A/N: Okay, so this ended up longer than I've expected. I have to say, I'm not exactly satisfied with how this turned up, but it is what it is. Hehe. Please let me know what you think, your reviews make my day! :)

Enjoy reading!

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock, sadly.

"John, dear, come over for tea, will you?" called out Mrs. Hudson from her place in the living room.

John was just about to go out for some fresh air when he heard the landlady's voice. He sighed before closing the front door again and retracing his steps to enter Mrs. Hudson's humble abode. Three days had passed since the case of Grint's death, and now Sherlock has left him in favour of conducting a very important experiment in St. Bart's. And he didn't mind, really, for the consulting detective to leave without him. He knew that Sherlock will just text him, and he was all fine with that. Besides, he said so in the note he spotted on top of his laptop that morning.

Experiment at St. Bart's. I'll be home by 4. Thai tonight? Sherlock

And now that it's a quarter past three, the ex-army doctor wouldn't mind spending some time with Mrs. Hudson before his childish best friend arrived home. He even smiled inwardly at the thought of Sherlock reading the post-it notes he left for him to read later.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," John greeted the old lady with a kiss on the cheek as he sat on the squishy armchair adjacent to the couch the latter is currently occupying.

Everything was silent in a peaceful way as Mrs. Hudson prepared their tea and offered a cup to the doctor with a motherly smile on her face. John accepted it with a word of thanks as the two fell into an easy flow of conversation. They discussed the daytime talk shows they watch on the telly, from Mrs. Hudson's stories about the neighbours ("Mrs. Turner said the married ones are expecting a child," she had said) to John's boring work in the clinic and his adventures with Sherlock when on their cases.

"You're not having another domestic, are you?" she asked, a hint of worry in her voice.

Slightly perplexed, John put down his cup on the coffee table as he inquired, "No, of course not. What makes you say that, Mrs. Hudson?"

The landlady sighed in relief as she patted John's arm in reassurance as she said, "Oh, nothing to worry, dear. It's just been too quiet the past couple of weeks. No violin playing at the early hours of the morning, nor the sounds of gunshots and blasts from experiments, and even Sherlock doesn't complain about his boredom when he's not on a case. It's a bit strange, don't you think?"

Furrowing his eyebrows, John couldn't help the slight twitch of his lips as he attempted not to smile.

"So you're saying that the reason you assumed Sherlock and I are fighting is because it's too peaceful?" he asked instead.

Flushing slightly, Mrs. Hudson tutted and then said, "One can never be too sure, John. Sometimes, silence can be the loudest noise you'll hear. Deafening and eerie, yes, but I have to admit that I miss the ruckus you boys make sometimes. And only sometimes - just because it makes it feel a little bit more like home." She added with a warm smile as an afterthought.

Letting a grin escape this time, John chuckled as he patted Mrs. Hudson's arm affectionately, shaking his head at their mischievous but caring landlady.

"You never know, Mrs. H," he said jokingly.

His mind then drifted to Sherlock's post-it notes, which was starting to become less platonic and more… something else. It's not that he didn't like it, it's just that John isn't completely sure of what's going on between them now. He cares about him more than he's ever cared for another person, yes, and he regards him as his best friend. But he's not sure if…

And it's not like they haven't talked about it, either. What goes on in their non-verbal communication stays that way. They don't voice it out, nor act on it. And John knows that he and Sherlock have been tip-toeing around each other for weeks (months, even) now - that someday, somehow, either of them would have to speak up of what's growing between them. If they should act on it or ignore it - welcome the change that is begging to happen or reject it without a glance back. He admits that he's scared to take a risk, to try to voice out his innermost thoughts. Instead, he writes it on post-it notes and rephrases everything he really wants to say. What he's been writing to Sherlock is just the surface of everything he is thinking and feeling, after all.

The subtle touches, the shy glances, the secretive smiles, and that warm and welcoming feeling that spreads through his chest every time he thinks, sees, hears, feels, and smells Sherlock. It feels comfortable, safe... right.

