Thank you for the reviews! They meant a lot to me, and I hope this chapter does not disappoint. Things are starting to get serious now and it's an absolute pleasure to write.

"Surely it can wait till morning, John!" Sarah insisted with blatant exasperation, watching as her boyfriend changed hastily out of his lounging clothes into something a little more suited for heading out. She couldn't restrain her aggravation; she had always tried to be supportive but there was only so much she could take.

John scarcely looked at her as he shrugged on his jacket. "Sorry Sarah, but I have to check on him."

"Why though, John?" she demanded, losing her composure and, finally, earning his full attention. "You two haven't spoken in—and all he has to do is snap his fingers and you go running, is that it? Is that how it's going to be now? Just like how it was before?"

John honestly didn't know. One moment, he was telling himself he didn't care, that Sherlock was now amputated from his life and that he could now try to settle down into his approaching middle age casually and—ordinarily. The next, he's terrified. Terrified that Sherlock was in danger, and wanting to do anything to bring him back to the way he used to be, to be the one he relied one again, be the one he turned to...not drugs, not anything or anyone else. John wanted it to be him that Sherlock wanted as well as needed. As selfish as that may have sounded, he did not pay it much heed because it was the truth. How could he possibly put that into words to Sarah? He wondered how all that sounded aloud. Probably questionable and strange...

"John, I'm sure it can wait until the morning," Sarah breathed, resuming her placid and rational demeanour. She climbed off the sofa and approached him slowly, settling her hands against his chest. Her sweet eyes greeted his warmly and they remained open as she pressed her lips against his chastely. "If he calls again, I give you my word you can go and I won't mind. If he comes over, I will be more than happy to let him sleep on the lie low. I swear it—but he may have dialled the wrong number."

A worm of doubt squirmed uneasily in John's stomach when she said this. Maybe Sherlock had just called the wrong number. That was quite unlikely and sounded more like a feeble assumption than an actual solid theory. He was aware of this, and yet, he didn't feel the surging urgency to pull away from her and head out the door. John glanced at the clock; it was really late now, and thinking of getting some sleep was so inviting. Getting a taxi to hammer on Sherlock Holmes' door wasn't as appealing, shockingly.

"In the morning," Sarah repeated quietly, lifting one of her hands from his chest to brush her fingertips over his cheek.

John numbly nodded and cradled her head as he planted a doting kiss on her forehead, breathing in her sweet scent. The two tumbled into bed. No sex, just holding one another and John was just fine with that. It wasn't until Sarah's breaths slowed and deepened, that he unwound his arms from around her and lay on his back, staring hard at the ceiling. Guilt clanged furiously inside of him...

...Sherlock threw his duvet off himself, not caring where it landed just so long as it was off his scalding hot skin. Clutching the two ends of the pillows, he bent them over so they shaded his eyes though not a single light was on in his bedroom. His teeth chattered against one another painfully, and his chest felt so tight like his windpipes were curtains that had been drawn firmly shut, refusing much oxygen reaching his starving lungs. Sherlock would never admit to crying. Never in his entire life. If ever a harsh word were thrown in his direction, if ever the world felt like it was collapsing on top of him, if ever he just couldn't restrain the bloating emotions any longer, he would always cry in private. He used to cry as a child of course; boorishly he would howl until he was held, but he soon grew out of that habit as Mummy despised crying of any sort and he only ever aimed to please her. The tears spilled down his cheekbones now, down his throat and stilling at his collarbones, quivering there until they dried up.

He didn't recall dropping off. He only realised his eyes had closed when they suddenly ascended, stirred by the sound of his bedroom door opening. Sherlock bolted upright in his bed, finding his face nearly colliding with another. His breath hitched in his throat like a solid block.

No one had ever invaded his personal space like this and for reasons beyond him, he was frozen stiff. He only permitted touch when he had initiated it, and he had not initiated this at all. It stunned him, punctured his core and the shivers skipped along his limbs again. A hand touched his forearm as if to soothe them. It was so dark Sherlock could see no face but could smell something familiar...it was a scent that he secretly loved, one that he would inhale greedily just so he could engrave it to memory whenever he found himself missing it, which had been a lot as of late.

