**I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it.**

John woke early the next morning, body still trembling from the all too familiar dream starring Sherlock Holmes between his thighs. He was better prepared this time, having worn a pair of old boxer briefs he was willing to stain, and rolled over immediately for the flannel he'd put on his nightstand. The dreams were becoming almost a regular occurrence, and John couldn't decide if he loved them or loathed them. It was nice to know that in some universe, a version of Sherlock wanted to touch him like that, but it hurt all the same knowing in his real life he'd never know that feeling.

He felt more and more guilty every time he woke after a night like that. He and Sherlock had become friends. Actual friends who talked and spent time together and got to know each other. Sherlock had even shared something rather personal about himself with John last night and he couldn't have been more grateful to engrain himself a bit more in his teacher's life. They were getting along splendidly and that made John feel all the more like a pervert, having these dirty thoughts about a friend. He made yet another mental note to clamp down on these feelings and thoughts for his friendship's sake.

He finished cleaning himself off and rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the dream and remember what he had in store for today. A feeling of incredible unease settled over him as he recalled his chat with his friends at the pub yesterday afternoon. The impending night out he would be dragged to by his overly confidant friends and thrust, no pun intended, into London's gay nightclub scene, expected to throw caution to the wind had him coming over a bit wobbly. He knew his friends didn't want him to do anything too crazy but he was sure they expected him to act available, show interest, and get a few phone numbers.

John was dreading it.

Which made him angry. This had been the plan all along, hadn't it? Come to London, live openly, experiment, maybe do some irresponsible things, and find out who he truly was. He didn't belong to anyone. He had no loyalties to anyone. Sherlock didn't want him as anything besides a friend, he knew that already. Why couldn't he want to go out and see what was out there and have some fun and who knows maybe meet someone? He humiliatingly admitted to himself that he'd never even kissed someone. Maybe tonight could be that night for him?

He toyed with the idea of just getting gloriously drunk when they got to the club and having to go home early instead. He groaned and kicked the covers from him, rolling off the bed and staggering to his dresser, pulling out his running clothes and tossing them on the bed. A run would clear his head, he was sure of it.


Sherlock crept quietly along in the early morning drizzle and fog back to his flat, feeling uncharacteristically tired. After days of no sleep and then unexpectedly coming across a robbery in progress after leaving John the night before, Sherlock figured his body was coming down from the rush and he'd have to surrender to a few hours sleep. He tugged his long coat tighter to him, mind still reeling from the night before and he smirked at the memory. He attempted to go through the facts again, cataloging the adrenaline rush, the flash of the knife glittering in his mind, but his brain wasn't responding as sharply as it normally did and Sherlock fought to keep his eyes open, drowsiness washing over him in steady waves.

His phone binged loudly in the quiet of the morning and Sherlock jerked slightly at the sound as though it had just woken him up. He needed to get home before he gave in to the urge to lay down right on the street and have a quick kip.

He attempted to dip his hand in his pocket for his phone, but couldn't quite seem to catch his hand in the fabric, his arms feeling heavy as lead and decided it was too much effort.

He ducked into the park for a shortcut and glanced around, enjoying the quiet, damp atmosphere. It certainly wasn't helping with the grogginess currently trying to pull him under but he felt himself pleased nonetheless. This was one of his favorite times of day. Early enough that people were waking up but had not yet left their homes. Early enough that he felt like the only person in the world. Early enough that a borderline mad adrenaline junkie could make his way back home after an entire night of dangerous activity unnoticed.

Sherlock blew out a heated breath and watched as the hot air mixed with the cold and rain and danced into smoked designs, twisting this way and that. He grinned, wholly pleased with himself after the nights events. He was becoming a bit dazed and continued his trudge home, running his hand threw wet hair, his curls wilting in the light rain. Sleep was all he wanted.

