Well, the second part is here. :)

ATTENTION: I used some flowers symolism in this chapter. Probably everybody understands the meaning of roses (poor John, getting confused) but not all of you know the truth about blue irises. Well the meaning of those flowers is: I have already forgotten. Bear that in mind during the reading.

I tried to keep character's behaviour as likely as possible, adjusting their decisions and thoughts to what we know from series. Hope I did that well.

I also apologize for all the mistakes, as always reminding you that I don't use english on a daily basis. ;)

Sherlock and John belong to BBC.

The moment he opened his eyes, John had already known something was wrong. He turned to reach his mobile phone lying on the nightstand. He unlocked it to check the time and froze. Quarter past one. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. John was absolutely sure he set the alarm before he went to bed yesterday. The idea was to wake Yanmei up with a breakfast and hot tea but he failed pursuing it. She was already at work. So now was the time for plan B: calling her as soon as he could, meeting with flowers in his hand and apologizing. He rose with a loud sigh and looked to his left. The other part of the bed was empty. Sherlock had never slept much being the last one to go to bed and first one to get up early in the morning. So he could have at least told John, that his girlfriend (or ex-girlfriend now?) woke up and is about to leave (probably quite disappointed or angry about John's behaviour?).

"John." He almost jumped at the sound of his own name being called. He immediately turned to his right. Sherlock was standing next to the window, his back to John.

"Sherlock? Why the h-"

"You're snoring. And you kick while asleep." He said and left the room with no further explanation.

John sighed again, louder. He stopped trying to understand his friend's demeanor some time ago. So instead of racking his brain over it, John dialled Yanmei's number praying, that she'd be willing to answer.

"Hello John." She sounded normally, bit absent-minded. But she was at work, right?

"Uhm…" He hesitated.

"I'm sorry, but I'm really busy at the moment. Is there something important you want to tell me now?" Fuck. She was angry.

"I'm really sorry about this morning. I really didn't want it to look like that. I… I care about and you're important, but I just… Oh, shit, can we just meet? Coffee? Anywhere you want. As soon as possible?" He cursed himself at the moment. How could one be so hopeless at apologizing?

"Okay. I'll text you the address. Be there in half an hour. Bye, John"

If she gave him another chance, John wasn't going to ruin it. He got ready as quick as he could. Finally he stood in front of a mirror, shaved, his teeth brushed, even in a purple shirt instead of the usual jumper, checking carefully for anything that could ruin his look. Finding nothing, he headed towards the stairs.

"Sherlock, I'm leaving." He called out of custom. No one replied. But John's mind was busy thinking of something else.

Roses? Or lilies? No, roses were good. Which colour then? He wasn't good at symbolism. As an army doctor he knew how to stitch up the wound, fix broken bone or even repair a 'broken' heart. But meaning behind colours? Sherlock would know. Perhaps John should have called him? No. No, Sherlock anymore. No more girlfriends dumping him because of his flatmate, alleged 'boyfriend'. This time it was almost perfect and he was going to make it work. By himself. He forced his brain to remember the meaning of every rose colour he ever heard of. Yellow? No, it was envy or anger? White was good for weddings. Violet, pink and orange all mixed up – he couldn't tell the difference. And there was red. But a red rose meant something big and serious. Love. It took him some time to accustom to this word. Was he in love in Yanmei? They went on a couple of dates and it felt good. She was intelligent, warm and good in bed. Oh, god, bed. Maybe that's what it was about? She expected him to sleep with her? But leaving Sherlock downstairs just like that would be…rude. Even for someone as socially indifferent as his flatmate was. No, he could not do that. His thoughts went back to the colours. Love meant attachment. But did he feel that way? Was she the one and only in the whole world?

"Excuse me, sir? Anything you'd like to buy?" Voice of a florist startled him. He quickly looked around, over the roses, lilies and found a big bouquet of blue irises.

"I'll have these, please."

With flower in one hand he rushed to the meeting. Just when appearing from behind the corner of a building, he saw Yanmei. He slowed down, straightened his jacket and neatened hair. She looked really beautiful. Chic and self-confident businesswoman.

"Hi, John." She greeted him but did not kiss.

"Hi. I brought these for you. Just to say… Never mind. Let them speak louder than my words." He passed her irises with a warm smile.

"I see…" She smiled but somehow sadly. He didn't understand why. "Let's have a sit, alright?" She invited John to a free table.

"Well, I just wanted to-"

"John. Listen to me. I'm not angry. I'm a bit disappointed and really, really sad. To be honest, that kind of situation has never happened to me before." John stiffened, not quite understanding if oversleeping was such an uncommon thing to do. "You could just tell me."

"Wait. Tell you…what?" He was puzzled.

"About you and Sherlock." She stated really seriously.

