John had never seen Sherlock in a position like what he walked in on, slowly coming up the once-familiar steps and entering the flat behind Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. And, over the years they'd shared a flat together, he had thought to have seen it all.

Sherlock sat in the living area, staring directly out the open window. He sat cross-legged on a stack of pillows and blankets, as though he'd fancied himself a nest out of every pillow in the flat he could find. John tried to examine him without giving himself away, and immediately noticed three nicotine patches on Sherlock's bare right arm, his shirt sleeves rolled up, and his thin hands were pressed together under his chin. A short distance away from where he sat lay his violin.

"He's been thinking…." John stated to Lestrade, vaguely.

The minute he had spoken, Sherlock's entire body visibly tensed from his position on the floor. His hands slowly came apart, but he didn't turn around.

"I've already said I'm not taking the case, Lestrade," Sherlock said quietly. "Jo – he isn't going to convince me."

"I've never been able to convince you to do anything," John replied as Lestrade began to. "That's not what I'm here for."

Sherlock inclined his head slightly towards the three of them, giving John a sparse profile view of his face. Sherlock's face seemed sallower and paler than usual, with rings under his eyes and sunken cheeks. John had seen these sorts of symptoms before in his patients, namely in Afghanistan. Usually it meant the patient was malnourished or dehydrated – John didn't doubt both in Sherlock's case. And, as an extra, John caught the slight shaking of Sherlock's usually steady hands, indicating weakness and loss of energy.

He's been starving himself. Lestrade's words made John's heart fall a few centimetres in his chest. This wasn't like Sherlock at all. John had never seen the day Sherlock was so clearly malnourished and weak. This kind of starving was different from refusing food for cases. This was a frightening kind of starving.

"What are you here for, then?" Sherlock asked coldly, turning back to look out the window. "Troubles back with Mary?"

John didn't bother telling him he was right – he already felt a flicker of anger at the mere sound of Mary's name, and had no desire to fuel the flame.

"No. I ran into Greg, and he said you weren't…..yourself."

"Because I won't take some pointless case that's not worth my time?"

"I don't know. This case seems to at least wager an eight." John was forcing his voice to sound light, trying to act as though he had a right to be here, as though nothing had happened. But he wasn't sure why he was pretending.

Now Sherlock turned his head to fully look at John, and for a moment he just stared, eyebrows slightly quirked. He then turned to look up at Lestrade, but for not nearly as long. Within seconds he was back to the window.

"Your 'by chance' killer, the one who leaves some alive and some dead. I'd wager he gives each victim a fifty-fifty chance – much like our friendly cabbie all those years ago, with the pills – but not nearly as crafty. Could be as simple as a flip of a coin – heads you die, tails you live," Sherlock said monotonously. "I only say it has to be simple because only a simpleminded criminal allows victims to escape without so much of a threat. Why the fifty-fifty chance? Lost someone important to his life the same way, a fifty percent chance of surviving but did not. You're looking for someone with a history of a recent loved one's death and perhaps has a couple of coins in his pocket."

"And how in the bloody hell are we supposed to find a guy like that?" Lestrade asked, and John could tell by the look on his face he was both baffled and annoyed.

"Again, not a clever criminal, even Anderson should be able to run forensics reports to track him down." Sherlock looked back at John out of the corner of his eye, a small, almost imperceptible smile on his face. "That makes it almost, but not nearly, a five."

John couldn't help it; he was smiling, looking over at Lestrade.

"Thought you said he couldn't deduce," he said smugly, and Lestrade frowned at him.

"Thought you had a hand tremor," he countered, nodding towards John's hand. John looked down at it, noticing the shake was completely gone. "Told you that you had a lot to work out."

John blinked, looking over at Sherlock, who had caught what Lestrade had said. The small smile on his face vanished and he returned to looking out the window.

"Still not going down then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson spoke finally, a worried shake to her voice.

"No," Sherlock answered bluntly. "In fact some silence would be lovely right now."

