For one to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.

- Sun Tzu

In the three years that John had lived at 221B Baker Street he had had a total of two serious fights with Sherlock. The first fight had happened about a year ago when Sherlock had broken into John's psychiatrist's office, made copies of John's patient file and had then taken them home to analyse at leisure. John wouldn't have found out if it hadn't been for the fact that Sherlock had carried out an experiment in which he had soaked all of his socks in a solution of nitric acid and Fairy Liquid and then left the offending garments in a huge, sodden pile on the living room floor.

John hadn't touched them until Mrs Hudson had complained that water was starting to seep through the floor boards and drip onto her kitchen table. After relenting, re-washing and drying the socks, John had been putting them back into Sherlock's draw when he had found his patient file pushed to the back of the cupboard.

He hadn't known what it was at first and had been hesitant to look in case they were some of Sherlock's private documents. But then he had seen his name scattered sporadically through the pages and he had realised what Sherlock had done.

"Does privacy mean nothing to you?" John had asked later that night once Sherlock had returned from Bart's with a jar of eyeballs and tin of chopped tomatoes.

Sherlock's eyes had flicked from John to the papers that he was holding in his hand.

"I see you found the file."

"No Sherlock, not the file, it's my file. How... it's..."

"It's what?" Sherlock had huffed as he had crossed his arms over his chest.

"It's a violation of my privacy."

"I just wanted to find out things about you, that's caring, that's taking an interest, I thought that's what flatmates were supposed to do."

"No, flatmates are supposed to pick up bread and milk when we've run out, or cook dinner once in a while, or clean up when they make a mess, or have the courtesy not keep eyeballs in the fucking fridge!"

"Where else do you propose I keep them?"

John had felt the veins in his neck standing out and he had forced himself to take a long, deep breath.

"You're not allowed to do stuff like this, you're not allowed to invade my privacy. So I shall reiterate: Does privacy mean nothing to you?"

Sherlock had raised his eyebrows,

"I could ask the same of you."

"How?"

"The only reason we're having this conversation_"

"It's not a conversation, it's an argument. The way you tell the difference is that when we're having a conversation I DON'T SHOUT!"

Sherlock had flinched but he had held his ground,

"The only reason we're having this argument is because you went through my sock draw. You went into my bedroom – which is a private place – and you invaded my privacy. So I think that if I'm willing to forgive you for that then you should be willing to forgive me for_"

"Are you being serious?" John had asked incredulously, "You broke into my psychiatrist's office and stole_"

"Copied_"

"You stole my patient file and then analysed it." John had said as he brandished the pages at Sherlock and then threw them in his general direction, "You've written the word "idiot" and "cretin" a number of times in margins."

"I was referring to the psychiatrist_"

"You also wrote something about "chronic masturbation", were you referring to the psychiatrist that time too?" John had practically roared as he kicked over one of the coffee tables.

"John, I think that you're_"

"Don't tell me that I'm over reacting. I'm not over reacting; in fact I think you'll find that I'm under reacting... I don't even know how you could..."

Sherlock had narrowed his eyes before saying,

"You don't know how I could have broken into your psychiatrist's office or known about your chronic masturbation habits? Maybe the word "chronic" is too strong, would you prefer the term "vigorous"?"

John had stared blankly at Sherlock before he had turned, grabbed his coat and started to thrust his arms into the sleeves.

"Where are you going?"

"Out!" John had said before he had stormed down the hallway and out of the flat.

This particular fight had been followed by a week of tense silence in which John had refused to be in the same room with Sherlock or accompany him to any crime scenes.

Mrs Hudson had tried to intervene after she realised that, without John there to cook or actually force him to eat, Sherlock was actually starting to disintegrate.

This argument had finally been resolved after Sherlock had taken a personality test online, printed off the results and slid them beneath John's bedroom door.

After reading through the pages – which contained some rather disturbing, and yet accurate, observations about Sherlock – John had walked into the front room to find Sherlock peeling the shells off of several dozen boiled eggs.

Sherlock had looked up, his face pensive, eyes slightly wary.

"Should I be worried about these results?" John had asked as he waved the pages in front of Sherlock.