John's aftershave.

Sherlock dimly noted the familiar jumper, the black-and-grey striped one that he had once said that made the doctor look like a humbug. He gradually began to hear how heavy and loud his breaths were becoming, and how the hand that had touched him was stroking his arm. Sherlock wasn't fond of touch, as aforementioned, but at that moment, he welcomed it keenly. He even allowed himself to relax and he closed his eyes again, not even flinching when the tip of John's nose met his.

They only opened again when he felt something warm, soft, and slightly wet greeting his mouth.

John was kissing him. John. John. John. John. John. John. John...

That name tripped and tumbled over itself as many autumn leaves being overpowered by a breeze. Sherlock had kissed other people before, though no one had ever kissed him. If they went to, he would always turn his head away to block them, allowing only them to connect with his cheek. Without taking in what was happening to him, without foreseeing it in any sense, John had unexpectedly kissed him.

John pulled away, yet not far. Sherlock was amazed to find himself following on after him as he pulled away, eyes lazily half open, lips parted. The two watched each other in the dark, and then John claimed his mouth again with more vigour and passion this time. It wasn't tentative or testing the waters, it was claiming ownership over him and Sherlock didn't mind in the least. The tongue against his own, the sounds of their kisses pricking the silence like perfectly sharpened pins, the hands dragging him closer to push him down again. John was on top of him. John...John...Sherlock gripped on to him as if he was drowning, tilting his head back obediently as the kisses were now sprinkled against his throat. His throat was a sensitive place, and that was enough for his mind to go murky and for all sense and thought to die out altogether.

Then he felt a sharp pain in his neck. Sherlock yelped in surprise, touching the abused spot. He glanced up, expecting John to be looking inquiringly, perhaps even apologetically, at him. He wasn't. Sherlock saw John's back briefly as it hastily retreated, sprinting out of the room.

Numbly, Sherlock got to his feet, both of which were heavy and not too eager to take on his weight, running after him. "John!" he called desperately, coming to a stop in the living room. It was as if John had vaporised into the air. The door was shut and when Sherlock tested it, he found it was locked.

Sherlock blinked in the gloom, feeling the clench of his heart tighten painfully. He brought a hand to his face, clamping down the sobs that would not come to him. Had that even happened? It must have done...right? John had been there, he had felt him, smelled him, seen him...Sherlock, finally feeling the entirety of his exhaustion at long last, made his way to bed.

When he entered his room, he caught sight of himself in his mirror, and approached it. Sherlock leaned his head to one side, and saw a bruise forming on his neck. He turned on the light, squinting as it was so bright to his unaccustomed eyes, and studied the mark closer. The bruise remained when he gave it a second look, and he identified the teeth marks so it couldn't have been something self inflicted. John had been there, and whilst this partially assured him, it partially petrified him too...

[SH]

Lestrade wasn't exactly excited about Sarah's birthday party, but he couldn't muster a false excuse to squirm out of it. He felt somewhat sorry for John; it was obvious the guy was clutching at strings and didn't have a lot of friends who he could invite to this do. Greg told himself he would only stay for an hour if things were dire, and this reassured him to some extent as he knocked on the door, which was opened only a couple of seconds after.

"Hey," Greg said, trying to sound as bright and cheerful as possible. John didn't reply; he just stepped aside and Greg shuffled awkwardly in. Once the door was shut behind him, he held out the bottle of wine he'd found lying around his flat. "Nothing fancy," he admitted sheepishly. "But knew I couldn't turn up without bringing something."

John still said nothing. He took the bottle and looked at it without really looking at it, kind of just going through the motions. The detective inspector cleared his throat uneasily, eventually gaining the doctor's attention.

"Everything alright?" Greg asked, frowning slightly. "You seem a bit—distant."