A glimpse of something through the mist caught Sherlock's attention and he turned sluggishly toward the figure, curious but unsure if he was too tired to care. He kept walking. The figure darted back into view through the fog and Sherlock saw a short, blonde boy jogging through the park. Oh Christ. John Watson. Of course.

John ran across Sherlock's sight, not noticing Sherlock in his peripheral vision, headphones stuck in his ears and clearly unaware of his surroundings. Sherlock didn't call out to him. He ducked back into the fog as best he could and rounded widely away from John, wishing to remain unseen. The last thing he needed right now was to deal with the boy he could hardly get off his mind. He wasn't even sure if he could properly speak right now.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and attempted to step up his pace, proving unsuccessful, but he needed to get home as soon as possible. His limbs felt heavy as though he were dragging them along with him. He felt a strong urge to close his eyes and let his body fall where it may but forced himself to keep his eyes open and keep walking.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock halted as abruptly as the sound of his name coming through the fog, closing his eyes in frustration and almost falling asleep in the process. John must have doubled back, must have had a spot where he ran to then turned around... the lamp post. Of course. That made the most sense. How had he not thought that through? Christ, he needed to sleep. His brain wasn't working properly.

"Uhh, hello?" There was a smile in John's voice and Sherlock considered just taking off, running as fast as he could home. His brain slowly supplied that there was no way in hell he would be able to run at this point in his lethargic state and he wobbled slightly on his feet as he turned back around. John's smile immediately fell as they came face to face. "Jesus, are you okay?"

"Fine. Morning John," Sherlock attempted to sound short but the words came out garbled as though he'd been sedated, and he winced. If his mind hadn't currently been shutting down slowly, he would have appreciated the sight of a sweaty, panting John Watson. Unfortunately, he was currently unable to process anything extra. "Have to go," he mumbled and turned back, blinking hard into the mist and tripping over his own feet.

"Woah, hey," John said, rushing to his side. "Do you need to lean on me?"

Sherlock attempted to snort. "Uh, no, I can walk, thank you." Again, the words all swarmed together.

"Well aren't we cranky this morning," John muttered. "Can I at least walk you home and make sure you get there? You look like you're going to fall asleep on your feet."

Sherlock thought that sounded like a splendid idea and closed his eyes for a moment, swaying in the process. A strong arm wrapped around his waist and he let his weight settle into the grasp.

"Okay, it's okay, I got you," John was murmuring next to him and Sherlock wrenched his eyes open, struggling back to his feet. John's arm fell away immediately. Sherlock yanked his coat to straighten it and let out an indignant huff. It sounded more like a normal breath. He couldn't muster the energy to exhale too hard.

"I'm fine, thank you," Sherlock said, trying to be snarky but failing miserably.

"No, you're really not. Come on, keep walking, it'll keep you awake."

Sherlock nodded and started back toward his flat. He noticed a few paces later that John was at his side. He wanted to stop, turn on him and demand where he thought he was going but at this point, he was too exhausted. He could let John follow him home. He could let John see where he lived. Where he lived with his couch. Mm, his couch.

Sherlock felt his brain going into standby mode. Luckily, his body knew the way home and he walked toward his flat on autopilot. John walked quietly next to him. If Sherlock were more alert, he would have noticed John's constant glances and arm spasms as though to catch him at any moment.

They approached the door to his flat and Sherlock dug into his jacket pocket for his keys. He didn't immediately find them and decided it was a good idea to lean his forehead against the door while he searched, his eyes shutting automatically.

"Here let me," a tiny, far away voice was murmuring and then a tentative hand reached smoothly into his trouser pocket, grazing his thigh.

"Mmmm," Sherlock hummed at the soothing touch. Somehow, it didn't feel intrusive. It felt very nice. Then it was gone and he vaguely heard the scrape of a key entering a lock and then felt himself pressed to a chilled body. "You're cold," he pouted.

He heard a chuckle from the person supporting his weight. "I know sorry, the rain and the sweat are not a great combination for warmth. Come on, let's get you to bed."