But before he could delve further into his thoughts, he felt rather than heard Mrs. Hudson calling his name - her hand rested on his shoulder as she shook him from his trance.

"John, dear, are you alright?" the landlady asked worriedly as she noticed the doctor's flushed and dazed face.

John shook his head to clear out his thoughts as he replied, "Uh, yes, I am. What's wrong?" He added when he saw her worried stare.

"Your phone keeps on ringing, dear," Mrs. Hudson stated.

John looked down at his jeans pocket and retrieved his phone. He unlocked it and saw two text messages from Sherlock.

I need your assistance. Come at once. - SH

Battersea Power Station, east wing on the fourth floor. - SH

Feeling his insides grow cold at the last text, John muttered out a quick apology and goodbye to Mrs. Hudson as he left the room and immediately ascended the stairs to his room to grab his Browning before dashing back downstairs, and towards the front door. He was about to hail a cab when his phone rang, signaling another text from his flatmate.

Hurry

No period. No "SH" at the end. That's a bit not good in John's book. He immediately typed out a reply (I'm coming. Hold on. - JW) before he successfully hailed a cab the first time. He barked out the address to the cabbie, who looked slightly panic-stricken when he saw John's determined face, and immediately set a foot hard on the gas.

It was several hours later when both Sherlock and John entered the threshold of 221B Baker Street. The night was warm and the moon was full this time around, but the air between the two grown men were as cold as ice. One word uttered by either could break the thin wall, so both decided to keep their mouths shut for the time being.

John went up the stairs first, not caring in the least bit if he woke up Mrs. Hudson due to the heavy stomping of his feet against the hard wood floors. He removed his coat aggressively and threw it carelessly on his armchair, quickly moving towards the kitchen to boil water in the kettle. And all the while, his face was set and unreadable.

Sherlock, on the other hand, went up the stairs as quietly as he can, unsure of how to react to the doctor's actions. He knew what he did was reckless and stupid, but he would never say that he regretted it. Upon entering the living room, he took off his coat and scarf, mindful of the bandage wrapped around his torso. He then quietly unbuttoned his purple shirt, which happened to be unfortunately caked in dirt and dried blood (as well as his well-tailored pants), and threw it on the couch before walking slowly towards John who had his back turned on the detective - hands planted on the counter as he breathed in and out with eyes closed, posture rigid and stiff.

The ex-army doctor will never forget the sight he saw when he entered one of the abandoned offices at the east wing of Battersea Power Station. The consulting detective was lying on his stomach, entire body covered in dirt, footprints, and to his horror - blood. He immediately checked to see if the coast was clear, and when it was, he dashed towards his fallen best friend. When he turned him on his back, the sight just made him want to throw up and sob at the same time.

Sherlock's face was covered with cuts and bruises - one black-eye and a busted lip. He checked to see if he had broken any ribs, and was mortified to find out that the taller man did - three ribs, in fact. After checking for other injuries (broken wrist, bruised back, swollen knee, and a minor head concussion), John carefully wrapped an arm around Sherlock as he lifted him up from the dirty ground before sending a quick text to Lestrade. But before they could take another step, the detective and his blogger were cornered by the same thugs that beat up Sherlock.

It was a brutal fight John will never forget. Four against one (maybe one and a half, if you consider the injured Sherlock), and fighting them to the best of his abilities whilst protecting Sherlock from harm's way seemed to be an incredibly hard task. He had refrained from using his Browning, but when one of the burly men took out his hunter knife and tried to stab Sherlock - which resulted to an ugly cut on the latter's arm - John completely lost it. With the speed of a lightweight and the agility of an experienced soldier, he knocked out his first opponent with a single touch at the pressure point in his neck.

Then, he turned his back and kicked one of the less burly men on the knee, completely fracturing it before swinging his arm at the afro-haired man to his right, and aiming a swift and painful punch that hit his mouth and nose. He then took out the gun from the waistband of his dark-washed jeans and shot the thug right in the head - mere moments before he could stab Sherlock in the heart.

