Sherlock's P.O.V

Tell me, what is it like for someone as insignificant and rat faced as Anderson to be embarrassed to be dating you?

While he hadn't yet stooped to an Anderson level, non-existent deity forbid, this was almost as bad.

This was humiliating.

Sherlock was not use to being wrong. Sure, there was always something. Little details in cases which he might not get just so, but on a whole he was usually still right. In fact, even when he was actually wrong it wasn't about anything of importance. So what if the Sun went around the Earth, wait or was it the other way around and he'd forgotten again? It didn't matter; the world certainly didn't revolve around his understanding of the solar system so being technically incorrect there didn't register with Sherlock.

With John, however, he had been wrong.

Wrong.

Monumentally wrong.

Fullstop.

And being so wrong was humiliating. It made his stomach turn and his skin crawl. A reaction he never wanted to research further. Mycroft would scold him for making such a leap of logic without accounting for all the variables. Sherlock prayed the insufferable git would never find out about all this no matter how unlikely that was. Mycroft could always tell when it came to this kind of thing. Had been able to ever since Sherlock was five and tried desperately to convince his worshipped older brother that the boy across the street was too stupid to be his friend so it really didn't matter that the boy hadn't wanted to be in the first place.

Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?
All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock

He instantly decided to break all of his brother's umbrella stands at the next available opportunity.

Being wrong about John was worse than all that. It made Sherlock want to blow something up or see if it were possible to peel off his own skin just for the sake of destroying something, he wasn't terribly picky about what.

was the chorus inside his head. God, why couldn't John stop staring at him like that?

I am not fragile or precious, go away, look somewhere else, has your face always been like that, have your eyes always been sad?

No. It did not matter. Irrelevant.

He focused on digging his cheek further against an equally sharp knee, letting that tiny pain be a point of clarity for his mind. The world's only consulting detective would not acknowledge that gnawing feeling somewhere near his sternum.

"That would be the end of the conversation, if you were still looking for it," he muttered into the familiar black fabric of his trousers. He would not look up. Not to see John. He would not. He would not. He would not.

Ah, finger nails dug into his thigh – those half moons helped.

Hearing the door as John left would be bad enough. Listening to an empty flat would be painful. Having to hear the knock which was a request to let Harry into the flat in about four days to gather John's things would be excruciating. For now Sherlock had tiny pains, little truths building up to the real thing.

Still. Those kind, amused, tired, blue blue blue eyes stayed trained on him. Sherlock could feel it through his suit of armour made of the most expensive cotton and wool. Like the red flare of a sniper rifle sight fixed on a target. Like the beam of light you knew was the sun as you sunk lower into cold water. It was suffocating.

"Please, John," was added in a whisper, and who knew his voice could achieve such a thing. It was a whisper though. It was most definitely not a plea, there was no pleading in his voice certainly. Somehow the doctor took this as an invitation to move closer regardless.

"Sherlock, can we ju-,"

"Do not touch me," Sherlock growled, stopping the other man in his tracks with one tanned and luminous hand left hanging limply in the air between them. The bit of anger in his words was enough to make the detective forget his vow to never look at John again (damn) and Sherlock couldn't help cataloguing the wounded look on the doctor's face when he drew that beautiful limb away from the detective's shoulder. It was an expression he would not cherish but would keep forever just the same. A pittance for what he'd ruined. "Some silence would be lovely, show yourself out if you wouldn't mind," he told His John without looking away, taking the growing pain in the lines of the doctors face as the purifying lashes they obviously were if only anyone had been able to see Sherlock's insides where all the damage was hidden.

Why must he make this so hard? Sherlock hadn't asked much of him, far less than he'd asked of John that morning at least. And there was no time like the present to get started on the You Gone experiment. It would be a spectacular one, Sherlock would ensure it. Far better than that time he'd discovered how a human pancreas reacted in a microwave even. You Gone would have to be his finest hour, as Sherlock was also fairly certain it would be his last. Best to keep that bit to himself.

If John only knew.

Those were dangerous words. Things got too dark around those words and Sherlock would never say them. Would never say them like a lover might. Would never drip if you only knew… into John's ear like the poison it was. Sherlock would never let that dark touch His doctor. Never. Never. Never.

If you only knew…

No

I once looked across this room here and fancied that you must have been made by the molecules of one particular star. Did you know that? That there must have been one star that didn't quite die before it turned into something else and that something else must have been you. Once that door over there closes, I'll inject as much cocaine as I can get my hands on which is rather a lot ask Mycroft and I will think of stars. Not you because I know you wouldn't like it if you were a dying man's final thoughts. Stars then. Stars instead.

No. Stop.

