*crawls onto stage and feebly reaching for the microphone, bringing it down to height*
It's...done...chapter four is...done...finally...here, take it *slides chapter across stage floor towards the crowd*
Enjoy guys...author...out *passes out on stage*

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SHIT. Shit, shit, SHIT!

Those words spiralled around in John's clouded mind, each syllable slicing into him and replacing his common sense with all out terror.

John wanted to speak, wanted to explain, wanted to make everything better again, make things calm but he couldn't fucking speak! He wanted to move, he wanted to do as he was told, his hand was burning where is connected with Sherlock's body, it stung in guilt but he couldn't fucking move! Just fucking move!

His thoughts broke and shattered and collided with each other and all he could see were Sherlock's verdigris eyes burning into his, feel his nails cutting into the skin as he gripped his face tightly, watch his lips curl up in a snarl that he couldn't hear for his heartbeat.

"I'm so sorry." He croaked out, his voice small and broken, he couldn't move, he could barely blink, "I'm so, so sor-"

"NO JOHN!" Sherlock barked, making John jump and a cold sweat gather at his forehead. Sherlock bought his face very close to the army doctor's, their noses almost touching with intimidating intimacy, his nails digging further into his face, " .me." he spat, whispering threateningly through gritted teeth.

The good doctor tried to swallow, his throat scratched together like two pieces of sandpaper. It hurt to breath, it hurt to blink, his whole body was overflowing with emotions he didn't understand and fear twisted and stabbed in his belly but yet ' !

All he was left to do was stare with blank, terrified eyes down at his flat share as he practically tore him to pieces. He couldn't even react, his whole mind had shut down. John recognised it now, he recognised this feeling, a feeling he had witnessed others experience and had experienced himself from the war. He was going into shock.

Sherlock ground his teeth and then down right exploded in the man's face.

"OH FOR GOD'S SAKE JOHN!" he roared, shaking the man's head in his hands, spittle specked over the doctor's face. "NOW…PLEASE JOHN!" and then John saw it, for a glimpse Sherlock had let his guard down and John had seen something that made him want to cry.

For that glimpse, that second of outrage, Sherlock looked absolutely terrified and the thing that hurt the most was that he was terrified of John. Sherlock now viewed John as some sort of monstrous rapist and it was no one else but John's fault.

Watson sucked in a deep, shaky breath, trying desperately to calm his nerves and make his body respond to what he hoped would be the right decision. He slowly moved his hand from Sherlock's –now limp—penis, bringing the offending piece of anatomy up and as far away from Sherlock as possible.

Sherlock slowly released John's face and sat up, not turning to face him at all.

"Now get out." His voice was hollow and empty, wavering on something John had never heard in Sherlock's tone before but he recognised it to be severe anger.

John was silent, his breathing still hadn't died down and his heart was nothing but a dull throbbing in his neck now. His back and forehead were drenched with sweat that was quickly chilling on his skin. He went to move. He didn't want to, he wanted to stay here and talk things out, explain. However right now he had that familiar sinking feeling and light headedness that suggested he should do as he was told.

The bed creaked as he stood. Sherlock still hadn't turned to face him. Pin pricks of self-hate prickled their way across the bridge of his nose, anger clenched his fists, guilt engulfed his lungs, suffocating his face with unbearable, unspoken apologies and pain crashed into his stomach. As he walked, he was surprised to see it was on steady legs.

Where would this go from now? He knew it, he knew he should have just walked out while he still had the chance to do so, but no, now he's gone and fucked everything up.

John Watson stepped over the threshold of Sherlock's room, heat on his back and sweat on his face. This was it, this felt like the walk of shame that he had been regretting ever since it had ever sprung into his mind. Was he a fool? A fool for not thinking? A fool for feeling for the incredible Sherlock Holmes?

The answer was yes.

He stepped into the living room, felt the carpet between his toes and thought that just a few hours ago he was stood outside of here, Sherlock yakking about some bloody case that he had solved and now…well, now…

John took a shaky breath in, a small whine escaped his throat and he immediately cursed it. Clenching his hand nervously he stood outside the door, back facing the bedroom, for some time. He wanted to go in, he wanted to sit Sherlock down and explain everything but really, what was there to explain?

Oh, you had a wet dream, so I thought I might help you out, it's what friends do of course, and then you woke up…and…and, you woke and you screamed at me…I wonder-fucking-why!?

John sighed, scrubbing his face with his hands and walking further into the living room, he almost felt casual, as if the whole thing had never happened. In fact if it wasn't for the immeasurable sick feeling he had rising in his stomach, no one could have any knowledge of what happened. That is if Sherlock didn't choose to call the police anyway…

It seemed as if his mind had gone flaccid, limp of any thought other than what he had just done, and really? There was no excuse for it? No, no excuse at all. It was just an accident, simply an accident of emotion felt at the wrong time in the wrong place and it was all John's fault.

