*I'm trying to break through this bout of writers block that I am currently stuck in and well I was angry so I channeled angry John.

On a happier note: GOOD GOD! OVER FOUR THOUSAND VIEWS! WOW! *fangirling commences* Thank you! I couldn't ask for a better bunch of people! I love you all!

Big shout out to my brilliant friend Nameless-Sufferer! She is an amazing and her stories are very well written! If you want something to read, go see her stories and enjoy.

Now on to angry John...

Oh bloody Hell pull yourself together John!

I am on a date but for some reason I'm not on this date. My mind in wandering and I can't make myself focus on the girl in front of me.

She is gorgeous. Big green eyes, softly tan skin, lovely long brown hair and her legs! I can go on and on about her legs. She is a vision yet I can't keep myself interested in her.

My thoughts keep going back to my flat mate, my incredibly arrogant and completely amazing flat mate. I had woken this morning with anticipation of coming on this date. I was mostly excited about the probability of getting laid, what can I say. It had been a while since I had gotten any action.

It all turned south when that absolute git decided of all mornings to strut around in nothing but a very revealing bed sheet.

I am not gay!

I am not homophobic by any means but I had always been attracted to everything feminine especially creamy long legs. When it came to Sherlock Holmes well…he is different. Yes, amazing and intelligent, a down right genius but arrogant and at times incredibly thick. How have I come to this? How have I moved from craving the opposite sex to craving my flat mate?

Even in this little café, having a quiet and intimate lunch with a beautiful woman, I am stuck on the curves of Sherlock's body outlined by the sheet and the scent of his unwashed self. It wasn't body odor but just his plain natural flavor…

Stop that!

I chide myself and turn my attention back to…Maria? Margo? Shite…

She is still talking and has been the whole time I have been absent. I caught a few words "Flat," "Job" but nothing stuck. Her voice was gravel compared to the warm baritone of one consulting detective.

Damn it! God damned bastard!

I knew what I need to do and I feel somewhat guilty. Mary or Marnie seemed like a nice girl but I can't do anything with her especially when my thoughts are fully occupied by someone else. Morally unfair.

"Mya, I got to stop you there," I start and Martha or whatever her name is frozen her mouth hanging open with an unfinished word. "I have to go," I say and she blinks a few times, "I'm sorry I wasted your time but I have got someone I need to see." I stand and give an apologetic smile before grabbing up my coat. I toss a few bills on the table for my untouched meal and turn to leave.

"It's Anna,"

Anna! How had I gotten M names?

Oh well I doubt I will ever see her again anyway. I don't acknowledge I had heard her on my way out. In a flash I am in a cab and speeding towards Baker Street.

I have gone insane that was the only explanation. I feel betrayed by my body! I sit in the back of the cab grumbling angrily under my breath. I had ruined a perfectly decent date and for what, cold distain from a sociopath?

Great! Wonderful plan John! You really are an idiot.

Sherlock could be a good person but he quickly reverted to the sociopath façade. I know he's not a sociopath but Sherlock doesn't seem ready to leave that nonsense behind. I know this, I live with this and yet here I am pinning like a love struck uni girl!

"Bloody bastard." I mutter to myself wiggling lower in the seat and glower at the floor.

I am irrationally angry and it's directed at Sherlock. Why was that massive prat so irresistible? He was nowhere near boyfriend material.

Boyfriend, partner…either way Sherlock was none of those.

"Baker Street." The cabbie announced turning to look at me.

Muttering curses I roughly count out the fare and hand it over.

"You alright mate?" The driver asks taking the money.

"Yes, no…I don't know. I have to go deal with a twat." I reply.

The cabbie nods and gives a smile, "Good luck with that."

I return the nod and clamorer out of the cab. The car drives away and I'm back to a burning rage.

Curling my fists and stomping towards the flat, I jerk the door open and go inside. I can hear Sherlock's lovely violin singing upstairs.

"Git." I hiss as I stomp up the stairs.

I throw the door open letting it slam against the wall, the violin stops but I don't look. I shut the door and shrug off my coat to hanging it on the hook before loudly going to the kitchen where I loudly begin to make tea. It takes a lot for me to stay angry through tea making when it's usually what calms me down.