"No, no," Sherlock murmured quietly. "Couch. I love my couch."

Sherlock felt the body move away from him and he swayed slightly. Then cold hands were on his cheeks.

"Sherlock? Hey, you need to stay awake for just a minute longer, okay? You're all wet. Let's get you out of these clothes."

That brought Sherlock surging back to reality. He snapped his eyes open again and yanked his coat closed. "No," he tried to say firmly, coming out a bit weaker then he planned.

John's eyes widened at his reaction. "I wasn't going to strip you naked, Sherlock, geez. But you'll catch a cold if you stay in those clothes. Go change." Sherlock eyed him for a moment and John rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to follow you. Go to your room and change. Now."

John's voice and look was firm and Sherlock had no energy to argue. He tried to give a stern look in return, but failed when his eyes instead closed and he turned and trudged back to his room.

Safely inside, he closed the door and stripped off his wet clothes, yanked open a drawer and pulled out pajama bottoms, dragging them onto his lower half with effort. The simple task of removing clothes and dressing again sent him into a dizzy spell again and he glanced at the bed.

Fuck it.


John did his very best to keep his hands clasped behind his back and his feet in one place. He bit his lip trying to bite back the thrill coursing through him but he was having difficulty; he was vibrating with curiosity. He was in Sherlock's flat. In his home. He grinned madly and couldn't keep himself from glancing around, trying to take in every wall and nook and item in the entire place, just in case he never got invited back.

It was an utter disaster inside. Small piles of papers and books lay strewn around the main room, newspaper clippings were tacked to the wall, and the most bizarre objects caught John's eye; a mousetrap, a first aid kit opened and disheveled, a box of nails, a few beakers. He glanced at the couch, the imprint of a tall, lanky body very apparent, and John grinned. Sherlock really did love his couch.

Sherlock's eccentricities were pouring out of every inch of this place, all his odd interests were free to roam here and John absolutely loved it. Sherlock was himself here, truly and wholly. He didn't have to hide or act. He could indulge and enjoy his true self. John had seen most of Sherlock's defense mechanisms and walls put up strategically around himself to keep everyone out, but being here in his flat almost made John feel like the wall of reluctance to embrace John into his life was being torn down. John had big plans to tear them all down and this felt like a big step, even if it was accidental.

John peered into the kitchen, finding a very expensive looking microscope sitting on the table, surrounded by petri dishes and more assorted items. John cocked his head. This was by far the weirdest place he'd ever visited.

And he adored it already.

He fidgeted for a bit longer then glanced at his running watch and frowned. It shouldn't have taken Sherlock this long to change. Maybe he'd decided the bed was a good place to sleep after all? John debated with himself for a few more minutes then made a decision. He couldn't leave Sherlock, not knowing if he were okay or not, not knowing if he was settled and safe and asleep. He didn't want to.

But the way Sherlock had reacted about his clothes made John hesitate. He hadn't even wanted to take off his coat in front of him. John was sure he wouldn't want him barging into his room.

Well, too bad.

John crept down the hall to the only bedroom in the flat and softly knocked. "Sherlock?" he murmured.

He was met with silence. He waited another minute then knocked again.

Still nothing.

He gently twisted the handle and pressed it open slowly, hoping if Sherlock were indecent he would see the motion and stop him if he needed to. "Sherlock, I'm coming in."

When no response came, John pressed the door open fully and peered inside.

His breath caught in his chest the same way it had when he'd first laid eyes on Sherlock over a month ago, as he now stared down at the unconscious version of his friend. Sherlock was laid out on his stomach, arms tucked under the pillow beneath his cheek, wearing only plaid pajama bottoms. John gripped the door handle a bit tighter as he grinned at the sight. He resisted the urge to lay down next to him and run his hand down his back and through those thick curls that lay wet and wilted against the pillow. He didn't want to do anything unwelcomed, but he had an overwhelming feeling to comfort this man, touch him lovingly and make sure he was all right. John reminded himself being sleepy wouldn't kill someone but he'd never seen Sherlock like that and it was a bit frightening. He just wanted to make sure he was okay and if he wasn't, John wanted to be the one to make him feel better.

