Disclaimer: nothing mine (yet). A.N. I know, I know, I'm late. I had problems with my pc (my parents apparently managed to disable internet connection without realising). Also, I have been in quite the slump about Inked recently. Before, I had an extra chapter already worked out (like, I'd be publishing chapter 15 and chapter 16 was ready) but now I have caught up which means that unless this damn writer's block lifts I might be late again. Hopefully not missing whole months. I don't know what to do with that muse. Help! That said, sorry for the rant and I hope you enjoy this.

John can't figure out his flatmate/friend/colleague/favourite topic/ as you see, he can't even figure out how to call him, so his Sherlock will have to do (except he's not his Sherlock, not really). And that is nothing new, barely worth a mention, because whether it is the latest experiment entailing poisons which really should be labelled as long as they have to stay in the kitchen in now empty coffee packages or the reason women's fashion magazines tips somehow are worth brain space while the bloody solar system isn't, the sleuth's behaviour is a constant source of wondering for him.

But trying to figure Sherlock out is half the entertainment he gets from living with him (not that the doctor believes he'll ever be able to pick apart the workings of his friend's magnificent brain). So John is certainly not going to complain or demand a reasonable explanation for every little quirk he has to face in his daily life.

Lately, though, things feel…uneasy. Sherlock seems all the time on the brink between an epic sulk (which John would know how to deal with, if only the silly boy gave into that) and an odd urge to…be helpful. Which would usually set off all kind of alarms blaring inside John's head, because Sherlock is not helpful. Ever. Not unless he's planning something awful, or he has to apologise for something awful, and neither are prospects the doctor relishes. And, of course, neither would last as long as this particular bout of weird behaviour has.

Of course, if Sherlock was a normal human being, John would chalk the increased niceness to his wound (and maybe a tiny bit of guilt, because John has been wounded while protecting Sherlock – which he did on instinct and would do a thousand times again). But his flatmate is everything but normal, so that can't be the right explanation, can it?

Anyway, John can't shake the feeling that there's something wrong with his flatmate – and that it is, in some way or other, his fault. If he apologised, maybe that would help? Only he has no idea what he would be apologising for, so probably his friend would only call him an idiot and refuse to explain what has got him in such an odd mood.

The doctor doesn't even consider downright asking – the detective will spout whatever he feels like sharing (whether or not John is present to hear him) and trying to pry about what he would rather keep to himself is a perfectly useless endeavour. The blogger has tried sometimes to glean information out of his favourite sleuth ("You read all my past at a glance and I do not know anything about you beside whatever I can infer from Greg's hints! That's unfair!") but Sherlock has never shared a single word. John still doesn't know how he started working for Greg, where or even if his friend graduated, if he had better friends than that asshole Wilkes and where are they now.

So he has to deduce things for himself (yeah right, as if he could get into Sherlock's brain without help), try to soothe him without having any idea how or…maybe he can ask Mycroft? If he does involve the older Holmes, though, the detective is sure to be even more pissed off at John that he possibly is already. It's a situation with no apparent way out.

Until John gets tired of it (because of course his patience has bounds, no matter what some people at Scotland Yard seems to think) and he decides to face the issue. He's invaded Afghanistan. He can get to the bottom of his flatmate's seriously too drawn-out mood swings.

"What did I do, Sherlock?" he queries abruptly one morning, at the breakfast table (Sherlock says he's having only coffee, but John is spreading honey on a toast anyway, pretty certain the sleuth will nibble it absentmindedly).

"What? You've done nothing…at least that I know," the detective replies, looking taken aback. "Why? Did you do something, John?"

"I honestly don't know. But I must have. Or someone must have. You've been in a weird mood for more than a week. Since I've been shot, actually," the doctor remarks, determinate not to let Sherlock dance around this subject.

"You're imagining things," the detective replies, too quickly to be entirely honest.