In an effort to keep the anger I grab a nearby mug and throw it at the wall. Thick glass shards hit the ground with audible thuds. Not my brightest moment but I would rather be angry at Sherlock then what I really want to feel.

"Bad date?" The low baritone grounds me and my anger wanes.

Wait! No! He's the one you're angry at, remember? Rein yourself in soldier.

The order from my subconscious is clear. I turn and glare at the man.

He is perfection standing in nothing but sweats. His pale chest dusted with a light coating of dark hair. The long expanse of neck trailing up to the sharp features of his face, dark curled hair halos his head dipping just below his ears. Those eyes; that are a rainbow of colors and damnable cheeks! Pouty cupid lips…long musician's fingers.

Sherlock is leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded elegantly over his chest, a small smug smirk.

Shite! Stop!

The anger flares anew. He knows! He knows exactly what he's doing! Virgin my arse! He's a god damn tease!

Without a word I tear my gaze from Sherlock and stomp for the stairs to my room. I stay there for the rest of the evening ignoring the grumbles of my stomach and the persistence of my bladder.

The next morning I wake to what feels like a hangover. I had a rough night. Dreams of Sherlock plagued me through most of my dreams and left me thoroughly exhausted. I had dreamed of Sherlock on and off since coming to live in the flat but it was now ridiculous.

My pounding headache is almost enough to keep me in bed but the roar of my stomach and the sandpaper of my throat weren't going to be ignored anymore. Flopping out of bed I pull on a shirt over my bare chest before stalking downstairs. I know I look horrendous but I don't care.

My anger is back and my body is radiating with it. I dive into the bathroom before I encounter a certain consulting detective and relieve my abused bladder. I ignore the sleep deprived reflection in the mirror as I leave the bathroom and into the kitchen.

A shuffling in the living room alerts me to Sherlock's presence, not that he needs to make a sound for me to know he was there. I am more attuned to Sherlock than I am to myself.

Forcing myself to ignore the other man and failing miserably, I start water for tea and go about making eggs and toast for breakfast.

With food done and tea on the table I sit placing a plate for myself and out of habit one for Sherlock.

"Oi food." I yell buttering my toast.

"Not hungry," came the response.

I let the butter knife clatter loudly on to my plate as I tighten my fist. I close my eyes as the anger boils with new heat. "I didn't ask, get your arse in here and eat." I snap using my captain's voice and keep my eyes closed until I hear the scrapping of chair legs on wood.

My headache beats rhythmically as I open my eyes.

Sherlock is looking intensely at me I can almost feel the mind-reading eyes clawing out my every thought. He is shirtless as he was the night before and I have to keep myself from staring.

"I said eat, stop staring." I growl chomping at my toast and look to the window nearby.

Bright, burning sunlight filters in between the curtains and I cursed it. The food in my mouth turns ashen and yet my stomach grumbles in hunger. I force myself to eat the toast before starting on the eggs. They are rubbery and the pepper on them is unpleasant. I can't get myself to eat this. I set my fork down and push the vile substance away.

"Is there a problem?" Sherlock asks half way through his own plate.

Instead of answering I stand and head back to my room. I can't stand to be in the room with him, not when my attraction is so obvious.

"Married to his work." I mutter as I throw myself on to my bed and bury my face in my pillow.

My mind drifts back to the incident with The Woman, Irene Adler.

Oh how jealous I was. I didn't even realize it until Miss Adler pointed it out. That's when I noticed the blooming attraction I have for Sherlock. It started with the small smile that I only had the privilege of seeing or the bouts of laughter I pull from him. It was the annoying little things. Yes, even the shooting for the wall and the smiley face. I fell further and further.

At first I could ignore it but it seems now I have reached my limit. I can't ignore the painful tightness in my chest every time he enters the room or the insufferable smile he puts on when I praise his deductions. It's absolutely ridiculous, a man my age hitting rock bottom with love.

I groan loudly into the pillow. Love, god how cliché! In my younger years I wanted nothing more than to settle down and have a family now all I want is for Sherlock to look at me and to know he feels the same for me as I feel for him.

