I am so sorry there's been so much of a delay between chapters. Thank you all for your constant support, commenting, etc. The holidays were kind of crazy, and then Reichenbach happened... I had this chapter all planned out and there was a huge amount of angst in the works. I just couldn't bear to torture our boys more than canon already had, so motivating myself to write was nigh-impossible. I'd finally gotten back into my groove when my aunt and uncle's house burned to the ground, and my home life went all sideways.

Things have finally stabilised, and while I'm not quite as thrilled with this chapter as I was with previous ones, it's done and I can move on, finally. Thank you all for being so patient. There will be delicious angry smut in the next chapter to make up for the huge gap.


It's been a few days since John's abduction and the dramatic rescue, and Sherlock is starting to drive John crazy with his constant fussing.

"John, are you positive you're alright after all that?"

"Honestly, Sherlock. I think I liked you better before you started caring so much. You're like a mother hen - it's unnatural." John tries to sound annoyed, but there's warmth and humour in his voice. "Besides, you of all people would be able to tell if I were lying."

Sherlock smiles, that rare, genuine, lop-sided smirk that always melts John's heart. "It's still novel, you know."

"What, caring about someone?"

"Not exactly. Having someone to care about." At this, Sherlock doesn't so much hear as feel the overwhelming waves of emotion pouring from John as he gets up and wraps his arms around Sherlock's lean torso. I love you too, you git.

John shuffles across the sitting room and flips open his laptop. Now shush, I need to figure out how to write about these past few days without causing my friends and Harry to panic.

Sherlock chuckles and settles contentedly into his armchair, revelling in the quiet domesticity of it all. He's surprised at how comforting he finds it. How very not boring.

They've been sitting together in peace, John working on his blog and Sherlock poring over some vintage chemistry textbook more out of curiosity than for any legitimate edification, when it happens. His head is suddenly filled with a distastefully familiar and unstable voice; a sing-song mockery of an Irish lilt, punctuated with emphatic shouts.

It would be touching, your devotion, if it weren't so DULL. That sappy grin on his face, it's revolting. He's making you normal, Sherlock. We can't have that, now can we? You seemed to have so much fun with my last little test, don't you think we should do it again?

With some effort, Sherlock's face slides into a blank mask. He smiles politely at John, who is nattering away about something he's writing on the blog and looking at Sherlock like he's expecting a response. Clearly the attempt to look neutral is failing; John stops mid-sentence.

"Alright, Sherlock?"

"Mm? What? Fine."

Don't lie to me, Sherlock. Something's wrong... John drops into a squat, resting his hands on Sherlock's knees and staring into his eyes. They're dull and grey, not a glimmer of colour or excitement to be seen. I may not be able to hear you, but I can read you like a book by now. Tell me.

"I..." suddenly, the only solution is perfectly clear in Sherlock's mind, and he absolutely hates it. "Not feeling well. I think I'm going to turn in early." John still looks as though he doesn't quite believe Sherlock, but doesn't argue.

"Alright. I'll follow you in a bit, I'd just like to finish up this entry."

Sherlock takes advantage of the time alone to spin around his room like an angry dervish, whipping things out of drawers, pulling clothing out of the wardrobe. He shoves things haphazardly into a small suitcase and nudges it behind the door, slightly obscuring it from view. When John finally comes to bed it's dark enough and he's tired enough that he doesn't notice the room in disarray. Or if he does notice, he doesn't have the energy to mention it.

Sherlock's still quite obviously agitated when John crawls into bed, but he's made the mistake of taking Sherlock at face value and doesn't push the issue. The consulting detective kisses John perfunctorily on the shoulder before curling up, facing away from him. Within minutes, he can hear John snoring quietly, and soon the blurred images of his dreams are giving him some slight semblance of calm. Sherlock stays awake though, lying in bed until he's positive John won't wake up. He slides out quietly and grabs the suitcase.

The following morning, when John wakes, Sherlock's already gotten out of bed. There's nothing particularly unusual about that, but there's an astonishing lack of noise from elsewhere in the flat. John stretches and rolls out of Sherlock's bed and straight into the kitchen. Not only are his lover's coat and scarf missing, but the kitchen and sitting room have been tidied up, experiments stored away and books put back on shelves. His violin case is gone too. John feels his blood run cold as he sees a small folded card on the kitchen table, his name written in Sherlock's elegant scrawl.


John,

I left while you were asleep - it was easier.

I wasn't in the mood to deal with the drama
and tedium of a domestic argument. I'm bored.
I feel stifled. Don't bother looking for me.

