"Have you seen Sherlock?"

Anderson looked over at Sally, both trying not to smirk. He turned back to John. "He probably went home, wouldn't you think? He's not exactly social…sociopath, definitely."

John narrowed his eyes. "Look. I know you and him have…issues, okay? But right now, it's in your best interests to tell me where Sherlock is. Understand?"

Anderson put a fake thinking look on his face. "Well…you know, I'm really not sure. Sally, where did you see him last?"

Sally smirked. "Hmmm…no idea."

Suddenly, John grabbed Anderson by the front of his shirt and lifted him up, despite the obvious height difference. Anderson, fairly surprised by this action, was wondering vaguely if he'd underestimated the good doctor.

John pinned him up against a nearby wall and leaned in close, eyes flashing with fury. "You are going to tell me when and where you last saw Sherlock Holmes and where he went afterwards, or I am going to slowly rip out your kidneys and stuff them so far up your irritating arse you'll be walking funny for a month," he growled.

Anderson nodded quickly, panicked. He had deeply underestimated John Watson's love for the sociopath detective, that much was obvious. "He walked by us and we…"

Sally cut across. "He went out the front door. After that, I don't know. Okay? Put him down!"

John let go of Anderson roughly, shoving him backwards when he was done. "We're not done here, Anderson," he said threateningly, and turned on his heel, walking fast towards the door Sally had described.

Anderson straightened up, dusting off his shirt, and swore under his breath, shooting malicious glares at John. He turned away, sneering back at the army doctor. "One of these days, the freak won't want him anymore, and then where will he be?"

Sally shrugged. "It's not our problem, anyways. They're just a pair of lunatics, and they'll end up dead before their time." She turned towards the hallway, not even looking back over her shoulder to see if he was following.

Anderson rolled his eyes and snorted. "The freak's already been dead once…maybe he's gotten used to it." He walked after Sally, trying desperately to ignore the little voice in his head that said their Sherlock problems were far from over.

"So are we really going to spend the whole party inside my tiny bathroom?"

Mycroft smiled. "Sounds fine to me, Gregory."

Greg shook his head, exasperated. "Mycroft Holmes, you need to learn how to party."

Mycroft cocked his head. "What do you mean, exactly?"

"I mean, that you don't know how to have a good time. All that office work has made your brain as dry as a prune."

"Specifically speaking, prunes are not very dry. They have a distinct juicy flavor, if you eat them fresh."

Greg gave him a look that said, really?

Mycroft cringed. "Sorry. I'm just…not well versed in the social obligations of life."

"Yeah, I noticed." Greg chuckled. "That's why I'm going to teach you."

He stood up much more quickly than most people his age would have (all the legwork at the office had kept him quite nimble) and offered his hand to Mycroft.

The man hesitated, clearly nervous. "I…I'm not quite sure…"

"Come on," Greg urged. His eyes were sparkling, catching the light in a way that made Mycroft's whole world stop. "What do you have to lose?"

Everything.

Mycroft took his hand and stood carefully. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

He would tell him, eventually. Tell him about the past…about why these gatherings were so torturous for him and his brother. But not now. He couldn't ruin the night, not for Gregory.

Someday, yes. But not now.

Now was not the time to look to the past. It was time for the future to take its course.

It was time to learn how to party.

John looked around. It was completely dark now; twilight had come and gone as quietly as a mouse.

Where did he go?

Think like Sherlock, he told himself.

If I was Sherlock…where would I go?

He closed his eyes and began to turn in a circle. For some reason, this made him think more clearly; he thought maybe it had something to do with Sherlock and the graffiti during the smuggling case.

Somewhere quiet and cold, obviously.

John's eyes snapped open.

In front of him was the dank, dark alley next to Greg's flat. Near the middle he could just barely make out a hunched black figure, shaking slightly.

Sherlock.

He ran into the alleyway, towards the figure. "Sherlock!" he called out.

The detective's head jerked up, and suddenly he was up and off like a rocket.

Bugger. John picked up his pace, following the lean, lithe figure of Sherlock down the alley. "Hey! Sherlock, wait!"

Up ahead, there was an abrupt crack in the pavement, and the detective disappeared suddenly.

John screeched to a halt. Where had he gone?

From up ahead he heard a horrible, pain-filled groan.

John began to run.

Sherlock was lying on the ground, eyes wide, completely out of breath. He didn't look hurt, thank god.

John knelt down beside him. "Are you okay? Anything feel broken?"

Sherlock slowly shook his head, still slightly shell-shocked, unable to form words.

John breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay. Jesus…for a moment I thought I'd lost you."

Sherlock struggled to sit up. John grabbed his arms and helped him to lean back against the alley wall. "There we go…" he muttered soothingly.

"J-John…" Sherlock whispered. The impact had taken his breath away. "Why…why are you here?"

"I'm here, you dolt, because my boyfriend disappeared in the middle of a party and left me in the clutches of Greg's creepy cousin Bertha!" he said in an exasperated voice.

"B-but…" Sherlock face contorted, confused. "Anderson…said you were…could never be the boyfriend of a freak," he muttered awkwardly.

John's gaze turned cold. "Don't tell me that you listened to whatever buggering shit Anderson had to say about me?" John shook Sherlock slightly by the shoulders. "I love you, you git! I don't know what he said to convince you otherwise, but I can't believe that you'd doubt me for one second."

"I know, John," Sherlock said, voice heavy. "It's just…social gatherings are highly stressful for me as it is. I just snapped, somehow. I apologize for my lack of faith in you. You are my world, John. A thousand Andersons could never convince me that you weren't true."

John frowned. "Why are they so stressful?"

"I…" Sherlock looked away. "Nothing. It's…it's not important right now. Come…let's get back to the party."

Sherlock stood quickly and headed in the direction of the door to Greg's flat.

John shifted himself back up and watched the consulting detective retreat. Sherlock was holding his arm slightly funny; he made a mental note to check it when they got home.

As for Sherlock's social stressing, he made another note on his mental checklist to remind Sherlock that he was there, and that he loved him.

There was something there, something in Sherlock's past that made the detective disinclined to parties and other social gatherings.

John wouldn't push him, though. He knew better than anyone that sometimes the past shouldn't be dug up.