"John?"

I freeze. Sherlock's voice is in my room and if his voice is in my room then the whole man is in my room…Christ!

"John, I know you are awake."

My anger rears up. Of course I'm awake! Who could sleep with the torture I am living? "What do you want Sherlock?" I snap. I really don't want to take my anger out on him but Sherlock just keeps showing up.

"I am curious what you are so angry about?" Sherlock asks and he's closer I can practically feel him standing over me.

"Why do you care?" I hiss.

There is silence and then a weight settles on my bed next to my leg. He's not touching me but the heat from his skin is burning the inches between us. I don't need to look to know he is still shirtless. I don't move from my pillow as I shift my legs a bit from him.

"John," the voice is commanding and I want to look but my will power is stronger, I keep myself in the pillow.

"We have lived together for a while and I have found myself aware of your routines as well as your emotional responses but last night's and this morning's distain is nothing I have seen from you. It is alarming and I wish to know what the problem is so as I can fix it and have you return to yourself." The words are so calculated and organized like a robot.

This is the man you want John?

Sadly the answer is yes.

"Sherlock, get out of my room." My voice is low and sounds rather exhausted then the threat I'm attempting to convey.

"John I will not go until you tell me what I can do to end your tedious emotional rampage."

Wrong word choice on Sherlock's part it sets my blood boiling and the next thing I know Sherlock is on the ground with me on top pinning him.

"Leave." I growl my face inches from his. I am in control of myself enough to keep my reactions from hurting Sherlock but just barely

Sherlock seems a little surprised but hides it quickly as he schools his features to be indifferent, "Your barbaric display of brawn is not enough to frighten me John so I repeat," he brings his face even closer as he whispers the last word, "no."

That's the straw, the thing that spurs me into action. With a twist and a lot of tangled limbs I have Sherlock in a headlock and we are both on our feet. I have anger induced adrenaline racing through my system and have no trouble keeping Sherlock under my control. He hands fight against my arm around his throat but it does nothing to the restraint.

"Sherlock when I say get out I mean get out!" I pull the struggling man to the door and push him out as I release him from the headlock.

I slam the door shut and lock it knowing that Sherlock could pick it with ease but I'm egging for a fight and silently dare him to cross me.

He doesn't.

I spend the rest of the day in my room and hear nothing from the floor below me.

Making my way down the stairs the next morning I don't see Sherlock anywhere and his bedroom door is shut. It's a relief really, not having him in the room when I'm trying to stay angry.

I feel my body relax slightly as I go about making tea. With my back to Sherlock's door I almost miss the quiet sound of the door being opened. I ignore it and just let my senses follow Sherlock's presence into the living room.

With the tea hot and steaming I fill two cups and go about making them up to each of our preferences. I feel slightly proud of the job on the tea and instantly feel ridiculous.

It's tea not a marriage proposal!

Quit right! Contain yourself man.

Gathering up the cups I proceed to the living room.

Sherlock is in his chair pretending to be in his mind palace. I say pretending because I know when he's faking by the strained furrow of his brow that is so subtle anyone would miss it but I know him all too well.

"Here. Tea and stop faking I know you're not in your mind palace." I snap thrusting the cup into his hands.

That's when I notice.

Sherlock is dressed in the same sweats from the day before and a stained grey shirt with his favorite blue scarf wrapped tightly around his neck.

Scarf, inside during the spring?

"Sherlock what is with the scarf?" I can't help but ask irritated by the annoyance.

He flicks his gaze at me while he takes a stalling drink of tea. I glare at him knowing mine isn't as effective or infamous as his.

"I was cold." It's a weak lie and we both know it.

I roll my eyes setting my cup on the coffee table. "Rubbish now the truth." I say and he gives me that glare.

He's like a cat with its fur raised.

The thought don't help nor do the mental imagine that accompanies it.

"It's nothing John just cut myself shaving," my doctor mode is instantly engaged.

I move to his side and reach for the fabric Sherlock bats my hands away. Angry I grab the hands and pin them so he can't do it again.

The scarf comes off easily and reveals no mere cut but massive dark purpling bruises, "What the bloody hell?" I curse.