I've paid the rent through the month.

-SH


John's knees go weak. He braces himself against the cool tiled wall of the kitchen and slides to the floor. I should have noticed. Something was wrong last night. How did I not notice... He's not thinking for Sherlock's benefit - yet - but the consulting detective can still hear him. He's still close enough to hear the anguished spill-over, John's still out of control enough to let it all flow out of him.

The bedsit where Sherlock's holed himself up is spartan and drab, nearly a mirror of the dreary room John was living in before they met. Something about the strange symmetry pleases him. The consulting detective has been spending the bulk of his time trying to think of a way to stop the implied threat on John's safety, and to a lesser extent, his own. However, every so often he indulges himself, lying on the bed with his fingers templed at his chin, simply listening to the man he just walked out on.

SHERLOCK! John's train of thought becomes pointed, focused. Sherlock snaps to attention. I know bloody well you're listening. I know you. This letter is bullshit. This is some idiotic gesture, isn't it? Your idea of being noble - you're protecting me from what happened. Well, you're an idiot. And then, as though out of spite, he goes silent. For once, Sherlock finds himself incredibly frustrated that John's been practicing, learning to obfuscate his mind. He's far enough that so long as John doesn't dwell on anything too strongly or focus too clearly, Sherlock won't be able to hear or feel him properly.

Sighing, Sherlock throws himself onto the single bed and stares at the ceiling, a portion of his mind focused on dealing with the threats at hand, and another portion constantly attempting to listen for John. Every so often he gets a small snippet and clings to it - water in the desert, oxygen in a sinking ship. No matter how much it hurts.

Was it something I did? Am I pushing you too far, too fast? I'll stop, I swear.

He stays like this for the bulk of the day, the changing of the light filtering through the filthy window is his only clue to the passing of time. Eventually, once the room is nearly black, only the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamps outside highlighting the odd angle or corner of the room, he succumbs to a few hours of fitful, emotionally drained sleep.

The next few days are more of the same. Sherlock barely moves, his body at rest while his mind runs marathon after marathon. He plucks irritably at his violin and debates tracking down something to fill his vintage syringe with, but decides even that's not worth the effort. In the end, he comforts himself with listening to John again. It's not spying, he convinces himself. It's for John's safety.

Sod it, Sherlock. Just come home. We can talk about whatever's bothering you...

John's mind keeps swinging wildly between anger, longing, despondency, and complete and total silence. The silence scares Sherlock more than anything. He constantly finds himself wondering if John really is simply clearing his head, or if the separation is slowly severing the connection they've built up these past few months.

You know what? Fuck you. Go off, be selfish, leave me alone here. Everyone does, eventually.

This one hurts more than all the others, but Sherlock knows it's necessary. He thinks back to the early days, the revelation and the openness, the exploration that came after. It gives him a moment's solace, reliving that first night on the couch, their first kiss, the touching that came after. Awkwardly, he finds himself starting to get aroused and abruptly switches his train of thought to the look on John's face when Sherlock found him in that cargo crate. So tired, so cold, so frightened. He can't bear the idea of doing that to John again. This really is for the best. John's safety is paramount.

Suddenly, his reverie is interrupted by another familiar thought pattern - erratic and jarring.

Your pooooor pet, Sherlock. Your lost little lamb. The alliteration, the animal metaphors, they all make Sherlock cringe. Moriarty's having fun with this, turning it all in to some sick fairy tale. I've been keeping an eye on him for you. Aren't I a good friend? Did you really think that breaking his sad lump of a heart would protect him? Don't you think it would be SO much more FUN for me to just snatch him up now that he's alone and vulnerable, and force you to listen as I turn him against you?

Think of it, Sherlock. Me and little Johnny Watson, against the world. We'd be unstoppable!

Sherlock shudders as he feels the oily oppressiveness of Moriarty's thoughts lift; he was close enough to project, but far enough to scarper off as soon as his point was made. It frustrates Sherlock to see exactly how familiar Moriarty has gotten with his uncanny peculiarity, how he can so easily exploit the range of it, understand so well how it all works. He braces his shoulders, flipping his phone over and over in his hand while he thinks. There's only one thing to do. He opens a new text.


John, I've made a terrible mistake. Can I come home? -SH


Sherlock stares intently at his phone, waiting for a reply. Leave it to John to surprise him yet again, to never, ever be boring. He smiles as he feels the love in John's thoughts spread over him.

Of course, you daft bastard. And bring some milk, would you? We're nearly out.