Still taken aback by John's sudden departure, Sherlock paced the living room. With every step, he grew more and more agitated about their lack of conversation. He had been so very well prepared. Had thought of every possible reaction to his revelation. Every single turn of events. But not this. He had never seen John so withdrawn while being so very tender at the same time.

He stopped dead. What if John would never listen to him? Would never again be the same?

Panic flared up beneath his rips and cold sweat broke out all over his body. No. That just couldn't happen.

At first he had been slightly uncomfortable with John's displays of affection but now he craved his reassuring touch.

Frantically, he looked around himself but there were still a few things of him left in their living room. Yes it was still their living room. He briefly wondered what had happened to all the skulls he had placed in there so long ago, but he was much more interested in finding out if John had already banned him from his life, to give it more thought. Resolutely, Sherlock turned towards his bedroom.

Standing in the door, he was confronted with a wall of boxes. 23 of them and surely enough, they were all filled with his belongings, which had been scattered all over the flat the day he had to leave Baker Street. The only thing that he found odd was the way the boxes were arranged. There was no obvious reason as to why they were piled up in the middle of the way. Blocking view and entry to every person who might attempt to enter the room. Neither the amount nor the weight of the boxes justified their arrangement. It had to be on purpose then.

An image of John, blocking his own way to Sherlock's sole legacy came up in Sherlock's mind and made his heart clench.

Enraged, he began taking the boxes down and disposing them around himself. He only stopped when every box was standing on the floor and then started to carry them into his room, where he tried to unpack them all. Realizing that he had used their whole flat for a reason, he gave up at least. There were still 9 boxes left but they could easily be arranged in several places.

Exhaustion crept up on him and his bed looked rather inviting but he didn't have to be the genius he was, to know that his bedding hadn't been changed in almost 18 month.

In one of the boxes, he had earlier found his towels and a dressing gown, what made him a lot more content than he should have been, now that he was dozing off on the couch, freshly showered.

A huge crashing sound wrenched Sherlock out of his light slumber. Blinking his eyes open, he immediately dismissed the possibility of a fight. The sounds came from John's room. One pair of feet. Objects hitting the walls. No yelling or screaming.

John.

Sitting up, Sherlock listened intently to John's indignant anger. A shudder ran over his back when he heard something that sounded suspiciously like a fist hitting a doorpost. For a few seconds, it was surprisingly quiet before Sherlock heard hesitant steps descending the stairs. The door to the living room creaked slowly open to reveal a red-faced army doctor.

John obviously didn't dare to meet his gaze while he crossed to the mantel piece. In a split second, Sherlock knew what John meant to do. Alarmed, he leaped up from the couch and hurried to block John's way.

"No! Not this one." He stated forcefully.

John merely lifted his head to fix his wary gaze at Sherlock before he nodded in acknowledgement.

"Fortinbras." He said with a dismal voice before he left again.

Sherlock clutched the skull to his chest like a beloved pet while he listened to John's steps on the stairs. He would not watch while John destroyed one of the few things Sherlock had ever given him out of sentiment. Struck by sudden fear, he rushed through to the book shelf to gather the copy of Twelfth Night by Shakespeare, he had once bought only to make John understand what he felt for him.

Emotions threatened to overwhelm him. It was all too much. Too much to process. He had barely managed to recognize his sentiment towards John for what it was, but this….this. It was not at all something he knew how to handle. He didn't even know what those emotions were called. These strong feelings were too entangled, too intense for him to identify or even compare to ones he'd felt before.

In an attempt to calm himself, Sherlock began to search for a hiding place that would be secure enough to protect his gifts, especially Fortinbras, from John's rage.

John sat on his bed, clenching and unclenching his left hand in his lap. His heart was beating violently in his chest. He was so angry. His skin was burning like fire and his fist was still itching with the desire to punch…something. He threw his head back, forcing himself to take a deep breath. Slowly, deliberately he released it again.

Taking his eyes of the ceiling, he let his head slowly sink to scan the room around him. Absolutely everything was covered in bone fragments. His mirror was lying as cullet on the floor.

It was not the first time that he had raged in his room. Hell, he was gradually running out of furniture at this point. But that didn't worry him at all. What did though was the fact that he had been extremely careful with the skulls all the other times, while tonight it seemed that all his anger had concentrated on them. The skulls Sherlock had given him to provide him with a conversation partner after he had apparently destroyed Yorrick.

