A/N: Aha, so it's been another two weeks... oops? Here's the new chapter. Be thankful you're getting them! I haven't updated my other story since before christmas... But there are a few warnings associated with this chapter.

1. THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS MAJOR VIOLENCE!

2. DON'T HATE THE AUTHOR. YOU ALL SIGNED UP FOR THIS CRAP!

Have fun! ;)

Man or Mouse

Chapter 14: Confrontation

John stood, stunned. His eyes stayed fixed to the back of the detective as he quarrelled with his brother. Though he stood so close the words didn't reach him. Was he…? No, surely not. Not the great Consulting Detective. There was no way he could be-

"John?" He blinked and saw that Sherlock was stood right in front of him, his eyes full of worry and embarrassment. "See, Mycroft? He's not well enough for this. I'm taking him home."

"Sherlock don't be so hasty!" Mycroft argued.

"Can't you see he's barely standing?" With a shock John realised his legs were shaking as was his left hand. He felt a sudden crushing wave of anxiety flood through him. John took a deep, shaky breath, forcing the panic to the depth of his mind. Why was he so afraid?

"Sherlock, I'm fine," John insisted, forcibly straightening his spine. This did not slip the detective's notice. "Mycroft, always a pleasure." He didn't bother holding out a hand. He knew Mycroft wouldn't shake it.

"Most definitely, doctor," Mycroft grinned, his eyes trained on the disapproving scowl his brother was directing at his companion. "Shall I give you the tour?"

Mycroft led them from the parlour down the hallway. He pointed out the staircase which led to the guest bedrooms and Mrs Denton's rooms, the lounge room, home to the enormous home theatre system that seemed oddly out of place in such an old fashioned house, a study with walls lined with books, a small downstairs bathroom containing but a toilet and basin, the kitchens and, at the very end of the corridor, the dining hall. John couldn't help but gape at the enormity of the room. The ceiling, some ten metres high, was painted in glorious shades of yellow with red floral elements weaving across its surface. The expanse was broken up by sections of mosaic windows beautifully depicting biblical scenes. They looked like something from a seventeenth century church, not a twentieth century residential home. From the centre of the roof hung two great chandeliers, much like the ones in the entry hall, casting a welcoming glow over the space. The room was warm despite its size, adding to the inviting atmosphere. In the middle of the room sat a wooden table long enough to seat the Queen's army. Mycroft guided them to one end which was set for three people. Mycroft sat at the head with John to his left and Sherlock to his right. The detective's mood darkened even more as he sat down. He had dropped all pretence of being satisfied by the situation by this point. Mrs Denton brought out the first course along with drinks and Mycroft began to talk.

"So John, how are things at the clinic?"

The conversation started off simply enough; talk of the clinic, cases solved and ongoing, business in parliament, John's blog, Mycroft's diet. The unease in John's stomach began to lift. He ate hungrily but politely as the food was served and talked contentedly about whatever Mycroft brought up. John glanced across the table at Sherlock who had remained silent since John shrugged off his attempt to take him home. His food sat untouched before him and continued to glare alternatingly between his brother and the doctor. John tried to ignore his stubbornness but he felt a stone settle in the pit of his stomach. Soon the conversation turned to the inevitable topic of John's vanishing.

"But where did you go? You should have seen the state Sherlock was in." The younger Holmes huffed dismissively.

"My sister, Harry, had another relapse. We were staging an intervention," John said confidently, laying down his fork.

"Hmm, I might have believed you," Sherlock sat straighter in his chair, his piercing gaze fixing on his sibling. "had you continued to eat." John looked at him, confused. "Your hunger has been insatiable since you sat down. You placed your fork, half way to your mouth, back down once I asked a question which you didn't want to answer meaning the question had turned your appetite. The way you straightened your leg suggests that you are uncomfortable with the question and that it reminds you of the reason for that old limp. Afghanistan and your relative's relapse are two very different topics which means that you're lying though you show no signs of it on your face or in your voice."

"Mycroft," Sherlock warned, now sitting up and fully attentive to the conversation. Mycroft continued regardless.

"That would suggest a seasoned liar, someone who lies often and to the faces of others. Which means this is an old secret. Something at you've been carrying for a long, long time. So, John, care to tell me the truth?"

John sat frozen, his body shaking as he stared wide-eyed at the eldest Holmes. Everything he'd ever tried to keep hidden was being deduced by that cruel malicious man. John felt fear and anxiety rage through his blood. He felt the adrenaline in his veins as his fight or flight instincts kicked in. Everything Sherlock warned him would happen was happening. He couldn't breathe. He needed air. He needed to get out!

"John?" Sherlock tried cautiously, seeing the glaze in his friend's eyes. Mycroft watched with interest as Sherlock tried to coax John out of his trance.

"Or," Mycroft continued. "I could call my friends in the army and ask them about-"

John's eyes snapped into focus. He jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair, and ran from the room. Sherlock called out and ran after him, leaving Mycroft to snicker by himself.