And right on time, Lestrade and his team arrived at the scene. Later on, the DI confessed to him that he got "scared like shit" when he heard the gunshot, and thought that either of them got shot. Or worse - killed.

Sherlock was then brought up in a gurney, which irritated him as he complained loudly. But one look from his flatmate and he immediately fell silent - grudgingly acquiescing to being taken away against his own will. John, who received less injuries (bruised knuckles, busted lip, bleeding eyebrow) went with Sherlock in the ambulance, instead of staying at the crime scene. He inwardly grinned smugly at Donovan's and Anderson's expressions when they saw the incapacitated thugs, and relished in the look of horror Anderson aimed at him as he smirked.

Maybe he'll think twice when he tries to mess with me or Sherlock, the slimy git.

Their stay at the hospital wasn't the best of times, to be frankly honest. Three hours after the two were patched up, Sherlock's doctor said that he would have to be under surveillance for a couple of hours before he can be released. Of course, this was met with barbed insults and complaints from the bed-ridden consulting detective, but his doctor (which he considered to be a numbskull) stayed adamant to his decision.

And then they were both paid a visit by Mycroft. As always, he tutted and expressed his concerns ("Really, little brother, what will Mummy say when she finds out?" "Don't you dare tell Mummy, or else I'll tell her what you did to her expensive china!" "How threatening of you, brother dear." "Piss off.") to his brother, which was blocked snidely. John, too tired to argue with the two brothers, got up from his chair and went out of the room without a word. He had went to the hospital's cafeteria and bought himself a cup of badly brewed coffee - but it would have to do, he reminded himself.

After Mycroft and his lackeys left, it took another six hours before John and Sherlock were permitted to leave the hospital. Thankfully, Sherlock didn't require a crutch since his knee was only swollen and not fractured (thank God). With no taxi in sight at 3:20AM, they both decided to walk home instead. The entire half-hour walk from St. Bart's to Baker Street was spent in a stony silence - Sherlock glancing at John with a worried and curious glance every now and then, and John staring resolutely ahead of him - his face devoid of any emotion save for his clenched fists which signified that he was not in a particularly good mood.

By the time they arrived at 221B, the silence between them was palpable, it almost made Sherlock choke. Almost.

And now, to face reality.

"John," started Sherlock uneasily, his voice surprisingly steady.

The only response he received was the tightening of John's hold on the counter, his breathing becoming even more labored. Everything else was deathly silent and still in that moment, as if waiting with bated breath for the final bomb to drop. Sherlock, starting to feel worried once again, decided to go in a different path.

"Thank you for saving my life today," he said softly, his voice small for some apparent reason.

This seemed to do the trick because John's hold on the counter loosened considerably as he exhaled a deep breath and slowly drank his tea - right hand completely steady. It was several minutes, when the doctor have finished his drink, that he turned around to look at Sherlock for the first time in several hours. His brown eyes, once warm and inviting, now became cold and terrifying. It sent unpleasant chills down Sherlock's spine as he took an involuntary step back at the intensity of his best friend's stare.

"Sherlock..." he started, his tone devoid of any emotion save for the slight tremor. He stopped for a while, as if trying to gather his thoughts before starting again in a stronger voice. "Sherlock, would you mind explaining to me what happened earlier?" It took all of the ex-army doctor's self-control not to start screaming and throwing things at his idiotic flatmate.

Flinching inwardly, Sherlock opened his mouth to explain. He hated feeling this vulnerable, this powerless - because it made him more... human. But then again, he thought as an afterthought, this is John. I trust John with my whole life. As long as it's him that I can act all human-y, then it's all fine. Because it's John.

"I was on a case," he began then. "Lestrade called when I was at St. Bart's and said that he had a case for me. I won't go into details because it's too dull. So to make the story short, I caught the suspect - who happened to be a group of thugs. I followed them into Battersea Power Station, where they were meeting up to count the money they earned upon selling drugs. But unfortunately, I was not too discreet as one of them caught sight of me and the rest of them ran after me. I texted you when I was able to hide in an abandoned office, but they soon caught me. I tried to fight them off, but you clearly saw how humongous they were. I was taken back to their meeting place - the room where you found me in - where they started to beat me up. They stopped when they heard a noise - probably you - and exited through a secret door. Then you found me, and the rest is history." He finished with a lame shrug of the shoulders, feeling too tired all of a sudden.