"I'm not. Look, I might be an unobservant fool most of the time – I admit it. But I observe you. As a blogger, I have to, don't I? You might think you're this…this cool, enigmatic creature, and I'm not saying you're not – some of the time. But we've lived together for months, and I know when there's something wrong with you. And now there definitely is. I thought you'd snap out of it by yourself, and tried to give you time, but it's not working. So will you just tell me what's got you like this? I want to help," John queries sternly.

For a moment, his friend looks almost…scared. That's bad – very bad. There are not many things that can unsettle Sherlock Holmes. Irritate? Sure. Frustrate? Yes. Scare? No. The detective's eyes shift around, before he visibly takes a decision, moves his ethereal pupils back to John's face and admits, "Fine, maybe there's something."

"Now we're getting somewhere," the doctor remarks, with a smug smile. "What?"

"You got shot," the sleuth states simply, voice oddly remote.

"Yeah, well, it happens. We're facing criminals almost every day. Better me than you," John retorts, not teasing his friend about stating the obvious even if he really deserves it.

Sherlock actually glares at him – hard. "Certainly not, John. The last time you got shot, you entirely changed your career."

John laughs at that. Actually, uncontrollably laughs. The detective's glare intensifies, if at all possible.

When he regains his breath, John queries, "And you – what? Were worried that I wouldn't come along on cases anymore? Or maybe that I'd leave Baker Street outright? Was all that creepy…behaving a way to persuade me to stay?"

"My behaviour wasn't creepy!" the detective protests loudly.

"Believe me, you trying to act all normal and helpful is very creepy. The explanation for that is never a good one," the blogger states, shaking his head.

"That's not fair," the sleuth mumbles. "Everyone complains when I am a freak and then when I try for normal it's still not good enough." He stomps to the sofa and plops down, sulking.

"Sherlock, I don't," John replies earnestly, following him and touching lightly one shoulder, wanting his friend to face him. "I've never even thought you are…that thing, and yes, I may complain about some things, but we reach a compromise about them, right? I mean, is labelling things really that big a sacrifice? Believe me, I don't want you to become normal. I…" A small pause while he bites back the first word automatically on his lips, which would have been 'love'. "…like you. Quirks and all. I'd be terribly bored if you hadn't involved me in your life."

The detective turns to look at him, but he looks decidedly unconvinced. "You don't think I'm a freak," he echoes hollowly.

"Christ, Sherlock, no! Where did you get that foolish idea? And for the other thing we discussed – I'm certainly not going to give up this life. The last time I was shot – well, medicine in a warzone isn't all that easy, and there were complications…also, not to boast, but I was their best doctor, and I couldn't exactly patch myself up. But now I'll be right as rain soon, and following you around before you want it," John replies, hoping to get a smile out of his morose flatmate.

"Oh John, it's not I who don't want it," the sleuth replies automatically, before firmly shutting his mouth.

"Well then it's established. You want me around. I want to stay here and come on cases. We can get back to normal," the doctor says, grinning.

"Normal…yes," the detective repeats, though the word clearly leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

"Come on, don't grimace now. I meant our normal –or usual, if you prefer. Complete with smelly experiments and you torturing your violin and me making you tea. I'm sure I can manage that still – I'm not an invalid, you know. Do you want to pop round to Molly and see if she has anything for you?" the blogger queries, not quite knowing how to deal with this partially new Sherlock but knowing that a few new organs to play with will cheer him up – unless it is a really dire situation.

"Do you want me out of your hair?" Sherlock spits, but he's already moving to get on his coat.

John rolls his eyes, because really what else is he supposed to do at that?

"Don't worry John, until you're fine enough to storm away yourself you don't have to use these kind of excuses. You can just tell me to shoo when you need some air," the sleuths bits back, on his way out.

So quickly that he probably doesn't catch his blogger protesting, "That's not it at all!" Christ, he just wanted to cheer his friend a bit and he's messed up entirely. How can he help him? Convince him that John adores his pouty, quirky self and wants nothing better than continue being his…well, his everything Sherlock will let him be, friend, colleague, flatmate, or…nothing, John, stop right here.