He stole a glance around Sherlock's room, finding it to be much tidier then the rest of his flat, with the exception of a pile of wet clothes on the floor next to his dresser. John's eyes roamed over the rest of the room again then froze and darted back to the heap of clothing. Sherlock's light blue button down he'd been wearing lay on top of the pile of clothes. There was a smear of tinted red on the rumpled shirt.

John cautiously approached the shirt as though is may be a bomb about to go off, and carefully took the collar between his thumb and forefinger, shaking it out gently to get a better look.

The shirt was slashed clean down the side underneath one of the arms, the tattered fringe of the rip hanging loosely around either side. The smear of red darkened as the shirt unfolded, blotting down either side of the torn fabric, seeping out ominously.

Blood.

Panicked, John stepped toward Sherlock's sleeping form before thinking, his mind racing. Was he bleeding? Was it someone else's blood? What happened? From the angle his was at, there were no visible wounds on Sherlock's back or side. He was facing away from the door and John padded around the bed to the other side hurriedly and there, drawn down the side of Sherlock's abdomen was a thin, dark red cut, as though someone had taken a sharp object and dragged it down Sherlock's perfectly pale side. The blood from the wound was smeared like it hadn't been washed or taken care of and it was difficult to tell how deep it was from the mess around it.

John fumed, unsure if he was angrier at the person who did this or himself for not noticing sooner. He was going to be a doctor for Christ's sake, he should be able to recognize these things. His heart raced in his chest and he darted back to the kitchen, flipping on the sink and wetting a flannel, then began opening cabinets, looking for a first aid kit.

Something had caught his eye when perusing Sherlock's flat and John darted back to the main room to find the kit on a table, opened and rummaged through as though it was recently used. John's stomach dropped a little at that thought but pushed it aside for now, digging into the box and grabbing what he needed.

He hurried back to the room, wet flannel and bandages in hand and carefully sat down next to Sherlock on the bed. He hesitated for only a moment then, very gently, he pressed the cloth to Sherlock's side.

Sherlock murmured quietly, his forehead creasing but not opening his eyes.

"Shh, it's okay, go back to sleep," John soothed, running his hand down his back, attempting to acclimate Sherlock to his touch.

And maybe stealing a touch for himself. It hurt more then he realized to see Sherlock hurt. He wanted so badly to help him.

Sherlock hummed and settled back down and John pressed the cloth down his wound, gingerly rubbing the blood away so he could get a better look. Sherlock shifted in his sleep but made no sound and John ducked down to look closely at the cut.

It was clean and not deep, no stitches needed, and John continued to clean it gently, taking care not to press too hard. He placed several small bandages over the cleaned wound, as Sherlock continued to breathe deeply and evenly, sound asleep. He sighed contently under John's touch and John couldn't help but smile.

This man was utterly beautiful and had been hurt and it took everything John had to leave now wanting so badly to take care of him, but he knew better then to stay. Sherlock wouldn't take kindly to waking up to John in his flat.

He also knew better then to leave a note but he just couldn't help himself.

He found a blank piece of paper in the main room, scrawled his number on the top and below that, wrote:

Please let me know you're alright. -JW


Sherlock lay flat on his back on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes closed. He breathed deep, then flung his arm out, reached toward the table and felt for what he was looking for. When he came across it, he tore it from it's package, peeled back the paper it was stuck to, pulled up his dressing gown sleeve and slapped the nicotine patch onto his left forearm, seeing as his right was already littered with flesh colored circles. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, contemplating if a real cigarette would do the trick.

He turned his head and glared at the figure in the chair across from him.

