Hi! I'm desperate to get this story out soon, as school work is gradually taking up all my time. I'm sorry if it takes longer for me to update, blame my teachers and their damn revision classes. Grrrr.

IN OTHER NEWS, Sherlock and Benedict Cumberbatch have been nominated for Best Drama and Best Drama performance at the National Television Awards! WOOP! So I've voted many many many many times for them (sorry Doctor Who, I love Sherlock too much!). If you fancy voting, just google 'NTA'.

It's been an odd couple of days- very up and down, you know what I mean? Plus, one of my closest friends has decided he's going to make himself look like Sherlock, so if he succeeds I'm worried that I'll fall hopelessly in love with him XD Troubles for me, but whatever. This chapter contains a lot of feelings, and I've tried to explain them as well as possible, but if they're bad, I apologise.

P.S Congratulations to be 100th reviewer (YEAH! WOOP!), OryonUK. You win mega-bonus-love-points from me for your luck XD. And also thank you to anyone who'd reviewed- you are all amazing and I love you all.

11:00pm

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?"

John smiled, and took a sip of his wine. "You've never asked me my permission to ask something before."

Sherlock blushed. "I was trying to be considerate," he blushed hotly.

John gave him a little grin that made him blush more. "Well, that's very nice of you. You can ask."

Sherlock paused, unsure of how to phrase it. "Why did you ask… me, for help?"

John looked faintly puzzled. "What do you mean, why?"

"Well…" said Sherlock, as bemused as John. "As we are both aware, I'm not the best with feelings."

"You seem pretty adept at it to me. You should give yourself more credit."

Sherlock stared at John over the candlelight. It struck him that in the gently ebbing glow of dusk, when the flickering flame of the candles shone in the waning sunlight, John looked even more beautiful. He could see the flare in the reflection of John's eyes, making them burn with a new intensity. They blazed, smouldering with all the warmth of a bonfire, a new fiery torrent exploding from the isolation and darkness and lighting something dangerous with Sherlock's heart. Was this what love felt like? To look into the eyes of a man and feel nothing but sheer desire? To want nothing more than gaze into the shimmering, brilliant heat of them? Was this what if felt like to have the heart burnt out of him?

He realised he had stopped talking. "John," he said, softer than he had intended. "I can manipulate, but not feel. I know nothing of love, or lust, and I doubt I ever shall."

The fierce, incandescent gleam in John's eye vanished as he drew back. John's voice too was gentle. "Give yourself more credit. I'm going to the bathroom."

Jeez. He sure knew how to ruin a moment. Sherlock was unable to speak before John left, and he sighed back into his chair. A cold wave of realism seemed to have washed over him. That's right. Bury the feelings. Bury where no-one can find them and forget they ever happened.

With a sudden pang of horror, he swivelled in his seat. Mycroft was not there. God, he wouldn't have a little chat with John now, would he?

"Shit." He rose from his seat, ready to give Mycroft a piece of his mind for potentially ruining an investigation and walking quickly to the bathroom. Peeking through the crack in the door, he saw Mycroft's silhouette pass leaning against a wall facing away from him. As silently as he could, he snuck into the room, managing not to catch the attention of his older brother. He shut himself in a supply cupboard, leaving the door slightly open so he could hear and see the conversation that was going on.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me?" said a voice angrily. John.

"I don't see what it had to do with you," said Mycroft smoothly.

"You didn't think to tell me that Sherlock had a history of depression?"

"It was none of your business. And it is not my secret to tell, John. I'm sure Sherlock would've hated it if I'd told you. Does it not worry you that he didn't tell you?" Sherlock had to stop himself crying out. That bastard.

"What if he'd relapsed? What if I'd not noticed the signs? Anything could have happened!" John yelled, rage clearly audible in his voice.

"I would have noticed. It does not concern you, not unless he trusts you enough to tell you about his illness." Mycroft's voice was still stuck in its irritating and emotionless monotone, but the words were nevertheless filled with venom. Both John and Sherlock flinched at his words. He trusted John… He told him. Just not enough.

"Sherlock trusts me."

"But do you trust him?"

John was shaking with fury by this point. "I want to help. I understand him."

"Oh really?" Mycroft spat, for the first time allowing his feelings to show. "Do you understand, Dr Watson? Do you understand what it is like to see someone you love fall apart? To watch them collapse in on themselves? To watch them fade into something less than human? Do you know how it feels? It hurts, it hurts because you know there is nothing, nothing you can do to make them feel better. I would have given anything to see Sherlock smile during his childhood, and every time he cried, I cried a little inside. Because depression affects everyone around you, it ruins lives, it rips families apart, and that is something you will never understand because you have never experienced it. It should never have happened to him, not to someone so talented, someone so brilliant. It was like he was dissolving, he lost his lustre. He lost that ever burning passion that made him Sherlock. So you tell me, Dr Watson. Do you know what it feels like to watch a person self-destruct?"

John's eyes glistened. "I care about him Mycroft. Let me help."

Mycroft laughed. "You think you can?" he said with a sneer. "Sherlock has jagged edges. He's a diamond in the rough, as it were. He's something beautiful, something incredible, but get too close and he'll make you bleed. He's been broken before, now he's just shards of himself stitched together with heroin. He's sharp, and he'll cut you. Bruise you. Bend you till you break, and he'll leave scars. Deface you so you're damaged and so you'll never forget his presence on your skin."

"Everyone has their scars," said John quietly.

"And you want him to mark you as his own? How interesting," Mycroft's usual haughty, slightly bored tone had returned. "What do you feel for my brother, Dr Watson?"

"He's my friend. My best friend, but nothing more."

"Yet I don't believe you. And in his own special way, I think Sherlock feels the same way as you do."

