John opened his eyes. Sunlight was streaming through a window…but it wasn't his window. His arms were wrapped around a smaller, warm body, which he recognized as…Sarah. Last night came rushing back; Sherlock, beaten and bruised, in bed with another man…he had gone to Sarah's house, mumbling some sort of excuse that he didn't even remember. She had taken pity on him, lent him her couch. But somehow, at some point, he had ended up in her bed. He sighed. Did this make him just as bad as Sherlock?

He frowned. No, it didn't. Sherlock had done it first, he had slept with someone else last night, and that officially terminated their relationship. He was perfectly within his right to shag another person.

Sarah's eyes flicked open. "Morning." She said cheerfully, snuggling into John's arms. He tightened them around her and kissed her forehead. It didn't matter, not anymore

…

"I said, go get me a drink."

Victor hit Sherlock hard, stars forming in front of Sherlock's eyes. He pushed the man off the couch and lay down there in his place. He looked at Sherlock, kneeling before him. "Well? Go get me a beer already, useless. I don't have all day!"

Sherlock stood carefully and staggered his way to the kitchen. He grabbed a beer bottle from the refrigerator and walked back in, zigzagging around the mess that was Victor's flat.

Victor flipped the lid open. "Thanks, Sherl." He took a sip and sighed, refreshed. "Now, today let's move all your stuff over from your old flat to here. After all, you have to be somewhere where I can keep an eye on you."

Sherlock stiffened. He had no intention whatsoever of moving back in with the bastard. He cleared his throat and focused on a simple ploy that would hopefully work. "Victor…why don't you let me move all my stuff over here? Then you can go and do…whatever you like, and you won't have to work so hard." He purred temptingly.

Victor considered it. "Yeah. Yeah, I think that's a good idea, Sherl." Victor stood up, beer in hand, and went to one of the cupboards, pulling Sherlock's phone from where he had hidden it. "Now, take your phone with you, and call me every hour, on the hour. If I don't hear from you there will be…consequences. Understand?" he said strictly.

Sherlock leaned into Victor and kissed his cheek gently, hating himself all the while. "Yes, Vic. I'll call you every hour, on the hour, and I won't forget."

Victor nodded, scratching a hand over his chest. "Good. Now run along; I have things to do, and you'll just get in the way."

Sherlock nodded, and headed for the door. "Thank you, Victor. I'll see you later."

Sherlock left as fast as he could.

He walked all the way to Baker Street, not having any money for a taxi. He shivered against the wind; it was cold out, and he was wearing only a thin gray t-shirt and a pair of too-small pyjamas of Victor's. He eventually made it to 221B, practically frozen.

Sherlock stumbled up the steps, shivering in his thin shirt. Mrs. Hudson appeared at the bottom of the stairs. She saw his face and gasped. "Oh, Sherlock!" she exclaimed, concerned. "What happened, dearie?"

Sherlock ignored her, staggering up the stairs towards the door. "I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson. Just…just a mugger, is all."

Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands. "Oh, dear, the streets just aren't safe anymore. Do you need anything, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked up towards the flat. "I need John." he rasped.

…

The man in question was currently sitting in Sarah's flat, watching crap telly and eating a cheese sandwich.

As the credits rolled, John leaned back, his arm around Sarah. When was the last time he had watched an entire TV show without a certain consulting detective yelling advice and admonishments at the characters? He couldn't remember, but it was definitely a nice change.

Sarah snuggled further into John's arms. "John?" she asked quietly.

John turned to her, wrapping both arms around her smaller figure and sighed. "Ok, time for serious talk…I know that tone too well." He said teasingly. "But what is it?" he said, in a more serious tone.

Sarah hesitated slightly, and then spoke. "What happened between…between you and Sherlock? Why did I wake up this morning with you in my bed?"

John sighed again. This was a painful subject; he had only found out a day ago. "Sherlock…is cheating on me. With an old flame of his."

Sarah clucked sympathetically. "Oh, John." She said sadly. "I'm so sorry. Though I can't say it's too much of a surprise…I always had him pegged as a flighty one."

John nodded, too deep in thought to say anything. He looked up. "There was one weird thing about it, though, Sarah; when I came home and found Sherlock with him, he had been beaten quite badly. Black eye, broken ribs, the works. His…new boyfriend…said he got into a fight at a pub."

Sarah tilted her head, confusion lighting her gaze. "Sherlock? At a pub?" she laughed uneasily. "I don't know the man that well, but even I know that he wouldn't be a pub kind of person."

John stood suddenly, dislodging Sarah from his arms. "Noooo…." He whispered. "No, he's not. And there's something else. Something I can't believe I didn't notice before."

He stood quietly, staring out the window for some time. Finally, Sarah tugged on his arm. "John?" she said quietly. "What is it?"

He turned back, eyes haunted. "I had it wrong. I had it all wrong."

John ran out the door as fast as he could.

Sarah followed, confused. "John? John, what's wrong?"

But John was already gone.