John wearily smiled. "Sorry, no I'm just..." he stifled a yawn, setting the bottle aside and pouring them both a glass. Greg's helping was ordinary and small, whilst John's was triple the usual, and he gulped it down as if it was clear water.

"Cheers..." Greg mumbled, taking a tiny swig from his drink. "Just what?"

"Tired," John answered after a lengthened pause. "I'm just—so, so tired. Hardly got any kip last night."

Lestrade nodded in understanding. "Anything in particular keeping you up?"

John looked unwilling to reply and cast his eyes down, wading deep in thought. "No," he said shortly, pouring himself a second glass.

Lestrade took this as his cue to drop the matter and did so; talking nonsensically about anything his brain could produce, varying from sport, to the news, even briefly on the weather. John seemed grateful for this and soon started to speak more animatedly, as if shaking off whatever was plaguing him. An hour quickly passed and Lestrade had settled down on the sofa next to the doctor, laughing and drowning glass after glass. The atmosphere seemed to turn lighter, and more carefree. All the same, Greg couldn't help but wonder why Sarah was keeping such a distance from John, why she was only throwing him fleeting glances before returning to whatever conversation she was engaged in. He contemplated asking John about it, but nudged the idea away. It wasn't his place to pry, and if John hadn't brought it up, he most likely didn't want to discuss it.

All in all, it seemed the party was going to be a pleasant occasion after all—that is until there was a knock on the door.

John sprang up so fast he knocked Lestrade's glass right over, which was luckily empty and didn't shatter. Lestrade looked over his shoulder, heaving a sigh. Then he turned back around and waited for John to come back over.

The front door opened and the two men regarded each other. Shudders tiptoed down John's spine and he forced a smile to twinge at the corner of his mouth as his eyes met Sherlock's.

"You're late," John remarked hoarsely.

"Fashionably," Sherlock returned his voice as rich and deep as usual. "May I come in?"

He was being horrendously polite and well mannered; John could hardly believe the man standing before him was the same one. Numbly and stricken dumb of words, John stepped aside to allow the tall, lithe man to come in.

John noticed how Sarah was glaring at him; he had neglected to tell her he'd invited Sherlock, knowing full well she'd protest. He didn't mind for now, and he was certain he wouldn't mind it later when she was telling him off. Sherlock lingered behind John like a shadow that had outgrown its solid counterpart, not saying a word, just floating at his heels.

"Drink?" John asked, trying to keep his manners.

"No thank you," Sherlock said, again with that alien politeness.

John didn't know what he'd expected to come out of inviting Sherlock. Maybe some sort of—some sort of—he couldn't even think of what he wanted. He just wanted things to go back to normal. That was what he wanted most of all. Just to look up at the consulting detective and to know he had someone there, to know that he wasn't bitterly and utterly alone anymore. Looking up at Sherlock now, didn't give him that feeling and he was profoundly disappointed.

"Are you feeling any better?" John said just to sting the silence that had fallen between them.

"Yes," Sherlock said. He looked as if he was unsettled, as if he was waiting for something. Some sort of explosion, judging by the way he was shuffling from foot to foot, the way his fingers were curling and uncurling into his palm.

He clearly still wasn't eating or sleeping right, and upon further inspection, John noticed that he had missed a button on his dark purple shirt, something Sherlock rarely did. He kept fidgeting too...he looked incredibly nervous and uneasy.

"Let's go out into the hall," John suggested quietly, checking on Lestrade who was now chatting with a woman who worked at the clinic with Sarah. Sherlock complied without saying a word.

Out the pair stepped out into the hall, away from everyone else. No one seemed to notice their absence, no one seemed to care they were leaving in fact. John closed the door behind him and was startled to find that his back was being pressed firmly against it milliseconds later, and the consulting detective was incredibly close against him.

"Whoa—wh—what? What on earth are you doing?" John demanded, trying to dampen the shrillness to his tone so not to attract attention.