He was cold. He curled up in the settee, foetal position. He shivered continuously and violently resisted the urge to sob. He had broken it, he had broken their friendship. He felt like a six year old boy again when he broke his mum's favourite necklace. 'Only,' he thought absentmindedly, 'This is a bit more serious than breaking a bloody necklace!'

What would he do now? How could he ever face Sherlock again? How could he look into those eyes and not see hurt? How could he watch that face and not see a grimace, disgust twitching at his lips? He was a criminal, he was a monster and there was no excuse for what he did.

No excuse, no excuse, he'll call the police, no excuse.

Intense fear comes in waves, the human body can't take it all at once without driving the vessel half mad and so between the gut wrenching waves of fear come numbingly, sickeningly calm periods in which the body feels detached from emotion. It was in these pauses that John Watson could think clearly.

His hair was cold and wet against his forehead and his back and clothes were deluged in sweat as he wrapped his arms around himself and pressed his head into the arm of that chair. 'Come now,' he told himself, 'you're being absurd'.

Absurd…That sounded like something Sherlock would say to him. Suddenly the word absurd became painful to even think about. He shifted his weight further into the settee and was faintly aware of shivers rising up his spine again.

The next wave of fear he had was a bad one, he was sick in the toilet and couldn't seem to keep still, constantly getting up to urinate every five minutes. His hands turned cold due to bad circulation of blood—all of which was being pumped rapidly around his chest and doing nothing to keep him warm. He was strung out on adrenaline but had no way of using it up. He was physically aching all over his body as if he had just had a seizure.

He cried. He felt hot roll down his cheeks and brought his fists into his eyes as if in shame of being so sentimentally attached, but what else was he supposed to do?

No excuse, no excuse—he was a monster.

In the calm that came after the fear, John got up and walked around the flat. He paced up and down the living room, taking deep breaths into his lungs and trying to think about what he could do, what he should do in this situation. He had to apologize.

But, oh god, apologize?! After something so horribly shameful, saying 'oh, hi, I'm really sorry about raping you' is NOT going to do the trick. If anything it will look pathetic. Watson shook his head clear of thought. He had to do something, he couldn't just leave it like this. He had to try.

Suddenly the bedroom door crashed open with a resounding bang against the wall and Sherlock strolled out—dressed impeccably—with a face like thunder and his jaw set so tight that John partly wondered if it was hurting him. He gave one, single icy glare at John before blanking him completely as he stalked into the kitchen.

John had frozen where he stood. His entire body was trembling from head to foot as his mind rapidly raced for the best choice of action. He felt his face burn in shame and he realised how he looked right now must have been nothing but pitiful to the great detective. His clothes were sodden with odourless sweat, his eyes red and swollen from tears that he hadn't meant to cry and his general posture stooped in shame.

He was a clot, he was an idiot and a rapist and he deserved no more than a glare in his direction but it was all that he could do to stare hopelessly at the detective as he moved around the kitchen. No, this was ridiculous, he had to do something and he had to do it now!

Straightening his posture, John remembered all those times in the army when he had been scared witless and allowed himself to learn from them. He flexed his hands and turned confidently to the younger Holmes who was now seated at the table with his microscope.

The sleuth still looked a bit flushed in the face and John noticed his breathing was off—his fever wasn't down. And he was pushing himself with an experiment?! That was all the more reason for John to pipe up about this whole, stupid situation. Which was just what he was about to do.

Storming up to the kitchen table, John leant on it with his open palms across from Sherlock and opened his mouth only to allow his nerves to fail him at the last second, he mentally cursed himself and took a deep breathe, noticing how Sherlock hadn't even moved his eyes.

"L-look, Sherlock…" he started in a small but firm voice. He wasn't surprised to see Sherlock set in stone still, not moving "…Right, um, well…" John coughed slightly, clearing his throat before taking another deep breath, "What I did before was…inexcusable and…and…awful and I just wanted to say that I'm sorr—" but he was abruptly cut off by Sherlock pushing away his microscope and walking away from the table and into the living room. John stared in horror at the sleuth's retreating back and felt a cold knot fix in his stomach. He couldn't even stand to be near him.

"Hey!" he shouted and instantly regretted it when Sherlock whirled so fast on him that it would put even the best freight trains to shame. He walked towards him now with slow, deliberate steps.

