John

The room was silent after Sherlock had left. Nobody spoke, but Anderson and Lestrade were definitely staring at John, even though he was carefully still pretending to examine the body. Finally, he couldn't help it, and looked up. Cleared his throat. 'Yes?'

'What's going on?' Lestrade cried.

'Ah, well, um, I'm engaged,' John informed him.

'And Sherlock is acting like the biggest drama queen because of that? That's so unlike him,' Anderson said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

'Well, he followed me and saw it happen before I had a chance to tell him – but in my defence, I hadn't told anyone yet, not even Harry, and he would have been the first to know.'

'Aaw, that's sweet,' Anderson sneered, turning on his heel and leaving the apartment. John looked after him questioningly, and realised that he was quite shaken by Sherlock's behaviour, and so naturally was taking it out on John.

John sighed. The worst always did seem to come to him, because people were generally too scared to stand up to Sherlock. Funnily enough, until now, he'd never even minded, not even when it came to near-death situations. There was definitely something wrong with him.

'You're going to have to sort that out. You're the only one who can reason with him,' Lestrade said.

'I wouldn't think so now,' John said bitterly, grabbing his coat as he started to follow Anderson out of the door. 'He's engaged, too.'

Lestrade almost choked. 'He what? To who?'

'Himself,' John called over his shoulder. Behind him, he heard Lestrade splutter, 'He – oh, well, of course that makes sense -,' before the lift doors closed around him.

It wasn't hard to find the way Sherlock had gone – people were still staring off after him angrily, a few of them actually rubbing their arms from where he had barged past too strongly. John jogged until he had caught sight of the tall figure clad in a long coat, and then he slowed down, unsure of how Sherlock might react to him should he disturb him.

So he followed him, into the dark and cold of the night. As he walked, he tried to think of his engagement, but his thoughts kept clouding with Sherlock. It was just like Sherlock to twist everything to himself. He should be happy with the thought of getting married, but all he could see was Sherlock's face from behind the tree when he had seen John down on one knee – anger, betrayal and hurt the predominant emotions on his face before he had turned and ran. And that made John sad, and also confused as to why Sherlock was reacting like this. He tried to remember the last time that they'd had a fight like this – it had been after Sherlock had come back from faking his death, but even that hadn't lasted as long as this had, as they had been both so relieved to see each other. That had been a few months ago, and the only major fight they'd ever had – until now.

John wandered miserably, thinking of dark things as he followed Sherlock, for at least four blocks until Sherlock inexplicably disappeared from view. Confused, John went to the spot where he had seen him last, looking carefully around for possible open drain holes or overhanging ladders, and was about to give up and go home (admittedly only after looking for about ten seconds; he was tired, and his temper was short) when he was pulled to the side into an alleyway he hadn't seen before.

His army training kicked in, and he turned around and slammed his assailant into the wall. Before he could do anything to keep him there, he was pushed away, but with a lot less force than he would have usually expected. It didn't bother him too much though, as this person was clearly unwilling to wound for some reason, and that wasn't exactly a problem for John. He swung a punch at his attacker's head, who ducked, caught his wrist and swung him against the wall in one blindingly fast and smooth move. Before John could retaliate he found that he was being pinned against the wall by his shoulders, and the man was too close for him to kick. He didn't struggle, as he knew not to waste his energy, and so started to plot a quick getaway if this man made a wrong move.

So John was surprised when the man leaned in and whispered, in a very familiar voice, 'Be quiet, we're being followed.'

'Sherlock!' John started to hiss, but a hand was clapped over his mouth before he could voice what was in his mind – just as well, as what he was thinking surely would not bode well with Sherlock, and he wasn't in the best position for getting Sherlock angrier.

Sherlock's eyes glittered briefly in the dim streetlight, but he said nothing and pulled them deeper into the shadows as they heard footsteps come up to the alley where they were hiding. They paused, and a dark shadow could be seen as the person paused, glanced briefly into the darkness, and then went on their way.

Sherlock waited for quite a bit longer than necessary before allowing John to jerk himself free, possibly foreseeing and preparing for the hit that John immediately attempted to take to his side. He deftly intercepted the blow, and wrapped his arms around John before he could move again. John did struggle this time, because he knew that he couldn't count on Sherlock accidentally letting him go, but Sherlock only gripped him tighter.

'John-,' he said, pain clear in his voice, and that was when John stopped fighting, because the only time that Sherlock had sounded like that before was in the pool, when he had thought that John was going to die.

They stood in silence for a moment, before they simultaneously realised that what they were actually doing was hugging each other, and stepped back. John cleared his throat. 'What?' The response came out sharper than he had intended, so it was only natural for him to see Sherlock narrow his eyes immediately and open his mouth.

'No, I mean – just, please don't do that again,' John amended. Sherlock ducked his head a little guiltily in agreement, and they looked at each other before John asked 'Who was that?'