"Those tests are grossly inaccurate, there's such a large margin of error due to the fact that the results are mainly based on a percentage system in relation to the multiple choice answers." Sherlock had said as he cracked the shell of one of the boiled eggs, "One of the questions was: Would you kill anyone? With the implication being that if you answered "yes" then you would, by default, be some sort of sociopath rather than acting out of a level of pragmatism." Sherlock had said with a snort.

John had sighed, crumpled up the pages and then had thrown them in the waste paper basket,

"Do you want dinner? Or are you content with your eggs?"

Sherlock had shaken his head in derision,

"These aren't for eating John." He had said with a small – rather eerie - smile on his face.

John had waited for him to explain himself but, when Sherlock had done nothing but smile down at his eggs, John had said,

"I'll order Thai."

"I don't want Thai, I want Indian."

"Fine, I'll order Indian."

"Ask for extra poppadoms."

"Why don't you ring them?" John had asked as he held out his phone to Sherlock.

Sherlock had looked up at John and had gestured to the egg in his hand,

"I'm busy."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm peeling eggs."

"Why?"

Sherlock had seemingly contemplated how much to tell John, his eyes had gotten a little narrow and he had pressed his lips into a thin line,

"It's for an experiment. I need mass amounts of solid protein."

"Why?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Why not?"

"Because it would make you angry."

"I'm already angry."

"No you're not, you've forgiven me, that's why you offered to order dinner."

John had thought about arguing but then had decided against it. He had scrubbed his hand against his brow before he had gone into the kitchen to find the number for the Indian takeout that Sherlock liked.

Four seconds later, Sherlock had heard John practically scream,

"What the fuck is in the sink?"

The second fight, however, was different from the previous one because this fight wasn't caused by something Sherlock had done but rather by John and this fight hadn't been resolved because it was happening right now.

John had known the second he put his key in the front door and had heard the screeching sound of Sherlock dragging the bow across the strings of his violin that he should probably call Lestrade and go out for a couple of pints – just to take the edge off. He had had an awful day at the clinic – which had been made worse by the fact that he wasn't sleeping too well of late due to the fact that his flatmate refused to stop playing his violin.

He had missed the train to work and then had missed the train home and then had been caught in a torrential rain storm and was thus soaking wet and cold. John was in a foul mood and as he dripped his way up the stairs he could feel the anger bubbling away in his chest.

Instead of going straight to his bedroom – like he should – John went straight into the front room. Sherlock was stretched out in his armchair, clad in the same pyjamas that he'd been wearing for days. His face was blank and his eyes were lifeless as he scraped the bow back and forth tunelessly.

"Stop it." John hissed.

Sherlock looked up at him but his arm kept scraping the bow against the strings.

"You're soaking wet." Sherlock observed disinterestedly.

"I know, I got caught in the rain."

"You should have taken an umbrella."

"Thank you for that insight."

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched slightly at John's sharp tone.

"What's wrong with you?" Sherlock asked as he played a particularly grating note.

"Stop playing your violin, it's driving me insane."

"It helps me think." Sherlock said, still not stopping.

"I can't sleep." John said as he shoved his arms out of his coat and threw it on the floor, "Do you have any idea how many nights it's been since I've slept properly."

"I can't sleep either_"

"That's your problem." John said, his voice getting a little too loud, "You're the one who is obsessing over this case – over finding a woman who has caused us far more trouble than she's worth."

John watched as Sherlock's eyes flashed with something that he couldn't read. His hand finally stilled and the noise stopped.

John closed his eyes in relief and basked in the momentary silence.

"I'm not obsessing over this case because I want to find Irene."

"Why are you on a first name basis with her now?" John asked and he could feel himself slowly losing control of what he was saying, "I mean, you never called her by her first name before, it was always "the woman" – that's why this serial killer wrote "the woman" rather than "Irene". Why has that changed?"

Sherlock stood up slowly, his bow in one hand, his violin in the other,

"What's wrong with you John?"

"Nothing's wrong with me Sherlock. I'm not the one who plays his violin at two o'clock in the morning, or attracts the attention of sadistic killers or keeps organs in the fridge."

Sherlock looked momentarily outraged,

"I haven't kept any organs in that fridge for over a fortnight."

"I found toes next to the salad dressing this morning."

"Toes aren't organs John; I would think that being a doctor you would know the distinction between organs and general body parts." Sherlock said as he pointed his violin at John.

