Quick Author's Note: Bit of a change, this chapter's in Sherlock's point of view. Probably only one more chapter to go! Thank you to all the readers and supporters of this; it certainly wouldn't have come so quickly without you all.

"I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover's quarrel with the world." - Robert Frost

Chapter III

Sherlock couldn't believe what had happened that day. First of all, he hadn't eaten breakfast. While this was usually quite normal, it was usually by choice; John made him breakfast every morning, Sherlock just chose not to eat it. Sometimes he gave it to someone from the homeless network, sometimes he kept it in the fridge for an experiment…

The point was, Sherlock did appreciate John's housekeeping tendencies, and knew something was amiss when his partner didn't feel the need to take care of him.

They'd been busy lately, of course. There had been an influx of crime in London, it was fantastic, and Sherlock had gotten caught up in that. But John had compensated by putting in more hours at the surgery, and they were both being productively busy. Or so he'd thought.

He'd made a mental note that morning to spend more time with John; sociopath as he was, he knew relationships required reinforcement every now and then. He'd noticed it had been quite a while since they had last had a good conversation, and sex?

The last time he could remember anything remotely orgasmic was a couple of weeks ago, and even then he'd run off before they could finish. It had been a good case, Sherlock remembered, but the longest discussion he remembered having with his John since then was about writing up the story.

He was resolved, then; as soon as he finished this business with the Woman (whom he was honestly glad to see, as geniuses who weren't evil were few and far between), he would take John out tonight. Perhaps to Angelo's, it had been a few weeks since they'd had Italian…

No. No, no, no, nonono.

Sherlock couldn't process what he was seeing. Well, no, that wasn't entirely accurate - his mind could understand it all well enough (scuff on the door, ladies' shoes, John had been carrying her to bed), the details (clothes strewn all across the room, tossed because there was something better to do than worry about neatness, like sex, hot and fast) as clear as ever.

But as clear as everything was through the windows of his mind palace, he didn't want to understand (John's hair was tussled, but more so in the back, his partner grabbed his hair during a particularly deep thrust), he didn't want to -

And he recoiled from the thought that someone else had been John's partner. That was what everything of the scene had indicated, and while he knew John had been drunk (wine stain on the couch, wasn't there before, had to be John, that other one held her glass differently), he was still very unhappy.

This was what John would call very not good, if he hadn't been the instigator of the problem in the first place.

But that wasn't fair, a voice in his palace whispered. It sounded very much like John. After all, would he have needed to go to someone else if it hadn't been for you neglecting him?

And yes, Sherlock had noticed they hadn't touched base in longer than usual. He had noticed John was lonely, and he'd been missing his blogger as well. But…

But then it was both their faults. And they would both have to work to fix it.

And then his body - useless transport, what was with the communication delay, really those neurons were so slow - finally managed to turn around, and he was running.

His mind handled the details, like step around the Woman, don't bump her and turn left here, this goes out to the streets, out to London, and London, sounds good, lots of air and space to run. His body was free to focus on his baser instincts, hurthurthurt run need to be free get out of this place.

He didn't stop until he was out, turn a right here and then slide the brick door open. Finally he could breathe again, and the smog and fog of London was Olympus to his aching lungs. Or was that his heart? He couldn't be sure, it was just a general hurt.

Normally, he'd talk to his doctor about it, but he hurt even more at the mere thought of it.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure how long he'd been standing in the alley (or, for that matter, when he'd stopped standing and had slumped against the probably filthy alley wall), but then suddenly John had joined him. The loud, clumsy footsteps of the normally steady man (still hung-over, too much to drink, had been drunk beyond reason) gave him more than enough warning.

By the time John had stopped, about a foot away from him, he had managed to discreetly wipe his eyes. Ugh, transport.

"I- I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock could hear the self-loathing in his voice, and while a viciously angry part of him was happy, the rest of him felt even worse. He didn't understand his emotions very well, especially when what he felt was illogical; but he did know enough that he didn't want John to be upset. Not for very much longer, anyway; he did still… hurt me.

Sherlock let out a breath he had apparently been holding. "Of course you are." He began speaking, rapidly and sharply and partly wanting to hurt John as much as he'd been hurt.

Every word about his partner's gross infidelity was like a dull knife he was pointing at John. He painted out the facts leading to the climax - if one wanted to be crude, and that was exactly how Sherlock felt at the moment - with red for love and passion and blood and anger.

And if his voice cracked just half an octave when he said the word 'partners', he hoped John hadn't noticed.

It was when he'd mentioned regulating their sex with a schedule (a pretty decent idea, if he said so himself, regular sex meant this sort of thing would not happen again) that John finally interrupted him. Apparently he didn't like Sherlock's idea. Yes, because John came up with such good ones on his own…

And then John was saying exactly what he'd known all along, of course, and he got impatient. Yes, perhaps he had been harsh, and perhaps he did feel a twinge of remorse at implying John had 'fallen into' that woman's arms.

But to comprehend that John had been more upset than he'd thought about their distance? And that he'd wanted to avoid mentioning it because he'd believed their relationship should be able to withstand something like that?

Oh, John. Silly, silly John; Sherlock was almost ready to forgive the man.

Disregarding all of the day's chaos, and the slight drifting away they'd had before that, Sherlock was absolutely a hundred percent certain that John cared for him. And that went both ways.

He knew, as fact, that John would do nearly anything for him; the man had killed for him when they'd been barely acquaintances, for god's sake.

The last twenty-four hours had been an earthquake, a seismic shifting in their relationship. It had done damage, of course - it seeped into the trust they had built over the years, and stung with all the consequences a betrayal (albeit a drunken one). It had shaken them both, and left cracks that would be difficult to fill.

But Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were stronger than that, thank you very much. Over the time they'd spent together (running around the streets of London and solving crimes, watching crap telly and eating take-out, the pulse-racing and the peaceful tossed together into the lives they lived), they'd managed to from a strong foundation.

Sherlock was all lava, fiery and so hot that most people couldn't stand to be near him for melting; but John was water, ordinary at first glance but absolutely capable of anything, ice or water or steam, and he could stand Sherlock's heat better than anyone else.

And when they came together, they formed rock - limestone, so strong it could build pyramids and towers, caves and canyons and cliffs.

This - this issue of John and the woman who was so insignificant he'd already forgotten her name - this was nothing to them. This was tiny, and with his new perspective Sherlock could even appreciate how things had been shaken up, so where there was confusion and uncertainty before, they could refill the cracks with love and faith and trust.

They would come back from this greater than before, stronger, Sherlock had no doubt. In the future, they would look back on this night as someone squeezing a lime to their limestone. Negligible.

Sherlock's eyes had just begun to soften towards John, the man peeking out of his mind palace windows, when the doctor began swaying. And then before Sherlock could move (little gagging noises, eyes fluttering, lurching, John was going to throw up and possibly faint), there was vomit on his leather shoes.

But Sherlock did manage to move quickly enough to catch John before he fell and hit pavement. Yes, even if the man had gotten sick all over his (rather expensive) shoes; Sherlock did love the man, after all.