4-1
It had been nine minutes since John had left the flat. Make that ten, ten minutes. Sherlock still lay upon the sofa, his legs now pulled up close to his body. His jaw stung and ached, it was rare that he let an act of violence get to him. But he had not expected this reaction from John; he hadn't expected a punch in the face and then an empty room. At the very least he expected a citizen's arrest, and at the most, to be shot. John was brilliant with his revolver, and clearly had no aversions to shooting criminals, as he had proved with the taxi driver. He must have misread John's emotions, he couldn't have been aroused, and it must have been just pure fury. The kiss wasn't a sign of desire to John, just a way to show confusing force and dominance. No doubt John was now on his way to fetch Lestrade, or maybe fetch a more powerful gun.
Sherlock laughed to himself miserably. He was completely done for, and he wanted to damn Mycroft to hell for allowing him to become vulnerable in front of John. He had thought John would accept him, would somehow understand, but instead he had done the opposite. If he hadn't stupidly believed that John would accept him, he would have been able to talk himself out of the situation, to take John away from the truth. He had fooled the doctor long enough, he was sure he would be able to deceive him long enough for him to figure out a plan. But instead, he acted smart and cocky, let his emotions and passions loose, told the chilling truth.
What was even worse was that he knew Mycroft would go after John before he could do anything damaging. At the thought of John being 'disposed of' made him wail out loud. He didn't want his actions to be the death of John, and he didn't think he could persuade John to keep his secret; he was a good man, that's why he liked him so.
Eleven minutes.
Sherlock hardly even gave his phone time to ring before he picked up the call from his brother.
"John is walking through London," Mycroft stated.
"On his way to Scotland Yard no doubt," Sherlock replied bitterly.
"Once again you misunderstand the man," he chastised. "Use your brain Sherlock, did you actually pay attention to this man before he stormed out on you. He is pacing up and down a street confused at his flatmates deceit."
"What do you mean?"
"Surely you didn't expect him to act well after finding out you had lied to him instead of just being honest from the beginning."
"You know I couldn't tell him," Sherlock growled in response.
"Quite right I did, but John does not understand, obviously, because not all has been explained to him."
"What exactly is he planning on doing?"
Mycroft paused. "Oh by the looks of it, he is returning to the flat. For once Sherlock, don't be so yourself with him. He probably needs time and a good explanation, so you are just going to have to be patient."
Sherlock hung up at that point, frustrated with Mycroft's words. He stood up and strode towards the window, looking both ways down the road, his eyes searching for John's black jacket amongst the passers-by. However he did not spot him coming either way, although Mycroft's mention made him assume that John was not too far away. He didn't know what all this meant. He wanted John to be clear in his feelings, either hate him or want him, anything in-between was incredibly frustrating. People drove him absolutely mad, he had no time for others, especially ones who he couldn't manipulate and control. He and John weren't like that at all. While they were not on the same intelligence level, Sherlock was him as a complete equal; he wanted John to be his partner completely more than anything. He wanted to run to a bank with John, beautifully disable the security system and steal millions, then return home and take him on the sofa. He wanted John to accept him, to love him even.
He kept glancing up and down the street. He absentmindedly ran a finger over his swollen jaw line. Normally he would have enjoyed such a blow, would have most likely retaliated with beautiful stealth. He was an excellent fighter, mainly because of his brilliant skills of deduction; more often than not he could figure out a man's every move and best him. Fighting was like a game of chess, only with more adrenaline and bruises. He absolutely adored bruises, he found when he was with Jim, he allowed him to mark him, to colour his pale skin with black, purple and yellow markings. He would like John to do that to him. Not like this blow though, this one was full of anger and hate, it did nothing for Sherlock, only made him despondent. He didn't know how John was feeling. He didn't know the true meaning of John's earlier actions. He didn't know what he was going to do. He knew the most pleasant situation was for John to take Mycroft's route out, to forget he had never met him, and delete him from memory. If John stayed with Sherlock he would get hurt, if he turned Sherlock in, he would get killed.
If Sherlock wasn't so selfish, he would wish that he had never asked John to Baker Street. But of course he wouldn't have traded their time together for anything in the world. While it was exhilarating creating crimes with Jim, taking him to bed every night and fighting him in the day, it was the times with John he had loved the most. The friendship, the exploration of each other, the incredibly subtle flirting, the danger and adrenaline they both loved to share with each other. No, there was no way he could ever wish he hadn't met John Watson; it had been the most exhilarating time of his life.
Looking down at the street now, he saw a blonde man heading in the direction of 221b. He still walked with his limp from earlier, showing signs he was still feeling stressed over the pool. He stopped outside the flat, as if he was taking a moment to compose himself, then opened the front door and strode in.
Sherlock turned around ready to face Dr. Watson once more. He had his back pressed against the window pane, almost for support. He had no idea how things were going to pan out, which made him feel incredibly vulnerable, something he was definitely not used to.
