A.N.: Thanks for the feedback, guys. It's very much appreciated! :)

Chapter Five

His phone displayed a new message when John returned to the living room. He let himself fall down on the couch, remembering vividly how impossibly dramatic Sherlock could be when he flung himself onto the thing. John wondered why he had never really hurt himself doing that.

Busses are hateful, so are passengers. Journey is dull. Snow everywhere. John!

John smiled. His name had clearly become something else than just that, and even though he had very early on liked and eventually loved the way Sherlock said his name, he had never really understood that it was so much more that Sherlock meant when he said it. He was missing him, that much was obvious, but in the end John was glad that he did not have to endure a ten hour bus ride with a bored Sherlock by his side. He did feel a bit sorry for the other passengers, though.

Be nice to them, Sherlock. They are just as bored as you are.

It only took Sherlock a few seconds to reply.

Wrong, John, you are so very very wrong.

He had to laugh out loud and typed I love you. He stared at the words for a while. It had been so easy to type them, and yet, it was impossible to actually send them. With a sigh, he pressed 'delete' and leaned back, his hand resting on the spot where Sherlock's head usually lay when he was thinking.

He was almost out of credit and would have to go to the shop to buy more because he had never bothered to find out how to do it online. He looked around, trying to figure out what he could do to keep himself occupied. John wanted to go and see Sarah the next morning, but he was not sure whether he would be able to actually go back and work at the surgery, with her. He had been unfair, but, in his defense, he hadn't known better.

With a sigh he pushed himself up again and made his way upstairs. Once John was there, he wasn't quite sure why he had come up. Sherlock's door was open, the mess on the floor was impossible to overlook. With a smile he looked down on the chaos, wondering yet again how Sherlock could find anything in there. Ignoring the piles of paper, he walked over to the bed and sat down and then just let himself fall sideways until his face was pressed to Sherlock's pillow. He felt silly for doing it, but he inhaled Sherlock's scent and thought that upon his return, Sherlock's bed would quite possibly host two pillows, one smelling of Sherlock, and one smelling of John. The idea made John tremendously happy and he had to chuckle at his own silly thoughts.

He was a grown man, and although he had been what you could call a romantic one in his past, he had thought that he was beyond grammar school notions of romance in the form of exchanging his jumper for a girl's handkerchief. Yet somehow Sherlock triggered something in him that made all of these things seem not quite as silly as they should be.

He re-read the messages Sherlock had sent him since he had been gone. Sherlock had wisely bought a phone with a lot of memory on it and an additional memory card so he would not have to delete any of the texts. Of course he had not admitted that it was for that reason; he had rather pointed it out as a helpful way of saving important messages that Lestrade would send him so he would be able to go back and read them once he returned. Lestrade had written him exactly one text since Monday when Sherlock had left.

I hope you're okay. If anything happens, give me a call. Sherlock will be fine, so don't worry about him. GL

John had saved it, if only to have one single aberration in his list of received texts. All the others read 'Sherlock'.

He had spent the days waiting, and he knew it was not the best thing to do, but counting down the days to normality seemed much easier than trying to fill them with things unrelated to the latest turn of events. Somehow he thought that if he forgot to worry about Sherlock, even for an instant, something would happen to him.

Maybe it was time to see the therapist again.

John, entertain me!

He laughed out loud again. Maybe sitting next to him on that bus would be easier than entertaining him from the distance.

running out of credit

So you're using it to send me this incredibly unimportant message?

Well, I can't really help you, can I? Are you being nice to the passengers?

Signal is going. I hate this country and I will kill Lestrade. John, why are you not here? ps: delete this text, could be used against me

I miss you Sherlock, I have no more credit, be nice, it's your own fault, I'm waiting for you, hope that helps.

For the next few hours, the phone was silent. John decided that while he was on the bed, he might as well get some sleep. And it came easily, triggered by the smell on the pillow (what shampoo did Sherlock use? He never noticed his hair smelled so nice) and the strong physical memory of Sherlock wrapped around him protectively. It was strange, really, because his own physical reaction when he had held Sherlock had been incredibly strong, and yet, if he really thought about it, the most intense moment had been when Sherlock had wrapped himself around him on the morning before their first kiss.

