No Warnings, no worries except M for language

At the end of Chapter 16…

"Yes, yes, of course Lestrade. Good bye." Sherlock called down the stairs, before he slammed the door shut. "Good riddance…God! I thought he'd never leave," said the tall man dropping backwards onto the settee again.

John pointedly shifted as far away as possible, without actually getting up and stared angrily at the ceiling. Then he turned to face the consulting detective.

Sherlock's fragile confidence began to evaporate under John's heated stare.

The two men sat with pressed lips and traded glares, as they thoroughly and spectacularly misunderstood each other.

Chapter 17

Sherlock felt his doubts growing exponentially. Yesterday John had kissed him, and tonight John had shot a man for Sherlock.

And yet, John had been odd, angry and distant since Sherlock had returned to the flat. John had told Donovan, in no uncertain terms, that he wasn't gay. Apparently the soldier was rethinking his sexuality yet again. Sherlock huffed in annoyance; he hated repetition.

The consulting detective glared at the glowering blond who had his arms crossed over his chest. Sherlock felt his stomach clenching. He wasn't just annoyed. No, the truth was, Sherlock dreaded rejection. People always let him down in the end. Sooner or later, usually sooner, people always became disappointed or even disgusted with him. He was never good enough.

Yes, feelings were confusing and distracting and, in general, to be was one reason that he had given up on 'dating'. But the inevitable rejection was the main reason that Sherlock shunned relationships. That was the reason why he limited his sexual encounters to rare one-night stands and then, only when his transport became desperate. It wasn't sex that disturbed the World's Only Consulting Detective; it was trying to connect with other people, only to have them push him away like yesterday's rubbish.

He'd been so sure that John was different. Wrong. John, handsome and aloof, glared at him. Obviously, John had joined the ranks of people repelled by Sherlock Holmes.

"You told Sergeant Donovan that you are not gay and that you will not be living here," said Sherlock, ready to end this farce

"Well, yes…" began John, looking away.

That hurt. It was always the same, and it still hurt, even after all this time. As always, the consulting detective hid his hurt under a mask of cold disdain.

"As is typical for one of your boring, bourgeois upbringing, you are in held in thrall to an outdated socio-theocratic construct. Despite your years as a soldier or perhaps because of it," snarled Sherlock, "You are willing to subjugate your natural inclinations in subservience to the memory of your abusive father and an imaginary higher authority, which, if it existed, surely would not concern itself with the animalistic couplings of its creation. I had thought better of you Doctor Watson, but I am used to the disappointment engendered by the mundane mediocrity of the mendacious middle-class. If you are finished with it, I would like my dressing gown back. Mrs. Hudson will provide you with your own clothes so that you can return to your dull, commonplace, safely heterosexual existence."

John was angry. He had fallen hard for the younger man. Then that handsome, brilliant genius had been stupid enough to risk killing himself, and for what? To prove he was better or smarter than a psycho-cab driver? The former army doctor had felt sick all night. If John had arrived even a couple minutes later, Sherlock Holmes might have been choking to death from that poison. John swallowed with difficulty.

And after falling for Sherlock, after spending most of last night with Sherlock, after saving his bloody life, that man chose to mock John when he was starkers and held at gunpoint by Sergeant Quick-Draw Donovan.

But this took the cake. Sherlock accused John of...of something dreadful and shameful. Something about bourgeois couplings and mediocre heterosexuality. John was stunned and furious by this shocking, yet, incomprehensible attack.

John's jaw dropped in open dismay.

Well, John H. Watson didn't need fancy, public school rhetoric to fight back.

"You can just sod off!" retorted John eloquently.

"Oh well spoken, Doctor. Very articulate," sneered Sherlock, rolling himself into a ball and facing the back of the settee. "I do not know why I even bothered to orchestrate an alibi for the likes of you."

"I dunno either, since you ended up telling the detective inspector everything anyway," said John.

"Dear Lord, once the detective inspector was alone, it was safe to tell him most of the truth. After all, the man isn't as stupid as the other Yarders, he had already guessed the truth, which you would have noticed, if you used even a fraction of your miniscule brain. He has an unsolved homicide on his hands, and without an alibi, you were the prime suspect. Of course he would have been forced to bring you in for questioning. Once you had an alibi, he could let you go."

"That cabbie deserved to die; he was trying to kill you. And you were going to let him!" yelled John furiously, to hide his hurt.

Sherlock hunched into a smaller ball, the better to avoid the truth about that damned pill. "And when you take your leave, don't forget your handgun. Mrs. Hudson has it safely tucked away, since I knew you wouldn't have taken even the most rudimentary precautions..."

"Bloody hell, you know what? In combat they generally don't arrest you for shooting the bad guys!" barked Captain John Watson.

"Oh," said Sherlock, verbally pouncing with glee, "but you didn't always follow the rules, did you, John. Hence the reprimands."

"How the hell…you don't really know, do you? You're fishing. You don't have a clue what any of them were for, do you?" said Captain Watson, standing at parade rest, even though his opponent faced the back of the sofa. "I'll tell you this much, Mr. Genius, it wasn't for killing innocent people. In fact one reprimand was for not killing innocent people, in spite of my orders. So there, Mr. Bloody Know It All," John marched over to the door. "And I'll be sure to thank Mrs. Hudson for helping me."

"She only helped you after I instructed her," said Sherlock petulantly to the cushions.