Mrs. Hudson glanced over at Lestrade and John. Lestrade shrugged and John averted his gaze, focusing instead on the appearance of 221B itself. Despite the changes the person living within its walls had gone through, the flat itself remained nearly unchanged over the weeks. There was the skull on the mantel, the bullet holes in the wall, and ignored cases held by a knife near the skull.

Deep down somewhere, this was still the man John knew three years ago. Deep down somewhere, John himself was still the only person Sherlock trusted. John wasn't sure whether he was relieved or uncertain about this sort of realization.

"Then I suppose I'd best be off," Lestrade spoke to Sherlock again, defeated, but Sherlock showed no recognition that the inspector was speaking. "Mrs. Hudson, would you show me out?"

The way he asked this was clear that Lestrade intended for Sherlock and John to be alone. John caught his side-glance at him, the pointed look that said Still not getting out of this and left little room for argument. Not that John was exactly aching to leave. Now that he was here, now that he had finally seen Sherlock, he realized he didn't want to leave.

"Yes...yes, of course," Mrs. Hudson said, catching on. She looked at John with that familiar caring and endearing look, and it made John feel guilty for not being over to see her, at least, more often. "It was nice seeing you, dear."

John agreed with a simple nod of his head before Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson left the flat, the door clicking shut bringing a silence with it. John stared at the door for a long moment before sighing and turning, only to find Sherlock had turned to stare at him, too.

"This is an interesting arrangement," John said, trying to sound conversational, motioning towards the "nest" Sherlock had created.

"Long nights of thinking," Sherlock explained simply, still staring unblinkingly up at John.

"Sleep, I hope, has been on the itinerary."

"No time."

John crossed his arms, eyebrows raised. "And let me guess, there's been no time for you to eat either."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, almost absently rubbing his forearm where the nicotine patches were attached. John did not let him open his mouth to defend himself.

"When was your last meal, exactly, Sherlock? Because you look like hell," John added, seeing Sherlock's mouth form the word Why? and speaking before he had the chance to get the word out.

"Couple of days. Maybe two weeks." Sherlock shrugged disinterestedly.

"Two weeks? Sherlock. People can't survive without food for that long."

"Actually, John, medical professionals agree one can go at least eight weeks without food as long as they have water," Sherlock informed him cockily, and John rolled his eyes.

"Well, this medical professional demands that you eat something. Right away. No arguments, Sherlock," John added as Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to turn away. "I am still your doctor."

This made Sherlock freeze, and John realized what he had said. Sherlock slowly turned his head back to John, and nodded slightly once.

Less than an hour later, the two of them were sitting across from each other in the living area, the blankets and pillows of Sherlock's "nest" cleared away and Chinese takeaway between them. Sherlock was picking disdainfully at his own food, while John, having no appetite, left most of it for him, once in a while prompting the younger man to eat. It would've been like old times, if something big weren't hanging in the air between them, only increasing in intensity with every bite of food they weren't eating.

Just as John was beginning to wonder why he was even here, Sherlock cleared his throat, pressing his hands together and staring down at the floor.

"I think you know I've figured out why you're here," he said monotonously.

"Enlighten me, then," John said automatically, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands pressed together in front of him.

"You ran into Lestrade, apparently talked about me, and he forced you here." Sherlock's deduction was uncharacteristically simple. To the point.

"He seemed to be under the assumption you were...affected. I'm failing to see that, to be honest."

Sherlock narrowed glanced up at John, lips quirked in what could be a smile. "He thought I could no longer deduce, just as he thought you had a limp. But we both know neither is true."

"Then would you care to deduce why I'm here, if we have no afflictions?" John ventured.

"Because neither of these afflictions is true when in the presence of each other," Sherlock answered at once, as if it were obvious. "Around anyone else...I have to admit my deduction skills are...failing. And I can tell your psychosomatic limp is prominent when around anyone but me."