I mean, if his blog hasn't clued him in about how much he adores being by Sherlock's side…John can barely get much more blatant than this, can he? (Not without doing something he really really shouldn't to his married-to-my-work friend).

As for the drafts – they are drafts for a reason. As well as the orphaned works on AO3. Claiming them would do nothing but make things awkward. No, not because they're horribly kinky as most orphaned works. If anything, they're cavity-worth fluff. (Until they're not). But because all his confused, wrong feelings insisted to go somewhere, and Ella claimed him writing things down would have good effects, so it seemed safe to get some things out and leave them lost in the midst of a sea of similar content. So no, even to prove he adores being with his…flatmate, he can't certainly show Sherlock his fanfictions. Besides, the detective would probably start nitpicking about grammar and plausibility of plot and God knows what else.

But if not that, how is he supposed to prove to Sherlock that he loves…being with him? Wait, maybe he can whip up a new story while Sherlock is out. One he will be able to show without fear. Obviously, Sherlock will still criticise his grammar and word choice, but John can't leave his appreciation unexpressed if the great idiot is worried that John might not want him around anymore. He might not be very good, but what needs must.

Maybe a 221B. He'll have to explain the rules of the genre, of course, but at least the concision of it means his friend will not have much to pick at. Retirementlock, of course. He's not actually sure who started the beekeeper!Sherlock fad, but if he's not wrong that particular AU was born from toomanychoices, which he's always assumed was Anthea because of the oddly exact characterization. He wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft had her watch them, and it would explain what the girl is always typing. Of course, that would mean she started writing fanfictions before John made them public characters, but it's pretty much impossible to know Sherlock and not be inspired by him. So, if beekeeping is Anthea's idea, who's to say she didn't manage to glean some prompt from Mycroft himself?

Anyway, John has decided for a 221B retirementlock beekeeping!AU (in which he has to persuade Sherlock not to recreate – or at least properly label – mad honey) and sets out to write it. He needs to be quick, to have it ready whenever his personal mad scientist will be home.

And if that doesn't make Sherlock understand that John is resolved to stay with him until they're both eighty and John's leg is really ruined like Mrs Hudson's hip he doesn't know what will. He hears himself say that in his mind and realises he means it. He's always imagined himself settled down with a nice girl, a couple of children and maybe a dog, or a cat, but he doesn't need them. He doesn't need to make his parents' happy – they're dead anyway – and as for him, John has never been more happy than he is following the detective on cases and taking care of him, big baby than his flatmate sometimes is. And Sherlock might not be his Sherlock, and this might be all an odd psychological reaction to the unusual name his soulmate shares, but as long as John is happy who cares about that? Not him. (And not the sleuth, because no matter how sharp he might be he's not ever going to know John's little dirty secret).

He starts picking at the keyboard, and checking word count every sentence. He's gone mad, of course he is. He thinks fanfiction can help. That will bring to his friend's attention the activities of their slightly obsessed fanbase (though not everyone is obsessed Moriarty-style at least) and what if after John's little gift he gets into the sites and discovers Johnlock and…well, his works are orphaned. But what if Sherlock determines they are his by word use or something? No, no, he shouldn't worry. Sherlock would never read fluff. He might leave scathing reviews to the casefics, but he won't bother with his works.

And besides, John has taken a decision and he's not the man to chicken out of things. How bad can things go? His friend doesn't even imagine that there's nothing in the world that might drive John away from 221B. He won't read John's misguided feelings. (How convenient for him that his feelings seem to be the almost infallible sleuth's blind spot.)

He wonders if Mycroft is behind the UK pavilion at the Expo being in the shape of a hive. If it is a gentle tease to his brother. This assuming all his deductions are correct, of course, Mycroft really leaked info to Anthea about beelock and Sherlock really is/was interested in bees. He certainly loves honey – even rare types of honey he sometimes gets home with (the only kind of shopping John has seen the man do). Since the Expo is about food, maybe it was an attempt by Mycroft to persuade Sherlock to visit and hopefully be led to a healthier lifestyle regarding his eating habits.

