Please keep reviewing; thank you for reading and letting me know what you think. I request that, whilst reading this chapter you listen to the acoustic version of the song 'Haunted' by Taylor Swift; I found it fits perfectly and helped me write. Thank you

~ Maisy-Shane

John had been spreading a generous amount of jam over his toast for breakfast when the door knocked. He was reluctant to answer it as there was a further two slices sitting in wait in the toaster that he had made in hopes of getting Sherlock to eat, and he knew how fussy his flatmate was. He would turn his nose up even if the crusts were a shade too dark. John hovered for a moment, listening out to see if Sherlock would get it, but he didn't honestly expect him to. The door was knocked again, harder, and more persistent this time.

Exhaling heavily, John set down his butter knife, briefly checked to see if the toast had popped up, and limped over into the living room, ensuring to shoot a dirty look in the direction of Sherlock as he lay down on the sofa facing the wall. John unlocked and pried open the door only to have it forcefully pushed open, nearly knocking him right over. Mycroft Holmes stormed in without even glimpsing over at John, his face livid. Sherlock did not react to the loud bang of the door hitting the wall, or the sound of the approaching footsteps. It was if he had blissfully turned the world on mute and was lavishing the rare silence.

"I've been calling you," Mycroft snapped when his younger sibling did not acknowledge him. "None stop actually."

John, after regaining some sense of balance, shut the door and tutted at the mark left on the wall, prior to walking over to stand by Mycroft, yet ensuring to keep a safe distance in case he suddenly exploded. The older Holmes brother's face was alarmingly red and a temple stood out on his brow; John had never seen him so furious. He could not even fathom what Sherlock had to have done to have brought out such a side of his usually so complacent and patient brother.

"You can't shut me out, Sherlock, no matter how much you want to," Mycroft pressed on, his tone dropping an octave lower. "You know what I want to ask you, so just give me a straight answer."

"You could easily get the answer without bursting into my flat, Mycroft," Sherlock spoke after a rather draining pause, returning the address with palpable acidity.

"I want to hear it from you," Mycroft said stiffly. "Tell me please. I know how you get when you haven't got a case on. You get tempted don't you? And I know you, little brother. You're not much of a fighter when it comes to fighting yourself."

John frowned, not quite catching onto what was happening in front of him. Mycroft wanted to know something, something he wanted to hear directly from Sherlock's lips so it had to be something personal. Moreover, it was something very important to him, so much so he was practically trembling with scarcely suppressed vehemence.

"Sherlock—" Mycroft began softly only to be interrupted.

"No, Mycroft, the answer you're looking for is no!" Sherlock clamoured, bolting up into a sitting position and swinging his legs over the side of the sofa so he was facing his brother. To John's surprise, Sherlock was not looking at Mycroft at all; he was looking at him instead.

A wall of silence dropped between the siblings with a dull thud. Sherlock still stared straight at John, pressing his lips together, hands clasped together between his knees. The skin underneath his eyes was a tint darker than the rest, and his mouth chapped, his cheekbones more prominent than the doctor had ever seen them. John felt the pale eyes bore into him, as if signing their signature over his very soul, and he struggled to break away, or even allow a few words to part from him.

Mycroft finally spoke. "I don't believe you I'm afraid, brother."

Sherlock still didn't look at him though a faint smile spread over his worn ashen face. "Well, it seems you wasted a trip then. If you find my response unreliable, you can pull whatever strings need pulling to find one you do trust, but I assure you, you will still get a big fat no."

Mycroft sighed. "I hope so," he murmured.

He turned his back on his brother, and crossed the living room to the door. He delayed next to John for a moment, leaning ever so slightly in to whisper: "Keep an eye on him". Without waiting for a reaction, Mycroft saw himself out, shutting the door harshly behind him.

Sherlock leaned back into his seat, wrapping an arm around his ribcage, tilting his head back to rest the crown of it against the cool wall. John shifted from foot to foot in disquiet, milling over the scene that he had just witnessed in his mind.

"What was all that about?" he asked gently, unable to drive the way his flatmate had looked at him out of his head.

"Nothing of your concern," Sherlock breathed, sealing his eyes shut and welcoming the blackness as he would an old friend. It was quiet behind the veils of his eyelids, like shutting all doors and windows on the world. Distantly, he added, "John..."

"Yeah?"

"My toast is burning."