"And would the genius Sherlock Holmes like to venture a guess as to why that is?" John was hating Sherlock's cocky tone of voice, the assuredness of every word he spoke. That wasn't what he was here for. He wasn't here for Sherlock to pull the "I-know-something-you-don't-know" card, which he felt sure Sherlock was doing.

Sherlock's smile faltered at John's tone. "I've upset you."

"There's a deduction I can get behind," John said, forcing his voice to sound cool.

"John...I'm not trying to upset you –"

"Really? Because you sure have been making a point of it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Is this about what I said about Mary? Because really, John, I didn't realize –"

"You didn't realize you were trying to make her look like a damned fool, like a bad person I shouldn't be wound up with."

"That was never my intention –"

"I think you're lying through your teeth, Sherlock. You shouldn't try on the playing stupid disguise, it really doesn't suit you."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, twiddling his fingers in an almost nervous way. John had never seen him do such a thing.

"Lying is the only thing now that keeps me relatively...sane," Sherlock said quietly.

John could definitely relate to that. He leaned back in his chair, staring at Sherlock while Sherlock would not look at him.

"If I can lie and tell myself I didn't mean to hurt you, it makes things much better," Sherlock explained flatly. "If I can lie and tell myself you're taking things too seriously, it doesn't hurt as much."

"'Taking things too seriously?'" John repeated, astonished and aggravated.

Sherlock didn't respond, just continued to twiddle his fingers.

"Is there any other way for me to take this, Sherlock? Am I supposed to take this whole experience with a grain of salt and a good-humoured laugh and forget it ever happened?"

"I said it was a lie, John, you aren't –"

"Maybe I am, Sherlock, and maybe that's not a lie. Because when it comes down to it, you ruined my life. It's the only way I can say it. So pardon if I didn't take things less seriously. I wasn't aware there was a correct way to respond to you."

Something seemed to shift in Sherlock's gaze. His heavy, pained eyes suddenly brightened, and his jaw clenched visibly.

"I ruined your life?" Sherlock echoed. "Me. I ruined your life."

"Everything was high and fine before you came back, wasn't it?" John said without thinking, cold and sharp.

"Everything was high and fine before you showed up," Sherlock countered irritably, his words nearly strangled by an anger he was trying to suppress. "John Watson who came to live with the psychotic Sherlock Holmes. You just had to stick around, didn't you? You had your chance to leave on so many different occasions. And when you didn't, you had a gun fixated on you unless I killed myself. Unless I, never gave a damn Sherlock Holmes, grew a heart and fell off a building. This has always been your fault."

John leaned in closer to Sherlock again, fists clenched so his fingernails dug painfully into the palms of his hands. "My fault? You jumping off a building is my fault? Having to stand by your grave, having to bury you, having to spend nights awake because of you, always falling, always dying, in my dreams. That was my fault?"

"Of course it was!" Sherlock shouted. "You never would've had to see me fake my suicide if you had been gone by now! Don't you see? This...This affliction. The things that have been happening to me since returning, it's your entire fault. My inability to deduce, the nervousness, the refusing to eat, the stuttering. It's happening because you would've died. Because I had to save you. Because you wouldn't fucking leave when you had the chance!"

"So the limp, the tremor, the nightmares are my fault too?" John countered fiercely. "No. This is your fault for thinking I needed to be saved. Your fault for not trusting me. For not telling me you were alive sooner. For lying to me! For treating me as anything but your best friend! I never was that to you, was I? I was just ordinary, plain, usual John Watson. Just a tagalong to raise your ego a little bit higher every time we –"

"If you were nothing more than a 'tagalong' I didn't care about, we wouldn't be in this position, would we? Because you would not be here! If you were just a tagalong, I would not have even bothered with you. There is a great question of why you couldn't have been ordinary and usual. And dispensable. A short term relationship that wouldn't have ruined me."

"I still can't believe you think I ruined you! Have you seen what you've done to Mary and me? What you've done to my body, my mind –"

"What you've done to my mind and reasoning? To my entire being?"

"So I made you care a little. Excuse me for thinking bloody nightmares are a little more concerning!"

