*A special thanks to Dramaandfluffsucker since15 for favoriting this story! Also, hit 2,000 readers/viewers with that last chapter! It makes me so happy to have so many people reading and following 14 FOLLOWERS!

Sherlock gazed down into the younger man's eyes. They looked years older than the last time, other than last night, the two had met. The detective knew that his leave of absence had caused this, and he hated himself, and Moriarty for it. He felt the gentle touch of the doctor inspecting his cheek. Though it hurt a bit to touch, the feeling of John's fingers on his face was incredible. Unconciosly, he leaned in.

Sherlock saw at once that John was taken aback by the sudden proximity of their faces. The detective searched for the body's signs that John liked him. He could feel the erratic pulse of the other man, but there was something missing. No dilated pupils. John didn't want him like that. Quickly, Sherlock improvised his way out of the situation.

"So what is the diagnosis on my cheek, Dr. Watson, did you manage to crack it or is it merely bruised?" Sherlock said, rather lamely.

"Unfortunately, I do believe that it is cracked" John whispered as a wave of disappointment flooded over him. What the bloody hell? Why am I disappointed? I AM STRAIGHT! With this thought, John shook his head, pushed past Sherlock, and scampered down to the kitchen to make himself some tea. Maybe this will clear my head John hoped.

Sherlock stood there, not knowing what to do. John rejected him, again. He felt an overwhelming sorrow flood over him, so he went downstairs, got his violin from the sitting area, traipsed into his room, locked the door, and started eliciting some of the most melancholic sounds that his instrument was capable of producing. Sherlock let himself get caught in the music. As the waves of sorrow ripped through him, the music would build to a thunderous screech. Then as he would think of John, it receded and morphed into an unbearably sweet lullaby. Then thoughts of the fall would intrude, and the music would be full of diminished chords that spoke of unfinished business, and would jump up and down the octaves, then slowly fall.

He worked through his emotions until he came to a conclusion. He put down his violin, and sat upon his bed. He had an outcome, now he just needed a plan. He sprawled out on his bed, tented his hands beneath his chin, and prepared to go to his mind palace.

Sherlock arrived at the opening gates of his mind castle and glanced up to admire the size of his memory. It was rather impressive. He smiled to himself as he imagined the mind castles of the idiots that surrounded him, how small and puny they would be in comparison. He clamored his way to the wing specifically for people. He traipsed down the corridor to the door at the end of the hall. He opened it and started along the breeze way that led to the second smaller structure associated with his mind castle. This was John's mansion. Here, he stored everything he new about John, and nothing else. The inside resembled their flat, but with many more rooms, and on an immense scale.

He headed for the upstairs, where all the rooms were related to John's dating history. He paused as he reached the top and glanced around, searching for the right door. It was three doors down from where he stood and painted green. The plaque on the door read: Yes. This was where Sherlock kept information that pertained to what John like in his previous dates, and how to get him to say yes to a date. Sherlock walked in, and prepared himself for the time he would spend in this room. He went to the filing cabinet with information about John's girlfriends. It was mostly empty, as he deleted them out of jealousy. He grabbed the few files he had and sat at the nearest table. He started with Sarah, as she seemed to be the most successful of John's attempts at dating. Why did he like her? Well she's a woman. Strike one for Sherlock. She works in the same field as John. Strike two for Sherlock. She cared for others. Strike three for Sherlock. Angrily, Sherlock flipped the table with the file on it over. ow could John like Sherlock when he had already liked someone so different? Maybe that is the key...difference. That relationship didn't work out, obviously, so what differences do I have that could work in my favor?

Sherlock pondered this, straining into the dark part of his mind where he seldom wished to tred, the part where he stored information on himself. He entered the dungeon like room that was accessed by a winding staircase from either building that led deep into the ground. Once there, he did not wish to stay long. The damp dark room was lit only by a single torch on the wall that cast flickering shadows into the corners of the room. Each shadow brought with it a thought. As he entered the room, each shadow coalesced into a visual representation of its idea. He sorted through the shadows, looking for what would be helpful and what would not. A picture of a brain, alight with activity loomed up in front of him. His vast knowledge of important things. This is definitely an advantage. So he moved it the left of him. Then he came across a picture of him sitting on a throne that was sitting atop a mound of people. Arrogance, definitely not. So that one he shoved to his right. He then saw a snapshot of the two of them running after a cab. The adventurous lifestyle he lead. Definitely a plus with John. Left it went. Sherlock continued this sorting until he reached a dark corner. He felt something reach out from the depths where the torch light didn't reach. It grabbed hold of him, and dragged itself out into the light. Sherlock stared in horror as the shadow morphed into a vision he hadn't seen in a long time. It was himself, doped up on cocaine, almost to the point of overdose, holding a knife to his thigh. He could see the red dripping down from the cut he had just self inflicted, and the pure ecstasy in his eyes from the incredible high he was on. Unconsciously, his hand slipped down to his thigh, where his scar from that dark time still remained, hidden by his trousers. Sherlock turned on his heel and sprinted away as fast as he could. If he stayed too long, those dark memories would over take him, and pull him back down into a world where he would be so repulsive to John, that his best friend would leave him. For good.

Sherlock snapped out of his mind castle at this point, eager to get far away from those temptations. Sherlock swiftly got up, peeled of his clothes, got into his pyjamas and curled up onto his bed. He had been in his mind castle longer than he thought. It was now two in the morning. He was confused again after his escape, and needed more violin time. He let the music wash over him, and was lost in it. Eventually he had resorted all his feelings, so he went out, still completely unsure what to do about John, knowing only that he had to tell him about his true feelings. Truth usually worked with John, so he resolved to just go and do it. He went to the sitting room, where he had deduced that John would be, since he didn't hear him going up to his room. And there was John. Asleep. Sherlock sighed. He shouldn't wake John up, that would just make him angry. So instead, Sherlock grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, on which he wrote:

John,

Do you like me? []Yes []No

Love, Sherlock

He had seen that on some show once, and strangely had not deleted it. He folded the paper and wrote John's name on the outside. He placed it gently on John's chest, caressed his face, and went back to his room. Here he relocked his door, curled up on his bed, and proceeded to fall asleep.

When he woke up in the morning, he glanced over at his door. There on the floor, was his not from the night before.