Sherlock was considering him, darkness in his expression that John had never seen before. It was as though a shadow had fallen across his features, a shadow that threatened to eat up all of the others the man had ever made. It threatened to claim him, and it truly frightened John.

"John—" was all Sherlock said, his voice rumbling like thunder in his throat.

"Seriously, what are you doing?" John tried again, holding the man's upper arms so to restrain him, fearing that he would soon be entirely upon him. "Get off me..."

Sherlock knotted his fingers into John's jumper, never once removing his eyes from John's. "Why are you fighting me, John?"

"Why? Because you're bloody feeling me up in the middle of a hallway! That's why!" John exclaimed. It struck him that he wouldn't be able to shake the other from him and the pace of his heart hastened a considerable amount. He could only look into that face, the face he'd told himself he knew better than anyone else; he searched desperately for a trace of that man that he'd claimed to know so well...to his dismay, he was struggling.

John felt helpless, and a snippet of his brain urged him to call out for someone, yet the rest of it reminded him that this was Sherlock, his best friend—the friend he trusted with his life and, without any real reason, depended on. Sherlock's breath was playing against his lips; though be it an odd sensation, he didn't shy away from it. He continued to face Sherlock straight on without ducking or turning his head ajar. Those light eyes were studying his, as if stripping away his very flesh and seeing his core, admiring it. John felt overly exposed under such a stare but knew he could do nothing to cease it. He was too busy listening to the sounds of the party on the other side of the door; the sounds of laughter bubbling up and frothing out of the corners of the mouths of the numerous guests that he didn't know, the music humming obliviously away...

Identical to two glasses being brought together in a toast, Sherlock and John's lips met. Instead of a clank, there was no sound. It was brilliantly and beautifully silent. For the first time in his life, John found his mind bounding back to the first time he'd ever kissed another. He was eight, and the girl who lived across the road from him had randomly grasped his head and banged their mouths roughly together. That feeling of unearthing something new within himself, was replayed now for the first time in many years. It was like finding out a new fact about yourself, the first time you ever kissed someone. You extend, you grow, in a strange sense. You feel a little heavier, but not a burdening heaviness—a cherished one. John felt it right then when his lips collided with Sherlock's, and he sharply breathed in through his nose, eyebrows rising as he found his held on the other's upper arms loosening. The crown of his head tilted back with a gentle thump against the wood of the door, a door that had once felt like it was trapping him now felt as though it was steadying him, keeping him intact. John truly wondered if he would shatter right then, the way his bones seemed to shiver under his flesh, the way his heart inflated beneath his ribcage.

Sherlock parted, a fragment of a whimper pattering from his parted mouth. John watched him closely, only just realising that his hands had leapt up to hold Sherlock's shoulders rather than his arms. He wondered if he was hurting him, considering how tightly he was holding on, yet he feared if he were to loosen it, he would crumble down to the ground.

"Just as I remembered it," Sherlock breathed, closing his eyes in an almost sleepy manner and resting his forehead against John's wearily.

John seemed to break out of whatever daze he'd stumbled into and he began to see clearly. He broke away, as if briskly reassembling himself.

"What do you mean by that?" he murmured, a frown cutting its ugly shape into his face.

Sherlock grinned lazily, opening his eyes to look at John. "You kissed me the other night...I was just hoping it would feel as good as I remembered it..."

John was blinking rapidly in vast bewilderment and he dropped his hands to his sides. Sherlock, seemingly only just then sensing something was amiss, straightened up and tensed. He looked almost stung at John's reaction.

"W-we've never kissed before, Sherlock," John said uneasily. "T-that was the first time...ever...that was the first time I've ever kissed you, let alone another bloke." The term bloke sent a fist of nausea into his gut and he bleakly reminded himself never to use it again, and to never tell anyone that he'd done that.

"Don't be daft," Sherlock said lowly. "What are you talking about?"

John scanned Sherlock's eyes, getting the idea that things could explode at any given moment. Tentatively, he continued. "That was the first time we've ever kissed, Sherlock..."

