A/N: Thanks to Revella for her egging me on to further heights of Sherlockian-ness. Wouldn't have been so driven to complete this tonight without her. LOL!

Day 7…

I'm bleeding again. Why am I bleeding? "John, why am I bleeding?" Hurried footsteps met this inquiry and ended with, "Oh, God. Sherlock! What…what did you do this time?" Sherlock opened his mouth, but was interrupted, "Nevermind. Give me your arm." He complied, watching in fascination as John removed a large triangle of glass from his forearm. How had it gotten there anyway? His eyes darted across the counter. Oh yes, he thought to himself as he remembered that he had been attempting to discover how much force one could put on a regular drinking glass before it shattered. The other remains of the vessel lay scattered haphazardly on the floor and counter. Maybe not use my own arm to apply the force necessary next time? He was sure John would approve of his new decision and was about to inform the other man of this, when he suddenly became much more interested in the hands that treated his wound. Fascinatingly common though they were, they moved with a deft skill and steady, calm experience. And, behind the cadence of first aid in their foreground…behind it, underlying with a softer counter-melody, was that of...caring? Yes. Deep and profound. So raptly was he observing John that he forgot the pain. He also forgot he was staring. But John noticed…

"Ahem, well, I've got to be off to work soon. Just, please try not to injure yourself further while I'm gone." He turned away from Sherlock as he secured the dressing, washing his hands in the sink. Sherlock had broken off his outward observation, retreating somewhat within himself so as not to appear odd to John. What was it about this man that held his interest so? John finished at the sink and walked over to grab his coat. He picked up his keys, and looked over his shoulder as he headed out the door. "I'll be back about 5:30 tonight, provided we don't have any late appointments. I'll grab some takeaway on my way home." Sherlock made no response, and John didn't wait for one either. As the front door to the flat closed, Sherlock turned toward the laptop. Need help. But it was only 7:30 in the morning. Cyndy wouldn't be available for at least another five hours. His gaze drifted back over to their cupboard, and all of the remaining glassware…

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Cyndy…

Cyndy…

Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyndy Cyn…

WHAT?!

Ah, there you are.

How are you contacting my specific work computer directly?

So, I've had a breakthrough. Maybe.

Yeah, to my computer.

Immaterial. I've had to wait several minutes for those idiots to put me through to you before. This is faster.

…..

So. A breakthrough?

Yes. We went out, as you suggested. He seemed to have a fairly good time, especially at the end. At least, his display of dancing matched what is generally accepted as someone having a good time.

You're a handful to deal with, aren't you?

Yes?

Anyway, what happened after the dancing?

He got cornered by some very violent individuals, I kissed him, and then we went to the morgue to examine a body.

…er…

I can see why this would appear odd to you. I am a detective, of sorts, and I am frequently called upon by the police to consult on their unsolved cases.

Oh. Well, now it doesn't sound so bad. I guess. Except that still means that your night ended with work.

Your meaning?

Meaning, it was supposed to be a night for just the two of you.

Oh, yes. I see. Having the detective inspector there was of no help then?

No! It's supposed to be time for you two only.

Hmm. I begin to see. Well, that's alright. Last night was almost the two of us alone together.

Oh?

Yes. I did a portion of a strip tease act in our living room.

Oh! Well, that sounds, well, like something special. But wait. Didn't you say almost alone?

Yes. The detective inspector and a medical examiner were there, too.

If you could hear me sigh, then you would know how exasperated this makes me.

Why? Have I done something wrong?

Not exactly. No. But when I said 'alone' I meant alone. No one else. Anyway, what's the breakthrough you mentioned?

I noticed obvious signs of his arousal throughout my performance. Also, this morning, he was helping me…clean up something, and he seemed a bit distracted still by my presence. So much so, that it seemed to affect my level of concentration, too.

Ah, now we're getting somewhere. So when is the last date of intimacy?

What?

Intimacy. Sex. Cuddling.

Oh. I'm sure I have no idea. I try not to keep track of those kinds of things. It's so predictable and boring anyway. I think he feels that way, too, and is just too nice to ever tell anyone.

Aha! I have the problem solved now! I wish I had asked this question a good while ago.

Sex is his problem then?

Yes. And yours, too, probably, if you want to know.

I don't.

Of course not. But with that attitude, it'll just make it harder to fix this. However, you did have the concern enough to seek counseling for his sake, so there must be something to be said about that.

Yes, I suppose. I simply wish for things to go back to the way they were. Before this oddity came about and altered how things are.

Well, you've come to the right place at least. So, here's what you're going to do. He needs something sexually that's new or a bit exotic. Something he hasn't tried before, or is maybe afraid to ask for. I'll bet things will settle down after a few of those things occur.

New? I can find it. Exotic? I know just the person to ask about this. Ta!

Wait! The person? Ask what?!

Are you there?!