John was silent all throughout, and Sherlock just looked at him - anywhere of him but his cold, hard eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me beforehand?" asked John, his voice deflated.

Sherlock looked up and was shocked (he'll only admit it to himself) to see his friend appear weak and defeated all of a sudden. The coldness in his eyes vanished completely and was replaced by fatigue and... hurt? Yes, the consulting detective mused to himself, it's definitely hurt.

"I didn't think that I would require any assistance, considering how easy the case was," admitted Sherlock, shifting his foot as he looked at the ground like a child being reprimanded for playing in the mud.

John scoffed, then. "Yeah, and look where that ended up? Three broken ribs, a mild concussion and several cuts and bruises!" His voiced raised by the end of the sentence and Sherlock couldn't help but wince slightly.

"I'm sorry, John," he uttered sincerely, staring into John's misty brown eyes. Wait... misty? "I promise I won't do it again."

John laughed humorlessly as he brought his hands to his hips and then retorted, "You promise? Come on, Sherlock, who are we kidding? When was the last time you made a promise and kept it? It's not enough."

"What are you talking about?" the raven-haired man inquired confusedly, feeling fear creep into his bruised chest.

The shorter man closed his eyes as he sighed heavily before opening them again and meeting the blue-grey eyes of his companion.

"You have no idea..." he said but broke off when he felt his voice hitch. He cleared his throat and then tried again. "When I found you in that position, Sherlock, I thought... I thought you were dead. You have no idea just how terrified you made me feel in that moment when I saw you - lying flat on your stomach, motionless and barely breathing. Fighting off those thugs to keep you safe - it killed me to see you that... that weak and, and helpless. And when one of them managed to cut your arm with a hunter knife... white-hot fury filled my entire being. I couldn't... I just..."

By this point, John was heaving deeply as he forced himself to not cry in front of his flatmate. It was several minutes before he got control over his emotions when he opened his mouth to speak again. But this time in an all-too calm tone.

"I knew what I was signing up for the night I shot that cabbie for you," he continued. "Through every bloody thing we've been through, I put up with you. Every single one of your crazy idiosyncrasies, I put up with it. And, and - this is what I get in return? I saved your life time and time again, Sherlock - and I will continue to do it, even if it's the last I'll do - but I... I just can't... do this anymore."

Swallowing with difficulty, Sherlock managed to choke out, "I don't... I don't understand, John."

And in that one fleeting moment, when John looked up to meet Sherlock's pleading eyes, he felt his heart clench in pain - a pain so profound that he felt his chest was going to combust from the plethora of emotions he was experiencing. He couldn't say it, but he must. Not that he wanted to, but because he had to.

"I need more than this," the Doctor had murmured weakly.

"Need more than what?" asked the Consulting Detective. He was on the brink of desperation now, and he would do whatever it takes to keep his best friend. "Anything, John. I'll give you anything."

Shaking his head sadly, John continued in a firmer tone, eyes transfixed on the taller man's.

"I need more than post-it notes and Cluedo and dangerous cases, Sherlock. I need to know that what you... that what we have between us isn't just some kind of experiment to pass the time whenever you're bored. I need a permanent place in your life; not just your blogger or your doctor or your babysitter. Because one day, Sherlock, one day I wouldn't be there to save you - no matter how hard I fight and sacrifice just to keep you alive - there will be a day that I will fail. And I can't... do this, whatever it is that I've been doing for the past year... I can't live with myself knowing that I have you by my side, but never really having you at all."

Everything was quiet before John emotionally uttered the words that will either make or break the foundations of their friendship.

"You mean so much to me, Sherlock. But I don't think I can stand to come home one day, and find out that you're gone."

With that said, John turned his back on him and left through the kitchen door, his footsteps quiet and measured as he ascended the stairs to his bedroom.

And for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was at an utter loss.