Sherlock barely acknowledged John's question, because, of course, it wasn't important. He pressed his fingers to his temples and considered the three years he spent wiping out Moriarty's web. He must've missed something, anything...

"You're awfully quiet for someone who's just discovered they live with a consulting criminal," said John, not really turning around. "Do you want an explanation or anything? Y'know, anything I can do to help?"

He actually sounded concerned, as though he wanted to help. That was laughable. Sherlock almost surprised himself at how much anger and betrayal he felt at this revelation.

John Watson, his John, someone he'd learned to trust and someone who put up with him, the one of the only people in the world who hadn't secretly (or not so secretly) hated him since he opened his mouth, was a lie.

It was all a ruse, and he fell for it, oh god did he fall for it. He should've known it was too good to be true, it was always too good to be true. This was why he never had friends, this was why he never cared for sentiment...

"Yes, actually," his tone was harsh, and cold, devoid of anything John— or whoever he was— could read. "I'm assuming you hired Rich Brook to be your stand-in to deal with me."

"Uhm-hm." John was facing him now, leaning against the counter-top casually; it was so infuriating, to have him just stand there—

"The pool. No one was in any real danger, were they?" That too. He'd thought it had been Moriarty using John against him to get his point across, but now, now— well, Sherlock didn't know.

"No, not really. I don't intend on dying quite yet, though I don't expect I have a long life expectancy at any rate." He still sounded the same, and there wasn't the same aura Moriarty gave off, it was just John.

"You killed off your actor?"

"Told him they were blanks so only shoot if necessary. He shot, they weren't blanks." John was back looking for food, and with a sigh, closed the fridge. "It looks like we're going to have to order in or something, there's nothing here."

Something snapped in Sherlock's mind, and he sat up quickly, slamming both fists onto the coffee table. "WHO ARE YOU?" he shouted, looking up at John, letting all the anger come through but nothing else, nothing incriminating, nothing that would show what he felt beyond that.

John blinked, as though the outburst was surprising, and maybe it was. Nevertheless, he made to answer it. "I'm a consulting criminal. Neither employees nor clients know what I look like, and James Moriarty is a cover, someone completely made up."

"No, no, no, no," muttered Sherlock, who felt he needed to move now, needed to do something, "Who are you?"

"Oh." John paused for a second, thinking it over. "Your flatmate. I suppose you can kick me out if you want."

"What's to stop me from turning you in?"

John laughed this time, a genuine laugh that lasted longer than Sherlock liked. "You think anyone'd believe that?" He said, before laughing again.

"Fine," said Sherlock evenly, "What's to stop me from killing you?"

John sobered up fairly fast at that, looking over Sherlock very carefully, just to see— and then he cocked his head to the left, and spoke, tone changed drastically. "I don't know." He paused, before saying, almost quiet enough to be himself. "Could you do it, Sherlock? Could you kill me? All I am now is more than I was..." There was another pause, and John cracked a smile. "You won't kill me."

"You're that sure, are you?" Sherlock made no move to get any sort of weapon, and only raised an eyebrow.

"Yes." said John, picking up the phone. "Chinese?"

It took Sherlock a moment to catch on to the question, and when it did click, he gave John a look of misunderstanding. "You're still ordering?"

John snorted. "Not all of us can fast for weeks, Sherlock. And whatever great drama has just happened, I don't intend to stop eating because of it."

"I'm not hungry." The words were true; he'd lost what little appetite he had with this conversation.

"Suit yourself."

The way their conversation switched back and forth between being trivial and calm and being absolutely earth-shattering was astounding, and truth be told, Sherlock hated it. He hated it because he didn't understand, hated it because there was no way for him to understand and with every word from John's mouth he seemed farther from grasping the whole picture.

Oh, get a grip on yourself, he thought, laying back down on the couch. But it was hard. Sherlock always had control of his emotions, and now they were on the loose. The strangest mix of emotions he'd ever felt, all at once.

It seemed like no time at all when John had put down the phone, and Sherlock could feel his flatmate's gaze on him, even though he could be bothered to look. "What?"

"You," said John simply. "Your reaction is just... different. Different than I thought it would be." After a moment, he seemed to loose interest in the conversation, and headed upstairs, calling down, "Tell me when the food gets here!"

Sherlock didn't move. He was too busy.

Thinking.

Feeling.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes most definitely hated feelings.

A/N: First PSA of the sort; this is the last chapter for awhile that is likely to have one of these, but I just thought I'd tell you. Not everything I'm thinking comes onto paper right, so if something unclear, drop me a comment and I'll clarify it as best I can, if it's not meant to be vague.