A/N: Oh my gosh. What this. You are getting two chapters this week. *woot woot* You might not get another in a few weeks just because I'm doing NaNoWriMo and finals are coming up, but I'll try my hardest!

Also, this is my first fanfic ever, so I'd appreciate all the reviews you guys could spare!

Thanks so much for reading!

Sherlock

I am getting the milk.

Fact: getting the milk is considerably more terrifying than I had expected. I had forgotten that humans other than John and I require milk. (Stupid.) The Tesco where I am at is crowded and busy, which I suppose is normal for a Saturday morning, and my mind will not keep still.

I see humans. So many humans. All ordinary, ordinary, ordinary, and their babble is huge, a wave that's crushing me, and I can't remember if John takes whole milk or two percent and he is angry at me, with me, at me, angry, angry, angry, I am a burden, a disaster, a mistake, and his happiness is gone now because of me, and I just need to bring him the milk and it will all be fixed─

I stumble forward and catch myself on the middle shelf of the refrigerator. The cool metal of the shelf cuts into my palms and I lean into it, needing to feel the pain to clear my head. Cool air begins to numb the front half of my body, a kind of detox by temperature. (Fact: I am motivated by dangerous things.) Think: what does John come home with every Saturday after his shopping? What does the carton that is currently sitting on the bottom shelf of our fridge next to Paul Tennyson's severed head say? I close my eyes tightly. Picture it.

Whole milk.

My eyes snap open and I am inches away from a tub of sour cream. I ignore it, reach down instead to the row of milk cartons, and grab the one that I need. (I feel sick. What if it isn't enough? What if milk isn't enough? Do donated dairy products make up for multiple lost chances at happiness─at love? I hate questions. I want to ask John. He knows everything. My blogger. My conductor of light.) I push myself slowly out of the refrigerator and tuck the carton under my right arm as I turn. People are staring at me.

It is nothing that I'm not used to.

As I walk quickly to the checkout counters, some of my panic dissolves and flashes of conversation are able to penetrate my whirling brain. A woman, her levels of vexation evident in the shrillness of her tone. Arms: held stiff at her sides. Hair: platinum blonde, roots showing, not washed in one (no, two) days. Clothing: wrinkled, too flashy for a Saturday morning, worn yesterday. Purchasing: a stick of deodorant, and in her cart, a t-shirt and sweatpants. I sidestep closer to her and as I come around the edge, I see a man standing before her. Face: broken.

I know what is happening without hearing a single word.

I could say something. I could tell him what he obviously already suspects: that she was not where she said she was last night. That she doesn't love him anymore. That neither of them are happy.

Instead, I pay for the milk.

It is raining outside. The drops leave silvery trails down the window of my cab, and I can see the grey cast of the sky through them. I sigh, squish in the sides of the milk carton in my lap with my hands, and tap my foot hastily on the floor. I need a smoke. I need this bloody cabby to drive faster than a snail. (Fact: this would be an inadvisable thing for said cabby to do, seeing as we are currently in the midst of a steady flow of traffic.)

I find that the prospect of vehicular injury doesn't bother me if it means I get home to John.

The cab turns onto Baker Street and I lean forward in my seat, tossing a wad of cash (ten pounds) onto the center console. I gather my milk. My peace offering. "Let me out here," I say.

"Mate─" begins the cabby, but I ignore him. Open the door onto the flow of traffic (the cab is still moving but only at that same slow pace, so I remain uninjured) and stride out into it. Rain immediately soaks me. (Don't care. Rain is irrelevant.) I weave my way purposefully across the busy road and ignore the myriad angry beeps of car horns until I reach the other side.

I vault myself over the guard rail that has recently been installed on the side of our (John's and mine) road due to construction or something of that sort. Fix my scarf. Run to the door of 221B and pull it open and then take the steps two at a time.

Up.

Up towards John.

I am nervous. (New feeling. Strange. I am never nervous. I never have any cause to be.) (I have never ruined someones life before.) (I hope the milk is enough.) I hold my breath as I push open the door to our flat.

John.

He's in his chair. Legs: crossed. Tea: (a permanent fixture of John Watson) in his right hand. Hair: dry, but messy. Lips: pursed slightly. Like he's just eaten something slightly sour. Like he wants a kiss. Newspaper: spread across his lap. Opened to the sports section. (John couldn't care less about sports. This is how I know things are still not good.)

He looks up at the noise I make, and I feel my breath catch in my throat. (Why? My mind is blank. I can think of no reason that one person could cause another to lose their breath without physical restriction of the airways. And yet, here I am.) His eyes are red, like he didn't sleep well last night.

I know that mine look that way as well. I didn't sleep at all.

John sets his tea down quickly when he sees me and stands. Newspaper falls to the floor. He doesn't notice, and walks on it as he makes his way to me. "Sherlock─" he begins.