"As I was saying?" The man raised an irritated eyebrow and Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"How's the diet, dear brother?" He retorted, turning his head back to ceiling.

"Fine. Now, I was able to keep your involvement unknown from the events of two nights ago. I trust you won't speak of this to anyone? Lestrade obviously knows you were there but he is choosing to look the other way seeing as you assisted in the evidence for the arrest. It will only make him look better for his career goal of becoming a detective. But you cannot continue this…activity."

Sherlock didn't respond. He closed his eyes again and waited, knowing Mycroft was far from finished.

"You are not a vigilante, Sherlock, you cannot simply walk into a burglary at random and save the day, so to speak." Mycroft sighed heavily. "That's what the police are for. Let them do their jobs. You need to be focused on school. Enough of these distractions."

Sherlock snorted but made no other comment.

"Now, do we need to discuss your recent, ahem, dalliances with a certain chemistry student?"

Sherlock froze at the mention of John, and while he did his best to recover quickly, he knew Mycroft didn't miss it.

"Oh my, have I struck a nerve? You must like this one."

"His name is John, Mycroft, but I know you already knew that."

"Mm, yes, John Watson. Currently in his pre-medical years, striving to become a doctor. From a rather unimpressive and very neglectful family, no?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Oh don't scowl. What are your plans with this young man then?"

"He's my student and we've become friends."

It was Mycroft's turn to snort. "Don't pretend to be obtuse, brother dear, it's a terrible color on you."

Sherlock turned and glared at his brother. "I will handle it."

There was a long silence, then Mycroft rose, scraping his umbrella casually across the floor as he strode to the exit. Sherlock waited, knowing full well his brother would have parting words.

"You know better, Sherlock. I trust you'll do what's right."

As the door closed, Sherlock bit back an irritated growl. He didn't want to give Mycroft the satisfaction, but how dreadful it was to know that even his own brother knew he couldn't give John what he needed. He was sure Mycroft knew all about yesterday morning's incident from his damned cameras placed strategically outside the door of Sherlock's flat. Surely he witnessed John helping Sherlock home, staying in his flat for God knows how long, taking care of him like he was some sort of weakling.

Sherlock silently fumed up at the ceiling, tugging his dressing gown around him. He was debating another patch when he heard a soft knock on his door. He lay very still as though the person on the other side of the door may see him inside, and waited for them to leave.

Another knock came, a bit more insistent this time and Sherlock threw himself off the couch, storming to the door, already planning to tell whatever solicitor was there to bugger off, when he swung it open and found a very pink John Watson standing in his doorway.

"Jesus Christ, finally, it's bloody freezing out here mate," John grumbled, making his way past a shocked Sherlock before he was invited in.

Sherlock frowned for a moment longer then closed his door, noticing that yes it was very cold, and turned back toward the main room to find John making himself comfortable on the couch.

"I brought breakfast," he said nonchalantly, not looking up as he opened the bag he apparently brought with him. "I need to eat something after the night I had. Mike and Link were supposed to take me out and ended up getting too drunk at home to go anywhere. I ended taking care of them all night. Couple a wankers, my friends."

Sherlock stared at him, not moving from the door for a moment and then narrowed his eyes.

"I'm fine, John," he snarled. "You don't need to come here and," he waived his arm at the food, "take care of me. I'm not a child."

John turned to look at him, an amused smile playing on his lips. "I so wish you could see yourself saying that with the way you look right now. How about you sit down and eat?"

Sherlock crossed his arms defiantly. He couldn't allow this to go on any longer. He didn't need to be babied like some ingrate. Yesterday was bad enough. He wouldn't allow it to happen again.

To his irritation, John laughed. "You're really not helping your case," he giggled, and turned back to his breakfast.

Sherlock hesitated, dropping his arms and looking around. What was he supposed to do now? If he defied any longer, it would prove his point wrong, but if he gave in then he lost. Right? Why was everything so confusing with John?