And maybe, yes, this is all another fanfiction in his head and he should really heed Occam's razor, but Mycroft has done stranger things in his effort to care for his little brother. Like kidnapping everyone the man comes in contact with, at least with any sort of regularity.

When Sherlock finally comes back, hours later, with a package from Molly but without any of the enthusiasm that should usually warrant, John grins and presents him with his fanfiction, after a short explanation.

The detective reads it over his shoulder, and remarks bitterly, "As if that's ever going to happen. You indulge in sheer fantasy now, John? That's even worse than your blog. At least even through your maudlin rendition some actual facts managed to slip in there."

"Who said this will not happen?" the doctor protests vehemently. "Of course, if you don't want to keep hives you don't have to, but the rest – well, why not?"

"The problem is not the hives, John. I'm not ever going to get to live till retirement, so that's a moot point," the sleuth huffs, walking up and down the room nervously, looking everywhere but at John.

"Oh no mister, you're going to. Live till retirement, I mean. I'm by your side and I have no intention to let you kill yourself to prove you're clever. I thought that was already established a long time ago," John objects. Loudly. Wagging his finger at his idiotic genius in a negative motion to enforce the point.

Sherlock can't help it. He replies, "But you won't stay. Not until retirement, and not for much longer, either. So who can say what happens afterwards?" He's bitter, yes. But that story – that little snippet John presented so proudly, of them being together so long after…why would he do that? Tease him like that? John never used to be cruel. Or maybe Sherlock just hadn't realised it still. It is a little scene of heaven, the one John has written for some reason. Tantalizing. But it will never happen. His soulmate doesn't want him. His soulmate doesn't wish for anything else than find a different someone to spend his life with. Cruel, John.

"Well, how can you be so sure I won't stay? Where should I go?" the blogger asks, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

"Oh, I don't know. Sarah might have dumped you, but I don't doubt that you'll find a replacement for her soon enough. One girl or another will ultimately end snatching you away. I bet it won't take much time, too," the detective utters, a hand almost waving his friend (soulmate) away to the arms of any willing woman in Great Britain.

He's torn, in fact. One part of him wants John to go away right now, leave the flat forever and not dare cross its threshold anymore. The man can go fuck anyone he finds acceptable – anyone that's not him – and enjoy the lack of human body parts in the fridge and the lack of unlabelled chemicals and the general lack of Sherlock. At least that would put an end to the continuous stress of 'Is it today the day John will finally have it enough and reject any contact with his evidently wrongly-assigned soulmate? (Didn't know that was a thing that could happen.) Or tomorrow? Or the day after?'

Another part of him wants to tie John up and keep him on a leash so he can't ever, ever leave, and scream at him for being too stupid to accept his own bloody soulmate when he finds it, and generally being so very Not-Good (Sherlock doesn't need his own human moral compass to spell it out for him this time). Not to mention if he tried to he'd probably end the one restrained, because while he can certainly hold his own in a fight his unwilling soulmate has had army training as well as medical knowledge, which means he knows best how to hurt and subdue people.

And of course, there's Teen!Sherlock. You'd think the silly thing would have shut up after realising his long-awaited soulmate despised him, but he's more stubborn than that. "He's mine," he insists. "He just needs to see we can be worth of him." Which is a hard task, because how can he become worthy of such an awesome human being as John Watson? He's tried behaving – or behaving as much as he can manage – so that his soulmate will see that he can be better, that he's trying to make an effort. The only thing that did apparently was alert him to the fact that things are wrong. Is it so unthinkable for Sherlock to want to be helpful?

As expected, to his last observation John doesn't even try to object. "If I get a girlfriend it will not change things between us," the doctor says, not even trying to mask his eagerness to find a different partner.

"No, it won't," the sleuth agrees. They'll still be soulmates, and John will still not want him. Not like he's supposed to. Teen!Sherlock is an idiot – Mycroft was right. There's nothing he can do to make his (not his) John change opinion.

