Sorry this one took longer than I was hoping...I just...couldn't quite get it right. I'm still not very pleased with it, but I've reached a point where I knew it was essential that I got this right, but at the same time I didn't know how to so I had to make do with what I'd gotten do, otherwise I'd never push past this part of the story. xD Still, I hope you like it (:

John didn't realise that Sherlock had left until he heard the door to the flat slam close behind him; even then he barely registered the sound.

His legs felt weak, and so he stumbled towards the bed that was conveniently placed nearby.

His feet failing him he tumbled carelessly onto the bed, not even caring as his left foot collided somewhat painfully with one of the stands on which his bed stood.

From somewhere down below, John could hear the door to the flat swing open again and for a few short moments he wondered if Sherlock had returned to the flat, only to change his mind a moment later when he heard Mrs Hudson tentatively call up the stairs.

John's hand flew to the recorder again to click the thing off, but made no other indication that he had heard Mrs Hudson's words.

After a good few minutes, in which he still hadn't responded, the sound of Mrs Hudson's slipper cocooned feet against the wood of the stairs echoed around the eerily silent apartment.

John longed for the sound of Sherlock's violin playing to break the silence, but corrected himself with a quick shake of his head; how could he possibly see Sherlock now?

He was sure that it must have been a trick somehow; Anderson was a smart man despite Sherlock's dismissal of him, and lord knows he certainly had reason to get back at Sherlock.

Albeit this would have been a slightly unconventional manner; but then, Sherlock never did bother with the 'conventional' and so why should Anderson believe the 'conventional' would bother him.

This bubble of hope was quickly deflated however when John saw the look of horror on Sherlock's face that he was sure was mirrored by his own.

The moans by that point had become far too loud to be ignored, or pushed to the back of his mind, but John was frozen in place (mostly in shock than anything else) and his finger simply refused to click down on the off button.

And then…Sherlock had left without another word.

Other than the fear in his eyes, Sherlock had given no other indication of feeling any form of emotion over the situation, but John hadn't exactly expected him too.

He wasn't one for that sort of thing at any rate, why should things change now?

John had come to realise that the distance Sherlock placed between himself and others was more a defence mechanism than a genuine aversion to friendship (although that was probably a factor, as Sherlock had said before; caring was no advantage.) and this was definitely the type of situation he was likely to close himself away from.

But that was no help for John who was left in the thicket of it all.

"John?" Came Mrs Hudson's voice, ever so slightly quieter than usual confirming John's suspicions that she had, in fact, heard the recording.

John swore to himself as he settled with his back against his more favoured pillow, his fingers still playing lightly with the grooves that ran across the side of the cursed device that had been the cause of his problems.

Eventually, John decided it best to let Mrs Hudson say whatever it was she wanted to say straight away to get it over with, and so he voiced his approval of her entering.

The door was pushed open, and Mrs Hudson took one step inside and carefully closed the door behind her.

Silence still filled the room, only now it was harmonised by Mrs Hudson's slow steps as she paced around the edges of the room, pausing occasionally to feign interest in the many objects that had been placed in various spots around the room.

Only when she had completed one lap did Mrs Hudson finally get to what she really wanted to do; talk. As she always did, John noted with a sigh.

"So…" she began awkwardly, fiddling nervously with her fringe as if expecting John to break down at any minute.

John took pity on the poor women, and so offered a conversation starter "You heard then?"

"It was a bit hard not to," she admitted, her eyes flickering up to meet John's for the first time since she entered the room a slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

John's face, however, held no such mirth.

"Is everything okay dear?" Mrs Hudson smiled encouragingly when John quirked an eyebrow, and she perched herself onto the edge of the bed he was still lying on.

John let out a dry chuckle "not quite." His eyes fell back to the floor.

"May I ask, what isn't 'quite' okay?"

John shook his head in exasperation "Do you really need to ask?" John sighed again.

Mrs Hudson shrugged, but appeared to be fighting back a smile as she turned her body so as to faced John at a better angle "I'm afraid I do dear,"

John debated whether it would be worth telling her that he needed some time alone, but John had long since grown frustrated with hiding his emotions, thoughts and concerns to those around him (and despite what Sherlock claimed, disembodied body parts didn't work quite as well.).

"I don't know what I should do." He said eventually, his thumb flicking over the skin on his other hand as he thought of the best was to phrase what he was about to say "Sherlock…He won't want to see me again after this."

"And why ever not? He could not possibly blame you for all of this." Mrs Hudson indicated the room at large with a flick of her left wrist.

"that's not how the world works for Sherlock," John confided, the urge to smirk at his roommate quirkiness was somehow encouraged by his desire to punch the man (like his body was trying to fight off the violence that often dominated his thoughts whenever he got himself into situations that his mind considered to be dangerous). "God, when did things get so confusing."

"All the same, I doubt he would cast you aside quite so easily." Mrs Hudson reassured, resting her hand upon John's shoulder in an attempt at comforting the Doctor.

It did no such thing, in fact it was most counterproductive as Johns mind raced through the possibilities of what could happen next.

"John." Mrs Hudson said, her tone was both comforting but at the same time demanded attention.

John raised his head ever so slightly to see Mrs Hudson rising from the bed, and making her way back towards the door that led to the apartment beyond. Just before she disappeared back behind the door however, she turned to face John one more time.

"You want to know when things got so confusing, you listen to that recording one more time." She offered one more comforting smile before leaving John to his thoughts.

Frowning, John's eyes fell back towards the recorder, his fingers reaching out to grasp the small rectangular object.

This felt like an altogether bad idea, but John was too transfixed on the memory of the sound to stop himself from pressing play once more, his ears practically begging to hear Sherlock's voice just one more time.

"John" The voice moaned, and John hissed as he felt shoots of arousal rush through his body towards his lower abdomen, and despite himself John left the recording running a great deal longer than was probably considered sane.

"Shit." John swore, throwing himself backwards against the bed when he noticed a certain problem growing uncomfortably fast at the sound of his friends moans.

The moans grew ever louder, and slightly more frantic as the time dragged on, and John could do nothing but picture whatever Sherlock must have been doing for his voice to sound so husky and layered in passion.

"Sherlock," He moaned back into the empty room, his voice falling on no ears but his own as his vision blurred with sleep and dragged him down into the tempting dreams that only dared to circle his mind during the day but ensnared his senses during the night.

Dreams of a certain dark haired consulting detective.