Have you heard of thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura John? It's this delightful little blood disease, makes all these itsy bitsy clots in the blood until it ruins the whole system if you don't get it treated properly. I thought I had that for a while, then I thought it might have been you floating around my blood stream. It explains why it hurts now; I didn't get a plasma exchange when maybe I should have. Now you've made the blood too thick, but I'll open as many veins as I can to try and get it out to see if that helps. I'll start once the flat is quiet. But I won't think of you then either, how's that John? Is that fair? I'll think of thrombotic thrombocytopenic purpura and how nice it will be not to have it hurt where it shouldn't hurt anymore.

Not good. A bit not good.

Maybe I would have that gun back. I know it's boring and tedious, please spare me the obvious John. I know. I'll have it any way. I will wait for the door to close and for the quiet to come, but surely it is okay that I do it before Harry comes round. Surely you'd be okay with that. I'll do my best not to think of you then either. It will be a bit harder since you're gun is so you and maybe I like that it is but I will try. I would hope you know that I tried to not think of you and I will list the parts of the gun as I do it as listing all the parts of things sometimes helps me clear my head of the useless bits. Not that you're a useless bit, it's just that you wouldn't like me thinking of you and I wouldn't like me thinking of you because then I might take it all back and that is decidedly not fine. So I won't think of you, I shall be selfish. That is what people do when they take bullets that aren't given to them.

Christ. Caring is not an advantage.

"Go," he reiterated to the doctor, manic eyes wishing for some way to convey that even the brilliant detective could only ask in so many ways. That it would get too painful to keep asking soon.

"Leave."

He would not ask again. He would not. He would not. He would not. If only you knew…

No.

John's P.O.V

"Jesus Sherlock – I'm not leaving you. You don't get to push me away,"

John wasn't able to follow Sherlock's orders once those words had escaped him, and he quickly launched himself at the twisted up ball of detective to wrap strong arms around him. The doctor couldn't watch Sherlock pull further away from him; hiding in that great mind of his till no one could get in. It wasn't the best laid plan but John couldn't think of anything else that might ground Sherlock much more in the present.

Upon reflection, he should have anticipated the kicked back. As it was, when the consulting detective instantly lashed against the cage of John's arms it sent them both toppling to the ground. Sherlock struggled blindly, hitting whatever bit of John happened to exist in the same space as one of those ridiculously long limbs at any particular moment. John let him, use to taking blows in general and use to ones much worse than what Sherlock was capable of. Physically, anyway. There was a distinction there, another exception made by Sherlock Holmes. John Watson was not a liar and he tried to be as honest with himself as with anyone else so he would not deny the words that still rung in his head.

Stop worrying about the Freak…
Go…
Leave…

It made John tighten his grip further without realizing it. It took the extremely frustrated look on Sherlock's face coupled with the increased effort by the detective to get away to enlighten John to this development. He continued to cling on fiercely regardless. Even when the world's only consulting detective howled with rage.

You don't understand, you don't, I can't lose you either John thought wildly as he worked his good leg to pin down one of Sherlock's. Successful enough.

Mrs. Hudson was going to tut at them for hours tomorrow to be sure that they knew how little she appreciated the yelling at all hours of the night but John thought it was worth managing to secure both of Sherlock's legs without relinquishing his embrace on two thin arms.

Thought it a worthy trade to receive none of those fresh scones if it meant his shoulder could take just a few more minutes of the violent thrashing the other man's body continued to attempt even if it was becoming obviously pointless.

John Watson briefly thought that he could go his whole life with Mrs. Hudson never speaking to him again if it meant he could stand to listen to the other man chant let go, let go, let go over and over again in that broken baritone until the doctor was sure that beautiful voice would be lost altogether forever.

It would have been a fair trade.

When the shaking finally slowed to a stop, John risked a look down. Sherlock looked every bit the image of indignant outrage but the detective's eyes were still searching frantically over John's face for the reason behind this. Other than the obvious one. Because apparently the other man expected there to be another one.

"Sherlock, you need to listen to me," John said firmly in his best army voice, trying not to feel relieved at the scowl shot up at him for the direct order.

"I'm not going anywhere you prat, I'll shout it in Anderson's great gran's face if that's what you'd like but you will not go telling me to kip at Harry's,"

This earned him a slightly less enraged, more intrigued look. John smiled slightly, for what felt like the first time since that vague other lifetime of this morning. He leaned down to press a kiss to that improbable Cupid's bow of a mouth. It was a different sort of kiss from the night before. Not rushed or rough, not a kiss asking for more. It was gentle and soft, and if it happened to be reassuring then John Watson would have been glad for it even if he would never make such a claim himself.

"You can't mean that John, do not mean it," Sherlock told him sternly once John had given him the ability to speak again, though didn't feel the need to move further than the few centimeters from the detective's face required to do so.

