This chapter honestly wrote itself. It's one of my favorites, so I hope you enjoy it.

Uploading a day early because I'm going to be busy tomorrow. Senior year. Bleh.

Warning: Very slight drug reference and brief coarse language.

Chapter 5 - Proof

"I'm going to die, John."

The statement scares me so fully that I drop the cup of tea I'd been carrying into the sitting room. The cup shatters, making a huge mess, but I ignore it and stare at Sherlock as he tunes his violin strings.

The detective glances at the mess at my feet and then up at me. "Mycroft's condition has made the inevitable, tangible."

I let out the breath I'd unknowingly been holding. "So you're not actually dying?"

A look of confusion crosses Sherlock's face. "We're all dying, John. But if you mean am I going to drop dead tomorrow, I do believe I have quite a few more years before I go six feet under."

I rub my face with a slightly trembling hand. "What the fuck, Sherlock. You can't just say things like that to people."

"Not good?"

"A bloody bit not good!"

"Interesting." He continues adjusting strings.

I ignore that and drop into my chair across from him. "Why does everything these days seem to revolve around death?"

"We solve murders, John. Things always revolve around death for us."

"You know what I mean!" What he'd said had shaken me far more than it should have. Having a man resurrected say that had brought a lot of unpleasant memories rushing back.

My note…

Goodbye, John.

No. Nope. Taking a profound breath, I quickly shove that day away into the deepest recesses of my mind.

I become aware of Sherlock staring at me, concerned. "John, are you alright?"

"Good. Fine. Great." I stand up and walk to the kitchen.

A moment's hesitation, then Sherlock starts playing a graceful melody on the finely tuned instrument.

I grab a broom and dustpan. I have a mess to clean up.

People shed tears subconsciously. It happens more than they probably realize. What may seem as a simple case of watering eyes could very well be the body's way of releasing some buried torment deep inside the heart and mind.

I had thought about this once before. I'd found Sherlock sitting in his chair, fingers prayer-like under his chin, staring at the far wall. Nothing unusual there, but the slight redness about the eyes had caused me to give him a second look. At first, I worried that perhaps he'd found an old stash of something, but after a slightly closer study, realized the redness was due to the tracks of dried tears on the detective's cheekbones. His face was completely stoic, not at all distressed. The watering of his eyes was very simply probably because he'd stared too long without blinking, but it had sent me to thinking about the possibility of Sherlock Holmes shedding a genuine tear. If he ever does, no one ever sees. There are never witnesses. No proof. And that's what Sherlock always insists is necessary, is it not? Proof.

I cry. Not often, but I do. I cried when the nightmares of Afghanistan were too much. I cried when Sherlock took the plunge off the roof. I cried at his gravesite and I cried after he returned. Now, I don't usually have reasons to cry, but that doesn't stop me from waking up in the middle of the night with a wet face after re-living the day from hell, when I watched Sherlock's lithe body lean forward, arms spread, and plummet to the hard concrete. I almost always cry with those dreams. Messy, ridiculous tears will stain my face and dampen my pillow. I rarely make a sound, that I'm aware of. (After all, I'm sure if I cried out in my sleep, Sherlock would be sure to alert me to such behavior with a rude "Do keep quiet, John. I'm working on an experiment and your noise is far too distracting.")

I'm not embarrassed by it. Men who believe crying is a sign of weakness don't know how much of a release it is. I truly don't believe England will fall simply because my eyes leak a bit.

I wake up from one of those dreams, this one ending with a sickening thump instead of my customary scream of "Sherlock!" As usual, my pillow is damp. I've been sweating heavily and I have a feeling my sheets are also less than dry. I breathe in deeply a few times, calming myself down. I know they're just dreams; they're only in my head. Sometimes I convince myself by peeking out of my room and down the staircase a bit, if not to see Sherlock himself, then at least evidence of him.

An empty teacup.

Scattered case files.

An empty packet of nicotine patches on the floor.

Tonight, however, I choose to go down to the kitchen and get some tea.

He's sitting at his microscope, studying something intently.

"Bad dream?"

Of course he knows. He always knows. I don't let it bother me.

I hum in reply, preparing tea at—I glance at the clock—three forty-two in the morning.

"Something to do with me?"

I glance at him. "Did I say your name again?"

He shakes his head slightly, still looking through the magnifier. "Not this time. You're just more likely to come down, or at least out of your room, if it's about me." He pulls a face. "Probably making sure I'm still here."

I shake my head slightly at the expression on his pale face. "That's not a good way to treat this whole thing. You destroyed my life after you left. You can't just act like it's an annoying little occurrence in the basement of your mind palace." I sigh and pour my tea. It's the middle of the night and not the time for this conversation.

Thunder rumbles outside. I hadn't realized it was raining. How bloody typical.

When I look up, Sherlock's eyes are boring into mine, his mouth slightly agape. Unusual.

"You are welcome to think whatever you like about how I remember that time, but I will tell you now, nothing about it was easy and the only annoying thing about it was that I was forced away from home and all that I have acquired."

I have a flashback to another fight at another time in another location.

Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.

Like hell it did.

I stir my drink idly, turning to face him fully. "Oh yes. Your experiments and cases. How sweet to miss them." The spite comes from nowhere. I hadn't been angry seconds ago. Slightly annoyed, yes, but not angry.

Sherlock's face is confused and perhaps even hurt, if I use enough imagination.

"John, listen—"

"No, you listen." Suddenly the quiet resentment isn't enough. Slamming the mug onto the counter, I step closer. "You died, Sherlock. Do you even understand what that means to normal people? To me? You were what brought me out of that hellhole I had to call a life and gave me purpose again by running around London solving murders. Then that was gone and I was left with an empty flat and nothing else. Nothing at all. Fine, if all you cared about was the work and the experiments and the fucking games, th —"

But then I stop. Because Sherlock is now towering over me, a look so full of pain and malice I can hardly recognize him. When he speaks, his voice is lower than I've ever heard it, and chilling to the bone. "Don't ever mention games again. Games are what drove me away. Games were what Moriarty played. They almost got you killed twice and succeeded in killing me. So don't you dare mention games, John. Not to me."

My anger lessens. This is the first, and probably only, time Sherlock has ever spoken to me in an even remotely sentimental way. And I've learned something.

Sherlock Holmes is completely, bitterly done with games.

He's breathing heavily, barely a foot away. I calmly pick up the tea I'd prepared, then take his hand and place his long fingers around the mug handle.

"No more games, Sherlock." I meet his gaze, and it's as if he's let down a wall as his face falls into a quiet, sorrowful expression.

I leave him holding the cup of tea in the middle of the kitchen at five-'til-four in the morning.

And if I cry that night, no one ever need know, because there is no proof.