He was woken up by his phone. Two text messages, one from Sherlock, and one from Orange, telling him he needed more credit. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes he opened Sherlock's message.

Bus stuck because of snow. Hate is not a word strong enough to express my state of mind. Calling Mycroft! Need a hug

John was grinning like a fool. He felt a bit sorry for Sherlock now, and the request for a hug seemed incredibly sweet. He could imagine Sherlock typing that with his hand over the screen so that the undoubtedly already annoyed passengers on the bus would not be able to read that one last sentence.

He pondered on his option of going back to sleep, but he felt awake now, calculating that it must be early evening in …well, wherever Sherlock was right now. So instead of going back to sleep he went downstairs again, made himself tea and switched on the telly. He listened half heartedly to the documentary on the unhealthy living conditions of the English, chuckling only when someone reported that stress was one of the main reasons for a generally unhealthy diet. Thinking about it, he had not really been better than Sherlock during these past days, eating only when his body was protesting loudly, but otherwise being caught up in thoughts. This was not good. He shouldn't be so very dependent on his friend.

John decided that from tomorrow on, he would be sensible and actually go back to a normal rhythm and be productive and to stop worrying about Sherlock. It had taken him three days to even get to Prince George, and now he was stuck in the middle of nowhere, having to rely on his brother to actually get him to the place where he needed to go. He would deal with the guilty man in the course of a few hours and would probably take another four days until he was back in London. The snow didn't really make things easier.

John. John. John. John. John. Call Mycroft, he'll get you unlimited credit. Tonight. Now. Do it.

John smiled, but he was not sure whether this was a good idea. It certainly seemed as if Mycroft was in a good enough mood to help Sherlock out and pay for his phone bill, but the Holmes brothers never did anything that did not serve a higher purpose. In this case, John figured, it was either that Sherlock expected him to actually have endless conversations in the form of text messages, or that Mycroft wanted John to keep Sherlock occupied so he wouldn't get bored and do something stupid. Either way, if he accepted the offer, he would not be able to return to a daily routine, and he wasn't sure whether he would sleep at all until Sherlock's return; and possibly he would get even less sleep once he was back. John blushed at the thought.

Please!

The grin would never go away, he thought. He was too old to feel like he did, or at least he had figured that he was too old. Sherlock clearly liked proving him wrong, even if he was not there to even know John's thoughts.

I asked him for you, he had someone top up your phone online. No limit. Try it.

Impossible. Sherlock was impossible, and desperate, obviously.

It's the middle of the night.

You can't sleep without me.A statement, probably typed with an air of stubbornness.

I did until very recently. I was woken up by someone who is apparently rather bored. Are you okay?

I'm offended. I didn't sleep a single minute since I left.John mentally added the 'you'.

And that is why you are an idiot. Get some sleep tonight, that's an order. Can't have you break down.

I don't ever break down from lack of sleep, I'm okay, thanks for asking. Bored, yes, incredibly.

Where exactly are you? When will you be with the man and solve this "mysterious" case?

At dawn, hopefully. Mycroft did not have a helicopter to spare. Sent me a bloody truck and a chattering driver. About to break something.

Don't. Try to sleep. Time will pass faster.

The phone was silent for a while and John wondered whether Sherlock had actually taken his order seriously. But there was also the nagging feeling that something might have happened. He cursed silently. He should not worry so much, it was ridiculous. Just because Sherlock didn't write back within a minute after his last text it didn't mean that the truck had broken down, crashed into a tree or that someone had kidnapped him.

Are you still alive?

He felt silly for writing it, but he needed to be sure.

You are incredibly predictable, John.

John laughed and decided to stay quiet for some time now to see if Sherlock would end up writing a worried text. He didn't. Instead Sherlock waited half an hour until he texted again.