"You should have let me say something this morning," John countered, placing light kisses in between every couple of words while stopping himself from chuckling at how Sherlock's brow furrowed at his words.

"I didn't think you'd want people to know, I figured you just weren't thinking about it because of the case and everything. And…" John struggled to find the words which would keep the man beneath him calm enough to not redirect a boney knee in his direction.

"And I didn't want Donovan, or Lestrade or anyone taking the piss about it. I didn't want them telling you that you shouldn't play so rough with your toys or something. That's not us. I didn't want them to think less of you because of me. You'd have second guessed everything if they did," John eventually told the detective with a frown.

"Brilliant plan, as always," Sherlock murmured beneath him, which pleased John to hear him talking again but the doctor rolled his eyes none the less.

"Yes, no need for the brilliant Sherlock Holmes to tell me that that plan didn't work out."

"I'm still serious John,"

"About which part?" he asked, silently dreading any answer before it even left Sherlock's mouth.

"This can't be allowed to continue," Sherlock announced gravely, eyes remaining fixed on John's as if to gauge his reaction to this revelation. John merely shook his head.

"I wasn't really looking for permission Sherlock."

Sherlock's P.O.V

Frustrating

That's what this was.

"This can't be allowed to continue because I will not allow it," he attempted to clarify, while also attempting to freeze up his features so that John would not know how Sherlock could possibly be persuaded to change his mind on this. Sherlock Holmes would not change his mind. He was not quite so changeable.

"Well you're a stupid git and I don't take orders from you," John replied and Sherlock cursed the almost amused tone this came in. Cursed the labium superius oris and the labium inferius oris which met his again so sweetly that it made him want to pour acid down his throat to kill whatever was flying around in his stomach each time John did that.

"You have to," he mumbled weakly, brain deciding all on its own that now was a fine time to make note of the fact that John's eyelashes were precisely the same shade of gold as his hair. Decided for itself right then and there that it was deeply pleased that John was finely made all the way down to the details.

"I don't," the doctor repeated and even if Sherlock disagreed, he didn't fight against the slackened grip on his arms.

"John – you don't understand."

"Then explain it. Because I have to be missing something if in the span of less than twelve hours you've written me off as a lost cause,"

"That's not true," Sherlock told him, making a deeply offended face when he'd been going for nonchalant indifference. John was not a lost cause. The good doctor had it backwards.

Stupid, stupid, stupid

"I will destroy you," he finally said, settling on the word destroy despite the growing certainty that this word did not encompass all that he would do to John if the doctor didn't heed his advice.

I'll scratch my way into every skin cell, every muscle, every ligament. I will burrow into each of your bones. Even the ridiculous incus, malleus, and stapes in your ear that are barely even bones so you might not notice but I will notice and I will be there. I will seep into your bone marrow and make every inch of your skeleton ache so you mustn't let me in

"I'll take everything. There won't be a speck of you left," was added in that strange was-that-really-his-voice whisper, which only the kindly face of a good doctor had ever managed to create.

I will have that star light. I will have that diseased bit of you that's found it's way into my blood without even asking, I will have that gun back and maybe you can list all the parts of it for me. I will have those things and you will not get them back. I don't share.

"But what a wonderful way to go," John whispered back softly but Sherlock knew. He knew. He knew. He knew that it was not meant lightly, could tell by the look in the other man's eyes. Soldier eyes, determined eyes, brave eyes.

Foolish eyes.

Caring is not an advantage after all. Hasn't anyone told you that John Watson?

"You'll have to stay then," Sherlock told him dumbly.

"You'll have to stay. I don't want to hurt you, look at you there with your maxilla and your mandible how could I want to? I'll do it any way John, I won't mean it but I will. You'll have to stay even then. I don't mean to hurt you but I might burn you down any way. If you stay now, you'll have to stay then. No arguments. That's the agreement or I swear I won't eat breakfast for the rest of my life," Sherlock told him fiercely, ignoring the definitely not there childish tone his voice most absolutely did not have.

"God, you're an idiot. It's all your fault but I could have told you this morning I wasn't going to be able to stop now. I'll stay as long as you'll have me."

Sherlock wanted so desperately for that to be true that he forgot to be offended for being called an idiot.

"That could be a very long time," he pointed out practically; shifting his chest up the tiny amount it could from the floor in an effort to eliminate space between them.

"Then you'll have to stay too," the good, fantastic, brilliant doctor informed him plainly.

Sherlock pushed up that bit further to meet John's lips with a hard kiss. A crushing, bruising, painful kiss. Which was fine. It was all fine. Sherlock felt that it was what he deserved. In exchange for all he was taking, a bit of pain was all fine.

An eye for an eye.