"Bullshit!" Sherlock had never sounded so—so aggressive before. Angry of course but never aggressive. This was the first time John had ever heard him use that word before, and he wondered if he'd ever even heard the consulting detective swear.

"Sherlock, don't work yourself up about it," John attempted to amend things. "You must've imagined it..."

"Oh really?" Sherlock snapped, tilting his head to the side and pulling down the collar of his shirt further to reveal an ugly mark against his neck. "Explain that then!"

John inspected it with his medically trained eye and quickly deduced it was a bite, a nasty one at that; there were tiny teeth marks denting the bruise in the centre. Sherlock looked triumphant and readjusted his shirt, concealing it once more.

"That's a bite," Sherlock insisted. "I don't think I could bend that way to do that to myself, someone else did that to me—"

"Yeah, someone else," John interjected softly. "But seriously, it wasn't me, Sherlock. I never made it round to yours that night you called me—I went over but Mrs Hudson said you were out and I just got so caught up preparing this ruddy party I just—that's why I was so nervous about you coming today. I felt awful about not going over to check if you were okay. I promise you."

Sherlock stepped back, his eyes wide as if trying to see everything he possibly could in John's face, searching for a lie, an element of truth—his jaw clenched tightly and lips that had seconds before had been brushing lovingly against John's, were now pressed tightly into a thin, grim line. Sherlock swept a hand over his tired eyes and let out a groan of frustration. John didn't know whether he should say something, to just assure him that it didn't matter and that they had now, actually, kissed. For some reason, this imaginary kiss meant something to Sherlock, and it was perplexing as to how that bruise had turned up on his neck. If it were anybody else, John would have narrowed the solution down to being a drunken mishap, but that wasn't really an option when it came to Sherlock.

"Are you lying, John?" Sherlock demanded abruptly, throwing his hands out agitatedly.

"I swear to you I'm not," John reiterated, gingerly stepping towards him. "Look, it's no big deal. We have kissed now, that's what matters, isn't it?"

He went to touch Sherlock only to have his hand swiped away. The contact left his skin smarting and John had to restrain his anger, telling himself over and over that Sherlock was probably way more upset than he was.

"You don't get it," Sherlock said, in such a broken way it actually hurt John to hear it.

"Then help me to," John went on after they had, once again, lapsed into utter silence.

Sherlock seemed to be contemplating on telling John, on pouring out his heart's delicate contents, but then suddenly his features darkened once more and he made to run past him to the stairs. John, having adapted to expect the—well the unexpected whilst living with the detective, lunged out and caught Sherlock's slender arm, holding him in place and preventing him from bolting off.

"Let go," Sherlock growled, not turning around to face John. Instead, he bowed his head, hiding his face with his curls. John was not as idiotic as the consulting detective would have him be, as he realised swiftly that he was, in fact, crying.

"No," John whispered. "Not until you talk to me about this."

"Please let me go," Sherlock pleaded.

Rather than repeating himself verbally, John squeezed the other's arm, hoping the action would help it sink in that he really wasn't going anywhere. The doctor and the detective stood in the hallway that way for a minute or two; in a way both of them were waiting for the other to act first. Since they were both waiting, neither of them moved an inch and nothing happened for a while. John acknowledged the small corner of consciousness that was telling him that he should be feeling guilty right now, guilty for cheating on Sarah on her birthday, that he should be feeling repulsed with himself for kissing another man. Oddly enough, John didn't feel either of those things. If anything, it felt like for the first time in ages, a new chapter was beginning for him and that both terrified and excited him. Whatever the content of said chapter was to be, he didn't care so long as it involved Sherlock. The way he was holding onto him then, it was as if they were re-enacting their true situation, the fragility of their newly blossoming relationship. Sherlock would always try to pull away, he would always try to run from his emotions because he had no idea how to deal with them, and John would always be hanging onto him, refusing to let him go. John knew he would never let Sherlock go. Even if he slipped up and Sherlock had managed to set himself free, John would go chasing after him and wouldn't give up until he was holding onto the other again, even if it was just by a handful of sleeve.

