we could stay friends."

Sherlock opened his mouth, trying to say something, anything. What was happening? But John just went on,

"However, I see this thought appears disgusting to you. So I´ll just leave right now. I can get my stuff while you´re working. Goodbye." With tears in his eyes he turned around, opened the door and was gone.

oOo

He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. John felt tears running down his face while he walked, not paying attention to the way he was taking. The sun had not yet risen and the streets were still dark and almost empty. Impatiently, he wiped his eyes, but it was no use. The tears just came out anyway.

He would never have thought that Sherlock might react this way. Well, he hadn't really thought about any possible reaction at all. He knew only too well that Sherlock had never seemed interested in anyone, except for Irene Adler, maybe, but she was gone and as far as he knew, they hadn't even kissed. Still, he would have thought that Sherlock might be a bit more supportive, that he wouldn't mind so much, that he would let them stay friends after all they had gone through together.

John inhaled deeply. He should go back. He should talk to Sherlock, remind him of how much they needed each other, of how they´d always been able to think of a solution. Surely they would find a way to sort this out, to cope with this?

He turned around, fairly unsure of where exactly he was at the moment. He saw a man standing leaned against the wall of an old building. John crossed the street and went towards him and opened his mouth to ask for the name of the street, but the man was faster.

"Are you Dr. John Watson?" he asked in a hoarse voice. John was utterly surprised.

"Well, yes, I am," he answered. "Could you maybe tell me..." He couldn't finish his sentence, because the man spoke again,

"Please, get into this car."

John rolled his eyes.

"No thank you. Tell Mycroft I'm really not in the mood to play his stupid little games now!"

"Get into the car," the man repeated. "We don´t want to hurt you, Dr. Watson," he added, with something that probably could only be described as a smirk.

"Fine," John muttered. He was not willing to argue about Mycroft´s way of telling John that he wanted something. He entered the back of the car. Something was wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it, but in the same second that thought crossed his mind he felt a sting and a burn in his left arm and then, everything was dark.