Cursing under his breath, John went as fast as his leg would allow into the kitchen to find the toast he had made almost pitch black. He checked the packet to see if there was any bread left, to find it empty. Swearing loudly, he rolled the wrapper up into a ball and tossed it into the overflowing bin.

[SH]

To: DI Lestrade

My brother may be using again.

MH

[SH]

The week was almost out and John was starting to suspect that Sherlock was on the mend—well, mended enough to get back to work. There were a couple of cases that Lestrade had kept them informed on, though Sherlock didn't appear all too interested. It was clear to everyone, that only one that could possibly link to Moriarty would stir him from this withdrawn state of mind that he had gotten himself into. John discussed this with Lestrade when Sherlock had been taking his eighth nap of the day, and had received a statement that went along the lines of:

"But he has to let it go; Moriarty's gone."

Lestrade had been right when he had said that even though he had known Sherlock for five years he didn't know him more than John did because John knew for a fact that Sherlock would not let this go even if his health and sanity depended on it.

"What about this one," John said, holding up a piece of paper. "A woman found dead in the boot of a taxi—"

"She was having an affair and threatened to break it off," Sherlock's drone of a voice cut him off. "Dull."

"No, no it isn't dull, Sherlock," John said exasperatedly. "You're just rejecting every case so you can focus on finding out where Moriarty is."

Sherlock smirked. "Am I that predictable? Am I now as painfully obvious and readable as the rest of the human population?"

"You know you'd never be like the rest of the human population," John rubbed his tired eyes, hesitantly setting the paper aside. "Even if you are a little predictable from time to time."

He rifled through the stack that had been permitted to pile up over the week; it seemed the instant Sherlock was unfit to work the world started to fall apart. John had narrowed them down a great amount, as they had to have two requirements: they had to involve at least one death, and they had to be located in London. Otherwise, Sherlock would not even offer throwaway theories that were very likely to not even be true.

"At least take on a case to warm you up," John offered. "As you said, you want to be on your best game if you come face to face with Moriarty again."

"When, John," Sherlock said, throwing his handful of papers up into the air so they fell around him like oversized confetti. "When I come face to face with Moriarty again."

John groaned, watching with a dismayed expression as sheet after sheet scattered themselves all around the floor. "You're cleaning that up, you know," he ensured to make clear.

"If you know me as well as you claim to do, you know if you leave it to me to clean it up, it will never be done, and the flat will forever be a mess." Sherlock tilted his head to the side, grinning widely. It was one of those rare occasions where the emotions actually touched his eyes these days and seemed genuine, and even though it was at his expense it pleased John immensely.

Come six o'clock that evening, John had tidied up the mess the consulting detective had made and was dressed in his nicest shirt and trousers, reeking of his favourite aftershave that Sherlock also covertly appreciated. Sherlock had not moved an inch from their afternoon of going through pointless cases, and watched as the doctor adjusted his tie.

"You're welcome to come along too, you know," John said, noticing Sherlock observing him from his position on the sofa. "Sarah doesn't mind if you want to come out for dinner."

"No thanks," Sherlock cast his eyes down to his hands that rested over his ribs, somewhat soothing the pulsing ache that thrived there.

"It'll be nice for you to get out," John attempted to persuade him, subconsciously picking up objects from the floor and putting them away. "You haven't left the flat since you came back from the hospital."

"I will tomorrow," Sherlock said unconvincingly. He hissed with pain when he touched a particularly sore corner of his torso, drawing the attention of his friend.

"You alright?"

"Of course."

John was not at all reassured and went to Sherlock's side, sitting beside his long thin legs. He reached out and tenderly pried away his hands, replacing them with his own. Sherlock was severely tense and when John rested his palm against the skin, he felt the bones shift a little. It was bizarre for John as this was the first time he was aware of his friend's foundation, in other words, the fragility of his mortal body. It was as though he had convinced himself that Sherlock was unbreakable, and to feel it there beneath his hand oddly surprised him.

He lessened the pressure of his touch when he noticed the grimace on the other man's face and started tenuously stroking the afflicted area with total care and consideration. John felt the heat flood to his cheeks yet ignored it. He focused all of his attention on brushing his fingertips delicately over the clothed skin. Without thinking, with his other hand he unbuttoned the shirt and shifted the material aside, exposing the purpled flesh. When he made contact once more, Sherlock let out a whimper and John snapped his hand away, blood draining from his face though still feeling remarkably hot.