Oh, good Lord….

Sherlock glanced at the clock. It was about one in the afternoon. Plenty of time to accomplish what he needed to. He grabbed his coat off the rack, took one last look around the flat, and then closed the laptop before heading out through the front door. If he remembered correctly, it wasn't that far away where he could find exactly what he was looking for. His long strides ate up the distance in no time. Only a few streets over. And hopefully, if he was lucky, tonight would be the night to end this strangeness. To solve the case of JohnWatson! He smiled to himself as he turned the last corner and found what he was looking for.

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John arrived home at just about 6:00, takeaway bags in one hand, and his coat in the other. He was starving and couldn't wait to sit down to his dinner. As he wiped his feet on the entry mat, he heard voices drifting down the staircase to him, and he paused to listen. Please tell me Mycroft did not stop over, he pleaded silently. But another few seconds of listening in allowed him to realize that the other voice not belonging to Sherlock was feminine. Maybe it's Molly? But that didn't make any sense because she should still be at work this time of night. He walked up a few of the stairs, easing his way slowly toward the source of the voices. They became more distinct the higher he climbed. And then he heard the woman laugh. Not Irene, either, then. That is definitely not her laugh.

"And they really paid you to do that? Why?"

"Oh, sweetheart, men'll pay for just about anything."

"How odd."

"It just depends on how flexible you are morally sometimes."

"Well, I don't believe that sort of thing is necessary here; although I cannot vouch 100% for his preferences, I imagine them to be somewhat more mundane than those contrivances people have had you using."

"Oh, I don't mind, as long as…" Her voice trailed off as John came through the door, eyes wide open as he took in the situation. He saw Sherlock sitting on his arm chair, relaxed, with his legs crossed. And across from him, curled up with one leg dangling off of the doctor's own arm chair was a woman of about 30 years of age, scantily clad, and wearing excessively high heels, one of which threatened to fall off of the foot which dangled from the chair. Both she and Sherlock looked to him, she with an appraising gaze, and he with only hopeful expectation. It took John barely 20 seconds to put together what was going on, but he still waited for Sherlock to confirm his fears. He didn't have to wait long.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, practically leaping up from his seated position then flowing gracefully over to John and scooping the takeaway bags from his hands. He moved to the kitchen where he deposited them. John followed behind him, smiled politely at the young woman, and slid the kitchen door closed. He turned to face his flatmate, his best friend…the most annoying man he had ever met.

"Sherlock…"

"Mmmm…" the detective replied as he poked through the baggies of takeaway.

"What. Is. That?"

"General Tso. Would you like some?"

"In. Our. Living room."

"Well you can have it here just as easily." It was hard to tell sometimes whether the younger man was being sarcastic and joking, or if he really was so oblivious to the real meanings behind people's words. John crossed to stand before him, grabbing the tiny box from the other man's hand and setting it none too gently onto the table. He looked into those silver-blue orbs, so full of what seemed like clear honesty and innocence.

"Her. There. Why, is she, in there?"

"Oh. Well, I brought her in for you. A gift of time. Two hours to be exact."

"And you, hmmm, thought I needed this…why?"

"John, please. Any idiot can take a look at you lately and see the signs of loneliness and the need for sexual encounters and intimacy. All of the symptoms are there." John's eyes grew big at first, then narrowed as he continued listening. "You're dissatisfied with a job that you normally take much pleasure in. You don't make any efforts at dating anymore because you've found how endlessly mundane and boring those encounters are. So you have begun to desire something different. Something more stimulating, perhaps." John's eyes were devouring Sherlock's form as he spoke, and Sherlock took this as a confirmation. "Something more interesting, even. But you haven't placed what it is yet, have you? Perhaps it is just that your tastes have shifted to a different area, and you have just not yet discovered what it is exactly that you're looking for? But how would you ever know if you don't look?" Sherlock walked around the table as he continued deducing the case of John Watson out loud to its main subject, certain he had all of the relevant data for his conclusion. "You have turned to seclusion with me instead of seeking out solutions to your problem. Instead of trying new things or discovering what your new interest is, you instead spend all of your free time with me." John was shaking a little by this point, his hands opening and closing. "What is it that has caught your mind and attention to the point that all else has faded away, John? What has changed? All else has lost its importance, so that you merely seek comfort here, in the familiar."

Sherlock paused to consider John's appearance. Trembling hands, gaze boring into the younger man's but seeming to look past them, body stock still as if caught surprised in the headlights….his eyes seemed almost frightened, too. What was wrong? He seemed almost a man who had figured out something formidably chilling. Ah, he probably doesn't like being on the other side of my deductions, the detective thought. He certainly gets angry enough with me when I do it to other people. Maybe this was too direct an approach? What to do? A gesture of support perhaps? The time honored shoulder pat? Sherlock moved forward as if to do this, but John stepped back away from him.