"What?" He spoke calmly with a biting tone that cut into John and made him practically speechless, as if his tongue had been claimed by ice. "What?" he repeated, rising both brows, "Because it sounded to me like you were about to apologize for what you did…?" His lips curled around the words now, snarling them. As he got closer, John felt compelled to take a step backwards.

"I—" John's voice was weak in the back of his throat as he was held under that furious glare.

"Oh, but I'll tell you one thing…" His baritone continued, speeding up in pace as his anger claimed him. John's back collided with something cold and stayed there, it took him a while to realise he had hit the fridge. Sherlock stopped accordingly, mere centimetres from his face. "You managed to surprise me, in fact I've never been more surprised in my life, why do you think that is?" John knew the answer but he didn't say it, he couldn't bear to say it. The words were catching in his throat even as he thought about it.

"No? Okay, I'll tell you…" Sherlock's cold blue eyes studied his face briefly. John had never seen Sherlock like this before, he had seen him behave like this to others but he had never experienced it first-hand…it was terrifying. "Because I trusted you." he hissed and John's stomach turned cold, he looked to the floor as anguish swept over him and gritted his teeth.

"Ye-yes I know…" He whispered bluntly, his eyes were beginning to sting and he prayed to god not to make him cry, not like this, he was stronger than this. At least he wanted to be but at the moment it wasn't proving to be so eventful.

The doctor felt Sherlock veer away more than saw it and he gained confidence in steeling his glance and looking the detective in his cobalt eyes, although when he saw the expression on the man's face he was surprised he didn't drop his glance.

It was hate, pure hate.

John had worked with—been friends with—Sherlock long enough now to realise just how quickly he can change his opinion on someone but he never once thought that he would be the subject of such an inhospitable quality. He was stuck between awe and melancholy at how quickly it took Sherlock Holmes to abandon all sentiment for his once good friend.

The taller man had begun to walk away once more and it was all John could do to stop him.

"Wait…" he sounded in a small voice but Sherlock continued his strides, not even thinking to take notice of the rapist against the fridge. John took a few steps forward and managed to brush his fingertips over Sherlock's suit jacket, clinging to the material the way a dying man would.

Sherlock immediately tried to shake him off, not being good with touch to start with but being even worse with it due to his anger. He gyrated on John once again, his eyes wild.

"What do you want, get off me?!" he bellowed but John ignored his protests and instead focused on Sherlock's more than naturally flushed face.

"You've still got a fever, Sherlock. It's dangerous for you to be—"

"What, so you can have your way with me again, I think not!" the words that cut from his mouth plunged into John with such pain that he felt a wave of shock travel through his skull, however this only made him more determined. If there's one thing he ever learnt in the army, it was to never give into a struggling patient.

"No, Sherlock!" the shout scratched up his throat and for a moment surprise flickered into Sherlock's eyes, now it was his turn to say something "No, you haven't listened to me ever since I tried to speak to you, but now…!" he paused for a minute, his expression turning sorrowful at what he was about to say.

"If you're not going to let me be your friend, at least let me be your doctor!" There was a long pause in which John hung his head and shut his eyes against what Sherlock would throw at him next. Upon realising he hadn't said anything, he cast his gaze up once more and something in Sherlock's eyes had changed. Something had flickered and it almost looked like a hint of sadness before his gaze steeled over once more and he narrowed his eyes.

"Fine." He spat and, to be honest, that hurt a lot more than any other insult that had been thrown at him.

John gave Sherlock a check-up, he took his temperature and his pulse to make sure everything was running smoothly. Sherlock stayed silent and obedient throughout the whole thing and if John closed his eyes it was almost back to normal, that is to say that when he opened them again and saw Sherlock's scowling face, he knew that it wasn't.

"How am I doing, doctor?" the amount of venom in that sentence alone was enough to send any other person to the brinks of self-control, only this was John and John knew that he deserved all the venom in the world for what he had done.

Taking in a breath, the doctor held Sherlock with an even glance despite his conflicting emotions that made him want to look to the floor.

"You're…you've still got a temperature and your heart beat is off average, so I would suggest you…um…sleep again." after the last 'event' while he was asleep, he doubted Sherlock would even trust him in the same room with him anymore.

Silence stretched between them and John thought this was the best time to speak his mind finally. He took in a lungful of air and tried to compose his nerves, being sure that they wouldn't let him down this time.

"Right, I'm going to say this even though you won't like it, but I really am sorry for what I did…" He could see Sherlock's expression souring and so he rattled on quickly so as not to be interrupted "And I know, I know, what I did was horrible and disgusting and there really is no excuse for it but I was…uhm, confused I guess and aroused and, well, I didn't think okay?" His eyes were honest and they bore into Sherlock's cold ones, hoping to get through to him on a level that he would understand, "And I just wanted to say that any—"

"Get out John."