"I am so, so sorry," John gushed. "D-did I hurt you?" he went to stand when Sherlock's hand reached out and held his arm.

"No, you didn't hurt me," Sherlock admitted tacitly. "It's just—" he chewed his bottom lip. "Your hands are just really cold."

The two men stared at each other for a moment, just searching each other's eyes and feeling their hearts thumping boldly in their chests. Neither of them knew what to say. John felt embarrassed for how he had acted, touching his flatmate in such a shameless way as if it was a natural reaction to him being in pain. He felt perverted now, and feverishly worried that Sherlock was thinking the same thing. Sherlock was not; he was feeling overexposed, and he sheepishly did up his buttons to aid such a notion though it did nothing to console him. John stood up and, this time, wasn't stopped as he stumbled over to collect his coat from its hook.

"I should be back around ten," John said, bidding to pretend nothing had occurred at all.

"Alright," Sherlock replied, rolling over onto his side to face the back of the sofa. "I'll be here so."

John glimpsed over his shoulder, an icy stab in his abdomen when he saw his friend had turned his back to him. "There's some pain medication in my room if it gets any worse—and—give me a call if you need anything."

Sherlock did not outwardly react until he heard the door shut. He looked over his shoulder as if to certify John was no longer standing there; when he saw that he was alone, he resumed his position and curled up, disregarding the acute hurt located in his chest that had nothing to do with any broken bones...

[SH]

John found it difficult to stick to the present, found it near impossible to keep up with the brisk pace of conversation that he was supposedly engaged in with Sarah though he could not, for the life of him, tell exactly what that was. She spoke animatedly, winding her slender arm with his, pulling him closer as they strode side-by-side through the streets of London. He was not even entirely certain of what direction they were going; he just allowed his legs to carry him whatever way they willed him to go. They passed a handful of restaurants, some of which Sarah seemed particularly eager to look into, but he did not halt even for a moment. He pressed on, nodding and supplying her with brisk "Yes" and "No" answers, throwing in the odd dry laugh every now and again.

"Let's have dinner here," Sarah abruptly decided, stopping them both outside a restaurant.

John's eyes widened as he recognised it, turning his head to see the familiar street behind him. Clearing his abnormally constricted throat, he provided a limp smile.

"Oh come on you don't want to eat here," he tried.

"Actually I do," Sarah retorted in a rather harsh manner. "We've been walking around for about half an hour. I'm starving, and I've heard nothing but good things about this place."

John deflated, and flushed under her assertive delivery. Without faltering, she pushed open the door and stepped inside, not waiting for him to follow her. He trailed behind her reluctantly as they were shown to a table, one that was, thankfully, not the same one as last time. John could not fool his mind into believing this was not the same place when the large bearded man enthusiastically greeted him.

"Oh! It's you," Angelo cried, grasping the doctor's hands and shaking them thoroughly. "You were here before, right? With Sherlock Holmes?" John unwillingly nodded, earning an exclamation of delight from the owner. "You will eat for free of course, I owe that man so much, you know?"

"Thank you," John accepted the menu that was thrust excitedly into his hand and peeled it open, grazing his eyes over the contents listlessly.

"Wow, good thing we chose to eat here," Sarah giggled, tucking some of her hair behind her ear as she bowed her head, debating with herself aloud about what to choose.

John could not help but think about how Sherlock had not even opened his menu when they came here, setting it down, and turning his attention to the window. John glimpsed out of it now, watching 22 Northumberland Street with eyes misty with reminiscence.

What do real people have then in their—real lives?

Friends—you know people they know, people they—like, people they don't like. Girlfriends, boyfriends.

John pondered over that, over which category he would come under now when it came to Sherlock's 'real life'. Would he come under friend? Someone he liked? Boyfriend? No definitely not. John was with Sarah, and Sherlock considered himself married to his work, and didn't exactly specify that he was in fact interested in men.

Girlfriend? No, not really my area.

That was not quite him coming out to John, not in the least. Sherlock expressed interest in no one, he read people too easily. John could not picture him working through jealousy, or putting in the effort to keep date schedules or even allowing himself to be intimate with someone else. Sherlock was not an intimate person as far as John knew; he had embraced Mrs Hudson on more than one occasion though that seemed to be the limit for him. He could not picture Sherlock self-consciously leaning in to brush his lips with anyone else of either gender. John even questioned the notion on whether the consulting detective had even kissed anyone before, let alone anything else.