Those two, he thought, are such idiots.

*/*/*/

Sherlock ran out of the hall and into the corridor. His eyes skimmed frantically. Where did he go? Where did he go? A cry so quiet it could have been imagined drifted through the silent space. Sherlock ran towards the bathroom. He called out the doctor's name. the only reply he received was a muffled whimper. Sherlock tried the doorhandle. Locked. He cursed.

"John, open the door!" There was no reply. "John, if you don't open this door I swear I won't eat for the next three weeks!" There was another cry and the click of the lock. Sherlock smiled briefly at his roommates lack of priorities before pushing his way into the bathroom. John lay curled into a ball on the floor, his face contorted in pain but no outside signs of change. Good. It hasn't started yet. Sherlock crouched down and pulled John into a sitting position. He kept one hand on his shoulder to stop him from tipping over and the other on his neck to force John to look at him. "John! John listen to me! You have to fight it!"

"No," he sobbed brokenly. "I can't!"

"Yes you can! You can do this because you are Doctor John Watson! You are stronger than it is! You are the strongest man alive!"

"You don't know… don't know that…" he gasped. He was losing the fight.

"I do! I do!" Sherlock gave John's face a gentle shake, prompting his glassy eyes open. "I know because you're my John Watson who shot a man to save my life. My John Watson that got strapped to a bomb and still only cared about getting me away. My John Watson that puts up with my violin at two in the morning. My John Watson that takes care of me even though I don't take care of myself. The strongest man in the world to put up with the most idiotic. John, that's who you are! That's-"

Sherlock's sentence was cut off by John's crushing lips as he was thrown against the wall. John loomed over Sherlock, his eyes full and hungry, and this time Sherlock was sure. This was his John Watson. John's knee sat between Sherlock's legs, their thighs rubbing together. Sherlock snaked his free hand around John's neck, the other the doctor had pinned to the wall next to his head. Sherlock opened his mouth to John and he darted in, tasting, twisting, exploring until the detective was left breathless. John pulled away ever so slightly. He moved his head next to Sherlock's ear, his breath ghosting over the sensitive skin.

"Just like strawberries." Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He shoved the doctor off him, terror shinning on his face. John stood up, an evil toothy grin on his face, and turned his hands over in front of him like he'd never seen them before. "Never had a human body before," he mused. His lust-filled gaze turned to Sherlock. "This is going to be so fun!" It laughed.

"Bring John back!" Sherlock demanded.

"And why would I do that? I'm so much more fun! Don't you want to have fun, Sherly?" The creature took a step forward. Sherlock kicked out wildly.

"Get the fuck away!" He was beyond angry now. That thing had taken John away again!

"Pfft! I can have more fun out there anyway!" It said, gesturing to the window.

"No!" Sherlock cried as the thing took John's body and hurled it through the glass. That evil sing-song laugh began to fade as it dashed across the yard and away from the house. Sherlock scrambled up and out after it, sprinting through the cold night air. He followed it down the main road and into town. Sherlock thought he'd lost it but then there it was, standing in the middle of the intersection, that same wicked smile on its features. Something didn't feel right. "Give John back!" Sherlock cried.

"Silly, silly Sherly. I already told you." Sherlock blinked. Pain exploded in his stomach. He coughed, the scream stuck in his throat, drowning in the blood welling in his lungs. He looked down. The things forearm stuck out of a growing crimson circle in his middle. It leaned over and whispered into his ear, "I am John." I ripped its hand out and Sherlock collapsed. He gave a horridly wet cough and looked weakly at the figure that stood over him.

"John…" He whispered. The doctor's eyes snapped wide, the smile falling from his face. He looked down.

"Sherlock!" he screamed, dropping to his knees and bundling the detective into his arms. "Oh my god, Sherlock! I didn't mean to… Oh god, I'm so sorry!" Tears were streaming down John's face now. Sherlock's mouth opened and closed a few times like he wanted to say something. "Sherlock, don't. For once in your life, please shut up."

"…Not… your… fault… Nothing… your fault…" He wheezed, blood oozing down the side of his mouth.

"Sherlock," John closed his eyes and leant his forehead against the detectives. "Please, please shut up!" John felt the tears on his face and the shaking in his blood-stained hand. His fault, his fault, his fault! His mind screamed it over and over again. John opened his eyes. Sherlock's were closed. "Sh-Sherlock?" He didn't respond. "Sherlock!" John screamed. The detective remained perfectly still. John screamed in agony. Pain filled his body and mind. He shakily laid Sherlock's body on the pavement. He stood, his legs threatening to buckle under him as he felt the approaching seizure. Sirens blared in the distance.

John took one last look at his best friend and ran.

A/N: Ohh, I'm so evil! I dearly apologise for the wait and for what I just wrote but what can you do? I kind of really want a fan art of John and Sherlock from that bathroom scene now though...

See you guys when I next have time to write!