Comments at the end today.

It didn't take long for John to start preparing the pork chops. Armed with a recipe he had learnt from Mrs Hudson a while back he darted around the kitchen trying to look for olive oil. In that kitchen it was near impossible to find anything where it was actually meant to be.

As John searched the cupboards he realised that he didn't have the correct seasoning for the pan-fried chops he was preparing. He didn't feel like going down to the shops. Especially after the day he had had. He just wanted to relax. Even if just for a couple of minutes. Mrs Hudson would probably have what he was looking for. After all she was the one who gave him the recipe. "Sherlock," he called out into the living room where the detective was still playing his cheerful jig upon the violin. "I'm going downstairs to borrow something from Mrs Hudson. I won't be long, okay?"

There was no reply. Not like he expected anything else. When he finally found himself downstairs he found out that Mrs Hudson wasn't in her flat. It was too late for her to be anywhere else so he gathered she must be next door at the café with her somewhat boyfriend. Stepping out the door he went to make the quick journey next door when he was stopped dead in his tracks and began laughing at the thing he spotted on the floor.

There was a sheep sat outside of the cafe. Not an actual sheep, but a felt cut out. The felt cut out was smaller than an A4 piece of paper, and a dark grey, but it looked exactly like that sheep that was sometimes on the telly as he skipped through the channels. What was it called? Sh... Sharon? No, it was a boy. Sean? Shawn? One or the other. It was so ridiculously out of place that John couldn't help but laugh. He wiped his eyes and walked into the cafe, still chuckling to himself.

"Mrs Hudson?" He called, unable to see her from the entrance. "Hello?"

Mrs Hudson's head popped out of the kitchen, a bright beam on her face. Her eyes were red and puffy, she'd been crying recently. "Yes, dearie?"

"I need some herbs for... I'm not disturbing anything, am I?"

"No, dearie. I was just cleaning up the kitchen."

"Oh, okay." John nodded, aware that she was lying, but saying nothing. "I needed some herbs for the pan-fried pork chop recipe you told me about. It's just that I'm not in the mood to go down to the shops..."

"One of those days then?"

"I'm afraid so," John nodded, "and I'll be having a lot more."

"Sherlock does that to you." Mrs Hudson laughed, a forced note creeping into her voice.

"Are you alright, Mrs Hudson?" John asked. He hadn't seen her behave like this in a while. It was terribly concerning.

"Me, dear? Oh I'm fine." She smiled before hurry into the kitchen and returning with a little jar of herbs in her hand. "Here you are and remember not to use too much okay?"

John stared at her questionably before turning into a smile and nodding. "Okay, Mrs Hudson. I best get back up to him."

"Alright, you take care."

"You too." He smiled, leaving the café. Her gaze didn't leave until he had exited through the door and waved a swift goodbye. She then retreated into the kitchen and out of sight. John sighed. He didn't like seeing her like that. Good old Mrs Hudson who had been so strong for him when he needed it. It wasn't right.

He slowly made his way back upstairs to hear the sounds of violin plucking carrying through the stairwell. Just like Sherlock. All that talent and not using it correctly. When he bothered to play it was beautiful but the rest of the time John felt like popping his ear drums. That was definitely the one thing he hadn't missed.

Sherlock didn't notice when he walked back into the flat. He doubted Sherlock had actually even noticed he had gone missing. Walking into the kitchen he saw nothing had been moved. Just the way he liked it. "I'm back by the way!"

Sherlock didn't reply, he picked up his bow and continued playing his mournful violin again.

"Not that you'd care." John muttered to himself. Sherlock stopped playing mid-note, he span around and looked at John with an expression of surprise.

"Not that I'd... Care?" He frowned, "John, I hope you realise that I counted every step you took. I know you went to Mrs Hudson's house, but she wasn't in, so you went to the cafe. You spent some time outside of the cafe before entering. I know that you talked to Mrs Hudson for exactly two minutes before coming back here."

John raised an eyebrow, and smirked. "I guess you do care then."

"Mmm." Sherlock nodded, picking up his violin and starting to play again. This time the notes were less sad, less stressed. These notes could almost have been happy. Least it wasn't the plucking John had heard coming up the stairs. Nor was it the jig from earlier. Which John was thankful for. He loathed that piece.

John continued to cook, using the herbs exactly as he remembered Mrs Hudson had instructed I'm to. He looked at the pork that was now frying gently.

"Dinner's almost ready."

Sherlock didn't reply, he continued to play his tune.

"Sherlock, it's almost time to eat."

Again, there was no reply from Sherlock.

"Fine, be like that. But you're going to eat tonight." John sighed, dishing the meat and vegetables onto two plates and setting them down on the new table.

John finally recognised the piece Sherlock was playing. It was drawing close to the aria and also the ending so it would be best to wait until the man finished before he forced Sherlock to eat. Before John had gone downstairs the music had been completely cheerful so the sudden change was odd. Either way John didn't want to question it. It had been so long since he had heard playing like that live. He had often listened to pieces on CD but they seemed to take away the emotion Sherlock managed to portray. That and the memories stung. Now it was so real again that he couldn't stand to get upset.

The aria ended and Sherlock lowered his violin with a satisfied sigh. It was good to have time to contemplate his thoughts. To have time to indulge in his violin. "Now you've finished playing you can get to the table."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Surely John hadn't forgotten his ways that easily. No food until a case was over. He had to wait until all the men who killed Jo and injured Penber were located. It wouldn't take more than a day. At most. "Really, John?" He asked sarcastically without turning. "You know my methods."