"What are you having, John?" Sarah's voice cut through his trail of thought, and she sounded agitated as if she had repeated the question for the third time.

"Oh, uh a—" he smiled apologetically at both her and their waiter, Billy, who was holding his pad with the pen poised tiredly over it. "I'm sorry I don't know what to have yet."

"Let me know when you've decided," Billy said, turning his back on their table and attending to another.

"What is wrong with you tonight, John?" she demanded lowly so not to attract any unsought attention. "You've hardly spoken and you seem—distant. Is there something the matter?"

John contemplated pouring out his heart's delicate contents out onto the table between them to bask under the flickering, dim light of the candle Angelo had set in the centre to make it 'more romantic'. He would tell her that he was confused...confused about his flatmate. However, that alone perplexed John further; what was there to be confused about? Sherlock was his friend. His dearest, and closest in fact, and he sincerely cared about his welfare. That was the motivation behind what had happened earlier. Nothing more and certainly nothing less. Therefore, he selected the other option to just make a flimsy excuse and to consider the matter settled, left to enjoy the remainder of the night. Just as he parted his lips to falsely confess that he had just been stressed or something along those lines, his phone buzzed dully in his jacket pocket.

Sarah rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair, gnawing the inside of her cheek as she glowered over at her date. John felt bad for taking out his phone at such an inopportune time, though he justified himself by saying it could be important. He peeked at the screen to see it was from Sherlock.

Come back to the flat

SH

"Who's that?" Sarah implored, drumming her fingers.

"Sherlock," John numbly answered, stuffing the phone back into his jacket pocket. "He needs me." He went to stand when she reached across the table, touching his hand.

"What about me, John?" Sarah pleaded, noticing some of the other diners were watching curiously. "I need you. Do I matter to you at all?"

John studied her expression attentively and enveloped her hand with his own. "Of course you do," he whispered. "You honestly do. But—" he hastily reanalysed what he was about to say to ensure it would avert from hurting her feelings any further. "He needs me right now, Sarah. Like—really needs me. I promise you...once he gets over this entire Moriarty thing, I will be there for you more."

"How long will that be?"

John swallowed hard. "I don't know, Sarah..."

Sarah nodded as if allowing what was just said to sink in, and then she slipped her hand away from his, picking up her handbag and scraping back her chair. She paused right before passing him entirely, touching his shoulder with her fingertips. John reached back and held them there for a moment longer.

"I'm not going to wait around for you to have time for me," Sarah said breathily. "I deserve better. Goodbye, John."

Then she was gone...and it washed over John like acid, burning the notion that he had made a mistake into his very core...

[SH]

"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John called out, almost running up the stairs if it were not for the confounded cane dragging like a broken limb behind him.

He pushed open the door and staggered inside, chest rising and falling heavily as he had practically sprinted over from the restaurant back to Baker Street, the fear that something bad had happened driving him, as well as a tiny fragment of hope for something unknown that he failed to address. John blinked in confusion as his gaze landed on the suitcase standing upright in the middle of the living room. The consulting detective was nowhere in sight.

"Sherlock?" John tried again, and this is when his flatmate appeared from the kitchen, carrying a second suitcase in his good hand, jaw clenched as he set it down next to the first. "W-what's going on?" John stuttered.

"John—I want you to move out," Sherlock said keeping his pale eyes trained to the floor as he drifted over towards the window.

It was like a bullet crawling agonizingly through him, those words were. The breath hitched in John's throat and he stared dumbly at his friend—well, whom he thought was his friend.

"I'm sorry what?" John choked out. "You—you want me to move out? Am I hearing you right?"

"Yes, you are, John," Sherlock confirmed, bringing his long fingered hands together, now looking outside. "I want you to leave Baker Street. The sooner the better to be truthfully honest."

"Why, Sherlock?" he sounded pathetic but paid no heed to it, taking a rigid step closer, searching desperately for some sign of humanity in the painfully straight features of the other. "I—we're—we're friends? We're colleagues. You said—you said once you were nothing...NOTHING without your blogger, you said that once didn't you?"

"Being a doctor, John, you know very well things change," Sherlock retorted disinterestedly. "Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. Take this whichever way suits you."