Hope I woke you up. Don't sleep when I need you to entertain me. My scar hurts.

That worried John for several reasons. Sherlock apparently felt the need to keep him awake just to spite him. Did he seriously expect him to keep writing throughout the night? He was also very obviously bored, and impatient, which was a dangerous mix. However, the most prominent worry was that Sherlock's wound seemed to actually hurt him, because he wouldn't write about it if he was only bothered slightly. That he addressed it at all worried him indeed.

How much? Does it look okay? Is it inflamed?

I'm not sure. It seems okay, but it still hurts. But maybe it's not the scar alone that hurts. Stomach feels weird.

John couldn't believe it. Instead of texting him back, he dialled Sherlock's number, who picked up at the first ring.

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, how can I be of help?"

"You bloody idiot, are you trying to kill yourself? When did you last eat?"

"Oh hello, John."

"Sherlock," John noticed how tired he sounded. "What in the world are you doing to yourself."

"The hotel only had ghastly looking food and I didn't feel hungry."

"Sherlock, you do understand that you needfood and sleep, and there are no excuses."

"I'm just really not hungry. I tried eating, but then I…"

"What, Sherlock, what happened?"

"Then I had to think of you, and how far away you are and…"

John's heart started racing, a knot forming in his stomach. He was familiar with that feeling, he had felt it all those years ago when he had been crushing hard on girls…was Sherlock really suffering from the same sweet anxiety that he had felt back then? Butterflies so strong that food just lost its appeal?

"Sherlock." He didn't really know what else to say. If he didn't know better he would think that Sherlock was suffering from romantic oversensitivity. But then again, John was fairly sure that he himself didn't suffer from the same thing just because he forced himself to stay rational about it and avoid letting himself fall too hard. Sherlock was apparently not quite able to deal with the emotional onslaught. Just to think that Sherlock, of all people, was confronted with something that he had no control over made John both nervous and ridiculously happy.

"Sherlock, listen. Concentrate on why you are there and what you are doing. And please, please eat, even if you don't feel like it. You're just away for a while, it's not like…"

"John," Sherlock interrupted him impatiently. "I know all of these things. The problem is, it doesn't change the fact that I am here in Canada while I would much rather be in London, making sure that everything is okay there." He didn't say it. He could type it, but he couldn't say it.

"Sherlock, I'm fine. Don't worry about me. I'm here and I will be here when you come back."

Silence on the other side. "Sherlock, are you still there?"

"Yes, the problem is, I know you're right but I'm still worried."

John smiled. Slowly, very slowly he started to understand that he was the reason for what Sherlock was going through. All of those moments when he had just felt like kissing him, all of these moments when he had worried and not even let himself imagine what would happen if he would not see Sherlock again, all of these things that had filled his head and heart and had left him shaken and insecure; those things were what made Sherlock loose his appetite and sleep. Not his work, not a strange case that simply made him forget, no, this time hewas the reason and he felt strangely flattered by that.

"It'll get getter, eventually."

"How do you know? I might have caught a stomach flu or something equally annoying."

"No, Sherlock, that is not what it is."

"What is it then?" Was he really not able to see the obvious? Had he really never ever felt anything like this for another person? And if he had been interested in John, which he had not exactly admitted to in words, but calling John his case and trying to figure out what John felt towards him said just as much, he must have felt the effects of being in love. But maybe Sherlock just functioned really very differently than most people did.

"I feel it, too. Not as much, not as strong maybe, not enough to rob me of sleep and appetite, but I know how it feels."

"John, you were sick as well, and maybe I just caught whatever you had."

John chuckled, this was getting ridiculous, and talking about it was dangerous. It meant that he had to admit to his feelings, to tell Sherlock exactly what he felt and then there was no turning back.

"Sherlock, you're…" how to say something that would just sound ridiculous to Sherlock? "It's me. It's what you feel. What's happening to you is what happens when you… fall in love."