"I'll be in my room for a little while. See you later tonight. Maybe," he all but whispered as he turned to leave, practically fleeing the room. Sherlock called out to him, but he didn't turn or acknowledge it. And a short time later, the door upstairs slammed shut. The detective winced. Damn. This hasn't gone as planned at all. He looked toward the living area, and then slid the door open. He cleared his throat to get the hooker's attention, and she obliged by swinging around in the seat.

"Well. It seems those services, of that particular nature, will not be required tonight."

"But you paid for two hours. Was he just not up to it?"

"I don't know. It's quite puzzling, really."

"Well," she said as she stood and slinked over to him, stopping to raise a hand to his chest, "Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Holmes?" She looked coyly up into his flat stare. And just as he was about to tell her to just take a night off, he stopped himself, glancing back into the kitchen before speaking.

"Hungry?"

"Er….what…?" she stuttered, stumped. "Sure, I guess." And he put on his best I'm-not-a-sociopath smile as he took her arm and led her into the kitchen.

"Excellent. And how are you with breaking dishes? Glassware in particular?"

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Three hours later, John found his way back down to the main flat. Hopefully, that woman would be gone by now. He was having far too many strange revelations this night to suffer company with. He scrubbed his hand over his face, trying to wake himself from the dream in which he found his emotions whirling. It just can't be, he kept repeating to himself as he crossed in to living area. And his heart skipped, fear racing over him as he saw Sherlock sprawled across the couch in a way that said he hadn't chosen to be positioned that way. He had fallen.

By the younger man's side in seconds, John shook the facedown form of his friend. "Sherlock," he pulled him roughly around onto his back and pulled open one eyelid. The other opened of its own accord then, and he found himself staring into a very confused face. "John?" The doctor sighed, "Yes. What have you done to yourself now?" he asked, dreading the answer, as he thought he could see a syringe on the desk. "What have you taken?" And Sherlock's brow wrinkled down, then sprang up in comprehension.

"Oh! No, John. No." He pushed semi-weakly away from the doctor, trying to sit up, and John ended up having to help him do so. "Insulin. I was seeing how much it took to simply slow your mind." John became utterly confused.

"What? Why?" he demanded.

"Because that's how the stripper died, John. The man that she danced for last, he was diabetic. He carried a syringe of insulin with him in his pocket for while he was out drinking; too many carbs in beer, you know. The cap must've come off in his pocket somehow, and when she was rubbing against him, it pricked her. She had about 15-20 minutes before it went into effect. She must've gotten enough to knock her unconscious. She was found lying in a decidedly awkward fashion, though. She fell that way, lightheaded from low blood sugar. And with her medical condition of sleep apnea combined with the poor airway positioning of her landing…it just snowballed a bad situation, and she died."

John took all this in stoically, used to Sherlock's brilliance, but not wanting to praise it at this moment when he had clearly hurt himself on purpose. So he held his tongue about the conclusion and instead focused on what the young man had done to himself.

"So why, then, if you know what happened, did you have to give yourself insulin?"

"To know, John."

"Know what?"

"Everything. I realized that had I ever before experienced a hypoglycemic event induced by insulin injection, then I would have had a better understanding of its effects. Then maybe this case would've been solved even quicker. Don't you see?"

John got up and brought the detective a glass of orange juice back with him. "Drink this. All of it. How much did you take?"

"Only about 6 units. Given my metabolism, the fact that I haven't eaten in a good while, and my weight, I figured that was the safest dose."

"The safest…dose…" John whispered unbelievingly to himself. And he stood, looking down at the seated form of Sherlock Holmes, who swayed slightly when he lost John's steadying hand. "Are you bloody insane, then?!" Sherlock's head snapped up, not expecting the outburst, nor the strong undercurrent of anger that made headway in John's emotions. He looked puzzled at the doctor's outburst, which only spurred John into new heights of anger.

"You can't just put drugs into your body, Sherlock-bloody-Holmes, just because you want to know something! People just don't do that!"

"Insulin is a natural chemical occurring in the human body. It isn't as if I were turning back to…oh. Is that what this is about? My previous drug habits?" He stood to face John, almost toppling as he did. "Because, John, I can assure you…"

"No! No. You can't assure me of anything, can you?! You'll just keep on doing things to yourself; glass bits jutting out of your body, bleeding you dry. Drugs injected into you, by your own. hand." John closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, feeling the anger and concern thrumming through his veins. He was scared for Sherlock, true. But it was also deeper than that. How could he make him see?

"John, I really don't think the situation calls for such concern. I am perfectly capapapel…capapabable…capa…I can take care of myself," the slurring detective finished with a swipe down his dress shirt, trying to appear in control and, well, capable.

"You can't even speak! How can you possibly think this was safe?!"

"You're here."