"Eat," John said again, still not looking up as he settled both their meals on either side of the table.

Sherlock scowled once more then stormed to the chair Mycroft had been occupying shortly before and sat down stiffly.

"Would you relax? I just wanted to make sure you were alright. In my defense, I asked you to let me know you were fine and you didn't. What other choice did I have besides stopping by? And no, I'm not checking up on you because you're a child, I'm checking because I'm a big softy who worries about everyone far too much all the time. I'm a gigantic worrier. Does that make you feel better?"

Sherlock glared at him a moment longer, knowing that wasn't the truth at all. John wasn't a worrier for everyone. He was a concerned, kind soul who cared for his friends and who one day would care for his patients. That fact didn't do much to ease Sherlock's irritation but he didn't know what else to do with himself so he started picking at the food John brought.

"Thank you," Sherlock startled himself as he spoke, unaware he was planning to say anything. He took a deep breath. "Yesterday…" he cleared his throat, "That was, um, good of you."

Sherlock didn't look up but could feel John radiating warmth in his direction. He tried to keep himself from blushing, hating how vulnerable he had been and letting John see him like that. He reminded himself for the tenth time not to let it happen again.

"Ah, you would have done the same for me," John said casually, clearly picking up on the fact that Sherlock didn't say things like that easily and trying to ease the tension his words left in the air.

Sherlock pondered that. Would he have? If he saw John stumbling through the park, would he have taken him home? Made him change his wet clothes so as not to catch a cold? Would he have bandaged any injuries John had?

The answer of yes surprised Sherlock. Yes he would. If he had the opportunity to care for John like he had for him the day before, he absolutely would. If John needed him for anything, he would be there. No questions asked. Even the hypothetical thought of something happening to John hurt so deeply to even think about and Sherlock shuddered at that unexpected reaction. And suddenly he was making silent promises to himself. Nothing could ever happen to John. He'd make sure of it.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked abruptly as he stood, needing desperately to distance himself a bit after those realizations he'd just happened upon. He needed to step away for a moment, catch his breath, get himself in control. He'd been so irritated and angry that John had seen him in such a fragile state the morning before. He had been in the process of devising a plan since he woke to gain back the upper hand in their relationship, keep things in his favor, in his control. But now here John sat, showing up with a meal, being his warm, sweet self and making it all seem so easy. Easy to care, easy to trust, easy to let his guard down. And Sherlock's fierce thoughts of protection toward this boy, the need to know he was all right was too much. He'd never cared for someone like this. He'd never cared about anything like this.

"Tea sounds great," John was saying as Sherlock took off to the kitchen, his dressing gown flowing behind him as he ducked around the corner. He wasn't even sure if he had tea, but he did have a kettle he could boil water in that he could keep busy with. He flipped it on and took a few deep breaths, closing his eyes and trying to regain his composure as he gripped the counter's edge. He let himself go into his mind for a moment, searching for something else to focus on, something not as heartbreaking as something potentially happening to John.

He was so deep in though, he missed his name being called until a hand was settled on his shoulder and he jumped almost out of his skin at the unexpected contact. He whirled around to find John, all too close, eyebrows creased in concern.

"Are you okay?" John asked softly, his cheeks still twinged pink from the cold, his features soft with worry.

Sherlock's breath caught deep in his chest as he looked down into those dark blue eyes, then found his gaze on John's lips, his own falling open subconsciously. He never wanted anything to happen to this boy. He wanted to him to stay here. Stay with him. Stay safe and sound.

John's pupils dilated at the unexpected attention. "Sherlock," he whispered and that was all it took.

Sherlock's hands came to John's cheeks, desperate to warm the pink out of them and bent his head just enough to capture John's lips with his own. He pressed delicately, feeling how soft they were, exactly like John's lips should feel, brushing over them, caressing them against his own. He took a step closer, pulling John to him as he pressed his lips a bit harder now, slotting John's bottom lip between them and tugging gently. John moaned softly and Sherlock took the opportunity to pry his lips apart, running his tongue across the bottom until he could delve inside, sweeping across John's own tentative tongue and stroking against it, eliciting the softest of sounds from John's lips.