"Oh." John knew he had blushed, and he wanted nothing more than to be there with him, to see his face, to see realisation strike him. It was wrong to do it over the phone, but at least they talked. A text would have been ridiculous.

"That is what it feels like?" He sounded honestly surprised. "John, I'm not sure I want to keep on feeling that. It's uncomfortable and distracting and you are not here to make it go away again."

"Sherlock, that is not how this works. If I was there it would probably be worse. I certainly would feel it much stronger if I was with you."

"Why are you uncomfortable talking about this?"

"What?"

"Well, you clearly have a problem describing how you feel."

John stared into nothing. Was Sherlock being serious? He was at a loss for words.

"John? Talk to me."

"I…"

"John? What is it? Are you alright, have I said something wrong?"

"No, Sherlock, you haven't said anything wrong. It's just that …"

He could hear that Sherlock was being frustrated with his stuttering about and he knew that there was only one way out of the situation into which Sherlock had gracefully steered him without realising it.

"I love you."

"Well, so far so obvious."

"Sherlock!"

"What now?"

"You know, where I come from, this is a big deal, you don't just go about saying it, not for a long time, not before you are sure…" he trailed off, feeling vulnerable and somewhat upset with Sherlock for not recognising the significance those three words had for him.

"John, why are you upset? I know how you feel, I thought that was clear. I had no idea that apparently you aren't sure about that. And I think a year qualifies as long." Why did he always have to be so annoyingly right?

"No, I am sure. I just…God, why do you have to be so…"

"Intellectually superior?"

"Don't be ridiculous." John couldn't keep the smile out of his voice. "That's not the word I was looking for."

"I'm sorry, John, I do realise that you have difficulties expressing how you feel. But of all the things you could feel, I think that your feelings towards me are fairly obvious. I just didn't know that lovewould feel like this."

John could barely breathe. Sherlock had just done his best to take any romantic connotation out of those words, but the chance that Sherlock might actually say them to him had him sitting on the edge of the bed, biting his lip.

"It will change, you will be able to eat and sleep again. But are you telling me that you have never felt like this before?"

The distance made it surreal, this conversation that seemed so very cliché and which made him very self-conscious. "No, John, I have not felt like this before. The only feeling that is remotely similar is a stomach flu, so that is why I figured it had to be that. But the scar does hurt a bit, although that might be your fault as well."

John laughed. "My fault, because I shot you?"

"No, it only hurts when I think of you."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Do you think it might be psychosomatic?"

John wanted to laugh, but in the end it seemed like the only logical explanation. "That might be the case, yes."

"I still wish you were here. I am positive I would feel better."

"Sherlock, please, I know that you are incredibly bored and anxious for something to happen, but try to stay calm and for Christ's sake, eat something and then get some sleep."

"Are you tired?"

"Yes, and I will hang up on you now. Mycroft will not be amused to see how much money I spent just to chat with you about butterflies."

"Butterflies, John, what are you talking about?"

John laughed, loudly, breathlessly, and in that minute he missed Sherlock so much it hurt. "It's what it's called, the feeling that you have that keeps you from eating and sleeping."

"You don't expect me to understand that, do you?"

"No, I don't. I'm going to let you go now."

"Can I still text you when I get bored?"

"Yes, but don't be surprised when I don't answer. I might be asleep."

"Fine."

"Sherlock, promise me…"

"I already promised. I haven't done anything stupid as you call it, I have not destroyed anything and I have not offended anyone…who did not deserve it."

"I miss you. I'm going to hang up now. Good night, Sherlock." He felt already saddened by the prospect of not being able to hear Sherlock talk as soon as he ended the phone call.

"Good night, John." And John was about to press 'end call' when Sherlock coughed somewhat nervously. "And John?"

"Yes?"

"I do love you, you know? Just in case you were wondering, which I know you were not, but still…"

Suddenly John was overwhelmed with butterflies in his stomach, as if he really had just been waiting for Sherlock to say the words to set them free. His hand was shaking and he was sure that he would never ever stop grinning again.

"Thank you."

"Good night, John."