This is me in a hotel writing this chapter for you guys. You're welcome.

He didn't remember how long the two of them kissed. It could have been hours, or minutes, or perhaps days. John had no sense of time, but that was far too common around Sherlock. Who knew, maybe the blue-eyed genius had relations with Kronos at one point. The god of time.

However long the two of them went on, John woke up in his own bed, alone, like the night before simply hadn't happened.

And John was tired of waking up alone. Nothing made him feel more unlovable. Like anyone would want to share a bed with a murderer, especially a target. James would laugh at him to think that, but James was a laugher in general. He enjoyed smiling at giggling at others' expense, but James rarely laughed at John, more because of him. John wondered if James ever meant to make fun of him. He never seemed to, but John knew it wouldn't last.

Soon enough, John would make a terrible mistake, and James would hurt him.

John stretched and pushed back the covers, standing up and walking to the door.

Sherlock had his hands on either side of John's face and his torso pressed against John's torso, and John felt so complete, so in tune with everything he'd been missing, all those little things that had been taken away from him as the years went on. Their eyes were closed, but John could still subconsciously see things around him. Sherlock's hands were shaking, and his eyelashes fluttered. John wanted to kiss him harder, but he already was kissing him too hard. He needed this. He needed someone to pretend just for a little while to care about him, to hold him and tell him he was more than what he was even though it was a lie.

John could have inhaled the lies like secondhand smoke from the detective's mouth.

"Sherlock," John whispered as the other man pulled away. "Sherlock, please."

But Sherlock shook his head and let go of John's jaw, sliding his long index finger along John's cheekbone. "You don't really want me."

"Do you really think that?" John asked quietly, considering he was the one in the wrong. He killed people; Sherlock was so innocent that John couldn't stand to taint him sometimes. The real question was if Sherlock really wanted John. He was the one walking away right now. "Can you even tell me that without knowing my answer?"

Sherlock didn't reply, and John wanted to strangle him here and now. Of course, this terribly stubborn, amazing man before him would be the one person John couldn't kill. "Go to sleep, Sherlock. In your own room, away from me. Just go, and save me and yourself the trouble."

Apparently, Sherlock had gone after that, because John didn't recall anything after that. He knew well enough that Sherlock wouldn't talk about it; they never did. It probably wasn't healthy, but nothing about the two of them was. Killer and victim, falling into each other's arms. Wrong and right, who knew really? Not even James cared anymore.

John dressed slowly and took step after step carefully down the stairs. He didn't want to interrupt whatever conversation was going on down there between Sherlock and DI Lestrade, it seemed. Since when did Detective Inspectors come to people's flats for tea? Lestrade surely had better things to do.

He caught a few snatches of the discussion as he hid behind the door. "Someone planted a pink phone in an envelope addressed to me. This phone isn't the same one, it is a very good copy."

"I thought it was the same one form 'A Study in Pink'." John thought he heard the shrug.

"You read John's blog?" The derisive eyebrow raise and smirk was on Sherlock's face, John knew.

"Lots of us at the Yard read John's blog. It's quite exciting and interesting."

"Also known as romanticized and exaggerated," Sherlock said back, in that dismissive tone he used on Anderson. "I don't understand why he'd do such a foolish thing."

"Not all of us can be as smart as you, Sherlock." Lestrade sighed. "Besides, have you seen the way he talks about you, like you're the only person in the world? I think he's..."

"No, don't even say it," Sherlock cut off. "He doesn't feel that way about me. It's just foolish description, that's all. There's nothing there between us. I don't even think we qualify as friends yet."

John frowned, so much that he could feel the lines in his forehead. Why did Sherlock have to make this so hard? He knocked on the door to the main part of the flat, knowing that he wouldn't be welcome otherwise. Sometimes, he felt like he didn't live here; John was an uninvited guest that Sherlock wanted to leave. Just a traveler, just passing through. No home, not with Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't feel anything for him.

"Come in," he said, and John did, grabbing his cane.

"So, what do you have for us, Lestrade?" John asked, sounding a bit peeved, but not really caring how he sounded.

"A phone from your first case. Not the same phone, but it came from someone who knows the case."

"That could be anybody out of the thousand people who read it. Can you be a little more specific?"

Sherlock gave him a quizzical look, but John glared back. He wasn't in the mood for this. "I think it might be this fan of mine, Moriarty. He reads your blog after all for my cases. He seems unhinged enough to do that."

"What the hell do you have against my blog?" John snapped at him. Sherlock looked surprised. "Whatever, it doesn't matter. I just want to know if the phone rings."

And just then, the phone began to ring. Unknown caller flashed up on the screen, and Sherlock answered it.

"Hello...sexy." It was a woman's voice, and she was crying.

"Who is this?" Sherlock wondered. "Why are you calling me that?"

"I'm...the one...writing. And this...stupid bitch is reading it out."

"What do you want me to do to set her free?"

"You have...twelve hours to solve my puzzle. Tell John...he should really call me. Wink." The woman's voice cut off, and Sherlock slowly put the phone down.

"John, it seems you have an admirer," Sherlock said quietly.

"Hm," John replied sarcastically. "I've never had one of those in London. I feel flattered." Dammit, he deserved to be pissy. Yes, he was being more of a brat than Sherlock, but who cared?