Sullen beyond what words can express (what's even the point in trying?) the detective leaves without another word and seeks refuge in his own room. He doesn't slam the door – why would he, John's not in the wrong. He's being sensible, if anything. Who in their right mind would want to get saddled with one former junkie (once an addict, always an addict) without an ounce of manners and the habit to get you in life-threatening situations (never mind that John thrives in these)?

"Sherlock – Sherlock?" the doctor calls after him, clearly uncomprehending the sudden departure from one ongoing conversation. But what's there to drag chatting about? John doesn't want him, he might toy with the idea of being in his life still when they're old and rheumatics, but he'll want the whole nine yards at the same time – a (nice, female) wife, a few kids, maybe a dog. Can he still keep his rejected soulmate in his life in some sort of capacity at the same time? Certainly the future Mrs. Watson would feel threatened by him, wouldn't she? And there's no doubt as to whom John would pick if forced to choose. Hint: it's not the one clichés-filled romance books would have you believe. (Not that he ever read these, but – okay, he might have, but only because they were among Mummy's things and sometimes he got…nostalgic about her. And that's bad enough to admit, even if only to himself.)

The sleuth refuses to answer. Let John make of this sudden mood shift (as if it isn't all too evident the reason for it) whatever he wants. He will get tired soon anyway, and leave his flatmate (that he can claim at least; that has – not yet, a great part of him points out – been forsworn) to his own devices.

True to form, after a few more calls, John's voice peters out, and he can hear the man's steps when he gets away from the door. He has called, but not knocked, even when he's come to his door, and Sherlock is not sure if this means anything at all, but if it does, he's sure it doesn't mean anything good for their relationship – or, lack of one.

He should not even care about this, should he? He's done so well without John before, after all. Ah! He might be good at deceiving people, but even at his own ears that last sentence sounds ludicrous. He's done so well – survived three overdoses (thanks to Meddling Mycroft) – created a job (where everyone but Lestrade hates him, and the DI…well, if he forgives his wife's betrayals having a huge asshole as a consultant is piece of cake) – got a landlady who likes him (because he kept her out of her murderous, abusive husband's drug cartel's wipe out at the hands of USA police). Who's he fooling, he might have created himself a nice little niche without John, but he's always been empty. That's what the drugs were supposed to help with. That – worse than loneliness, worse than anything there are words for – hateful byproduct of having emotions in the first place.

And now…no, he won't think about now. And he most certainly isn't going to cry. He isn't going to cry. He. Isn't. Going. To. Cry. Not over John. Not over anything. He's not cried since…oh God, he doesn't even remember. Decades – unless he had a teary trip, but these don't count, do they? He keeps telling himself that, but it works just as well as his not-self-deluding lies. As in, not at all. It's all John's fault – for teasing him with that little drabble of heaven and then admitting he wants another partner (any other partner) anyway. Yeah. It's John's fault that he's huddled under the covers, fully dressed, and tearing up without respite. At least he's not sobbing loudly, or anything else that his flat(soul)mate would notice. What he does in the sanctity of his own room is nobody's business.

He hates himself – and the worst thing is, he wants to hate John, but he can't seem to manage to. Is that a soulmate thing? After all, John – despite clearly hating his having Sherlock as a soulmate – does not loathe him entirely. He still lives with him. Still endures the experiments, and protects him on cases. Still asks what's wrong with him (why would he care?).

So maybe the sleuth is biologically wired not to hate his destined partner, despite how much the man hurts him – despite his being used to despise and humiliate people back once he encounters their rejection.

It is scary. Has anyone made a study of the spousal abuse cases between soulmates? Or are soulmates automatically discounted as suspects in such charges, and so the abused soulmates do not even try to report such things, because if a soulmate is supposed to be perfect for you and he hurts you, it means you deserve to be hurt? (Isn't this what Sherlock's been doing, too? Convincing himself that John is right in his own rejection of him?)

