The first thing John realised when he woke the next morning was that he had a pounding headache. John swore to himself that he would never drink again. The next thing he noticed was that he wasn't in his bed, the sheets of the bed were far to delicate to be his own standard polyester sheets: no, they almost felt like cool water under his naked form... Naked?! His eyes flew open, it was still dark but the light of the moon was enough for him to see by.

He was in Sherlocks bed, in 221b Baker Street!

Had everything been another torturous dream?

Was Sherlock really dead?

His own heart seemed to break at the thought alone. John turned to look at the alarm clock, that sat on the bedside table at the other end of the double bed- what time was it anyway? That was when John noticed another form lying in the bed beside him.

John's first reaction was to believe that it was Mary: but that couldn't be right. First off this wasn't their home, so why would she be here? Also the fact that this figure was much to tall to be her with dark... Curly... Hair.

Sherlock Holmes was lying next to him, fast asleep! As John's eyes adjusted he realised that the sheets had fallen almost completely off Sherlocks body to reveal that he was, also, naked... Oh god...

John tried to remember what had happened last night but all he could only recall blurry snippets here and there; going out for drinks with Sherlock and Greg, the stripper, getting into a taxi with Sherlock... the next thing he could remember was Sherlock underneath him; shouting no, telling him to '...let me go', crying...

John was horrified. What had he done?! To Mary, to Sherlock? Had he... Rapped Sherlock? John shuddered at the thought that he had done something as vile as that to someone he had claimed to care about? John was suddenly glad that he couldn't remember most of it... He didn't want to know, now or ever!

John slid out of the bed. He looked down at Sherlock... God the man really was beautiful... 'No! After what you've done you have no right to breath the same air as him!' John chastised himself as he saw the, finger tip size, bruises that littered Sherlock torso, arms and legs.

He had absolutely no idea what he was going to do: he just knew he couldn't... Wouldn't stay here. John looked down at his own body covered in crust and cum... He needed to take a shower...

Under the hot water John tried to think what to do but the only thing he could come up with was to get his clothes and leave: where? He wasn't sure. He had to get out, after all, Sherlock wouldn't want him here when he woke up...

Once he was out of the shower, towel wrapped firmly around his waist, John decided to search for his clothes. After a few moments John found his jumper at the foot of the bed, but he couldn't find the rest of his clothes anywhere in the room.

Going out into the living room John found the rest of his clothes at the front door.

Once he was fully clothed John sat down to think about what he would do. He couldn't go back home to Mary. Hell he was supposed to be getting married today, but he couldn't marry her now..., and he couldn't just leave without telling her, right? John let out a sigh of frustration. Okay so he'd go back, tell Mary he couldn't marry her and pack his bags... Then what? He couldn't bare to leave London but staying there would mean the constant threat of running into Sherlock... No he wouldn't be able to bare that! So he would leave London, but where would he go?...To the border, he decided: rent a room there and try to start afresh, away from Sherlock and Mary.

John got up, deciding this was as good a plan as any. As John opened the door he turned back to look at the living room of 221b, trying to commit it to memory. He had and some of the best... and worse moments of his life here. He could remember the first day he had walked into this room, with Sherlock and Mrs Hudson; Insulting Sherlocks stuff: accidentally of course, Greg showing up and asking Sherlock for help, Sherlock asking him if he would like to see some more injuries and violent deaths...

John let out a low chuckle at the memory, closing the door behind him, and rushed down the stairs, he could remember his reply: not realizing, at the time, just what he was letting himself in for. A taxi pulled up and he gave the address, his mind still going through the memory. That one event that had started his new life of crime solving with Sherlock: the life he was now, officially, leaving behind,

'Oh god yes!"

AN: yes I know it's short and sad but I had to put this in... God my Moffat side is really starting to get the better of me in this story...

Ps. beemoh your feeling was spot on ;) And yes you should be scared...