Sherlock cocked his head, subdued. "Are you okay, John?" Wait, what? Since when did Sherlock ask things like that?

"Not really. So, what did Moriarty send you?" John wanted to drop it.

Sherlock turned the phone screen to the best angle. "I've seen this place before," he remarked, staring at the dingy flat with a single pair of shoes in the middle. John definitely recognized those shoes.

James smiled softly at John, motioning to the shoes on the pedestal. "This is all I have left of my school years. Everything else is gone now."

"Are they yours?"

He shook his head. "No. They're the favorite shoes of my childhood bully. He hated me so much and hurt me so much, and so I had to kill him. I didn't know what killing people was like back then. I was only a child. However, that didn't last long. Now, these are all I have left of that person, that person that still believed people could be good."

"Why did you take the shoes?"

James laughed. "Carl Powers stole a few pairs of my shoes. I thought it fit payment."

John walked around the pedestal, watching James' face carefully. "Why are you showing me these now?"

"I killed him nineteen years ago today. It's like a funeral every time."

Only now, James had killed Carl Powers twenty years ago. God, John felt old. But also, this was one of the days of the year in which James beat and battered and shot and tortured as many people as possible. If John had ever seen James sad, it was always today.

"I think that's 221C. How would he have gotten the key to that?" John asked, trying to cover up his silence.

"Moriarty has his ways. He probably snuck in while Mrs. Hudson was on her 'herbal soothers'," Sherlock sniped, running down the stairs and banging on their housekeeper's door. The kindly woman answered him with scarcely a complaint, which was more than John could say since he'd woken up. Soon the basement flat was unlocked, and sure enough, the shoes were just sitting in the middle fo the floor. John wondered how much strength it took James to give those to Sherlock, knowing the shoes would be picked at and prodded and chemically tested. There'd be nothing left of them when Sherlock was done.

Once Sherlock was over at St. Barts, John skipped out on the lab work and headed down the street to where James had arranged a meeting the other day. And John knew this was a hard day for him. But it was always difficult when he wanted to be around James more than Sherlock.

"Hello, John!" James said cheerfully. "You wanna see a picture of my newest bestie? I carved him up all pretty for you! Plus, he's a boring accountant too!"

John didn't say anything, but walked straight up to James and put his arms around him. Moriarty immediately fell silent, curling up into John. "I'm sorry, James."

"I wanted to give the shoes up, it wasn't good for me to dwell." But James didn't protest John's statement. They both knew who was right. "Your day hasn't been ideal either. Sherlock is a stubborn bastard, isn't he?"

"I don't understand him, James. He changes his mind and changes it back, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do to make him happy," John complained quietly, still holding the other man.

"Sherlock has been special for a while, John. That's why I chose you."

The corners of John's mouth turned down as he hugged James tighter. He needed someone to hold, just this once. He could go back to Sherlock and confront him, but after this. Right now, John felt wanted, useful. Somebody knew him better than anyone else, and that somebody wasn't Sherlock Holmes, no matter how much John wanted it to be. James wouldn't judge him or prosecute him for his sins, he wasn't an avenging angel like John's blue-eyed man. James was a man, flawed and wrong and beautiful anyway. Sherlock was almost too good to be true.

"I need to go back to him," John whispered.

James nodded into John's shoulder. "I know you do. Try not to kill him too early."

John laughed, happily for the first time in what felt like weeks. "I won't. Are you going to be alright?"

"Yep. You don't have to worry about me."

"Yes, I do, James."

When John came home, Sherlock was entirely focused on Carl's shoes. John shrugged off his jacket and walked up directly behind him.

"John, I'm working. I only have nine more hours to solve this case."

"I'm willing to bet I can interrupt you for a few minutes."

Sherlock glared at him. "What do you want?"

John glared back. "I want to know why you seem to like me, and then you just throw me out like last week's newspaper. I can't tell whether I've lost my appeal, like I used to be new and interesting, and now I'm old and dull, like you've figured me out, or you didn't like what you saw when you looked at me. I don't care which one it is, not really, because both of them will make me feel stupid and unworthy, but I want to know. I have a right to know why some days I can kiss you, and other days, you treat me as if I'm a dog, trained to come when you call and save your life."

And in reply to that little speech, Sherlock simply stepped forward into John's personal space, putting his hands on John's shoulders. He didn't move, just let the genius shift his fingers back and forth over his collarbone. Why did Sherlock have to distract him every time John wanted to be mad at him?

"You've met someone tonight, someone who left the smell of their cologne on you. You're very finicky about your space, so this was someone you knew well. You've been meeting with him quite a lot as long as I've known you, so a friend then. But you're a loner by nature, so who could have gotten that far in?"

"You did," John remarked softly. "I guess I like specific sorts of people."

"What kinds?"

"The ones that know me without me telling them anything."

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he looked at John. "You think you're worthless. You think that I could never feel anything for you. You think I'm disgusted by you."

"What did I just say?"

"How can you think these things?"

"You've never told me otherwise and I can't read people like you can."

"I just didn't want to get too attached. You might leave me," Sherlock said, finally being truthful.

"I fell off that cliff long ago, Sherlock. There's no going back, not for me." John pressed a kiss to Sherlock's wrinkled forehead and slipped out from under his hands. "Goodnight. I'll see you tomorrow morning, if you want me to."

"I do."

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