He'll need to look into Lestrade's cold cases with this new perspective he's suddenly gained. Hey, at least it worked – now he's stopped crying, since there are cases to be worked on. Has he been as blind as everyone else, he wonders. Automatically thought that the ones lucky enough to have found their soulmates couldn't possibly be hurt by their other halves, blinded by romantic clichés he should have known better than to believe untested? He doesn't think he has – but the niggling doubt won't stop.

Well, that is one positive thing born from John's rejection (he'll have to thank him if he finds more cases like these – though, obviously, he won't go into detail, just mention the other man's light-conducting powers.)

He slips into the bathroom to wash his face and hide the evidence of his crying. Sherlock has never been more happy that his bedroom has a private door connecting it to their common bathroom – he can't imagine facing John with a tear-streaked face. That'd be beyond humiliating. (So fine, maybe he's lying. Maybe he was much happier for the non-entirely-opaque partly-glass door connecting the two rooms whenever John took a shower. But he always felt guilty for that. Even without John telling him, he knew it was 'a bit not good'. But was it? Fantasizing about one's soulmate is allowed, isn't it? It all comes back to John not wanting him, though.)

Anyway, once he's back to being presentable – back to the mask he has to offer to the world – he braves the flat (and John). His flat(soul)mate is in the kitchen, to the sleuth's relief – no doubt puttering with tea, given the hour (which he hasn't offered to share) – so he can just call, "Going to the Yard!" and – hopefully – not face him.

Of course that was too much to hope for. John comes to the door between kitchen and sitting room, asking, "Is there a new case?" with an eagerness which is rather puppy-like and endearing (and the consulting detective hates himself for thinking so).

He hates disappointing him (and he hates him – no, he doesn't – oh, it's all so damned confusing!), but he replies quickly, "Sadly not. Going to pester him for cold ones, at least. I need something!" He's not sharing his new standpoint on possible soulmate abuse, of course not. That would require explanations – while it's clear that if he wants to keep John as a flatmate, at least, the unmentionable secret they share needs to remain…unmentioned. That's the point. Or John would have tackled the matter himself, wouldn't he?

True, there is that night at Angelo's… but he didn't ever say "I am your soulmate," or even, "I think I might be." He backpedalled as soon as Sherlock panicked…and started to lie about his dead soulmate since that very night.

But he needs to stop thinking about John, or he'll start crying again on the way to Scotland Yard, and that would be possibly worse than John knowing he's been crying. After all, the Work is decidedly all Sherlock can ever have, and if he botches even that up…he might as well be dead.

At Scotland Yard are used to having him around, but Sherlock coming and – without even exchanging a banter (or an insult, depends on the point of view) – with anyone, striding towards the cold cases archive still warrants some odd looks – and ultimately, Lestrade's intervention.

"Sherlock?" the DI queries, coming down to the archive in much the same state of disarray of 221B's sitting room in one of their wildest moments, much to the helpless horror of the employee there who has not dared to intervene (from his face, he's had the lashing out of his life). "You do not actually work here, remember? You can't just do as you please. If you want one cold case, you have to ask me and I'll bring you the file," Lestrade states in his sterner tone, stressing 'one'.

"Busy," the sleuth grumbles, flicking through a file and not raising his eyes.

The inspector does not answer to that – he just starts taking away the many files that are spread all over the floor and bringing them to the grateful-looking archivist that will return them to the correct place.

That makes the consulting detective jump up from his place stretched out on the floor, protesting loudly, "Hey! I was using that!"

"No you weren't," the DI declares. "You were just making a mess. If you tell me what you need, I might help."

Sherlock scoffs, packing as much disdain in a single wordless sound as he can. At least, antagonising police is an old, dear habit – and a bit of a mess won't make Lestrade deny him cases. They need him. Perhaps no one else in the universe does, but here he can be useful.

The inspector is not impressed, and the consulting detective decides to elaborate. "I'm looking for a pattern. I've got an intuition. Spousal abuse – between soulmates."

The archive employee actually laughs – loudly, almost wetting himself. The DI, instead, groans. "Sherlock, I'm afraid that you have a weird concept of what a soulmate is. They're not supposed to hurt you."