"But not all the time! What if….if…gaaahhh! You great fool! How can you be so bleeding smart, and so damnably stupid?! It's like I live with a child!"

Sherlock took affront suddenly, finally sensing through his sugar-deprived mind that John was well and truly going off on him. "What business of yours is it anyway?!" he yelled as he spun away from John, turning to face him a few paces away. "I live, for my work. And this, this is my work! It's a part of it. You've known that from the start. Don't play the fool, John. It doesn't suit you." And Sherlock made to walk by John then, weakly trying to shoulder him aside with his height advantage, but John stopped him, firmly, with an arm flung out to catch him. It ended up pulling him with the detective a few feet first, though. And the younger man turned abruptly, leaving John with his arm around Sherlock's back, and their faces but inches from one another. The better to feel the anger and hurt rolling of off the detective in waves of heat.

They stared into each other's eyes a moment, each stubbornly gauging the other's resolve in this argument and finding no ground given up. Sherlock broke the silence first, his voice shaking like his body, "You don't own me, John. Mycroft does this, too. Thinks he owns me. Controls me." He shivered. "Never. Again. No one will ever…" And he just shut his mouth and stared daggers. John was surprised, but still pissed as all hell.

"I don't want to control you, you great berk! Just keep you safe. From yourself." Sherlock's eyes widened at that, as if he had heard the same words before, from someone else, and they did little more than just anger him further. He leaned down to John's ear, speaking vehemently as he whispered, "Keep me safe? From myself? Oh, John, I had thought better of you. Why should I? Go on. Give me a reason for listening to you. You can't." He pulled his head back to just where they were nose to nose and smiled a cruel smile. And all of the repressed anger and emotion came firing out of the doctor at that moment.

"Trying to control you? What are you on about, you idiot? You great, bloody, smart-arse! You think you've got everything figured out, then, don't you?! Because you're the Great Sherlock Holmes! Consulting detective to the stars! The man who doesn't need such normal, boring, ordinary folk like me to blot out the shine in his star!" Sherlock's eyes lost some of their heat as John continued. "You're such a fucking genius that you can't figure shit-all out in the realm of everyday life, can you?! No, you can't! So here I am, screaming fuck-all at you, and you don't care! You're too god damned smart to see what's in front of you!"

Sherlock leaned back, looking, really looking at John in all of his angry glory, from the tightly clenched fist, the rigid torso, the angry set of his face…and the something that dwelt within those eyes of his. What was it? "John, I…"

"No! No, don't you start again, with your accusations! You think you've got me figured out, Sherlock? Do you?! You don't know fuck-all!" John began advancing on the detective, inches at a time, sometimes just a further leaning inwards, and Sherlock retreated, but slower, allowing John to gain ground unconsciously. "But I do. I know exactly what's going on now. With me. With you. And you don't see it! The great detective doesn't see it! Ha!"

"John, I think you need…."

"I'm IN LOVE with you, you bloody idiot!" John screamed in his face, hands gripping the sides of the detective's Belstaff. But as the words flew from John's mouth, so too, did his anger. He seemed to retreat a bit as he whispered, "I'm in love with you: an impossible man who can't even have the decency to return such feelings." And with that, he pushed away from Sherlock, opened the door and passed through, and carried on down the stairs and out of the flat.

Sherlock stood as if deep within his mind palace, not a muscle twitched or made to move. One could barely tell he breathed at all. His mind spun in turmoil and confusion. John. John. His flatmate. His friend. His John. He saw it laid out before him now, and he frantically sought answers in the morass of bombarding information. Sherlock had analyzed many things in his life. Some comprised of details too minute for anyone else to even spark an interest in them. But he loved it; lived for it. The surge in the ignition of the billion billion neurons within his mind to attain an answer in one penultimate moment of clarity…was intoxicating…but…..would fade, as all things did for him. Except John. Thinking of his flatmate now, and the words that he had spoken so recklessly in anger, he wondered. Why? Why this man? He thought of John's eyes, and that something that they held within them. He superimposed himself, in his mind, over John's being; and their visual fields blurred into one. And for just one nanosecond, Sherlock saw himself as John did. Felt what John felt. And he had his answer. "Oh!" came the gasp. And then a sting at the side of his neck. What?

A polite, slow applause from one set of hands broke the silence of the flat, and James Moriarty stepped from the shadows of the doorway leading to the stairs. Sherlock's hand flicked up to the sting at his neck, and something fell to the floor. He noted the dart gun spinning lazily in Moriarty's hand. No. The other man noticed the direction of his gaze and drawled, "Yes, they're just as fun as they look." He smiled at Sherlock. "Don't worry, won't be but a few. More. Seconds." Sherlock's thoughts attempted to right themselves as the drug coursed along his veins. John. No…..John. He fell to his knees, and then over on his side, watching the expensive leather clad feet of the consulting criminal approach him. John. He fell into nothing.