He vaguely noticed John removing his fingers and shoving Sherlock's clothes back in his arms, including his jacket. His mind was numb, hazy, confused. His knees on the floor, his body confused. He began to think and the first thing he saw was John's concerned face. Angry, aroused, but concerned.

"Sherlock? You've been in a bad state for about ten minutes, are you alright? Sherlock?" John shook him slightly, a soothing hand on his face, and Sherlock blinked hazily.

"I love you," is what slipped out of Sherlock's mouth. They were still for a while. John was in shock. Sherlock wasn't completely back to his senses yet. Suddenly, every sense rushed back. His knees hurt, his eyes stung, the back of his head was killing him, and his stomach flipped in embarrassment and dread. Why had he said that! Sherlock stood up very suddenly and jumped away from John, swaying with dizziness, but then shoving his clothes on in a hurry.

"Sherlock, wait, what are you doing?"

"Leaving, obviously."

"Sherlock..."

"Look, John, I understand that you obviously don't want to move into 221B Baker with me, so I'd appreciate it if you'd let me go back to work."

"Sherlock, I-"

"Really, it's QUITE alright," Sherlock spat in slight anger at himself, shoving his jacket on and rushing towards the door.

"SHERLOCK," John sounded livid, but Sherlock didn't stop. He sped up. John caught up and grabbed his arm, but Sherlock shook him off, stopping at the door and turning around.

They stood there for a second, looking at each other.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry about your friend and I'm sorry that I took it so far." John seemed slightly shocked. "You'll never have the displeasure of seeing my face again, rest assured."

John's anger seemed to get the better of him at this point.

"Fine," he spat, fists clenched. "Go! See if I care. You shoved yourself in here, into my life, completely unwanted, and now, if you wouldn't mind, politely get the fuck out of my house, you arrogant, selfish, confusing…" John clenched his teeth, seemingly unable to continue. Sherlock bit his lips together, looking down, not expecting any different.

"Right," and he was gone.

And the ride home was filled with a dull buzz, the feeling of shock at the end of a fight. This must be what "nothing" feels like. They were nothing to each other. A dull buzz of nothing filling Sherlock's ears. He was nothing to John. When did that matter? When has that EVER mattered?

He clenched his teeth together as he stopped the car in the parking lot of his work building.

When has anyone ever been able to get this close? Why is JOHN so different? What makes HIM so special? Nothing.

Nothing…

Sherlock got out of the van, slamming the door, and stormed inside. His boss was shocked to see him slam the door to his office open.

He didn't even open his mouth. He was through with talking. He shoved a lengthy note into his now former boss's hands. The note included the boss's problems with his wife, information on his daughter's sleeping around, confirming his worrying about his toupee looking stupid, and, finally, stating that Sherlock is leaving for good.

He stormed out before the man even looked down at the note, slamming the door behind him and rushing out to hail down a taxi cab.

The problem was the John DID matter. John wasn't "nothing" to Sherlock. And he certainly wasn't merely a fling. He was the first "something" Sherlock had ever had.

But that was over, and the buzz was filling the taxi cab, looming on Sherlock's face and making the cabbie uneasy.

The only distraction he got was a ding of his phone – a text from the head detective on the case he had been trying to shove his way into. Lestrade.

They were finally asking for his help.

He rushed right over. A very welcomed distraction from his melodramatic mind.

The case was easier than they anticipated, and Sherlock was done by the next afternoon, his mind not on the sleep or food he was lacking, but back on the happenings of the previous day. He dragged himself up the stairs to his flat, one he was sure he'd be kicked out of soon, and attempted a relaxing shower.

Afterwards, Sherlock heaved a sigh and plopped down on the couch. He glanced around the flat from there, taking it all in. This would be gone soon. He might actually have to ask Mycroft for help. John was not even considering it, Sherlock was sure. So much for flatmates. So much for "something;" for someone mattering for once. So much for John.

He rolled over right when he heard the bell go off downstairs. Soon, there were foot steps leading to his flat. He pushed himself up slightly and watched the door. Mrs. Hudson opened it, smiling as usual.

"Oh, you seem to have a guest, Sherlock, dear!" She went downstairs, chuckling to herself. John stood in the doorway, pulling at the sleeve of his jumper nervously.

"Hello." John didn't break eye contact, even though he was fidgeting and his ears were turning red. Sherlock stared for a second in disbelief, and then his eyes gleamed.

"'Hello? Hello- I've been waiting for seven hours, you do realize? I had to skip work, I...'" Sherlock sighed with half a smirk. "'Well, come in, then.'" John smiled and stepped into the flat, closing the door behind him.

AN: I asked a good friend of mine to help me with insults to put in this paragraph, and she suggested the following: "Fine," he spat, fists clenched. "Go! See if I care. You shoved yourself in here, into my life, completely unwanted, and now, if you wouldn't mind, politely get the fuck out of my house, you arrogant, confusing… lily livered deck swabber!" John clenched his teeth, seemingly unable to continue."