Sherlock had got home late, aching from uncomfortable hospital seats and his head throbbed. He hated seeing John so vulnerable, and it was his fault, he had put John in danger with Moriaty and had thought John would move on when he faked his death, not try to join him… John didn't know he knew about his suicide attempt, but seeing John in hospital, weak from blood loss had forced his hand. They were still in danger in England, so Mycroft had arranged for them to be moved to the US, they were safer here, all cases Sherlock received came through from Mycroft, so they couldn't be traced, and he still stayed in contact with Molly, but he was so lonely here, it wasn't the same and John still resented him for leaving, he could tell.

Sherlock sat down on his chair, equations still littering his white board. He curled up, the stress of the day finally catching up, falling asleep there and then.

A week later

Sheldon still hadn't called. Sherlock was out of cases and bored out of his mind. He missed Sheldon, and wanted to call him, but he couldn't. He was above it, and he had yet to receive a reply from Dr Cooper, so he decided to immerse himself in something else. He'd started drawing again, and the flat was now full of paintings and drawings of murder scenes and scenarios. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed painting, he was glad that Mycroft had saved his old oil paints, he would be hard pushed to find ones of that good a quality here in America. He set down his brush and put aside his now complete painting of a burnt down café, the few remains strewed around, a skewed doorknob, a blackened skull, and a pristine, blood red apple in the centre.

Somehow, he always painted his worst memories.

He decided to have a rest, his fingers aching from holding the brush delicately, and his legs asleep from the lack of any movement for the past 3 hours. He walked slowly to his room, and pulling off his flannel bottoms, wrapped himself in a cotton sheet from his bed. He leant back against the headboard, his hand searching in the gap for his black leather bound book. He found it, pulled it out and stroked the cover, the leather cool underneath his sore fingers. He flicked it open. Inside was a vast array of sketches, some pencil, some charcoal, and some pen. He opened it to a random page, and felt himself shiver involuntarily as he took in his drawing. He'd drawn Sheldon, sprawled out on silken sheets, he was on his back, with another sheet draped across his crotch, but with a bulge in the centre. Sheldon's eyes were half closed, his back arched up, and his arms above his head, bound together. It was a simple drawing, but Sherlock could see every detail in his mind, hear the rapid shallow breathing, feel the tension and almost taste the pleasure. He couldn't help himself anymore, he needed Sheldon, wanted to see him. He slipped down on his bed, spreading out, one hand twisting in his own hair, the other cupping his pulsing crotch, gently palming it. He gasped, he didn't need to stay quiet, John was working an emergency shift. He let out a moan as he pulled at his own hair, imagining it was Sheldon's hands in his hair, Sheldon squeezing his aching cock. His breath caught in his throat as his hand found its way under the thin sheet, the sensations increasing tenfold, his hips started to buck as he felt himself start to twitch. He started to buck against the palm of his hand, almost crying out as the pleasure reached its pinnacle, almost turning painful. He came, hard. Tears squeezed themselves out the corners of his tightly shut eyes, one word leaving his lips.

"Sheldon!"