"This is driving me insane." John said as he raked his fingers through his hair, "I can't take this anymore, I can't... you need to give up this case."

Sherlock seemed bewildered,

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you need to drop it, not work on it anymore, give it up."

A muscle in Sherlock's jaw twitched,

"I can't do that."

"Why not? Is it because of Irene?"

"What is your obsession with that woman?"

"It's not my obsession Sherlock, it's yours." John said as he took a step closer to Sherlock, "Do you have any idea what it did to me to see you so broken up after the first time she died_?" John asked as he took another step closer, causing Sherlock to back away slightly.

"I was not broken up_"

"You were moody and depressive and all you did was play that fucking violin and compose music like you were love sick. And now that she's back in our lives, you're doing it again, playing your violin, composing music, sinking into one of your chronic periods of depression and I'm telling you that I can't take it anymore." John said and before he knew what he was doing he had taken Sherlock's violin and had smashed it against the wall. The sound of wood splintering and string snapping filled the room.

Sherlock's eyes got very wide, almost childlike, as he turned his head to stare at the shattered remnants of his violin. John watched – completely horrified at what he had done – as Sherlock crouched down and plucked up some of the splinters, cradling them in his hands like they were precious.

John hadn't meant to throw it so hard, he didn't know how he could have broken it so entirely, maybe the wood was old or_ Oh God, maybe it was some sort of ancient Holmes family heirloom that was handed down through the generations and he had just smashed it beyond repair.

"Sherlock..." John began, all former anger completely lost from his tone.

Sherlock didn't look up; instead he continued to pick up pieces of the splintered wood. When he did finally look up John saw that his eyes were tight, almost as if he was holding back tears.

"Sherlock, I_"

"Are you jealous John?"

"What?"

"Are you jealous of Irene Adler for taking up so much of my time and attention?"

"What... why would I be jealous?" John asked.

Sherlock just stared at him for a long moment and the intensity of his stare gave John the awful impression that Sherlock was actually looking inside his brain, reading his thoughts and feelings as easily as one would read a large print book.

They just stood staring at each other for a long moment and John could feel his heart starting to race wildly in his chest and cold sweat starting to gather beneath his arms.

Maybe he already knew, he was the man who knew everything after all, he must have picked up on the way John was acting, he must have noticed that something had started to change between them – at least on John's part.

Maybe he should just confess, get it all out in the open so that they could talk about it and he could finally stop feeling like he was constantly on the verge of either screaming or vomiting. He opened his mouth and he was going to say it, he was going to tell Sherlock about all the thoughts he had been having and about the dreams and about the tightness in his stomach and chest. He was going to tell him that he didn't know what was happening to him, that he didn't know why he was feeling the way that he was and that it terrified him because this wasn't who he was.

John liked women. He was straight – had been his entire life – but... he knew that the way he felt for Sherlock was becoming something more, transcending the bounds of friendship and becoming... becoming something... darker and more desirous and_

"Boys?"

John flinched and quickly turned his head to break Sherlock's almost hypnotic eye contact.

The sound of slipper clad feet approached and in the next moment Mrs Hudson was popping her head around the corner. Her hair was in curlers and her floral dressing gown was pulled tightly around her thin little frame.

She looked from John to Sherlock to the smashed violin on the ground,

"Oh dear, what's happened?"

Sherlock had yet to speak and John could feel his gaze on the back of his neck.

"We've had a little domestic." Sherlock said finally, his voice ice cold and harsh.

"Look at your poor violin." Mrs Hudson said as she scuffled past John and crouched down to pick up some of the broken pieces, "I have some wood glue in my cupboard, do you think we could do something with that?"

If the situation hadn't been quite so tense then her question may have been funny but neither Sherlock nor John laughed, they didn't even smile. For the first time since entering the rooms of 221B Baker Street, John felt like he wasn't home – which was surreal because this was the only place he had felt at home. He knew that he couldn't stay, this argument wasn't something that they could easily resolve, wasn't something that could be fixed by ordering dinner or leaving things be.

This was serious and he couldn't deal with it now.

John picked up his coat, keeping his eyes away from Sherlock's piercing gaze, and slipped out of the room. His clothes were still wet and his body was still cold but as he opened the front door he realised that that didn't matter – it was still raining.