"…I'm sorry?"

"You heard me, I said get out, I don't want to hear your excuses, leave now."

John's heart sank, his legs trembled and he felt hollow as his vision dulled with the emotional baggage of being rejected. This was it then? This was how it would go on? He would just have to creep around the flat and avoid Sherlock as much as possible—that's if he didn't throw him out.

Heavy realisation fell on him like broken glass and for once in his life John Watson looked into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes and didn't see a friend in him.

Dropping his eyes from the detective's penetrating glare, he set his jaw and walked out of his flat share's room and into the living room. Before he realised what had happened, our good doctor found himself on the living room floor. His breathing had picked up but he wasn't crying.

Fists tightening in the carpet, John's body decided that his legs would no longer be stable to stand on anymore and so he found himself staring harshly at the familiar floor of 221b.

There was no one he could turn to, what he had done was unspeakable to anyone else and the only person he had ever found a close friend in was now a nobody to him, just another acquaintance. He had isolated himself from the rest of the world due to the heinous crime he had committed and, in John's mind, he deserved no more.

He was trying to help, he had tried over and over to say sorry and he really didn't know what else he could do!? There was nothing he could do now, the damage had been done and that was it. It pained Watson to think that only a few hours ago he was listening to one of Sherlock's deductions, picking Sherlock's coat off the floor, bathing the stupid bastard like a new born child and he trusted him.

The silly fool had put his trust in one person in the whole wide world and he had abused it, he had fucking abused it. God only knows how long it would take for that level of intimacy to build up again. John screwed his sore and swollen eyes shut and harshly rested his head on the floor, clutching his fists so tightly together that he could feel blood under his fingernails.

This was nonsensical, absolutely outrageous and John was stuck in the middle of this hideous nightmare. He had done it all, he had tried every possible, humane option that was possible in this situation and John had to agree that that wasn't many.

His jaw was beginning to hurt and the muscles were flickering where he was tensed for too long but he couldn't relax, he physically couldn't. A drop of liquid fell onto his arm and he couldn't decide whether he was sweating or crying or fucking drooling. He felt weak, he felt damaged and numb but most of all he felt betrayed and he had no idea why.

'Come on John, pull yourself together now, think, you can't let yourself burn out like this.'

Attempting to stand, the ex-army man was barely surprised when he found that he couldn't. His mind was buzzing constantly and his thoughts jumbled but he only understood that he had to think of something and he had to do it soon. He couldn't continue like this, it wasn't fair.

He found himself wishing that he could close off all his emotions like Sherlock and then he banished all thoughts of Sherlock from his mind violently, he would not think of that man now, not now—possibly not ever again.

He thought and thought and oh god did he rack his brain for some way out of this mess. He thought so hard, his blood pressure sky rocketing with every angry chide he punished himself with, that he was sure he would have a nosebleed.

Loud, his mind scattered ideas around his mind so rapidly that John could feel his temples pulse with a headache he couldn't feel. Different ideas would push to the front of his brain but nothing would fit, some of them were so bizarre that was partially terrified that his mind had completely snapped.

Forcing breath into his lungs, John Watson sat up and steeled his expression. He tried to unlock his jaw and contrived himself to relax. Using methods he had tutored to amputees if they ever experienced phantom pain, he focused on every wound up muscle and he felt them slowly relax with his breathing. After all, this was no way for an ex-army man to behave, now really.

Another deep breath through his nose but still that painful feeling remained under his solar plexus and it only spread when his mind unavoidably thought back to the look on Sherlock's face. There was no friendship there, not even an atom of the detective he used to know anymore.

John winced, his neck seizing as the muscles tightened from his jaw but he convinced himself not to think of that right now. Sat here in the middle of the living room floor, his eyes swollen, is clothes rumpled and dark rings under his eyes where stress had taken it's toll, he wondered where his life would take him now.

His mind made one last, feeble stutter of an idea and it happened to be one that John had been trying to avoid from the beginning, but it seemed that it was inevitable now. More than inevitable, it was the only way that he would sort out this mess.

A reluctant sob rose in the back of his throat as he arranged the thought more clearly in his head, how, when. He was actually doing this, a thing he had thought he would never, never have to resort to in his life with Sherlock Holmes. He thought back to the time when he was sat on that bench with Mike Stamford, if he had known that this would happen, would he still be here? The answer to that question was probably a yes.

He would pack his things and leave 221b Baker street for good tomorrow morning, never to return again.

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I'm sorry, I didn't mean to write a chapter that was worse that the last one *hits head against wall for the 58th time* what is my life?
Next chapter will be up as soon as possible, please review and leave kudos because I have a wife and family and they need to eat (wut?)
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