He gets angrier at Sherlock. The look Sherlock gave him just makes him angrier. He stands up and goes behind the arm chair he was sitting on. He leans on the arm chair to be the "bigger guy" as he looks down on Sherlock. Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the seat. Hands together, elbows resting on both knees, head down.

"John I-"

"What?" He snaps at Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at him with cold eyes. "It would seem your words are getting less creative as time moves forward. Been spending an awful amount of time with idiots, are you?" Sherlock leans back to the back of the chair, doing the deduction position. 'He's going to be insufferable.'

"Don't fucking deduce me, Sherlock," he glares at him.

"I never knew it wasn't allowed."

"I don't like it. So. Don't. Do. It." He says through gritted teeth. Sherlock looks at him with confused eyes, tilting his head in the progress. It's like Sherlock is looking at him like he is some alien from outer space. Something weird. "Don't look at me like that! You know what, Sherlock. I'm done. I'm done with this," he sighs. He gives up, "I can't go on like this. You are being difficult and I just want to wrap my hands around your neck and squueze the life out of you."

"I doubt you can do that. Given your good morals, like I said, it woul-"

"SHUT UP! I don't want to hear you deduce any further! Deduce my arse, Sherlock!" He yells at him. "They're right! They've all been right! Everyone says you're like this!" He gestures at Sherlock. "Everyone tells me I should stay away from you! I didn't because I thought you were not what they say! They all say you're the freak! And I didn't believe them! Now I think they're right! The world doesn't fucking revolve around you, Sherlock! It revolves around the fucking sun!" He yells.

The look Sherlock gave him made Sherlock look like a bullet passed the stomach. Now, Sherlock looks dead. Broken. Shattered. Destroyed. He could see a dark cloud hovering over Sherlock.

John is still looking at him. He needs to tell him that he matters. That he is the one he matters the most. Not himself. Never himself.

"John I-"

"What?" John snaps at him. 'I can't do this anymore. I'll only cause you more pain, John.'

He tries to look at John without emotions, which is very very hard - considering the physical pain he is feeling in his body, the mental pain he is feeling at the thought that he will be beaten up again after John leaves. The emotional pain that John hates him. John hates him.

"It would seem your words are getting less creative as time moves forward. Been spending an awful amount of time with idiots, are you?" He leans at the back of the arm chair and pretends that he is deducing John.

"Don't fucking deduce me, Sherlock," John spits at him, looking at him like he is in a weaker spot. Which he is.

"I never knew it wasn't allowed," he tries to sass John. John hates him getting all sassy.

"I don't like it. So. Don't. Do. It." John says, extremely angry. He looks at him, confused. 'How do I do this to you? What do I do to stop you from hating me so much? I'm confused. What do I do to stop you from getting hurt?' "Don't look at me like that! You know what, Sherlock. I'm done. I'm done with this," John sighs. "I can't go on like this. You are being difficult and I just want to wrap my hands around your neck and squueze the life out of you."

His heart breaks at John's words. 'Shut up, you don't even have a heart. I know. Good, you're cooperating. Shut up, mind-palace. I am in your mind, you shut me up. Fine.' He changes his thoughts and thinks of a way to push John away from him. It won't do any of them any good. "I doubt you can do that. Given your good morals, like I said, it woul-"

"SHUT UP! I don't want to hear you deduce any further! Deduce my arse, Sherlock!" John yells at him. "They're right! They've all been right! Everyone says you're like this!" He gestures at Sherlock. "Everyone tells me I should stay away from you! I didn't because I thought you were not what they say! They all say you're the freak! And I didn't believe them! Now I think they're right! The world doesn't fucking revolve around you, Sherlock! It revolves around the fucking sun!" John yells.

He dies. He just dies. Not in the literal sense, no. But his metaphorical heart scatters like dust. He heard John tell him this already. The last time he saw John before he disappeared, these were John's words. These words are the same. And it kills him. His mind plays a trick on him and it suddenly remembers the very words John told him before.

