Authors Note: Hi, I just wanted to post this and announce that I'm working on a fic for another fandom (Homestuck) which I am not going to post until this is done... But that means that this might slow a bit. However, I just finished school for the summer, so hopefully I should finish this before I go to camp on the 28th. This chapter is some dense filler... yay? Anyway, it has some plot too so please don't skip it... Please review if you can, it would mean a lot :)

John was tired. He'd stayed up way too late studying for his finals. With only two weeks left in the school year, time seemed to creep along like a vine. He forced himself to stand up, his head spinning. The clock on his bedside table read 6:45. Shit. He'd overslept again. He would have to catch a cab. He got dressed as quickly as possible and flew downstairs. Grabbing his bag, he crashed through the door and began to run towards the street. Just his luck, the central plaza near his flat was empty of cabs. He pulled his phone out. 6:50. Fuck. He barely breathed as he tapped on the tiny missed alerts button. Sherlock? He stared at the screen. Molly Hooper. The text read Hey John! How are you? Haven't seen you for a while. Want to come over Saturday? He dismissed it as a cab came rolling up

Sherlock was having a bad day. He was crammed into a small flat with Mycroft and Chelsea, his two awful siblings. His eyes burned from reading and rereading Chelsea's codes all day. Whenever he got up, he swayed a bit. And every other spare minute he had he spent checking up on John. It was new for him. Caring about someone else. He didn't quite understand why he watched John so diligently. Maybe he just felt protective. He couldn't understand why his friend hadn't texted or called. He'd tried to communicate so many times. Sherlock sighed and realised that he'd lost his place in the code Chelsea had given him. He shook his head and scrolled up, proofreading it yet again. Chelsea had ingrained into his head the fact that if the codes weren't perfect, they would be found before they had finished running. Hacking was not instantaneous, she had said. She had then proceeded to sway gently as she told of the lost art of transforming words into patterns, and patterns back into words, which became actions. Sleepless nights had dulled Sherlocks mind so that he couldn't even remember her whole speech. Not that it mattered. The longer he spent with Chelsea, the more crazy she seemed. Along with being a genius, she was filled to the brim with disorders. Anxiety, OCD, some level of autism, depression, narcissistic personality disorder, and borderline personality disorder. For someone so fragile, she maintained her image well. But she surrounded herself with other geniuses. Mycroft and Sherlock both knew everything. The fact that she could slip between playful and even kind and cruel and calculating in an instant, the plethora of multicoloured pills she swallowed each night, the way she always wore long sleeves and carried a small screwdriver for disassembling pencil sharpeners. She was like a glass falling off of a table, caught right in the moment before it begins to plummet, right before it leaves the tables surface. Sherlock knew she was a breath away from shattering. And he knew that he wouldn't be able to walk through the broken glass unharmed. So he held his breath, read flawless code after flawless code, and watched John, noticing the way he walked, the way he held himself and tousled his hair. The way that he checked his phone every five minutes but never once sent Sherlock a reply. And Sherlock noticed that, for some reason, that hurt more than anything.

Journal of Chelsea Roset, page 6

I believe that the only answer to the ever-persistent query building in my mind is the only thing that I can't put down to patterns and logic. It's much easier to think of it in terms of a story, which is often an irrational thing. Though, of course, stories follow set patterns as well. Maybe that's why I can't comprehend it. It's not following the proper pattern for a story, nor for a life. Maybe the only thing I am never going to understand is myself. However, the question keeps on asking itself: Why am I broken, and how do I remedy this? I suppose I will never know.

Page 18

The SSUK has brought a new concern. It's continued existence threatens my own, and I am afraid it must be put to a stop. I am debating on the means necessary, and have as such discovered a coding pattern that, upon being run, would systematically dissolve the SSUK database over time, building on itself to the point of being able to delete every file and replace it with a ghost version. The "deleted" files would then be transferred to my computer as ghost file packages, (Ghost filing system CRH 5.3) which would allow them all to be transferred onto a flash drive and very easily deleted. (Flash drive encryption 7394805.) Meanwhile, the program would very neatly cause the simultaneous deletion of itself and the files and programs of the databases while causing a blackout and maximum encryption of all empty SSUK databases. :P

John walked to Molly's flat in the rain on Saturday. When he got there he plodded up three stories of rusted white stairs and knocked on her door. He had been so caught up in investigations with Sherlock that he'd barely talked to Molly or Mary recently. Molly was nice and understanding. She was small and quiet, fairly cute with a fierce temper. Mary was John's ex. Now she was just a good friend. But Mary and Molly both had better friends than him. Molly had Tom, who reminded John of Sherlock quite a bit, and Mary had whats-his-name and Janine. John was wrenched back to reality when Molly's door swung open. "John!"

"Hello Molly!" John replied cheerfully, stepping through the door after his friend. "How are you?"

"I'm good." Molly replied. "You?"

"I've been better, but I'm fine."

"Good." Molly replied. "So, how were exams?" John groaned and rolled his eyes.

"I only had one. Jesus it was dense." Molly laughed, wrinkling her nose.

"Yeah, exams can be like that." John sighed. Molly was a good friend, but he couldn't help thinking about what Sherlock would say. Probably something stupid and blunt. John smiled at the thought for some reason.

"I think I did well in my forensics exam!" Molly said after a second of awkward silence. "How about you?" John shrugged and checked his phone again. Molly raised her eyebrows.

"Waiting for a call?" John shook his head and stowed his phone. He could imagine Sherlock frowning at his phone and the look of concentration in his friends eyes as he read the texts John had been sending. John suddenly found himself there in the room with Sherlock. The tall man was smiling at him. John felt his stomach flutter. He wrenched himself out of his imagination. Was he sick? His stomach felt okay now. He sat down on Molly's couch and set out to fill the time with the kind of idle chatting Sherlock would never take part in.

Chelsea's hands were aching from the veritable miles of code she was tapping out on her keyboard. She had to take a break. She swiveled her chair around and surveyed Sherlock and Mycroft. Mycroft was glaring at his screen and tapping his finger agitatedly. He was worried about somewhere he needed to be. Probably running the country or something. Sherlock was sitting with his fingers steepled, taking a break, which happened to be, like all of his breaks, watching John. Right now he was staring through a window where John was sitting with a friend. Chelsea checked her phone. Three unread messages from John to Sherlock, and one going the other way. She felt bad about diverting the messages, but it was crucial for the romantic reunion that they actually missed each other. She tapped out a quick message to John: John. It's CRH. I wired you the money. Book me a plane ticket. First class. :). She turned back to Sherlock and Mycroft. She knew they knew about her problems. She knew they knew how to break her, and that they wouldn't. But others would. And that's why she had to get out of England as soon as possible.