Sherlock silently approached the occupied table where John sat alone, waiting for his date, some dull woman named Mary.

"John," Sherlock started, his voice breaking. "John, I'm home."

John looked up and gasped. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock gave him a once over and frowned. "John, what happened to you?"

John blushed, embarrassed. "I fell into depression after you left and since then my weight has been fluctuating-"

"No, not that. I meant to say 'What the actual fuck is that on your face?'!"

John frowned indignantly. "It's a moustache. Mary likes it and I needed something that didn't remind me of you."

Sherlock scoffed and looked down at his only friend, face stuck in a cross between disgust and mortification. "Listen, it's been nice seeing you again, but until you shave that fucking monstrosity off of your face, I'm not going back to the flat. See you around John." And with that, Sherlock turned and left the restaurant.

John sat in silence for a moment, and then whispered futilely after the consulting detective, "You don't understand... It was a mournstache."

SURPRISE! That's not the real story for this week, it's just my reaction to the Sherlock S3 Trailer (spoiler alert)!

Comic Con was fantastic, even though the Weasley twins and Captain Jack weren't there on Thursday. I got posters for Doctor Who and Sherlock and a Fire Nation emblem necklace. I also got pictures with some awesome cosplayers, including an excellent Professor Utonium.

Unfortunately for you, you go from OOC Sherlock and my Comic Con happiness to angsty post-Reichenbach Sherlock.

I didn't do it to save Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, or even you, John. I did it because I am, and have always been, selfish.
Don't counter that with "Sherlock doesn't know social niceties" because we both know that's untrue. I've been aware of the polite behaviors and ignored them of my own selfishness.
And now that same selfishness is eating away at you, consuming your wellbeing. For that I can never be cease to be sorry. The guilt is all mine; the fault not in our stars, but in me.
I couldn't stand to see you dead, so I forced it on you to watch me die.
I guess this means I'm not an emotionless machine, but you were right all those times you called me a selfish bastard.

And because these are super short, I guess I'll give ya one more silly one. YOU BETTER REVIEW FOR THESE THOUGH!

And if I haven't mentioned it yet, I own nothing but my new Comic Con purchases.

Sherlock huffed in frustration. He was a man of constant action, confined in one of the smallest places he'd ever been detained in. It had been hours since he entered the claustrophobia-inducing area and John still hasn't come home to find him.
Something must have happened to John, Sherlock decided. I have mapped out his Friday schedule for the last three weeks and he's breaking pattern. Maybe I should text Mycroft? No, too risky, requires explanations and Mycroft would ruin the purpose of this entirely. I'll wait for either John's return or a call from either Lestrade or the kidnapper.
After what felt like ages to the antsy consulting detective, but was in reality two minutes, John's footsteps could be heard echoing throughout the flat. Finally, they stopped when he reached his dresser.
Relieved, Sherlock burst out from his hiding place in John's closet.
"It's a metaphor!" He cried.
John froze, turned to his flatmate, and promptly exploded into a fit of laughter.
Sherlock sat on the floor, confused. "Why are you laughing? Do you have any idea how long I was in there?"
This only served to make John laugh harder. "I'd guess thirty some odd years." Upon seeing Sherlock's pout he stopped laughing and bent down to hug him. "Now come on, I'll go make us some tea and work on finding an equally creative way to repeat this confession, even though I'm sure you already deduced it out of me."
Sherlock stayed put. "I love you," he admitted, focusing on the floor.
John pulled him up and smiled. "Like I said, you've probably already deduced my confession out of me."

These are good dammit, review.