"You know what? I'll just leave you alone since you don't even care and you won't even tell me what's bugging you from the start. Don't you trust me? You probably don't. All you care about is yourself. Well, then that's good, right? Is that good? Should I leave you with your heartless lonely self now? Because I'm offering you my friendship but you won't give me yours. You insult me in many ways and you have been basically making my girlfriends scream away when you talk to them. You laugh at my family but we're happy! It's none of your business if they drink! Maybe you are as weird as people say you are. Like the freak everyone thinks you are. Because I trust you enough to endanger my life because of your 'massive intellect' and I suppose I shouldn't have a problem with that right? But no. You don't trust me. Well then. Goodbye, Sherlock."

John's earlier words, echoes in his brain as well.

"So you're a narcissistic heartless uncaring self-centred machine. Is that it?"

He closes his eyes, tears swell his eyes. He doesn't want John to see them so he keeps his eyes closed. So he breathes and when he's sure he is well-composed, he opens his eyes again and looks at John.

He regrets it. He regrets it completely. The look on Sherlock's face doesn't anger him anymore. It sobers him up from the anger he's been feeling for the past days or weeks. Sherlock looks so dead. So unemotional. Cold. He tries to compare the level Sherlock is feeling to the level an ordinary teenager would feel. An ordinary teenager - no - adult, even, would probably be yelling, screaming, gross sobbing. But here Sherlock is, looking at him with very dry intense eyes.

"Sherlock, I-" he starts, sitting on the armchair in front of Sherlock again.

"Yes, I am."

Sherlock's sudden voice startles him. He grows confused. "You're what?" He whispers.

"The narcissistic heartless uncaring self-centred machine, obviously," Sherlock says, looking at him like it is the most obvious answer in the world. 'Did I really tell him that?' "Although I'd scratch the machine part." 'Is he finally saying that he's human as well?' "Since I am not programmed, do not run from oil or batteries or any form of electricity, that would mean that I'm-" 'Please say you're human. Please say you're human.' "-biologically and anatomically human."

'Not good enough.' "Look, Sherlock, I didn't mean t-"

"Humans have the tendency to tell what they really think of a person when they're angry. You didn't mean to say it out loud, but you meant it." Sherlock shrugs, chuckling, "Fascinating, humans are. They're so... human." Sherlock chuckles.

'Christ, Sherlock!' "Sherlock. Stop this now," he says threateningly.

"Stop what? I wasn't aware I've been doing something else other than talking to you... Oh... Is that what you want me to do, then? Stop talking? Okay. You should know what I am used to not-talking for days on end... I don't know if that bothers you... But anyway, this wouldn't be a probl-"

"Talk to me."

"I thought you don't want me to talk?"

"Just... Talk to me," he's getting frustrated and just... helpless.

"I am talking to you."

"No. Really REALLY talk to me."

"I don't understand."

'Dammit, Sherlock.' He shifts uncomfortably on his chair.

"Sh-"

"Sweetie," Mrs. Holmes knocks on the door to the sitting room, looking at Sherlock. "I need to speak with you. It's urgent." She nods once and off she goes. Sherlock sighs, closes his eyes and stands up, buttoning his suit jacket.

"It appears that I am needed."

Before he answers, Sherlock leaves the room.

He tries hard not to show how painful and weak his body is. He keeps on not-limping. His leg is still a mess. As he closes the door behind him, he looks up to see his mother, looking at him from the Library Room, five doors down. Violet gives him a glare and points at the Library and points at the floor which means, "Come here, now," in parents' body-language.

When his mother gets in the Library, he finally lets himself fall on the ground. The carpeted floor softens the sound of his fall. He crawls. But then he remembers John being in the same house. He can't let John see him like this. He must look pathetic. He raises his upper body with his elbows. He really doesn't want John to see him like this. He uses the wall to stand himself up and limps and stumbles across the hallway. It feels like hours when he reach the door to the Library. He holds the knob to the door and hesitates to open the door. He wonders what "lecture" he will get once inside. He breathes to calm himself down. To look "presentable" to Violet.

He opens the door. "Where have you been?" Violet harshly whispers as he closes the door behind him.

"Outside your door," Violet slaps him on the back of his head.