"Sherlock thinks of me as a friend. I don't care if he doesn't open up to me, if he doesn't trust me, I care about him and I don't want him to be hurt."

Mycroft paused. "Well, at least you're loyal. But I'll warn you now, Dr Watson, Sherlock is capable of many things that people wouldn't expect of him. So are you." Sherlock heard footsteps and saw Mycroft pass out of the bathroom. John was panting slightly, and shortly afterwards Sherlock heard a cubicle door slam. Seizing his chance, he crept out of the room and returned to his seat, his heart shuddering inside his chest.

Shortly afterwards, John returned, looking flushed.

"Everything alright?" said Sherlock, in an attempt at nonchalance. "You were gone a while."

"Queue," said John tersely.

There was a silence. Sherlock relived the moment he had witnessed in his head.

"Sherlock trusts me." There had been a definite note of uncertainty in his voice then. Did he doubt he trusted him? After all they had been through?

"My nightmares," said John abruptly.

Sherlock's head span to face John's. "Nightmares?"

"Don't pretend you don't know about them," said John bluntly, but there was no malice in his voice. "You've seen me."

Sherlock was unsure how to respond. What was he doing?

"My dreams," John continued. "I dream about the war."

Sherlock exhaled deeply. He had suspected as much, but had never dared ask. "Of when you were shot?"

"Not just then."

This shocked Sherlock. "Something… else."

"Yes. I'll tell you, but not now. Later. Please not now." John gave Sherlock such a piercing stare it seemed to nail him to his seat. "I trust you Sherlock. Completely."

"… I trust you too."

11:30pm

Lestrade returned with desserts, giving them both a whispered update of security before leaving. He certainly seemed to be taking the job in his stride- he was chatting cheerfully with diners, bringing food promptly and had remarkable poise when it came to balancing plates.

"It's like he was made for the job," Sherlock muttered.

"Yes. Clearly he's missed his forte, think of the tips he could get."

Sherlock chuckled. "This dessert is truly delicious, I must say."

John widened his eyes. "So when it's all being paid for by the police force you eat like a horse?"

Sherlock gave him a sly grin. "It's all about motivation, John. If you ever offer me something as tempting as exploiting the police force then I might eat more."

"I'll bear that in mind," John took another bite of an exquisite (but miniscule) dessert, and left a smear of chocolate on his lips. Before he could stop himself, Sherlock had reached across the table and wiped the stain away with his thumb, before licking it clean. John tensed in his seat. It was barely noticeable, but Sherlock had seen. His face fell.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "You had chocolate on your face."

"Don't worry, I'm fine," said John quickly. "Though if you'd wanted some of my dessert, you could have just asked."

11:50pm

Sherlock rapped impatiently on the table with his fingers. Ten minutes left, by the clock on his phone, and it was usually accurate. His eyes darted from victim to victim, checking no-one approached them and no-one spoke to them.

There was a metallic noise. Sherlock turned and saw a man tapping a champagne flute with his fork. "I would like to announce," he said in a loud, clear voice, "that the dance floor is now ready."

Dozens of couples rose to their feet, including the potential victims of Moriarty's plot. Staff gathered at the sides of the floor before gradually joining in. Sherlock began to feel queasy- he and John were the only ones who were not dancing.

John stood up. "Come on then." He held out his arm.

"What?" said Sherlock quickly.

"We've got to dance."

"John, we don't have-"

"Yes we do. Just to warn you, I can't dance to save my life."

Half reluctantly, half eagerly, Sherlock took John's outstretched hand and allowed him to lead them down to the dance floor.

"I'm leading," said Sherlock.

"Like hell you are." The track was dangerously slow, played by a string quartet in the corner of the room. John placed an arm on his waist, making his stomach leap to somewhere around chest height. Taking John's arms in his own, he attempted to position himself where he couldn't invade John's privacy too much. However, the crowd seemed to have other ideas- the floor was so crowded they were forced together. They settled into a small, swaying motion which was universally recognised the dance of lovers. Chests crushed closely against each other, John placed his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's back stiffened.

"We have to look like a couple, remember?" John whispered into his ear, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's back. "Sorry mate."

Sherlock squirmed a little from the tickling sensation of John's breath on his ear, but soon relaxed. He had never felt so connected to anyone before this. He'd never wanted to be before now- Sherlock had dismissed the idea of such synchronicity with another human being. Yet it had all changed. Now it was just him and John, moving together like one person, so close, so mutual. He felt like they'd been combined, joined as a whole. John made him a whole.

"Just Like Heaven," John murmured into his ear.

"What?" said Sherlock gently.

"The name of this song. It's a cover of The Cure. Just Like Heaven." He hummed the tune and Sherlock felt it reverberate around his soul.

"That's right. Just Like Heaven."

Sherlock saw a shadow move suddenly in the darkness. Pushing John off him, he began to force his way towards the looming figure. He could faintly hear John following him, the sound of Lestrade's team moving in, but it was like hearing things underwater. It was dulled. Sherlock hit the man with his entire body weight, bringing him down to the floor before he could reach Jasmine Hodell. Pinning him to the ground, Sherlock smiled triumphantly. "We've got you now."

"Excuse me?" the man spluttered. "I'm just a waiter, mate! I don't know what you're on about!"

Sherlock scanned his eyes and took his pulse. He was telling the truth. "Wait, that can't be…" He heard a clock chime. There was a sudden, piercing scream.

With a sudden shiver of horror and revulsion, he turned his head quickly and saw a waitress collapse to the floor. A startlingly crimson gash gleamed on her skin.

"Call an ambulance!"

1:00am

Sherlock picked up another pebble and dropped it gently into the lake. One by one, he watched the ripples break the surface of the murky darkness and gently fade. Frightening really, how one little act can do so much damage.