Note: Sorry I haven't updated it as soon as I should've... Also, um, the flat having two levels is sort of my idea because idk I thought it'd be cool to have two levels to 221B (I'm not including Mrs. Hudson's place; that'd make 3 levels).

Ugh, I had wrote this intro then my computer crashed so anyways, let me re-write this: thank you so much to everyone who left nice comments and followed this story, much appreciated xx

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock or any of its' characters.

Oh, and uh, I'm trying to master the use of John's PoV, but it's quite hard for some reason... (Yes, I know this chapter was slower than the other one, but I'm not done the fic ok it'll be better later on I pinkie promise!) Anyway, enjoy! x

I re-read the note over and over at the kitchen table and folded and unfolded it until it ripped right down the middle. I couldn't sleep, so I decided I may as well update my blog. I was still shaking and sweating from seeing the note, but I didn't feel like taking my shower. I walked towards the desk, turning on my laptop, watching the little wheel turn, tapping my foot while waiting for the welcome screen to pop up. I clicked the shortcut to "The Blog of John Watson", and started tapping furiously.

An hour later, after having finished the update of my blog ("One Day These Shoes Will Walk All Over You") I lay down on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling, the thoughts of the blue box and all it's secrets consuming my mind. I vaguely heard a chime coming from my computer, announcing a notification. I got up, my legs screaming in agony due to all the ridiculous amount of running we did yesterday and slid two fingers to the left on the keypad to check my notifications. New Comment for One Day These Shoes Will Walk All Over You, it read.

"That was quick," I muttered as I opened it up.

New Comment by user CoolBowties11:

JOHN I DON'T KNOW HOW TO USE THIS INTERNET BUT IT'S COOL AND-

I slammed the laptop closed before I could finish reading the comment, hunched over and dry heaved.

"HE'S ALWAYS FUCKING THERE!", I shouted while punching the sofa repeatedly. I didn't care that it was 3am, or that Sherlock was upstairs, all I cared about is him and how I could never get away.

"John, are you okay?"

I got up, turned around and saw Sherlock poking out of the door frame wrapped in a white bed sheet, curiosity ablaze in his bright eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, um, too much work... Go back to bed, I'm fine." I turned away from him in shame.

"John, you obviously aren't fine. You have been acting strange the past few weeks... Do you want to talk about it?"

I snorted.

"Sherlock, do you honestly want to talk about feelings? It's okay, love, I'll talk to my psychiatrist." I sighed, walked into the kitchen and reached into the cupboard where the tea usually was (when Sherlock wasn't doing an experiment).

"What are you hiding from me?"

"Nothing! I've just been reacting from all the stress these past weeks, I'll grab a pill and I should be just fine!"

He just stared at me, mocking me from afar. He sighed and walked back up the stairs.

"Oh and don't keep the cupboard open too long, I don't want the mice to get out."

"JESUS FUCK, SHERLOCK! COULDN'T YOU HAVE TOLD ME THAT BEFORE I FUCKING OPENED IT!? OR HERE'S ANOTHER IDEA: DON'T PUT FUCKING MICE IN THE CUPBOARD WE USE FOR TEA!" I waved my arms around wildly, probably looking like I was mad.

I was fuming, and even though I knew I shouldn't blow up like that, I had caved in to the stress and since Sherlock was the person nearest me and easiest to lash out at, he was the one getting all the blame.

We stood there for a few minutes, him staring at me with his nostrils flaring, and me trying to calm down, unsuccessfully.

"I'm going out," I heard his curt tone and I was going to apologize, but I knew he was beyond pissed off and would just ignore me.

He went up the stairs calmly, and came back a few minutes later, dressed and gave me a scathing look before racing down the stairs to put on his coat and scarf.

The front door slammed just as Mrs. Hudson came into the apartment in her nightie and fluffy slippers, looking exceedingly confused (and tired).

"John? What's going on? Sherlock just stormed downstairs, is he okay?"

"Sorry to wake you up, Mrs. Hudson. He's just... Acting like Sherlock. Go back downstairs. Sorry again, Mrs. Hudson."

She turned around, mumbled something that sounded like "It's okay, dear... Used to... Sherlock... 'Night."

As soon as I was alone, I felt better, like I couldn't hurt anyone this way. I should just go away, and stop pretending I wasn't hurting everyone I came close to.

When I was sufficiently calmed down and had a beer (the whole selection of tea in the cupboard had been ruined because of the mice), I decided to go to sleep. It would help me relax, I thought. I walked out of the living room and up the stairs picking up the sheet Sherlock had tossed away carelessly in his rage, brushed my teeth and plopped into bed, finding it cold without Sherlock to cuddle up to. I guess I had to suck it up, because I was the reason he walked out so fast. He'd be back in a few hours, though. I fell asleep.

A few hours later, I woke up suddenly because of a horrible nightmare in which Sherlock jumped off a building because he was so mad at me. I got out of bed, ignoring the dream, walked downstairs, grabbed a glass of water and climbed back up the stairs. I crept back into bed and looked at the alarm clock, which read 6:07AM, very early indeed. I couldn't go back to sleep, though, so instead of trying to go back to sleep, I took a shower. As the cold water dripped down my face I gasped in shock. "He's coming today."

My stomach twisted in fear as the fact slammed into me and I had to lean against the wall to prevent falling. Tears gathered in my eyes at the thought of everything that had happened between us and how it had ended so abruptly. I turned off the shower, patted myself dry with a towel and put on a red jumper, red pants and a pair of freshly laundered trousers. I might as well look smart. Look good in the face of war, something I had done a long time before, quite literally.

As I went downstairs slowly, I head the soft notes of a violin playing. Sherlock was composing. Shit. I kept on marching down the stairs and peeked my head around the corner of the door, watching Sherlock composing, his face scrunched up in concentration and staring blankly at the window while tentatively trying out a quick succession of notes. I made some coffee for myself and left a second cup next to Sherlock, just in case.

For the next few hours I did nothing except read the paper and go for a walk, trying to calm down. When I came back home, I felt more... Energy. I opened the door and heard a few words coming from upstairs, which nearly made me go into cardiac arrest.

"Hello! I'm The Doctor!"