"Don't you dare act all smart around me, child," He mentally rolls his eyes. "Now, what have you been saying to our guest, John Wilson?"

"Watson," he quickly says.

"Doesn't matter," Violet slaps him on the back of his head again. "He's been yelling and what have you been shouting back? What have I told you about shouting at other people? Manners, child! You need them! The poor boy will find out how severely delusional you are. I don't want to be known as a freak's mother. Keep yourself hidden and discipline yourself. You thank god that your father had to leave early. But that doesn't mean he won't know what just occurred here. Your punishment will be given later."

"Okay then. Can I go now?" Violet slaps the bejesus out of him. So hard, the slap echoes in the room.

"Manners," Violet points at him. He rubs his left cheek. 'Thank goodness she used her right hand.' His mother's ring has a gigantic diamond on it. "I'll go back to the sitting room and pretend to get the tray from you when I check up on you two... Now, leave."

He turns around to open the door. As he opens the door, his legs shake so hard he falls on the floor as the door swings open. He makes another awful long-time journey from the Library to the sitting room.

What can he tell Sherlock? Sherlock just left the room because of his mother. He quickly whips up his phone. He calls. Waiting for the one he's calling to pick up. He paces around the room.

"Greg Lestrade."

"Greg! It's me!"

"Hey J-"

"I'm at Sherlock's and I'm trying to tell him why everything's gone wrong but it's not working. He's being difficult."

"Sherlock's always difficult, John. That bastard's an annoying dick."

"Got that right."

"I can't help you. Your... situation... is too complicated for me to handle. Sorry, John."

"It's fine. But you should know him, right?"

"I've been with Sherlock for six years. Trust me, I still don't know who he is."

"Then why do you put up with him?" He asks as he opens the door to the sitting room to find Sherlock holding the knob to the door, five doors down, and just staring at the doorknob for ages. Sherlock gets in and so he closes the door to the sitting room and sits on his chair again.

"Because I'm desperate for grades, that's why..." A pause. "... And you know? Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one. See you later, okay?"

"Sure."

"Sure you're alright, mate?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Right."

He hangs up and waits for Sherlock. Greg's words echoes in his mind. He feels guilty. Sherlock is a great man and he treats him like shit. He sips his tea and waits. He promises to himself that he will tell Sherlock what he really thinks. His phone rings. Mary.

"Hi, Mary."

"Am I interrupting anything?"

"Just my thoughts."

"So how did it go?"

"It's still going."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. I'm feeling guilty, Mary."

"Why?"

"I've been shouting at him and I never even got the chance to hear him actually explain himself. But when he does, he insults me and tries my patience."

"John, don't you think he's doing those things on purpose?"

"Probably. Why? Should I punch him for doing that?"

"No. That means he's probably trying to push you away."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he cares."

"Sherlock? Cares? Those are words that never fit in the same sentence."

"And he knows that you think of him that way."

"In what way?"

"That he doesn't care. And he's using that for your own sake."

"So driving me mad means he cares? How the hell does that work, Mary?"

"He's probably hurt."

"He seems fine."

"Seems, John. SEEMS fine. That doesn't mean he is."

"But Sher-"

"Do you even know what happened to him in the year of his disappearance?"

"He investigated some crimes, went around places, having fun without me, leaving me in grief."

"So... He didn't use details, then?"

"What do you mean?"

"It means, he's keeping a secret. Come on, John! Open those bloody eyes of yours and see! I may not have known Sherlock that long but I know he once told us that only lies have details. He never said details because he doesn't want to lie. And what is it that he doesn't want to lie about? A secret."

"You sound like Sherlock."

"I know. And I deduce that you are acting like bitchy arseholes and therefore I conclude that you two should sort the bloody hell out of this."

"But-"

"No. Sort this out. Because you two are behaving like idiots. Yes, I said it. You're both idiots."

"You're the best."

"I know." He hangs up. He waits for a few more seconds and one minute later, Sherlock comes in and this time, he actually tries to look at Sherlock.

This time, he does what he did the first time he heard of Sherlock. He observes him.