Chapter 6, Part 1- Frustration.
Part 2 will be published in a couple of hours.
Thanks for reading, don't forget to review.

Sherlock POV

I entered the empty flat, and for the first time in my life, I felt completely overwhelmed by emotions.
The flat was chilly, as it ever is in this time of the year, and automatically I thought about turning on the heat so that John won't get too cold. He hates the chilliness in the apartment. But he isn't here now, is he. Nor he would ever return. I whipped the salty moist from my cheeks in anger. The agony filled every cell in my body, living me vulnerable like ordinary people often are in those situations. I never felt like this my entire life, and if I have, I was probably a child, and deleted the scenario long time ago.
More than everything, I was frustrated. I was frustrated that Jim has returned, that both Mrs. Hudson and Janine are in the hospital because of me, that tomorrow Lestrade probably will get hospitalized too, and afterwards, Molly. I was frustrated that my so stupid, inconsiderate, excuse of a brother, must interfere with everything that important and meaningful to me. I was frustrated that I didn't get the chance to really kiss John, oh no. My brother had to stop that. He was concerned. Screw him.

Above all, I was frustrated that I had to let John go. I had to force him to leave me. Oh god, why did I do that? I kicked anything I could have, breaking all the plates and mugs that were on the coffee table, shooting the wall. It's not like Mrs. Hudson is coming to stop me now, is she? Yet nothing, nothing, made me feel better.
"Is it too much to ask for?! A little distraction?!" I shouted at the empty flat, knowing that no one is going to answer me, and no one is going to provide me the distraction I'm craving for. The hell with it.

About an hour later, I received a text from John. 'Promise me you won't die.' If I thought, I was able to calm down the salty water leaking out of my eyes, receiving that text made me realize that nothing can close those bloody waterfalls. Especially nothing that will remind me of John. For god sake, this is pathetic.
why didn't I kiss him? why? It was my last chance. The only thing that should matter now that he is safe. Far away from Moriarty. He's probably on his way to Paris by now, going to be with Mary for the rest of his life. She is the only person in the world that I could admit to myself that I'm envy at. She has John. She has the one thing, the one person that I really need in my life. That I truly love.

'Love'. Such a ridicules word. It was the main reason for people killing each other, hating each other, jealous each other, raping, biting, insulting, stabbing, cheating, and leaving each other. This word causes only harm, and so I refuse to call what I feel to John in that word.
It is far more complicated than that. Far more serious and sincere than this simple, meaningless word.

I grabbed that bottle of scotch from the top shelf in the kitchen, and took 2 mouthful sips of the strong alcoholic drink. I wiped my mouth from the bitter taste and crushed on the sofa. Those few months I lived with John after Mary shot me, was possibly the best in my life. He was just with me. All day, aside from his boring work, we were together. We spent days together watching stupid shows on the telly, drinking tea, solving cases, and talking. Mostly talking. It was even better than before. And than those…feelings, that were already there, engorged. This obsession with everything that he does, anything he thinks, and anything he wants. As I said, ordinary people often call it love. It just shows how boring and superficial ordinary people were.
I kept drinking until it was only enough for one last sip.
Even before, I had those feelings toward John. He was the reason I came back from the first place. He was the reason that I always wanted to return. I looked at the almost empty bottle of scotch and sighed. Everything because of him, and drank the last bitter sip.

When I woke up the next day, it was half past 5 in the morning, I felt like my head was about to explode, and before I was capable of stopping myself I whispered John's name. Pathetic.
I forced myself to get up from the couch and started crawling to the kitchen. Putting on the kettle, and trying to find one mug I didn't broke last night. Coffee was all I was able to think about, and maybe some aspirin to cool down the headache. I didn't have hangover like this since I was about 18, and that was a social experiment. Even after John's stag night it wasn't that awful of a headache.
There wasn't even one justify reason for me this time. If John knew I got drunk last night he would be so disappointed.
I felt something inside of me twitched in that thought. I missed John already, and the last thing I wanted to do was disappointing him and reminding him his own alcoholic sister.
I could almost see John's disappointed face and the look on his face that means 'please change the subject', and how he looks around the kitchen and managing to yell 'you must eat something Sherlock, it is important' and walked away. Like he always does when he gets upset and think that I don't listen to him. Unfortunately, I developed a habit of always listening to him; awful, really.

