Thank you! make me keep writing!

"What?!" Sherlock looked lost.

"What I'm saying is nothing beyond your understanding."

"What game is this Mycroft?"

"When did I become the one to play games?" Mycroft made an innocent face.

Rage surged inside Sherlock, he wanted to kill his brother but in that moment of anger words spoken by John came back to him, words exactly like what his brother said now, "Exploiting others' emotions for personal profit is a game you excel in Sherlock, not me." He had done something wrong, must have.

As he sobered down Mycroft said, "But you seem to like games, so let's play a game. I'll ask you five questions, you'll answer them."

Sherlock stayed quiet, hands on his face.

"Okay, I'll take silence for an answer only this once."

"Why were you sitting there for so long even after you realised that John was not coming back?" Mycroft begun.

Silence. Mycroft smiled.

"John had changed himself, he was not being as useful to you as he had been, so why did you try to stop him from leaving? He was useless now."

Silence again.

"Would you allow John to get involved with someone even if he didn't leave this house? If no, then why?"

Images of John played in front of Sherlock's eyes. John cooking, John smiling, John sleeping on the arm chair, John pushing him away from danger, John kissing him back. John.

"How did you feel when John kissed you?"

Sherlock looked up, his eyes menacing, you are going too far Mycroft.

"How would you feel if John's life was in danger?"

The earth stopped in its axis, everything went still. Sherlock felt a familiar fear. He felt it once John had been in a blast, he was hurt but not much, seeing him hospital Sherlock felt like a child lost in a big city. But for a few moments. He had discarded the feeling later as if it never existed. But now, sitting in front of Mycroft, his subconscious being slowly revealed he recognized the feeling in a new light. It was fear of losing John. Irrespective of whether he would be useful anymore or not. I needed John alive. I need John alive.

He looked up at his brother, face contorted. He asked in a broken voice "Tell me… he's not in danger."

Mycroft looked at his brother sympathetically, I know it's going to be hard for you, but it is necessary pain. "He won't come in harm's way." He said putting a hand on Sherlock's limp hand, a gesture that suited neither of the brothers. "I promise." He wanted to leave Sherlock to his thoughts, so after a while he got up. Before leaving he put a gentle hand on Sherlock's Shoulder and whispered "please eat."

"He hasn't come out since you left, I'm a bit worried dear." Mrs Hudson sounded like that too.

It was a Sunday. The 2nd Sunday alone after a year with his flatmate. John sighed. The first had gone almost unnoticed as he was busy setting things up. But this was awful. No case, no helping around, no mood for socialising, No Sherlock! Just a damn empty feeling. Frustrating, useless, boring. John opened his eyes wide as his own thought sounded like the baritone he left a week ago. And now his ex-landlady was requesting him to come over for his ex-flatmate for whom she was concerned. She would have never asked me if she knew what he did John thought. But she didn't. She was always caring about them and this was just natural for her to do.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes Mrs Hudson" he said after a pause "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks dear."

John fiddled with the phone in his hand. The things that happened between them in the last few days couldn't be easily forgotten. John suspected if he could at all forget them in this life. He was not bound to do anything for his ex-flatmate now. Yet he felt a compulsion, an urge. I was his friend, his doctor once for Christ's sake and I know how stubborn he is, I am among the few people he actually listens to or at least did. I can't just sit here when there is a possibility that something maybe has gone wrong. What he did was bad, I can't tic him by being bad in return, I have to be mature. John made up his mind. Somewhere at the back of his mind a voice said You just want to see him, even after not a single text from him in all these days. He suppressed the voice by thinking it was just a little excitement in his new mundane life. Yes that's what it is. If Sherlock could be selfish so could he.

Standing in front of his former home John realised it was not as easy as he thought it would be. He tried to see through the heavy curtains straining his eyes into which used to be their living room. He had expected to see a long lean figure lurking around in the shadows. But he saw nothing. He felt his heartbeat rise at the thought of what it would be like to face Sherlock again, to hear his name from that mouth, in that baritone. This is not the time to be nervous. You're here for a reason. John pulled himself together; he strode across the street to the gate and let himself in. Mrs Hudson was out. No sound from that quarter. He hesitated before climbing the stairs. It would be so awkward. I hardly know what to say to him. He laughed at his own thought. His former friend and flatmate and partner and love with whom he had spent a year 24/7, a year which felt more like a decade, in which they had been through life threatening situations, now standing at the steps so well known to him he didn't know what to say to that person. Maybe he was right after all, it was so easy before my stupid feelings. With a deep breath John found the determination to climb the stairs. As he stood in front of the door, hands on the door knob hesitation took over him again. Why do I still feel responsible for this man? Even after what he did? Did he deserve any of this from me anymore? Maybe he didn't, but then who else was there to do this? With the afterthought John let himself in.

The familiar smell of the room filled John's lungs, he felt completely at ease at once, like he never left, like whatever was his life before entering this room was just a dream. After a long time John felt at home.

