*Thanks to all my lovely reviewers and followers and favorite-ers and everyone who has supported me for this story. It is because of you guys that I want to keep this story interesting. If you have ideas, feel free to share them with me. I can't promise to work them all in, but I will try :)

Sherlock lept off his bed and retrieved the note from the ground. He held the note against his chest, closed his eyes, sucked in a big breath, held it, then released, letting all the tension that had built up escape with the air. This note could make him great...or worse than ever. He unfolded the note, eyes still closed, preparing himself for either opened his eyes and slowly reread the note.

John,

Do you like me? []Yes [x]No

Love, Sherlock

The room, which just seconds ago had seemed so open and roomy, seemed to shrink around him. He felt as if there was an anaconda wrapped around his chest, squeezing all the happiness, and breath, right out of him. The world around him seemed like some weird twisted dream, the edges around his peripherals fading to nothingness. The dazed man was barely even aware of the fact that his knees had given out under him, and he was now genuflecting to the door that separated him from reality.

Sherlock felt the rush of all the rejection he had ever faced crash over him relentlessly, knocking him into the ground, and trapping him underneath the flood of heartbreak. He curled up in a ball, just like he had been taught to do as a little kid at the beech in case of getting caught under a particularly fierce wave. He heard a chorus of "freak"fading in and out like a tide, malicious whispers on the low tide, and a frightening roar at high tide. His body rocked back and forth with the onslaught of rejection that threatened to drown him and carry him out far beyond the reach of any life guard.

John filled every thought of Sherlock's. No matter where he tried to turn his thoughts, John would show up. But this wasn't Sherlock's John. This was a sick twisted version that joined in with every "freak" the echoed in Sherlock's head. His voice was heard louder than any other. Sherlock felt something on his cheek. He pressed his finger to the wet spot, and looked at the dampness on his finger. He quickly brought it to his mouth.

Ugh. Salty. It was a tear that had the audacity to pour forth from his tear duct. Now that it had broken through the previously impregnable wall, it left a hole for others to follow, and a liberal amount did. Sherlock was embarrassed about the tears flowing down his face. He had been able to suppress that particular result of emotion since nursery school, when Mycroft had taught him how to stop caring. A wave of panic swept through him as he realized that this might mean that all his defenses were compromised. Though, if he were being honest with himself, they had probably taken a huge blow when he started caring for John. Despite the current heartache and vulnerable state he was currently in thanks to the army doctors doings, he couldn't find it in himself to hate John, or even mildly dislike him. He only felt love towards him, even if that love couldn't be reciprocated. How could Sherlock face John again, though?

I'll have to leave, it is the only possible solution. Sherlock quickly assessed. He managed to uncurl himself and shakily climb to his feet. He dashed around his room collecting as much as he could stuff into the largest container he could find in his room. Among the essentials were his skull and his violin. He would wait until John left for the surgery, and then make his escape. That way he could avoid a messy confrontation. Until he left, his violin would be his shot glass, and he drown his sorrows instead of letting himself drown again.

John started to worry when lunch time had come and gone. Sherlock was still holed up in his room, and John hadn't heard any signs of life from him all morning. He had just about decided to check on him when he heard the violin. It was similar to the melancholic melody from yesterday, but with more finality to it. John sat and listened in amazement, for the emotion behind it made it especially beautiful. To have those emotion so raw and out there. It sent shivers down John spine as he marveled at the talent of his best friend. Then the music grew frightful. It seemed to try and move him out of the flat in its severity. John became worried when the music didn't change after awhile.

What could possibly be putting him in such a foul mood? He had to have seen the note. John was baffled by this reaction. He thought Sherlock would come bounding out of his room like a blind man coming to see the sun. He had been anticipating the look of pure joy, that rare smile that was generally reserved just for John. He decided to take matters into his own hands, instead of relying on the erratic man. He walked over to Sherlock's door and pounded on it.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you alright in there? I think we need to talk!" John asked. The only response he got was the increasingly loud wail of the violin. John knocked louder and shouted a few more times, but to no avail.

I guess he doesn't want to talk then John let out an exasperated sigh that was lost in the screech of the impossibly loud violin. John attempted to sit and wait, but the noise grated on his nerves, and finally he couldn't take it any more. John marched off to his room to get ready for work, deciding that even if there were three hours till his shift started, they would be better spent on a walk in the park than here with that intrusive cacophony. He slammed his door on the way out, filling the flat with an air of finality.

The slamming of the door snapped Sherlock out of his musical coma. Cautiously, he unlocked his door and peeked out into the flat. Seeing it empty, Sherlock repacked his violin, grabbed the suitcase, and wheeled out into the kitchen. He left it there as he dashed up the steps to John's room. Once there, he rooted through John's desk drawer until he found a service picture of his army doctor. He closed the drawers and stared at the picture. John looked so much younger. His face wasn't aged by the war or Sherlock's "death". It put a smile on Sherlock's face to see that easy smile on John's face that usually popped up when Sherlock did something unusually tender or endearing. Sherlock loved that popped the picture into his wallet, then grabbed a piece of paper and pencil. He thought for a second about what exactly to write, making sure he picked the best words for this final goodbye.

My Dear John,

I have decided to leave, as living together as flatmates now is impossible. I love you, and cannot change that. Since you do not return this affection, I will go. I won't force anything on you. I just want you to know that even though this rejection hurts, I could never hate you.

Always with love, Sherlock

Sherlock walked dejectedly back downstairs back to his room. He fetched the note of the floor and stared at it.

Funny how one little 'x' can change everything so drastically. Sherlock sighed and walked into the kitchen. He left his note to John on the counter and grabbed his suitcase.

All of a sudden, a loud crack emanated from the downstairs door. Sherlock spun on his heel to face the door, confused at the sound of at least four boots racing up the stairs. He prepared himself to fend off the unwelcome visitors, as he was sure they were hostile.

Just before the door burst open, the sound of tinkling glass and a high pitched whistle reached Sherlock's ears. Just about anyone else would have missed the whistling noise, but he knew just what it was. However, he could do nothing to dodge the tranquillizer dart that promptly buried itself in his arm. The room immediately began to spin.

Two men rushed at Sherlock from the door, satisfied to see the dart taking effect quickly. Sherlock did his best to keep above the murkiness that was taking over his mind, but the tranquillizer proved to be powerful and quick. He dropped his original note note to John as he began to loose function of his extremities. As it drifted gracefully down, it abruptly twirled over, allowing Sherlock a glimpse of the back. He gave a small start when he saw writing on the backside that wasn't his.

There's more to the note?! Sherlock desperately tried to read those words, but was currently being yanked in the opposite direction by the two goons. He struggled determinedly towards the note, attempting to maneuver his drug addled self into a position where he could read the note. Finally he managed to break free of his captors just loge enough to read it.

I LOVE you!

What? Why did he mark the no? Sherlock struggled to understand through the fog that was shrouding his brain. He said he didn't like me...didn't LIKE me! Ugh Idiot! He doesn't like me, he LOVES me! A warm feeling spread through his body as joy overtook him. He felt as if he were flying...possibly because the nearest attacker had scooped him up!

Frantically, Sherlock thought for a way to alert someone to the events that were happening. He flailed around as much as possible, trying to leave as much evidence of a scuffle as possible. He made sure to know the dart to the floor as well, where hopefully, John would find it. That bloody note may ruin my plan! If he doesn't connect the dart and disarray with this more sinister event, I may be out of luck. Sherlock's last coherent thoughts were of John, and how he hoped that maybe, just maybe John would be able to sort this all out.