On 6 am, on the minute, the radio in the middle of the living room started playing the "Swan Lake" by Tchaikovsky. I knew that I have about 20 minutes 'til the end of the piece and ran to the bathroom, showering as quickly as I was able to, and got dressed. When I was finally done dressing up, the last tunes of the piece were played, I ran back to the living room, so I won't miss a thing from the puzzle.
Jim's voice was as loud and as creepy as always.

Well, well.
What do we have here?
The perfect D.I is about to disappear.
Like a little young girl, wanting to dance,
it's all belongs to the past.
Don't forget to come dance Mr. Holmes
It is going to be a lovely ball.

I grabbed my coat and put on my scarf while running down the stairs. As a matter of a habit, I was about to shout goodbye to Mrs. Hudson, and then remembered that she was in the hospital (because of me), so no one would answer. No one would say I shouldn't be that thrilled about some psychopath who tries, and to be honest quite successful, ruin my life.
As I went outside of the building, I called my dear brother, thinking what I can say about Greg being abducted. When Mycroft finally picked up the phone, his usual nonchalant tone was gone, and instead, I could hear a clear panic in his voice.
"Is it his turn?" he asked. I shouted my eyes and took a deep breath, for once, really felt for my brother.
"yes"
"where?"
"33rd Seymour Street. There's a dancing studio there—"
"Sherlock, run."
Mycroft didn't have to say twice. I hang up the phone and started running toward Seymour Street, imagining the worst-case scenario of humiliation. It was clear to me that Moriarty would humiliate Lestrade in some way; I just hoped it's not going to be so bed. I wasn't really sure Mycroft would be able to deal with it properly if it were.

The dancing studio was the place of the murder on our first case. The victim was 15 years old ballet dancer. A state champion, her performance in Tchaikovsky's 'Swan Lake' started her young career.
She was brutally raped and suffocated. It was a fascinating case, there were no evidence what so ever, but Lestrade and me, well, basically me, managed to catch the man responsible and arrest him.
It was almost a decade ago, and seems like yesterday.
I ran as fast as I could, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in my lungs, after months of being hospitalized. Within less than 5 minutes, I was already outside of the studio. Gasping for air but still aware that there's no time to waste. I promised Lestrade, and my brother, that I'd save him.
When I opened the door to the studio, I saw one of the most horrible things I saw in my life.
Greg Lestrade was lying on the floor in nothing but a ballet's tutu skirt, surrender by blood, and on his chest was engraved "secretly gay".
I approached the unconscious man on the floor, and on his face, you could have seen traces of tears. One blunt force trauma to the head. Probably didn't caused intracranial hemorrhage. His pulse surprisingly steady, pupils equal and reactive to light. There isn't any sign of nothing more serious than a mild concussion, except of course the marks on his chest, which wasn't deep enough to hurt any organs but was deep enough to leave a very clear, permanent "secretly gay" scar.

I heard heavy steps behind me, knew who was standing behind me.
"Is he still alive?"
I turned around to see my brother, the great Mr. Mycroft Holmes, crying quietly, with an almost apathetic expression on his face. The only sign that indicate he was suffering was the tears come down on his cheeks.
He whipped the tears quickly and asked again "is he?"
I nodded and tried to give him a comforting smile, but it quickly fade when Mycroft first notice the marks on Lestrade. His eyes widen with shock and fear and he was shivering.
"Go outside Sherlock" he said firmly.
"I called D.I Dimmock, he is on his way with the ambulance. You have about 2 minutes."
I was about to leave the studio when I heard the weak voice of my brother saying thank you.
I wasn't sure if I was supposed to say something further, but we had no time, we have to go to the hospital as soon as possible, and if Mycroft wants a few moments alone with his boyfriend, than he deserves them.

