A/N Don't really have anything to say here. Keep the reviews coming! :D

Thanks to SuperSonicBeatrice

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

[3/10]

John's coming back early resulted in a confusing array of emotions for Sherlock. After all, any emotions of any type were still a foreign thing to him, so a cascade this heavy and complex was naturally rather baffling. It was bizarre, for something not to be under his control- especially when that something was internal, and therefore by all rules of logic should be quite easy to hold in place. But, no, these infuriating, newfound feelings had to go and be unpredictable, not to mention completely impossible to hold in rein. It wasn't his fault. They were just too complicated.

For starters, there was the guilt. Guilt, to him, was... odd. Out of place. It just didn't feel right. Sherlock Holmes, though he had far more reason to be than most of the population, wasn't a guilty man. He did what needed to be done, and that was that. Nothing lost but injustice, nothing gained but progress. But now, seeing the way that John treated his shoulder, almost like some baby creature that might be injured if he weren't to care for it properly. It's my fault. If John had gotten his way, the police would have joined them at the factory, and they would, most likely, both be alive and uninjured now. Sarah had died anyway, so really, what had they gained by going in alone? Nothing but a short sighting of Moriarty, the diamond that the criminal had stolen, and...

Thinking about the third thing was... awkward. Awkwardness- there was another feeling that he couldn't adjust to. He'd never had any reason to feel awkward, after all. He usually had no reason to feel... anything.

Why are these things tying me down all of a sudden?

He regretted it. He regretted saying what he had to Moriarty, and that was all. There was nothing else to it.

And yet there was, because he didn't regret it, not at all. It made him feel more... alive?... than he ever had before. Sort of... daring in a way that his regularly life-threatening work was unable to capture. It was... spiritually...

He internally shook his head. There was no need to find words for his twisted feelings. He already knew that he couldn't categorize them, so why waste time attempting to?

Because I can't let them go.

That much was true. He couldn't let what had happened go, even though the only other person in the universe who had heard what he said was Moriarty. Of course, he wouldn't put it past the psychopath to somehow inform John of what Sherlock had said...

The words tore through his mind suddenly, hot, bright, fierce.

Because I love him!

He sucked in a breath, hoping that John, on the couch, wouldn't notice. He couldn't afford for that to happen right now; he was too insecure (it felt wrong to associate that word with himself) to get through a proper conversation at the moment. Just thinking about the freezer occurrence left him feeling shaky and hollow. He didn't want to consider those words, didn't want to explore their true depth. He wasn't even sure what they meant, if he'd used them in the right context. Of course he had no idea what... what love felt like. He had no reason to. But if it was this... this... sensation of complete and utter... well, he didn't have a word for it, which explained why he had decided so rashly to tack this one onto it.

Yes, he was definitely regretting it.

And yet... maybe not.

Confusion had been all too dominant in his life lately. What with having no real work, he couldn't seem to touch on a single subject without it being loaded with mixed feelings. And now that John was here... well, that certainly didn't help.

"I'm going to the Yard," he found himself saying, standing up without willingly commanding his legs to do so. He set the newspaper that he hadn't been reading on the chair and was halfway to the door by the time John looked up.

"What? But..." he trailed off.

"But nothing. Give me one good reason to stay here." Pull on the coat, the scarf... have to get out of here. Just... out of here. Some fresh air would be nice. Even as those thoughts flew across the dashboard of his mind, they were colliding with conflicting ones. You? Fresh air? Since when do you need fresh air to operate properly? He did his best to ignore them.

"Well... I just got back, for one."

"Yes, and you're being even more helpful than usual," he growled scathingly. "I'm going to see what Lestrade has on. He's probably completely stumped by something and just unwilling to tell me. That happens rather often, as I'm sure you know."

He heard John's protests following him out of the room, but didn't take the time to process the individual words. They didn't matter; there wasn't a thing in the world that could stop him from doing this, from getting out of here, away from the stress, the pressure...

What happened to you? he asked himself mindlessly as he barged out the door and started down the street in no specific direction. You used to actually be a reasonable person, and now look at yourself. Torn apart by a man who can't go inside a freezer without ending up in the hospital.

You're a mess.

He attempted to distract himself from these thoughts by hailing a taxi, climbing in. Might as well go where he had told John he was headed. It wasn't like there was anywhere better to be.

Simply because he had nothing better to do, Sherlock pulled out his phone as the cab began to move sluggishly along the crowded street and typed out a quick message to the man he was intending to visit.

I'm coming by to see if you're hiding anything from me. -SH

Straightforward enough. He tilted his head lazily to gaze vaguely out the window. There was a mother on the sidewalk, looking rather harassed as she pulled along two chubby children and pushed a stroller with her elbow. Why anyone ever chose to disrupt their lives with kids was certainly a mystery that wasn't as easily solved as some of those that Sherlock had been presented with over the course of his years, not to mention why they actually claimed, after all that, to love them.

There it was again, he thought angrily, that love thing. Was it determined to follow him everywhere? Nearly hissing aloud with frustration, he began rapidly turning his mobile around in his hands, rotating it so that it caught the gleam of sunlight shining from outside the window, glinting as if it was a star itself. The bright glare burned his eyes, but he stared it down determinedly.