He felt John's fingers digging in to his hips, holding on for dear life, all but melting against Sherlock as he accepted everything he gave him. Sherlock slid his hands down John's neck, feeling the soft grey jumper he was wearing beneath his fingers, so warm and inviting, so John. He ran one hand behind John's neck, securing him against him, probing his mouth like his life depended on it and John clung to him, pressing himself harder and harder, desperately keeping up.

Sherlock lifted John onto the kitchen table without thinking and wedged himself between John's thighs. John groaned, spreading his legs welcomingly and gripped tighter, hanging on to Sherlock's dressing gown like he may fall if he let go. Sherlock was almost desperate now, pressing harder and deeper into John's mouth, then his cheek, then his jaw, running his hands all over his body, down his back and to his thighs and then back up. He placed open mouth kisses to John's neck, licking and sucking hard, being driven mad by the sounds coming from John's lips.

"Sherlock," John murmured in his ear like a prayer, gripping at Sherlock's neck, one hand sliding into Sherlock's hair. "I've w-wanted this since the first t-time that I saw you."

And just like that, John's words cleared Sherlock's lust hazed brain. Those almost dirty but just sweet and innocent enough words brought him right back to reality, right back to why this was the absolute wrong thing to be doing, right back to why he was all kinds of wrong for John.

The voice was back. Screaming and taunting, reminding Sherlock of all his inadequacies, all the things he could never give, not because he didn't want to but because he couldn't. Reminding him that even Mycroft knew how deeply he would fail John Watson if they went down this road. Reminding him that he would never ever be enough.

He jerked back and stared into John's wanting, trusting blue eyes and turned away, internally cursing and slapping himself.

"S-Sorry," John stammered. "I thought-"

"I can't," Sherlock cut him off, throwing a shaky hand against the wall to steady himself. "Don't you see, John I-...I can't give you a proper relationship."

John cleared his throat and slid off the table with a soft thud. "Hey," he said, a forced laugh following the word, "you know, we're just... just having some fun, you know..." It would have been clear to an incredibly stupid person how much John did not mean what he just said.

Sherlock whirled around to face him, feeling his face darkening, anger burning in his throat. "Fun, John?!" He spat. "Is that all you think you're good for? All anyone would want you for? Some fun? I don't... I'm not...I want you to have...Youdeserve...everything, John and I can't...I can't. I can't."

"What are you talking about, Sherlock? I don't understand." John spoke softly as though he were taming a wild animal and Sherlock ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He turned his back, straightened his clothing as best he could and schooled his features. When he turned back, his cool demeanor was written all over his face. He saw John physically recoil.

"This was a poor indiscretion on my part, John. This is not an appropriate situation for friends to be in, and I apologize for my lapse in judgment. I think it would be best if you leave. Now."

"No, don't do that, Sherlock, please-" John started, taking a step toward him and reaching out a hand. Sherlock took a step back.

"Don't, John. Just go."

By the grace of God alone, Sherlock was able to stay standing as John's blue eyes shined wetly, chewing at his bottom lip in an attempt to keep the tears from falling. He looked down at the floor, blinking furiously and Sherlock took the opportunity to lean against the wall.

"Okay," John murmured. "Okay, I'll just-" He hustled out of the kitchen, scooped up his jacket from the couch and hurried out the front door.

Sherlock fell against the table, slinking down to the floor, falling hard on purpose, wanting it to hurt, and bit down a deep sob that was threatening deep inside his tightened chest.

**I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Thank you for supporting this story and reviewing and following, I so appreciate it! I'm doing my best to be quicker with updates, I know this wasn't the nicest way to end a chapter! Hopefully more to come this week!**