"I want a reason. A real reason that doesn't just—beat around the bloody bush!"

"I could give you a handful of reasons to why we are not suited to live with one another," Sherlock's eyes fleetingly greeted John's. "Do you wish for me to list them alphabetically or in order of importance?"

"Importance...tell me the most important."

"Fine. John, frankly you have become a—a weakness to me."

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "I'm a weakness to you? I don't see how—"

"Are you truly that dense, doctor?" Sherlock snapped, stepping away from the window to storm up to the other until they were mere inches apart. He looked down at him, and John noticed that he was shaking. "Moriarty. That incident at the pool. You were used against me! I cannot afford to have a weakness, John. I just can't."

"I can take care of myself," John said flatly. "I don't need you to keep an eye on me; I don't need you to blow up a bloody swimming pool just to make sure I'm okay. I am a soldier!"

"Exactly! You were sent away from Afghanistan to leave the war behind! Don't go looking for a new one to one, John. It was wrong of me to make you anymore than a flatmate. You were only there to help me pay the rent, not help me become just as attached and feeble as the rest of you." He suddenly blushed and walked away, stopping at the fireplace.

"What is that supposed to mean?" John blurted out in frustration. "I thought I had figured you out...that I could read you well enough to know that—" he drifted off. A part of him wanted to argue, to put up a great fight, and to refuse to leave. Another just wanted to get out of there as he felt he would split in half with the amount of anger that was sizzling inside of him. "To know that you...needed me..." the last part came out in nought but a whisper, yet Sherlock felt as though it had been screamed at the top of his lungs.

"I don't need anyone," Sherlock said, twisting back round to take in the sight of his friend. "I cannot afford to have a weakness, John. You will only be used against me time and time again, and it will do neither of us any good. It is for the best for the both of us. The only way to remain untouchable is to have no heart, to have no impairment."

I will burn the heart out of you.

I have been reliably informed that I don't have one.

But we both know that's not quite true.

"Are you saying that not only do you want me to move out of the flat," John said hoarsely, reigning in his emotions as best as he possibly could. "You want me to move out of your life too?"

Sherlock did not immediately respond. John strived to read his features, to find some trace of something, anything, there in those eyes but they were ice cold.

"Yes."

Alright. Are you alright?

The urgency in his voice right then as he bent down before him, was so naked and clear to John. The way he had practically torn the explosives off him, working frantically, and not paying any heed to John's responses. Of course, John had been in shock but that still came through to him and as his knees had given way, it had struck him that he did matter to the usually apathetic consulting detective. The man who numerous people had warned him to stay away from. The man who was rumoured to actually not have a heart. The junkie, the sociopath, the critical, the ignorant, the unemotional, the calculating, the, at times, sinister...finally showed a side of himself that no one else ever knew. He had shown it to John. Now he was disappearing again under all of those vicious labels.

Sherlock just walked away; not another word was shared, not a handshake or anything. He just left and went to his bedroom, leaving John aghast and dazed in the living room on his own. He was to stand there for a few minutes more, and then he numbly collected his suitcases, casting one final glimpse at the flat as he stood at the threshold of the door. Digging into his trouser pocket, he brought forth his set of keys. Cradling them in his palm, he ground his teeth together and then dropped them with a clatter on the floor, slamming the door shut behind him.

He was gone.

Sherlock's eyes closed when he heard the bang, and buried his face into his hands.

[SH]

Her eyes were red and swollen. She had been crying. When she saw John on her doorstep, Sarah made to close it when she noticed the suitcases in his hands and the embarrassed look on his face. Despite how she felt towards him at that current moment, she could not stand to leave him without a place to go. She stepped aside silently allowing him a space to walk past her. He smiled gratefully and stepped inside.

[SH]

To: Raz

Fairy dust

SH

That was the code in case it was intercepted by someone, in particular his infuriating brother. Sherlock paced back and forth fervently as soon as the text was sent, his clammy hands clasped together. It took around twenty minutes for the door to knock, and he bolted over in the midst of the first tap. He swung it open.

A hooded man stood there. He did not say a word, just held out a palm.

Sherlock slapped the seven notes into his hand, and stretched out his own.

After checking the money, the man brought forth a bag filled with white powder and settled it into the detective's hand.

As soon as it left him, the guy took off without a word and Sherlock shut the door.

TBC