Clearly glad to change the subject, Sherlock replied, 'I've got a few ideas.'

Knowing better than to try to get Sherlock to expand on that answer, John instead asked, 'Know why they're following us?'

Sherlock gave him a slant-eyed look. 'I've got a few ideas.'

Of course he'd still be holding a grudge. John blew air impatiently out through his nose. 'Care to venture a few?'

'Not particularly.'

'Of course you don't!' John snapped. 'Sherlock bloody Holmes, strutting around saying he knows everything but not actually proving it until the end -,'

'John – John!' Sherlock hissed. 'I mean not while that person is still nearby.'

There was a brief but very awkward pause. 'Oh,' John said quietly.

'Okay, so – okay. Um, do you want to go back to the flat?' Sherlock asked hesitantly.

'Yeah, sure.' John had a feeling that there was going to be a lot of talking tonight.

They were back in 221B within fifteen minutes. Sherlock settled into his chair by the fire he'd just lit while John bustled around making tea and cursing whenever he found one of Sherlock's messier experiments scattered around the cupboards.

Finally they were both sitting quietly in front of the fire, gazing into it and blowing on their mugs. Sherlock spoke first.

'I wish to apologize for any concern I may have inflicted upon you with my… earlier behaviour.' John snorted quietly but said nothing. 'I would like you to know that I have broken off the engagement.'

John couldn't help himself. 'How's your ex taking it?'

Sherlock smirked. 'Overreacting, as always.'

John laughed. This was good, this felt normal. For some reason neither of them were acting as though only an hour previously they'd been seething at each other.

Sherlock grinned in reply, and then asked, more hesitantly, 'And… you and your, um –,'

'Anne?' John sighed. 'I probably shouldn't have run off on her. Oh, God, I haven't even called her, have I?' Had she even said yes before he'd left? He honestly couldn't remember.

'In hindsight, perhaps I shouldn't have made such a fuss.' John made no reply, but what he was thinking was probably clear. 'I'm sorry.'

Though slightly – well, very – taken aback by Sherlock's apology (he didn't normally say sorry for anything he did), John wasted no time in replying, 'That's alright. I'm sorry for not telling you.'

Sherlock gave a rueful grin. 'It was probably for the best. God knows what I might have done if I had known beforehand.'

'I have to say that the thought did occur to me,' John laughed.

They grinned, and then bobbed their heads at each other in the universal sign for 'so we're okay, then.'

John cleared his throat and rose, saying as he did, 'I'm off. Don't worry about explaining that thing. I'm going to need to check on Anne.'

Sherlock bade him goodnight, and stayed in the living room for a long while, just staring into the fire. As much as he tried to think about the case, other thoughts seemed to keep jumping into his mind, never taking discernible shapes but always strangely familiar. He'd never been this distracted before, and at two in the morning finally sighed, gave up, and rose to go to bed.

'Of course!'

John started quickly awake at the shout that came from down in Sherlock's room. He glanced blearily at the clock on the shelf – 3:30am. He groaned and turned over into the pillow as feet came running up the stairs, and Sherlock burst into his room, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown.

'Get up, John, we need to go to that apartment again.'

John mumbled something along the lines of, 'Mmphyougowithoutme.'

'No, John, I need you there.' Sherlock paused, and John turned slightly to hike an eyebrow at him. 'Please.'

'No.' John closed his eyes again. Without warning, he felt Sherlock jump on top of him. He gave a strangled yell and tried to hit him off, but to no avail, so he tried to burrow away from him instead. Sherlock caught him, and after a brief scuffle dragged them both off of the bed to lie tangled in a heap of blankets on the floor. That godforsaken man was strong.

'Get up get up get up,' Sherlock whined, shaking him like a petulant child until John growled, 'Fine,' and jumped up. He was very aware of the fact that Sherlock was probably more than capable of physically dragging him down the stairs.

In a few minutes he was dressed and ready, and he plodded downstairs to find Sherlock pacing in the living room. 'This had better be good, and you'd better buy me coffee or something.' John yawned widely.

'Yes, yes, of course,' Sherlock said impatiently. 'Now can we go?'

'Alright, alright,' John said, putting his hands up. Then he narrowed his eyes. 'Why aren't you changed?'

Sherlock looked down at himself, still wearing just pyjamas and a dressing gown. 'I think the real question here is; why are you?'

'Because – because you're not supposed to go out in pyjamas!' John spluttered. 'It's not right!'

'There's no law against it,' Sherlock frowned.

'But it's just -,' John tried to think of word to explain just how much his blatantly British mind-set was shuddering at the thought of walking around with someone wearing pyjamas, in public. 'What would your brother say?'

'Oh, John, do you really think that I'll be going out like this?' Sherlock sighed.

'Says the man who walked into Buckingham Palace wrapped in a sheet,' John muttered.

'No, no no no,' Sherlock assured him. John started to sigh in relief. 'I'll be wearing my scarf too, of course.