"Talk to me, please," John said hoarsely.

Sherlock didn't speak; he just lifted his head. He didn't even return John's gaze. He stared off into space, the tears visibly swelling in his eyes. When they became too much, they peeled down his face as if shreds of his hard exterior were falling away. John had never seen him cry before—at least not for real. Now he was witnessing it, he knew for certain he never wanted to see it again. He wanted to prevent Sherlock from ever having to shed tears again. Such a revelation in a rational, level-headed man would at least shock him...for some reason, it didn't for John. It was as if he was finally accepting something he'd known for a while...

Sherlock's eyes tilted upwards as if they were glancing at the ceiling, but then they were rolling too far back and before John could register what was happening in front of him, they were closing, and his legs had given way beneath him. John's stomach flinched at the sight, and he rushed forward barely in time to catch the falling man.

John gathered Sherlock in his arms; it was like he was scraping up the shattered remains of a vase. He couldn't help but wonder if Sherlock was broken, and this notion terrified him. John lowered him down, leaning his back against the wall opposite the door.

"Sherlock!" John said urgently, trying to keep his voice down for now. He touched the detective's face finding it extremely hot and clammy. He brushed back the curls, clamping the base of his palm against his forehead to find it burning. "Sherlock..." that was all he could say, the only thing he found himself able to utter. Swallowing hard and feeling torn, John kissed the other man's forehead tenderly. "I'll be right back. I promise you, Sherlock...I'll never leave you again for the rest of my days..."

Reluctantly, he got to his feet and swung the door open, bursting inside. "Help!" he cried. "Help! I need some help here!"

Lestrade, sensing the urgency, abandoned whatever conversation he'd found himself in and came to the doctor's aid. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Sherlock's collapsed," that was all John had to say.

"Call an ambulance!" Lestrade shouted back the order as he followed John back out into the hall.

John and Lestrade stood side by side in the hallway, which was now completely empty...

[SH]

Break everything, make everything as disfigured as he now was. His skin was near enough translucent, and the sweat stood out clearly against his skin. He was running a high fever again, but this time he found it delicious rather than repulsing. He didn't feel sorry for himself anymore, he was glad he was sick. Secretly, he hoped he would die of this sickness. Sherlock scraped every object from the fireplace, turned over the coffee table spilling whatever was sitting on its surface onto the ground, he tore through the various books on the shelves, tossing them over his shoulder and ripping out the pages. He stood in the centre of his ruin, hands in his hair, chest heaving in ragged breaths.

Sherlock dove into his pocket and popped out the last of the Dionysus pills that he owned, planting the poisonous seeds onto his tongue and gulping them down hungrily. The release he felt wasn't immediate, but the slight tingling sensation playing in his fingertips was good enough for now. Mrs Hudson was out, he didn't know how long for though and he wanted to be gone by the time she came back.

It wasn't John, then...the first person he actually felt something with—it wasn't John. The thought cleaved open his chest and he brought a hand to his mouth so to stifle the sob that threatened to burst out if he wasn't careful enough. Taking his mind off it, Sherlock stormed into the kitchen and picked up every object he could get his hands: beakers, flasks, jars, mugs, dishes—anything he could get he threw down or to the side to burst against the wall. He didn't care that he was standing on shards of glass that kissed the palms of his feet painfully, he just stood there swaying.

"He's certainly messed you up."

Sherlock could only grin at that voice and he let out a hollow, mirthless laugh. "You could say that..." He walked stiffly forward into the living room; he didn't turn his head entirely, he just saw the black figure in the corner of his eye and that was enough for him.

"Tsk, tsk—" the voice playfully scolded. "I do hope he hasn't messed you up too badly, my dear. I was rather looking forward to doing that myself."

TBC

Please review and let me know what you think. Next update should come as soon as possible, but it depends on whether I have any assignments due for university. This chapter was so difficult to write and I'm not entirely pleased with it, so I apologise if it isn't the best –