It was only an hour later when Mycroft and I sat down, in the waiting room in St. Barts, holding cheap- hospital coffee in our hands, when I fully realized the horrible situation.
The humiliation my old friend had suffered by the devil, James Moriarty.
The 'Secretly gay' on Lestrade's chest truly made me shiver in guilt and pity. There was no doubt that Moriarty rose up to the next, shockingly awful, level of humiliation.
How could he possibly know? Mycroft and Lestrade kept their little secret from everyone for at least 7 months. I was the only one who knew, and I didn't tell anyone, and not Mycroft or Lestrade was eager to share their relationship with the world. They didn't even noticed I knew.

"How long do you know?" Mycroft's voice broke the convenient silence.
"Since the mayfly man case. How long is it been going on?"
"Since you came back." There was a long silence and Mycroft was defiantly struggling with himself about what he should or shouldn't say. Finally, he continued, "How did you find out? I was absolutely sure that no one knows" he seemed very un-like himself. He seemed weak, and tired. He doesn't really cared about how I know, I'm highly convinced that Mycroft just tried to find something to talk about, just so he can forget about his partner that was laying on the bed in the emergency room.

"That morning Lestrade got me and John out of custody. Nor John or I called him. I only called you and yes, I was a bit...you know, but when I called you I heard Lestrade voice on the background asking if he should get dressed. When I asked you who was it you told me you don't remember his name and you mumbled. You never mumble. And overall, you've become a very sentimental man lately, I figured it was because you finally found your... Well... Goldfish, as you called it the other day. I'm very happy for you by the way, next time pay attention to my suggestions before you are too old and bitter to accomplish them, Lestrade is already too good for you."

Mycroft was quiet for a long moment and I was quite happy that this far too awkward conversation was over. Sentiment never was the strong side of our family.
"Thank you Sherlock, for calling me"
He murmured quietly. It was embarrassing enough for him to thank me; it was clear he never meant to say it out loud.
"Of course, you would do the same if I had someone. Wouldn't you?"
"Yes, yes of course. Which reminds me; when are you going to tell the poor man about your feelings?"
"There is nothing to tell"
"Really? How about the fact that you are in love with him since the day you met him? Five years Sherlock!" Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes. "Please tell me that you realized those feelings sooner than last week."
I knew that was no point denying anything, saying I don't care for Watson like he probably assumed I'll react. It is clear that he just need to find a way to make us equally weak and sentimental. Although, it was obvious that he has become much more sentimental, than I would ever managed to be. "3 years. But I know for sure only for the last few months."

"I'm sorry for you Sherlock" I raised my eyebrow and looked at my brother with questioning look. I didn't get what's his point.
"You ran out of chances Sherlock, you never told him how you feel, you have never done anything to show him you want him… I'm sorry for you, that you'll never get another chance with him." I started feeling anger ran through my veins. He really should mind his own bloody business.
"I know you have Lestrade, but I don't need your pity. As long as he's safe I'll be alright. Don't concern yourself with my emotions. "

"I was just saying—"
"Than stop. I don't need to hear this. Tell Lestrade I'm sorry for what happened, and that I'll come to see him later."
I got up from my seat and throw my very bad-tasted coffee, hating and envy my brother at that very hard moment. He was right. God, I hate it when he's right. I'll probably never find anyone like John, and I really didn't want to. John was more than enough and no one can convince me that he's one among many. He's Dr John Watson. He's one of a kind.
"He loves you too, you know"

"I don't need your pity Mycroft, there's no need to say such things" He really should stop saying things to make me feel better; I'm not a child anymore.
Mycroft sighed and turned to the emergency room, to see Lestrade, leaving me in the waiting room, as he should have done long time ago.

If it was John in that room, I wouldn't spend a second being with my brother in the waiting room. I would have sit by his bed and take care of him, making sure that he knows I'm there for him. Exactly as he did after Mary shot me. He slept at the hospital, held my hand, talked to me even though I was unconscious. He never left my side at the hospital. And if it was the other way around, I would have done that either. I was quite surprised at this recognition. No one was that important that I would waste all my time talking and holding a hand of an unconscious man. Except John. John was the exception for everything.

On my way to Baker Street, all I could think about was what Mycroft said; 'he loves you too…'. What If Mycroft wasn't lying? What if…? Does it even matter? John was gone, with Mary, which he most defiantly loves. I have no chance. Nothing.
It was too late.