A/N: Thank you all for the supportive review, they really make my day and help keep my mind working. I'd also like to say thank you to those of you who have already faved and alerted. It means a lot to me. Anyway, enjoy the chapter.


CHAPTER SEVEN

John stormed into the house and headed straight for his room. He needed to calm down before facing his daughter and Mary and had to restrain himself from slamming the door, for fear of scaring Beth. He was yanking his jacket off and throwing it on the bed when the door opened and Sherlock marched in after him. "Just leave me alone Sherlock."

"No, we haven't finished talking."

"We're not talking, we're arguing."

"Well we haven't finished that either." Sherlock snapped.

John turned around to glare at him with frustration for a long moment.

"John, I don't know what you want me to do. I've said sorry, there's nothing more I can say."

"I don't want your apologizes Sherlock. Sorry's just a word."

"Are you suggesting I don't mean it? - John! I never apologize, to anyone, so when I say it you should be sure it's meant."

John sighed, leaning against the chest of drawers. He knew Sherlock was right. In all the time he'd know him, he'd only ever heard him apologize once. To Molly the Christmas before his supposed death. But it was hard to just forgive and forget, especially when, while he was going through hell Sherlock was off with that woman having the time of his life.

"Our separation wasn't exactly easy on me either John."

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure. Irene can be such a bore."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groan. "What exactly do you think went on between me and her exactly? Do you image I was off having some illicit liaison?"

John shifted. "I don't care what you did."

"Clearly." Sherlock snapped.

John turned as he heard Sherlock's coat hit the bed, and saw the man working the button of his right sleeve. His heart clenched, wondering what he was doing. The lean man yanked up his sleeve so hard John heard it tear. The doctor stared open mouthed at the faded but still visible marks. He stepped closer, snatching Sherlock's arm and examining the marks, his thumb ruining over the lines. He couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. He'd known Sherlock had a history with drugs, but he'd assumed it had been cannabis. To see needle marks now made his blood run cold. "Sherlock what the hell where you thinking!" John snapped, turning very much into the doctor.

Sherlock didn't answer; he just looked down at his friend. It hadn't been easy for him during their separation, despite what John wanted to believe. The track marks were the more visible proof.

~SHERLOCK~

June 2013

Istanbul

Sherlock stared up at the fan as it turned and turned like the world around him, a ever constant circle, no end and no beginning. It should have blanketed him in cool air but it didn't. Instead he was wrapped in the heat of the country. He hadn't had any luck in his search. Moriarty's people were too well buried and he hand no one to help with his case. He was alone and the silence he'd once enjoy and embraced was now deafening.

He'd thought this would be easy. He'd expected to solve it quickly so he could return home to England and to John. He hadn't thought it would be so hard watching his friend lay him to rest, but that last moment with John, watching him from the shadows as he spoke to an empty grave. It had felt like he actually had fallen of that building. But it would only be for a short while, once John and the others were safe, he could go home and they could carry on as they were. Only it wasn't turning out as he'd planned. Six month he'd expected it to take. It was now a year, almost to the day. A year with no hope in sight.

His eyes remained fixed on the twirling fan above him. Stripped of all his clothes, lying on ratty sweat stained sheets, he watched. His eye lids growing heavy. It wasn't caused by the repeated moment above him, but from the drug coursing through his veins. He'd know he shouldn't have done it, but then Sherlock was well versed in making mistakes of late. He should have seeing so much he hadn't. He should have done and said so much he hadn't. Why should this be any different? And if he died, well, then at least everyone's grief would be real.

The drug was pulling into the dreamless abyss he so desperately wanted to be in, if only to stop the feeling of loss. It was so utterly painful, the loss. It felt like a part of him had been torn away, and he'd been the reckless surgeon that had done it. John was his phantom limb, he felt him there as his side, he even spoke to him, but it was all in his head. John was in England, probably getting on with his life. Part of Sherlock wanted that, for John to move on and be happy but there was a large more possessive part of him that never wanted John to get on with his life. Who wanted John to be suffering almost as much as he was. It was selfish, he knew that. But then when it came to John Watson, Sherlock was always selfish. John was the one thing in his life he could count on. The one thing that kept him centered and in control. Without him he put himself in danger. He stared down gun barrels and laughed. He allowed himself to be swallowed up by the need for danger until he was lying in a hot cheap hotel room with his blood tainted by drugs, just to stop being lost.