But words fall out of my mouth, surprising both of us. "John, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you, I didn't mean to ruin your life, I didn't mean─" this is wrong, I can feel it. I speak without periods in my sentences. An endless tide of emotions that I don't know I am feeling, that I don't want to express. Why can't I remember the speech that I prepared? It was a very good speech. It had periods. "I want you to be happy more than I want anything else, John, I promise, and if you want to have sex with Evelyn then─"

"Sherlock," he says. He is shaking his head back and forth and he looks upset. Upset because of me again. I feel my heart beating in such a wild way that I fear it will break free of its flimsy bindings of flesh and bone and fall at John Watson's feet, laid bare for him to see. It is a terrifying thought.

"So I got milk," I say, and thrust the carton at him. He takes it out of my hands. He looks confused. I imagine that that confusion is justified. (Even I don't know what I'm saying. What I'm feeling.) "I never get milk, and I make you sad, and I am so, so sorry John─"

John isn't even looking at the milk. Fact: I have no facts. Nothing adds up.

I am at a loss.

He sets it down on the floor beside him, bending briefly. I see the back of his neck, see where his ashy hair tapers off into a gentle point at the nape, want to touch it with all of my fingers, one by one. I think this as I continue talking, completely unaware of what words are coming out of me. He straightens. Mouth: smiling softly, carefully. Eyes: sad. Regretful.

(I want to tell him to regret nothing. He is not the one ruining my happiness. In fact, I doubt that he could ruin anyone's happiness if he tried. He is sunshine.)

My words die on my tongue as John lifts his (left) hand and places it across my mouth. Fact: an effective method, made all the more effective by its element of complete and total unexpectedness. I stop breathing. (If I breathe he might stop touching me. I never want him to stop touching me.) His skin is warm. Just like yesterday. Just like always. I wonder what would happen if I parted my lips just wide enough to let my tongue slip free, if I licked the soft palm of John's (left) hand...

"Shut up, Sherlock," he says softly. (A stupid thing to say. I already have.) He blinks slowly and I admire the way his lashes feather across his cheeks before those eyes are open once more and looking right into mine. Blue. Blue blue blue blueblueblueblueblue.

I am gone.

"You haven't ruined my life. I was being an idiot last night, I spoke completely out of turn, I didn't even like Evelyn─" I know this isn't true. It is a testament to the overwhelming goodness of my John that he is saying these things to me, and I feel my atria and and ventricles constrict in my chest. John. "And it's me who should be apologizing. I wanted to say something last night but I..." he trails off and slowly takes his hand away from my mouth, bringing it down to rest on my (right) shoulder. I wish, suddenly and vehemently, that I was not wearing so many layers of clothing. I cannot feel the warmth of him through all of this.

I breathe. (Fact: I should not have held my breath that long. Feel slightly dizzy. Or maybe that is just the closeness of John.) "So did I," I say. Because it is true. I wanted to go to him last night. I wanted to beg for forgiveness and make him wrap me in his arms and tell me that everything was going to be ok. Instead, I walked the halls of our flat and made things up on my violin. "Instead..."

John laughs lightly. Just a breath of mirth that smells like mint and Earl Grey and feels warm against my cold cheeks. I lean in, only half aware of what I'm doing. "Thank you for the milk," he says. He is suddenly serious, his tone lowering. "I really appreciate it, Sherlock. I do. You are..." he doesn't finish his sentence again. (He shouldn't begin a sentence if he isn't going to finish it.) (I want to know what I am.) "You're wet..." he says. His brow wrinkles, and I know that that isn't what he'd meant to say at all.

"Buying milk is difficult and stressful," I say. It's true, but not necessarily what I had wanted to say, either.I remember my panic at the Tesco. It is waning, but still there, rooted deep inside of me in a place that one could not find on any X-ray.

John puts his other hand on my (left) shoulder and I feel a shudder start at the base of my spine and work its way up through my skull. John. He smells like lavender again and I decide that maybe I don't hate it. Face: still serious. Still regretful. "I know it is," he says. He isn't mocking me like anyone else is. He knows me so well. "And I know I complain about having to do all of the shopping but I don't mean any of it, Sherlock. You are... you are─are─you're perfect." His voice turns into a fierce whisper. We both tilt our heads (Mine: down) (John's: in) until our foreheads almost meet. My heart is now in my throat, which should not be physically possible. "You make me happy, Sherlock Holmes. To hell with everybody else. I─" John stops. Licks his lips. Swallows. I can hear his heart beating, and I smile when I realize that it's in time with my own. I am suffused with heat. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

My words are gone. Instead of answering, I lower my head until it wrests on John's shoulder, my nose and the edge of my cheek against the burning skin of his collar bone and neck. My eyelashes flutter shut. Brush John's neck: he shivers at the contact. I lift my arms. Slide them around his waist. Squeeze. Sigh.

He is stiff at first. Tense. (Did I go to far?) (Don't care if I did.) (Like the feel of him.) (John.) But a fraction of a second later he melts against me. He slides his hands from my shoulders to my back, pulling me closer to him, and nestles his head in my shoulder. He is breathing more quickly than he usually does. (Even his breaths are usually normal. Regulated. Precise. Not so today.) He makes a noise in the back of his throat. I pretend that I don't hear it.

Unexpected fact: when I hold him, John Watson is mine.