"Nightmares? A few pathetic dreams your naive mind conjures up –"

"The deductions you pull out of your arse and they happen to be true –"

Just as it was becoming clear to John that they had both hugely messed up, just as his mind was beginning to think rationally, to stop this senseless arguing before it escalated even further, Sherlock opened his mouth, and John assumed it was to shoot another retort. He opened his own mouth to stop him, but there were no words that escaped either of them.

John had been very, very wrong when he thought Sherlock was going to speak. In fact, this was the very last thing he was expecting.

Sherlock almost threw himself forward, his open mouth colliding with John's own.

No. This was definitely not what he was expecting.

His mind didn't register it as a kiss at first. He thought of ten other very illogical things it could be. He did not have Sherlock's logical thought process, especially not when caught off guard.

He further did not want to register it as a kiss. A kiss from his former flatmate. A former dead man. An idiotic sociopath who was kissing his once best friend.

His once best friend who was engaged.

John grunted at the thought, displeased, trying to pull himself away from Sherlock, but each time he moved, Sherlock would only push forward, pressing closer. It got to the point where John was literally trapped beneath him in his chair, losing oxygen quickly.

Or at least he thought that's why his brain was numb, his fingers were tingling, and his eyes were closing. That's usually what happened when a person stopped breathing... Yes. Loss of oxygen. That's all it –

In spite of himself, he found himself gasping slightly against Sherlock's lips as Sherlock's hands found his shoulders, gripping them tightly, possessively. John was barely aware of his own hands finding Sherlock's waist, nor was he aware of his head inclining to deepen the kiss. The kiss he didn't want, with the person he hated...

You're a horrible, horrible man, John Watson.

He knew what he was doing, and he knew it had to stop. He wasn't going to let anything leave him over something so stupid. He remembered Mary, in the far corner of his blank, hazy mind. He remembered Mary, and his hands came up to Sherlock's shoulder to push him away with all the force he had.

John didn't like the taste in on his lips as he sat, panting, in the chair, staring at an emotionless, swollen lipped Sherlock. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip a few times, tasting Sherlock and blood. He didn't remember teeth, or biting. But thinking back, he didn't remember much of anything after Sherlock opened his mouth.

"I...I can't believe... You...you idiot." It was the best he could come up with. He stood shakily to his feet. "You're...You repulse me, absolutely repulse me."

Sherlock said nothing – maybe, John thought, he actually had nothing to say.

And John, realizing he had nothing more to say, or rather, realizing he couldn't think of anything more to say, fled before he did something really stupid. Like told the truth.

He wanted to see Mary. He just wanted to see Mary. She would fix things. She would make things less complicated. Mary would convince him that his feelings while...while doing what he was doing with Sherlock were unprecedented. That he felt nothing towards Sherlock.

He licked his bottom lip again, still tasting the metallic blood there, hurrying down the stairs and out onto the pavement. He tried furiously to flag down a cab, and was frustrated when he came to no avail. He wanted out. The longer he stayed here, the more he wanted to go back to Sherlock. To finally tell the truth, to stop lying, to –

A shrill whistle suddenly sounded from behind him, and John, shocked, whirled around, his eyes instantly latching on to Sherlock's own intense stare. Within seconds, a cab was pulling up to where the both of them now stood.

John didn't say anything – he, after all, had nothing to say – but as he was turning to climb into the cab, he felt a hand on his arm and his body whirled around. In a second, he was pressed against the cab's door, one arm pinned to it by Sherlock's powerful hand.

"John, I really –" Sherlock began, but John silenced him with a hard glare.

"I am fucking engaged, Sherlock. Did you expect this to change that?" he hissed.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, averting his gaze. "I can honestly tell you I wasn't expecting anything."

"You usually don't. But you usually find something anyway." John used Sherlock's momentary shock and loosening grip to tear his arm away and hurry into the cab.

He could only think of Mary on his way back. He forced himself to only think of Mary. So he would not think of Sherlock.


A/N: whoops i accidentally slash.