Deep muscle bruising, it's a wonder how Sherlock is even holding his head up straight. The bruising encircles his entire neck. I look closer before realizing.

I did this.

I created these bruises.

I can make out the impressions my arms made on the skin of his throat.

Nausea washes through me and I'm falling to my knees staring at the sickening purple.

"Sherlock…"

What can I say?

What could I do to fix this?

I had hurt Sherlock and for what because I am angry and sexually frustrated?

Nothing, absolutely nothing!

There are tears in my eyes looking at the cruelty before me, what I had done?

"John." Sherlock's voice was tight.

I can't look at him not with those horrible stains embedded in the normally porcelain flesh and I can't look away from them.

Sherlock didn't deserve them and I didn't deserve him not when I had done something terrible like this.

"Sherlock…I..I…" I can't form a sentence; no words can properly get my apology across. Nothing I can say will make this right.

"I should go, I shouldn't be here. Not when…not if I…" Why is it so hard to speak to him?

"John," Sherlock's hand is touching my shoulder but my eyes won't leave the bruises.

"Sherlock," I manage to get that out, "I'm…sorry…" and cue the tears.

The tears that leave my face aren't only for the pain I had caused Sherlock but they were for my own frustrations and my selfishness. They were for everything I had put Sherlock through because I am afraid to love him.

Yes, love. I love Sherlock bloody Holmes.

But these bruises weren't love, they are cruel and disgusting. I am disgusting, I am a monster.

I somehow find the strength to stand still fixed on the bruises. "I…can't…I…" That's me in a broken sentence. I can't. I turn to leave finally able to tear my eyes from the bruises but Sherlock's hand slides into mine and stops me.

The warmth of his fingers and the softer skin then my calloused digits send sparks through my system. It's a live wire and I feel somewhat calmer though I don't deserve it.

"John why are you so angry? What did I do?"

Sherlock sounds like the multitude of abuse victims I see at the clinic every other week. The words spin me back to him.

"Don't ever think you did something Sherlock. You did nothing to deserves this…It was all me." I flinch as I see the bruises again and turn my face. "I am the monster who did this and you did nothing. I…Christ Sherlock! I am so sorry. I know that doesn't make it better."

My apology is weak when I can't even look the man in the eye when I'm trying though there is nothing I can do. This is a stain as much as it is on Sherlock's skin but unlike the bruise, this stain won't heal.

"Then why are you so angry?"

And there is the question that needs to be answered.

I slid back to the floor gripping Sherlock hand tightly. It is anchor even if the words about to come from my mouth will push him away from me forever. I hold those cool fingers with all the strength I possess.

"I'm angry because…I don't want to feel what I truly feel." It was the truth.

Sherlock's walls protect him, my anger protects me.

The other man slid forward until he was on the floor beside me, "John."

Fingers grip my chin bringing it up. I can't avoid his gaze any longer. Those obscure orbs capture mine and the anger evaporates completely. It is replaced by the sense of falling, weightless with a hard inevitable end. The tightening in my chest numbs the rest of me. I dive head first into those pupils and for a long moment I don't care what happens.

"What don't you want to feel?"

Fresh tears are leaking down my face, "You won't want me here anymore." I say staring down at the sickening violence. Sherlock's fingers bring my head back up, locking his eyes with mine once again.

"Tell me." It's a command but there is no anger and I feel the words surfacing.

"I fought it for some long I tried to keep it inside but on my date…I realized and I knew I couldn't, not anymore. I choose to be angry instead so I didn't feel it, so I wouldn't feel it. Christ Sherlock you are like a disease! A wonderful, amazing, arrogant disease and I don't want a cure."

Sherlock's face is a blank slate and I know I'm an open book.

"I love you Sherlock. I've loved you since Baskerville when I saw how human you could be." I can't stop the tears coursing down my face, "But I don't deserve you and you didn't deserve this." I gesture at the bruises, the things that will haunt my nightmares for the rest of my life.

And there's that smile, that lovely lopsided smile that I melt over. That smile that constricts my breathing and short circuits my brain.

Why is he smiling?

"You really are an idiot." Sherlock says.