The abyss was slow in coming, yet fast in leaving. As his dulled mind and vision cleared he found a face hovering over him.

"John?" he slurred.

There was no answer at first, then a voice. Not John, a woman. - The woman.

"What have you done to yourself, Sherlock?" she sighed, shaking her head.

~SHERLOCK~

July, 2014

Hong Kong

Sherlock stared out of the window at the bustle below. It was three in the morning but the streets weren't silent like they would be in England, they were a mass of bodies. They were getting closer. They'd already found two of the three assassins and they'd set in motion his plans to bring down what remained of Moriarty's organization. All they had to do was find that last man, that last threat and then Sherlock could go home. It had already been two years since he'd faked his death and it was getting worse every day.

While Irene had help clear him of his drug habit, she couldn't help get rid of the feelings and nightmares. No matter how much she tried. And she did try. Sherlock had even given in to her once, in a desperate attempt to dispel the loneliness and pain. But it hadn't work; in fact it had only made him feel worse. Irene had made some humorless remark about it not technically being cheating as John was in denial and Sherlock was dead, which he'd ignore. What he couldn't ignore were the nightmares, the waking up covered in sweat, panting for air. It was always the same nightmare. He hadn't jumped and John was the one laying on the ground covered in blood. He stood in the darkened room, rubbing his arm. The marks hadn't faded this time, and he was glad. They were a reminder of his own stupidity. How he'd almost given up.

"Sherlock?"

He didn't turn at the sound of Irene's voice.

"Another nightmare?"

He simply nodded.

"Soon Sherlock." she whispered, wrapping her arms around his waist.

"Not soon enough." he'd sighed.

~SHERLOCK~

Their eyes were fixed on one another as they stood in silence, John's hand still gripping Sherlock's arm. Times seemed to have stopped for the pair, neither speaking or moving or even thinking. John's thumb was pressed possessively against the marks and Sherlock felt his heart racing. John broke the spell with a breath, removing his hand for the slim strong arm.

"You owe Beth a bedtime story." John said, breaking the silence and tension.

Sherlock looked at John. "We did not get to have our meal."

"We'll order in once Beth's in bed, alright." John told him, turning away from Sherlock. "Then we can discuss what we're going to do."

"Do?" Sherlock frowned.

"You can't continue to sleep on the sofa forever Sherlock. We've got to figure out what we're going to do. - But first, I'll tell Mary she can go home." He headed for the door.

"John."

"Yes."

"I'm sorry John, for everything."

John sighed deeply. "I know Sherlock. It's just going to take time to get through this." he pulled open the door and left the room.

~SHERLOCK~

Putting Beth to bed turned out to be a unique experience for Sherlock. She'd curled up under her covers and listened to him intently, fighting to keep her small blue eyes open. He'd attempted to read the children's book John had given him, but found it dull and unimaginative, so had begun to tell the girl about another of his and John's adventures. She'd barely gotten half way through the case before sleep claimed her. Sherlock found another unique experience, watching the girl sleep, her dark hair fanning out against the baby pink pillow.

When Sherlock returned to the living room, John was finishing his phone call to the local Chinese. He looked up when Sherlock entered.

"That was quick, usually you have to read that thing three times before…." he looked at Sherlock. "You didn't read it, did you?"

"It's an infantile."

"Well, that's because Beth's an infant." John rolled his eyes. "So which did you tell her?"

"The Hound of Baskerville."

"Sherlock! - Well, if she has nightmares, you're dealing with her."

Sherlock strolled into the room and fell into his seat. "I find it unlikely that she would have nightmares John. I barely got to the hound itself."

John couldn't help but smirk at his friend. "You're voice does have that effect on people." he laughed.

Sherlock sent him daggers.

"So, how was the case?" John asked absently.

"Dull. - You could have solved it."

John wasn't insulted, what was the point. "Well, I'm sorry. I'm sure you'll find something soon."