John felt his eyes prickle, fresh tears trying to dissolve from them. Ridiculous. He wanted him to talk to bloody skulls! Skulls! And he wouldn't have cared at all, hadn't he stolen Yorrick in the first place!

A new wave of anger began building up in his chest but he pushed it down with all his might.

Sighing, John began to clean his room.

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, John was kneeling beside the couch, softly brushing back some curls from his forehead. His face was tired and wary, wearing a sad smile.

Sherlock met his gaze, feeling compelled to appear at ease with the loving touch in spite of his ongoing haggardness. Tenderly, John took Sherlock's hand and began rubbing it gently between his palms.

"Look…because of last night. I…I am sorry. I didn't mean to scare you!" His voice was controlled but Sherlock could clearly make out what John really meant. Don't leave me.

"You didn't. I just wasn't anticipating this…vigour." At the last word, John visibly winced and cast his eyes downwards.

"I...It won't happen again."

Neither of them was naïve enough to believe it.

It was bound to become an exhausting day. Mycroft had scheduled an appointment with Lestrade to take Sherlock's (fairly late) statement about his "dead". Lestrade though only knew that he had one hour in his schedule in which he'd an appointment with god-knows-who.

Upon entering Scotland Yard, John took his hand and straightened his back, a huge I told you so-expression plastered all over his face. Watching John from the corner of his eye, Sherlock strode towards the elevator.

Walking through Lestrade's division, Sherlock felt a prickling sensation under his skin. There were approximately 30 people in the open plan office that instantly stopped everything they'd been doing as soon as they noticed Sherlock. Mouths agape, people weren't even whispering or exchanging looks, they were just standing there as if someone had suddenly stopped time and space. A few of them actually looked at him as if he was the first sign for an oncoming apocalypse.

In a corner, a printer was working furiously, causing the only sound in the spacious room. John led the way towards Lestrade's office, seemingly at ease with the extreme amount of attention they were receiving. A few steps before they reached their destination, the door flew open and Lestrade was looking angrily at the scene before him.

"What's up with you? I thought you'd all suddenly vanished. What is it?" He let his gaze wander through the room before he turned his head in the direction in which his subordinates were staring.

Abruptly, he straightened up and crossed the distance between his door and the Consulting Detective in a few strides. He easily overcame the remaining few inches with his outstretched arm. The sound of his fist connecting with sharp cheekbones finally dragged his inferiors out of their consolidation.

It was a waste of Sherlock's time. He had been talking for almost forty minutes now but no one was actually listening to him. Lestrade's eyes were wide and absent, it was obvious that he didn't hear a word of Sherlock's explanations. While he kept on talking Sherlock was very aware that he only continued for John's benefit. He still found they needed to talk and if John wasn't willing to listen to him he would just state his reasoning in this less intimate ambience. But John's face wore an expression of inviolability.

A knock on the door interrupted his flood of words. While Sherlock immediately stopped talking, it took Lestrade a while to notice that Sally Donovan was peeking around the door, looking like a concentrate of the reaction they earlier received.

"I just arrived. They told me…How did you…?" She stammered, an expression of utter shock distorting her face. Furious, John scrambled to his feet. His body was tense as he made his way to the door. Resting his hand on the door knob, his facial expression was a threatening testimony of a hidden violence that was entirely knew to Sherlock and apparently also to the woman currently confronted with it. Cautiously, she pulled her head back just in time for John's decidedly angry shove on the door.

A look of horror had taken over Lestrade's face and it had nothing to do with the loud thud that rang through his office.

When John turned back and made to walk to his chair, Sherlock decided that it was time to go. He leapt up from his chair extending his arm towards Lestrade. His cheekbone still ached but he knew that the DI's anger had vaporized just as fast as it had flared up. What he didn't expect was Lestrade rounding the table to give him a firm hug. As he loosened his arms and rested his hands at Sherlock's elbows, he looked as if he was about to say something, but the uncertain movements of his mouth only lead to more silence. A shiver ran down Sherlock's back when he noticed the tears, in the other mans eyes. Definitely time to leave.

He took a step backwards, breaking away from Lestrade and closer to John who was already standing behind him.

"I'll be available if you need me for a case." Sherlock stated awkwardly before retreating with John on his heels.

I admit...thats gonna hurt. A bit.