"Oh, god, no. Not again. Me and Sherlock – we're not a couple. And I hoped you realized, I'm not actually gay. Why did you even think of it?" He smiled, thankful that her problem was not his behaviour but rather some kind of rumour he could easily get rid of.

"I saw you two. In bed."

"We were just sleeping together. Not to choose, who would end up on the couch. There's nothing more to it."

"Last time I saw you, you were not just sleeping. He was holding you tight… And you… You were calling his name. I couldn't see your faces from the door but that was enough. And I left you a note. Didn't you read it?"

"Note?" John desperately tried to recall presence of any note at 221B. "I-I haven't seen any note. But please, believe me – whatever you have seen or you think you have seen is not like that. We're mates, we solve crimes together. Maybe you've seen it wrong? Or it was Sherlock's prank? I'll definitely have to talk to him." He felt anger boiling inside him.

"No, John, don't." She shook her head, tiny strands of hair falling of her perfect hairdo. "I had time to think about it and I decided."

"No, Yanmei, please don't. I-I…" If there was any time to say it, it was now. One and only occasion. In a minute everything would be lost. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't say those two words. Why?

"No, shhh…" She put a finger on his lips. "Don't. I know you don't love me. I also know that I do and I want you to be happy. That's what love is about, right?" He wanted to say something but she didn't let him. "I can see that you like me, a lot. But your heart will never belong to me. And that's something I need. I do need attachment. When we meet, though, you're often so absent-minded. Of course, at first you're happy to see me and I feel like the only one for you… But whenever the message from him comes, I feel you're fighting your inner self not to text back, not to come and join your detective at the crime scene." Maybe it was just his imagination, but he saw tears in her eyes. She really cared.

"Yanmei…"

"John, it's not about sexuality. You're an excellent lover and in bed I felt like I really had you for myself only. But that's too little. I can't be just a mistress to you."

"You're not. You're a… friend." He wasn't sure about saying that.

"I think I'm going to be soon." She rose from her chair. "Just now I need some time to…stop loving you. But when I'll move on, I'll be really glad to become one." She smiled and John was sure, that now she was trying to stop tears streaming down her face. "Bye, John." She said quietly and left.

"Would you like anything to drink, sir?" The waiter showed up with a menu. John expected himself to be more devastated. He should have smashed the flower vase standing on the table, shouted angrily at the poor waiter or just burst into tears. He didn't do anything of those things.

"I'd have a tea, please." He was angry but perfectly still. Not a single tear coming to his eyes. Was that because she was another one that dumped him suspecting a relationship with Sherlock? Maybe. But then, wasn't she special to him? Apparently he was just a soldier with a heart hardened by war experiences. It sounded reasonable and John wanted to believe it was the right explanation.

The feeling was growing. He could feel it like a tumour in his chest, aching weirdly every time he remembered. Was he growing too attached? And if so, why wasn't he able to stop it? He despised that part of himself, that wouldn't let the feeling disappear. He despised his own mind for keeping such a ridiculous emotion alive. He knew he wanted to get rid of it but on the other hand his love for puzzles made him wanted to 'solve' the feeling like a riddle. When one gets the answer everything becomes clear, rational. Sherlock Holmes wanted to feel rational so badly at the moment. Even boredom was better than that. It was at least something he was accustomed to. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. He recalled his own brother saying. And then the images started to project themselves in his head. Again - he remembered.

It was early in the morning. He could hardly fall asleep that night. John was snoring really loud and kicking. Just when he wanted to wake his flatmate up he heard him calling a name. His own name.

"Sherlock. Sherlock…" John was wriggling anxiously in his sleep, probably having one of his war nightmares. But why did he call his name then? Sherlock was wondering, not really knowing what to do in that uncomfortable situation, when he saw John's arms reaching towards him, wrapping around him and holding him close. He felt John's fingers thrusting into his back, shaking, causing him pain. But he didn't make a single move. He was caught in that moment of intimacy and a close body contact – something he never experienced before. Not in such way. He hesitated for a long time but when he realised John wasn't going to let him go, he carefully and really awkwardly embraced his only friend. It felt strange to touch someone, feel warmth of another human being, its breath and heartbeat. John's was just so unnaturally fast. Sherlock instinctively moved closer in gesture of protection.

And now, when he was alone, he hated himself for doing that. Instincts were hidden in subconscious and it meant he wasn't able to control them. But more importantly, they triggered emotions – something he didn't want to have in his life. Particularly that one damned feeling he couldn't name.

Suddenly he heard footsteps on the stairs. Steady, loud. It was John.

"John, I have a note for you." He called as he saw his flatmate. John stopped, but didn't turn over

"Bit too late for that now, isn't it?" He stated spitefully and went upstairs without a word more.

And suddenly Sherlock knew exactly the name for his feeling. It was need. An overwhelming need of contact, touch and intimacy. Need, that only his friend, John Watson, could satisfy.

I'm glad you've read it. Reviews will make me even happier :)