"I doubt it. As much as Moriarty was a dangerous psychopath, at least he had imagination."

John shook his head. "Leave it to you to miss the madman."

"I miss the challenge John, not the man."

"Of course, silly me."

The pair fell into a comfortable silence, John turning his attention to the day's newspaper, Sherlock turning his mind to just how bored he was. He glanced over at the wall above the sofa where his target was.

"Don't even think about it Sherlock." John said from behind his paper.

"You cannot stop me from thinking John. - Sometimes I wish you could."

John put down the paper. "Bored I take it?"

"Of course I'm bloody bored."

"And you were expecting what Sherlock. That you'll just walk back into our lives and find the country had ground to a halt without you here to save us?"

Sherlock glared. "You are me obtuse John. I knew it would take time to regain my reputation, which however doesn't prevent me from being bored."

"What did you do when you got bored before you came home…." John paused, looking at Sherlock, Irene rushing through his mind. "Actually don't tell me, I don't want to know."

"Experiments."

"I said I didn't want to know." his mind taking a turn he didn't want it to take.

"Science John, Science. - Lord, I would have thought you're obsession with sex would have dissipated by now."

"I don't have an obsession with sex." John snapped insulted. "In fact I haven't had sex in months. - And considering you were with her, it's a perfectly logical assumption. She'd made her intensions towards you clear on more than one occasion."

Sherlock stared at his friend intently. "Are you jealous?"

"What! No!" John gasped.

Sherlock steepled his fingers and continued to watch John. Taking in the flushed skin, wayward gaze and slightly trembling hands. "Irene said you were jealous." he stated matter-of-factly.

"What? When? - You should know not to…."

"New Year's Eve, three years ago, Battersea Power Station." he rolled off the facts.

John's features paled and he dropped his gaze. "I wasn't jealous, I was concerned. - You were heartbroken."

"I was not heartbroken John."

John looked at him disbelievingly. "This is me, Sherlock. You can't lie to me."

The look on the detectives face said 'oh, really' and John swallowed a fresh wave of pain at the memory of the fall. "You'd fallen for her, Sherlock. It was obvious to everyone."

"I had not fallen for her. She intrigued me."

"Whatever you say." John huffed, lifting his paper once more.

"Is that why you hate her so much? Because you think I loved her."

"I hate her cause she betrayed you and almost ruined Mycroft. - And the fact she'd infuriating." John could feel Sherlock eyes on him and shifted in his seat.

Sherlock watched his friend's awkwardness, growing increasingly intrigued.

"Stop staring at me." John snapped.

"I am merely trying to deduce why you are blushing and fidgeting in your seat."

Unable to take the scrutiny any longer, John threw down his paper. "Fine. Yes, I was jealous, alright."

Sherlock actually looked surprised by the announcement.

"In the most childish way, she was stealing my best friend away from me, and I hated her for it, alright, happy now?"

Sherlock frowned. "Firstly John, Irene could never have taken you're place. No one can. I've told you before, I only have one friend. Secondly, I don't believe that is where all this hostility towards Irene is rooted. You disliked her from the moment we met at her house."

"That was because I tend to not like walking in on a naked woman." John mumbled.

"I find that unlikely John. You're a heterosexual male still in the prime of his sexuality, upon seeing a naked woman your instincts should not have been dislike."

"Like you'd know Sherlock?" John huffed.

The detective glared at him. "I've told you before John, I am…."

"Spare me the married to my work line Sherlock. We both know that if it hadn't have been for Irene's betrayal, you'd have slept with the woman. - And most probably have, considering how long you've been away. Three years is a long time to remain platonic in a sexually charged friendship."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, to defend his action. Yes, he'd slept with Irene, but it had been a one off, a mistake, but the bell rang and John was out of his seat before he had the chance.


A/N: Ok, so I hope the bit in the middle about Sherlock's time away make him at least a little bit more sympathetic. I can't imagine he'd have a fun time without John and wanted to show that their being apart could destroy Sherlock as much as John. Sherlock isn't as hard and heartless as he wants people to believe after all. If he was, we wouldn't love him.