He didn't realise that a small smile had crawled up on his lips as he was looking around the familiar surroundings. The kitchen, the dining table, the book racks, the sofa, Sherlock.

Sherlock.

John's breath hitched and his gaze faltered as he realised Sherlock was standing in front of him. Quite away from him, near the sofa, he didn't even notice he had come. Whatever stability and comfort the familiar surroundings had given him was sucked out the instant he met the cold, tired gaze of a very haggard looking Sherlock. This was going to be difficult. John straightened his back and took a steadying breath and took a good look at the man in front of him. Hasn't slept, hasn't eaten. The doctor in him made mental calculations.

"New case?" John asked nonchalantly, as if it hardly mattered.

Sherlock flinched before saying "Hello, John."

That voice, that mouth, that name filled all of John's senses. How long had it been? A week? No, it must have been longer. John swallowed and bit the inside of his lower lip. He tried to bite back the emotion which made him feel like he was a distraught child being soothed. He felt like hugging Sherlock, telling him how terribly he missed him, to lay down his feelings just to be with him again. No! now is not the time for this nor is this person deserving of it. Oh who am I fooling? I was the one who never deserved him.

"How are you?" Sherlock's mild voice broke John's reverie.

"Why haven't you been out?" John's voice stern, he didn't mean it to be so, it just came out that way, too much confused feelings.

"I told Mrs Hudson that I was alive and well and not to bother."

Alive yes. Well, no. John was deducing.

"Sit, let me check you." John went ahead to the sofa and sat. Sherlock was still standing, a dazed expression on his face as if surprised by John's actions.

What does he want now? "Why don't you sit?"

As if on Que Sherlock sat on the sofa facing his former flatmate. Expression still dazed.

For a moment John kept looking at him, then abruptly he looked down.

Without further delay Sherlock rolled up his shirt sleeve and presented his hand to the doctor, looking at the hand.

With immense control John took the hand to check the pulse. It was slow. With a disturbed expression John looked at his patient's Shirt sleeve, this was the worst clothes he had ever seen Sherlock in. The shirt was crumpled, not fresh and definitely not laundered. Unconsciously his gaze followed up, Sherlock's throat was dry, unshaven at least for two days, his skin looked worn, darkness under the eyes. What happened to the Sherlock he left a week ago? Sherlock was still looking at his hand which he withdrew gently. John had forgotten that he was holding it. He felt a bit awkward. Focusing on Sherlock again he asked:

"when did you last eat?"

"A while ago." Come back John.

"Please specify."

"Maybe yesterday." I am sorry.

"When?"

"Uh, actually a night before last night, maybe." I'm a monster.

"When did you last sleep?" John's voice clearly annoyed.

Sherlock didn't answer, he looked at John with all the bewilderment of a child at a question beyond his understanding.

John sighed exasperated "You're not a child Sherlock! Stop behaving like one!" Sherlock turned his gaze to the floor, the age old carpet seemed very interesting to him.

"What is this? Is this some practical joke? Any childish attempt to get me back in the house? Oh how you cannot take any care of yourself when I'm not around act?" John almost yelled.

Sherlock's expression changed to a pained one. Just for a few seconds, then the mask was on again. A face that gave away nothing. John was really angry now, he just couldn't take the silence.

"Please tell me this was not a plan." He said abruptly standing up from the sofa.

Sherlock just gave a sad sarcastic smile.

"God damn it Sherlock! You are not my responsibility anymore!" John screamed with frustration, he felt he said this more to himself than the man in front of him.

Sherlock sat still, never loosing is composure, never giving away anything. He looked at the back of the sofa for a moment and said:

"I know I'm not your responsibility. Still thanks for coming down to check on me just on a call."

Never looking at a stunned John he got up and tiredly returned to his bedroom. The sound of the door closing bought John back to his senses. Since when did Sherlock become so gentle on doors? Did he actually mock me because I came here to see him? I shouldn't have. Was this planned? I'll have to ask our landlady to confirm. She surely won't lie. But what of now? I can't just leave him in this state. He's weak. A bit not good. A pretty mess. Come to save him after what he'd done, be mocked at and still help because he's weak and it's unscrupulous to leave him like this. Just great!

He was pretty sure there won't be any food in the kitchen and he found it to be true. So he went out to buy some supplies, after all he won't be around to nurse him after today. No he won't. As soon as he set foot on the road his phone chimed, a text.

You don't have to do this. M.H.

Yeah right, surveillance. He forgot.

Then please come down from your high chair and do it yourself. J.

He doesn't deserve it from you John. After what he has done. M.H.

Thanks for the concern but it's your brother who needs it more now than me. J.

Oh, he will come around. He won't die. M.H.

John felt very uncomfortable at the words. How could he be so insensitive towards Sherlock? He won't die? Is that the only condition? How can he be so cold?

He started walking without answering. He still couldn't be cold to Sherlock. And he could never think of his dying. No he won't even entertain the thought.