Or that the earth revolves around the sun...

John's voice, exasperated, softened like the words were only meant for himself...

The beep of the phone was startling enough that it slipped slightly between his fingers, and he fumbled a bit trying to get a firm grasp on it again. Growling under his breath, Sherlock returned his attention to the screen to see that he had one new message.

Don't you have anything better to do? -GL

The grumble still in his throat morphed into a soft chuckle. He took one more look out the window, determined their location from the familiar surroundings, and quickly calculated the speed they must be traveling at on average and how much longer it would take to arrive at the Yard.

Be there in seven minutes. -SH

This time, the response came fast enough that, luckily, he didn't have enough time to become properly distracted.

Seven?

Six, now. -SH

You can stop signing your messages... I know it's you...

Don't want to. -SH

Three minutes, now. He tucked the phone into his pocket, ignoring the beep that signaled a response, and tightened his scarf thoughtlessly. Recently- the last time he'd visited Scotland Yard, in fact, before the freezer incident- he'd somehow forgotten it at Baker Street. And then, in the middle of his conversation with Lestrade, John had burst into the room, garment in his hand, looking a bit worked up and definitely overreacting to the fact that Sherlock had left it behind...

That look in his eyes- like that delivery was the most important thing in the world, like he didn't want anything more than to make sure that-

Again. Again. All he wanted was John out of his head. Why was it so impossible? Why did every little thing to cross his mind somehow remind him of the invalidated army doctor from Afghanistan whom, upon his arrival, had redefined Sherlock's life?

"We've arrived at your final destination, sir," the cabbie announced from the front seat.

Arrived... final destination... sir. This was definitely someone new to the career; seasoned taxi drivers these days rarely did more than grunt when they'd got where they were headed.

He mindlessly handed over a few pound notes, then stepped out onto the sidewalk and strolled purposefully towards the gleaming silver doors of the police station. They opened easily despite their heaviness, and then he was on his way along the familiar path to Lestrade's office. In moments, he reached it, and pushed open the door without hesitation, ignoring the glare shot his way from the nearby desk belonging to a certain Sally Donovan.

The Detective Inspector was on his cell phone, speaking rapidly with a visible strain on his face and pacing around the desk. He waved vaguely at Sherlock, then redirected his attention to the conversation.

"Yeah, all right, but- look, could you let me go? There's someone I need to talk to."

The response, rather loud in the small, empty room, was in a woman's voice, fast and indignant-sounding.

"All right. I'll try to be home before the kids' bedtime."

More tittering.

"And- yes, all right- I'm sorry, there's been lots going on lately..."

Sherlock tried to focus on the sounds from the other side, making words out of the noise of what he assumed to be Mrs. Lestrade.

"They miss you, though."

"And I'll try my hardest to be there on time. Okay?"

"And we want you to have dinner with the family at least once this week- Abby, stop putting butter in your hair. Dorothy, don't eat butter out of your sister's hair!"

The DI ran a hand through his graying hair, his dark eyes flickering between Sherlock and his desk. "Okay, I'm going to let you go now. Talk to you soon. Yes, I love you too. Thanks. Bye." He snapped the phone shut with a sigh of relief and sank gratefully into his chair. "Sherlock," he acknowledged. "Here just as you threatened."

"Of course. Nothing could have held me up."

"Such is the way when you find yourself without work," Lestrade acknowledged. "In all honesty, I can't say I know what you're complaining about."

There were a number of signs scattered about his desk and person that suggested he'd been stressed lately. Sherlock acknowledged them all without really thinking about it, letting them slide under his radar as he continued to speak. "Then give me something. The most challenging thing you have. It's probably incredibly simple- go on, you want to, and I know it as well as you."

"This isn't like you," Lestrade remarked evenly, straightening out the keyboard of his desktop computer. "Why are you coming to me? I'm used to having to drag you out of that damned flat by the collar even when you do act somewhat interested. And now you show up at the Yard begging for work. What's with that?"

Sherlock shifted slightly, trying to hide the fact that he was very much aware of this, himself. It was because of John, of course, that everything about his life had been thrown slightly off-kilter, but he wasn't about to say that. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replied instead.

"Yeah... yeah, sure, okay. Well, actually, there's a rather absurd lack of crime floating around lately. Everything we're caught up in is trivial, and that's by our standards, not yours. Rather frustrating."

"Especially with your... added pressure from home."

"Yes, that doesn't help." The expression on the policeman's face made it clear that he wasn't going to ask questions about how Sherlock had come to possess such information. Which was good, the detective thought; if Lestrade wasn't able to realize just how loudly the volume of his phone was turned up, it would be practically painful.

"So... nothing?"

"Nothing. Though I don't know why it's such a-"

"Just... leave it," Sherlock advised, already turned back towards the door. "Let me know if there's anything."

"Wait, hang on. Are you expecting me to believe that you came all the way over here just to ask me that, and then give up so easily? Almost like you're trying to deduce something about me from my behavior."

"It's not that. It's just..." Sherlock pushed the door open. "I needed some air."