My stomach drops and I wrench my hand from his grasp. I knew this would happen! I knew this would be his reaction! The rejection is so violent I feel raw.

"John! You misunderstand!" Sherlock shouts making my ears ring as I struggle to get away from him.

I am subdued easily by his arms as they wrap around me, pinning me.

"Let me go!" I growl. I can't sit here while he mocks me for my confession.

"No you misunderstand and you must listen to me completely." Sherlock almost sounds desperate but I can't see his face as it is buried in my shoulder.

"How can I misunderstand I'm an idiot Sherlock?!" I snap wiggling to free myself.

Sherlock releases a heavy breath, "Will you at least listen?"

Why should I listen? What could he possibly say in the aftermath of his cruel rejection? But of course those bruises stab into me and I feel guilty, my body stills.

"Fine," I can never say no to Sherlock even when I'm withering inside.

His arms loosen around me and he pulls away, "As I have said before you see but you do not observe." His smile is burning but it's not mock or disgust I see but affection and fondness.

I have never seen such a look on his face!

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock leans towards me and pushes his forehead into mine. Our eyes are locked together and our breathing became one.

"Have you missed everything? The effort I've taken to keep you happy," his voice is velvet, "As you know I am not very good expressing myself especially on an emotional level but…" Sherlock hands slid up my arms to grip my shoulders, "I say you are an idiot when I am the idiot as well. I let you believe that I…I felt nothing…" he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly.

I watch his face. I see the ageless flesh creased with emotions, something I have only had the honor of seeing. I wait letting him speak to me.

"These bruises," his fingers brush the purple skin and I cringe, "they are nothing compared to what I've kept from you. Watching you press on and forcing me to watch you date those…women!" His hands on my shoulders tighten to near painful but I don't make a sound. I am more intrigued in what he is saying.

"I can't do it anymore John! I can't stand by when all I want to do is…" Sherlock's words catch and he stares at me.

It's like the moment is frozen and I want him to continue I want to hear the words coming out of his mouth. His eyes are immersed in mine and he seems lost.

"What do you want Sherlock?" The words are quiet and my voice shakes as they are spoken. I couldn't hold them back.

Without a word Sherlock moves in and presses into me. His mouth is on mine and the kiss is nothing but teeth and tongue. It's rough and I can barely keep up when suddenly he's gone. I'm left panting, wondering if I had just imagined the kiss.

Sherlock's hands are gripping the back of my neck now and his nose is pressed against mine, he is panting as well. "You, I want you." He answers pulling back slightly and looks into my eyes.

My heart is soaring and I move in taking control as our lips meet again. The first kiss had been demanding and Sherlock's. This one was mine.

This kiss is slow and fresh. Fingers explore flesh and soft sounds of pleasure escape. I am shocked at the gentleness that Sherlock is giving. He is letting me lead.

I had fantasized about his lips and they are more than I could hope for. They are warm and plush and very responsive! I end slowly, pulling away with my eyes closed letting the moment linger before I open to look at Sherlock.

He's eyes are shut and there is a smile on his face. I swoop in and peck him on the lips.

When I pull back Sherlock's eyes open and he presses his forehead to mine again.

"Can you forgive me?" I ask glancing at the bruises.

His smile is soft and his finger grazes my bottom lip. "There is nothing to forgive, I shouldn't have pushed you."

I take a shaking breath, "I was angry and I should have kept better control of it."

Sherlock's fingers slid through my hair, sending a shiver through my spin. "I don't want you to ever feel that way again."

I can't help the snort that escapes, "Even the great Sherlock Holmes can't prevent that." Sherlock rolls his eyes and snuggles his head into my neck, taking in a deep breath.

"I will do everything in my power so won't feel that way again." It was a promise. Something that I will never hear Sherlock make for anyone else and I feel my heart fill with tightness.

"My John," Sherlock sags against me.

My heart is nearly bursting now and all I can do is hold on to the most important person in my life, Sherlock Holmes.

*Not exactly the ending I was looking for but was still very fluffy.

How did you like angry John? There was a little BAMF John even if it was towards Sherlock.

Reviews are always lovely.