"Yes and I know how much of an insufferable git you are after a bleeding case due to the massive crash down you have. Due to the fact you cut out sleeping and eating. Get to this table now."

Sherlock sighed, there was no was no way to convince John that food was unnecessary and a waste of his time. He bought himself to the table, unwilling to eat anything.

"Is this another one of those things 'normal' people do?"

"Eating every day? Yes, Sherlock, it is." John snapped, placing a hot plate in front of him. The meat was cooked to absolute perfection, Sherlock noticed. Despite his protestations, John was a good cook.

"Oh goodie." He sighed, looking down at the meal in front of him. John pulled a chair back and sat down opposite him. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, Sherlock." John looked up from his meal, leaving the knife buried in the pork chop on his plate. "You have to eat."

Sherlock looked down at the chop like it was a foreign beast that needed full examining. He prodded it with his fork; seeing that there was little he could do but eat, he ruefully began cutting it. Showing the slightly pink insides of the white meat. The bone made a sharp crack and he split it. John looked up, a mouthful of pork halfway to his mouth and a curious look on his face.

"I told you, John. My rules."

"I don't care about the rules. Eat." John said forcefully.

"John, I real-"

There was a sharp knock at the door and Sherlock, usually so unwilling to entertain anyone, leapt to his feet.

"I'll get that, John." He smiled, "You just keep eating."

John sighed as Sherlock went to answer the door. The man would do literally anything to get out of eating. It was frustrating. Especially when the doctor part of him was basically screaming at him to sort Sherlock out. He had finally got to have a bite of his pork chop when Sherlock returned to the kitchen, Greg trailing behind him. "Oh," he said guilty, looking at the abandoned meal on the table. "I'm interrupting, aren't I?"

"Y-"

"No, ignore John." Sherlock snapped at John quickly before turning back. "Go."

"Go?" Greg replied sounding a little puzzled.

John shook his head, continuing to eat his dinner. "Yes. Go. It's obvious why you are here. Look at the way your coat hangs!"

"Sherlock, how can tha-"

"Shut up, John."

Sighing John went back to his meal. Feeling only slightly a bit awkward. "There's another one. Six two. Mid thirties. Sixteen stone. Found around the corner from the warehouse. Dead. Will you come?"

There was a momentary silence as Sherlock stood there contemplating his actions. "Alright. Car outside?" Greg nodded. "Right. John?"

"No. I'm eating my dinner. I'm sure you won't need me to tell you that the sod's heart isn't beating any longer." John grumbled looking up at Sherlock. "I'll stay here. Have some normal 'boring' things to sort out."

Another moment of silence. Obviously Sherlock is trying to figure out how important I am currently, though John. "Okay. I'll go with Lestrade. I'll text if I need you to do something." And with that he flew out of the flat. Picking up his coat and scarf as he left. Leaving Greg standing in the kitchen with John.

"Sorry, John. I didn't realise the time. Him not being exactly normal and all I didn't think you'd want to," he gestured to the food. "It's just urgent, y'know?"

Sighing as he stood up John took his plate over to the sink. "Yeah, I know." He turned around to face Greg. "Next time look at the time on that new watch of yours. You still need to tell me who gave you that." John picked up Sherlock's abandoned plate. "Jesus. They really are dropping like flies, aren't they?" He paused slightly. "Now get. Before the bastard downstairs gets irked because if he comes home being a miserable git I'm holding you personally responsible."

"I- yeah," Greg smiled sheepishly, looking down at his wrist. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Don't bring him home too late." John called after Greg as the man left the house. He heard the door shut. "Or he'll be a nuisance."

John sighed, looking down at the plates in front of him. And suddenly, he wasn't hungry. Something about the empty flat made him feel sick to his stomach; a feeling of being left, abandoned; something he really didn't enjoy.

Anger suddenly swelled in his chest. He slammed the plate into the sink, chipping the plate. Fracture lines swept across the plate, meeting in the middle. He picked up the plate and dropped it into the sink again. This time it shattered.

His anger gone, he looked down at the broken plate and the wasted food.

"Good one, genius." He muttered to himself, picking up the pieces of the plate. "Bloody brilliant."

His hand became filled with roughly half the pieces as he went over to the bin and deposited them inside. He wanted to yell but he couldn't. Who would he yell at? The skull? That would just be pathetic. He had every chance to go with them. He just needed time to think. Without the violin noises or the threat of explosions. He needed peace and quiet again yet it just felt so empty. He didn't like it one bloody bit. It was like he was lonely again and he hated it. When did he become so dependent on people? Then again it wasn't really people. Was it? When Sherlock was 'dead' he had felt lonely wherever he was. Even when surrounded by friends. Dying inside each day as the struggles became harder and harder to deal with. It was like he couldn't cope any longer. Like everything was piling up and causing him to buckle under. Then Sherlock came back and it was like all those feelings just disappeared. As if all the worries just went flying out the window. Now they were all flooding back.

Going back to the sink he continued to pick up the pieces left over. He caught his hand on the edge of one piece, producing a nick on the edge of his hand. Dropping the pieces, he had already collected, back into the sink he pulled his hand up to inspect. Blood already seeping from the wound. John found himself collapsing slowly onto the floor, running his intact hand through his hair. "God," he gasped. "When did my life get so pathetic?"

First off I warned you the 23rd chapter was doooooooomed. Also I would like to apologise. We've all got exams and everything and it's really time consuming so we're really stressed the moment.

Oh and that felt sheep we referenced? Well Rayne and I met up in London during April and we went to Speedy's and outside was this felt little sheep. We just had to use it in our thing. I have a photo for you too.

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Links look horrible, and won't save properly, on this thing but yes. Have a sheep.