"And what if they do?" the sleuth challenges, dreading the answer.

"Then they're homonyms. Come on, someone certainly taught you that," Lestrade explains, kindly now. He's always been a bit of a parent when his consultant has needed it, and now is no different.

"But what if you're sure they're your soulmate?" the detective insists, mumbling. Because if his discovery has been wrong – if there is no soulmate abuse, ever, there can't be…then John's refusal, and the hurt it causes, are unexplainable. Or…or he really deserves it. Worse, needs it. Is he an unsuspecting masochist? But he can find no joy in the agony. It's all so confusing.

"Are you talking about a specific case?" the DI queries, looking puzzled at him. The man has more talent as a detective than Sherlock would like him to – that's why working with him is less unbearable than with any other inspector. Now, though, it makes for an uncomfortable conversation.

"NO," the sleuth answers, too quick and too loud to his own ears, "no, it was just…an idea. A theoretical hypothesis."

"The freak can't even conceive of people being happy in love, uh? It's no wonder," the archivist butts in, no wonder in revenge for the dressing down he got before Lestrade arrived, and the DI glares at him before he can go any further. People at Scotland Yard will chat like in any other workplace, but maybe he should have a talk with Sally – though, now that the damage is done, it's a bit late.

"It's a far greater wonder you can, what with your three divorces, and growing up in an orphanage," the sleuth sneers – and if he still had this much ammunition in reserve maybe the inspector should look into him and see what's wrong with the man.

Before the squabble can further deteriorate, Lestrade raises a hand, commanding silence – and he obtains it. Then, as if nothing happened since the consulting detective (not entirely convincing, but Sherlock does know he can come to him for help, right?)'s hypothesis, the DI replies, "As far as your hypothesis goes – I'd tell – hypothetically – that you need to recheck your data. There must be a misunderstanding somewhere."

The detective harrumphs and makes to leave. There is no misunderstanding possible – the data are patent. John wears his name on his wrist – soulmate status checked. Really, how many Sherlock can live in this world? John lied, saying he had lost his soulmate, and dated a string of women – soulmate status refused, check. His soulmate's actions cause Sherlock a great deal of emotional distress – sadly, triple check. If a soulmate can hurt his intended (by whom? That's ridiculous) so much, why would he not be able to commit further abuse? It does not make sense.

Only…Sherlock has been hurt only when he's discovered his rejected soulmate status. And he has gained that knowledge only because he 'sneaked a peek'. Because he intruded. John has clearly never meant to let him know the truth. The doctor has lied, protected his secret with a number or watches, wristbands and bracelets, but he's been very very careful not to let the truth slip. He might not want the consulting detective as his soulmate, but he's all the same being careful to shield him from the agony such knowledge would inflict. He's not a borderline-abusive soulmate; he's a proper soulmate who does not want to hurt him on purpose, and if the sleuth has no sense of boundaries and gets hurt in the process that's all up to him being not good, isn't it? He's made his own bed, he'll have to lie in it. He can't blame John for this, even if he'd want to.

So now he can only get home and face John and carefully not let it be known that he's aware. The doctor will be angry about the breach of privacy and he's disgusted with their relationship already. Maybe that will make him move out, despite the absurd things he writes – but that's fiction, and the sleuth knows all too well that you can't trust fiction. Not even John's.

God, he wants a cigarette. Or maybe even something stronger. But if John realizes he'll frown and be disappointed and the feelings Sherlock has (even when he doesn't want to, he wants to reject them just like his soulmate has rejected him) are already forming a ball of self-loathing churning in his gut at the prospect.

So no, he won't use anything – but honestly, he's not sure how he'll be able to face John and his kind, polite mask without any chemicals in his veins and without screaming either. But he can't scream. It'll only precipitate the end. And he doesn't want this to end. Whatever John and he have – little as it is – is all the same more than the sleuth had ever hoped to have, so he's going to pretend everything is just peachy. Perfect. Or, like John would say, "It's all fine."