The blond soldier pivoted and marched back to confront the talking lump on the settee. The silk robe slid down his shoulder again. He impatiently pushed it back up.

"Yeah, about those instructions. Was it your idea to have me arrested while I was showering? What was that? Was that supposed to be funny?" demanded John furiously.

"Nooo," sighed Sherlock, turning around just in time to see the blue silk robe slither off John's shoulder again. It gave the detective goose bumps. "Obviously, the police were intended to discover you relaxed and at home in my flat, actually our flat, which would make it seem unlikely that you were out shooting cabbies."

Unable to resist flaunting his own cleverness, Sherlock continued, "I asked Mrs. Hudson to get your clothes washed removing any evidence that might potentially link you to the crime scene. Most importantly I instructed her to secure the gun. Then she was to have you wash up, again removing any evidence, especially the tell-tale gunpowder. I assumed that you would either wear my dressing gown or help yourself to some of my clothes. Lestrade would find you comfortably ensconced here, with Mrs. Hudson as a credible witness. The plan worked, for the most part. Lestrade can publicly accept your credible alibi, and you avoid further police entanglements."

"Well," asked the former soldier, "if ya knew I was going to be in the shower, why the hell, did ya bring Lestrade and Donovan here so soon?".

"Lestrade refused to stop at St. Bart's as I requested," said Sherlock, his voice tinged with mock sorrow. "I tried to lead the police up to the third floor bedroom to give you extra time. As usual, Sally Donovan was overly suspicious and clearly has a dirty mind. She went straight for the lavatory."

"So you didn't actually plan to have me publically humiliated in front of…"

"Good God!" yelled Sherlock, "No. NO and NO! Why would I try to humiliate you? And what in God's name did you have to be embarrassed about anyway?"

"I was starkers! And you thought I looked stupid! You made jokes about me…it..." John pursed his lips and tried to breathe through his nose. Then finally, with a high-pitched shout, he spat it out. "You made jokes about my cock!" Fuck, and didn't that sound mature. Fuck.

Oh.

Perhaps that explains the little blond's techiness, thought the consulting detective. Perhaps there was hope?

"John Watson you're an idiot," said Sherlock calmly, as he sat up like a jack-in-the-box. "I wasn't mocking you. My goal was to distract Lestrade and Donovan, who were both blatantly staring at you. How could you think that I thought you looked stupid? On the contrary, I thought you looked magnificent. Frankly, I wanted nothing more than to ravage you right there and then. And now I find out that you have chosen to deny your bisexuality, no doubt because you're ashamed of me."

John leaned forward. His tightly clenched fists hidden in the lengthy sleeves, which was just as well, thought John bitterly, since naturally, his left hand had been trembling for quite a while now.

"Look, I am not ashamed of you or myself," said John, his voice as tight as his fists. "I never said that I was ashamed. So don't start giving me that mediocre middleclass hetero-wanna-be bourgeois bull crap again." Time to tell the truth. Time to be Bogart.

It was time for the breakup. John had rehearsed this all night."I can't live here and I can't date you and I can't be gay," said John. He was going to do this for Sherlock. He'd be strong, just like Bogart, in Casablanca. "If we keep seeing each other, you'll regret it. Maybe you won't regret it today, and maybe not tomorrow…

It was here, the rejection. Hopeless, Sherlock was numb, too numb to even listen at first. Every single person, even Sherlock's family, hates him, fears him, is disgusted with the freak, the sociopath…

"…and then that bloody madman Jim will come after you," continued John, "I can't take that chance Sherlock. I won't risk you getting hurt. That psycho-demon from hell, Moriarty, already threatened Sven…

I am a freak, thought Sherlock bleakly. Even John thinks so. Who cares about Moriarty? Everyone rejects me…Wait Moriarty? Jim Moriarty? John won't stay because of Moriarty?

"…no, really, you are the most amazing man, the most brilliant person I have ever me," said John. "I've never felt like this about any one. And I never will again. But this is what I have to do, what we have to do. And just remember, Sherlock, we'll always have Paris," said John, leaning in close. His dark eyes (the color of Prussian blue (Fe7(CN)18) looked deeply into Sherlock's eyes.

"What, John?" asked the consulting detective, running his hand vigorously through his hair, as though to stir up his brain. His brilliant mind began racing. Of course it was too dangerous for John to have another boyfriend right now. I should have thought of that myself; I'm an idiot! We'll just have to work around it. But Paris, how does Paris enter into it? "Paris, John, Paris?"

"Bloody hell," snapped John, standing up straight. He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. Fucking smooth, Watson! "I didn't mean Paris, I," John licked his lips and blushed brilliantly, "I meant The Savoy. Yeah, I meant, we'll always have The Savoy," said John, going for the hard-bitten, Bogey approach, despite his crimson face.

Sherlock had already formulated his solution. He looked at John through hooded, narrowed eyes, "John, you aren't making any sense."

"Well it makes sense when Bogey says it," protested John.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side to study the blushing blond in dishabille. From anyone else, this babbling about Paris and bogies would be irritating. From the blond soldier, who did not think Sherlock was a freak, it was endearing, especially in his blushing dishabille. John, who thought Sherlock was amazing, smiled but his eyes were sad; they gleamed with unshed tears.

John, who did not want to reject Sherlock after all, had completed his heartfelt, albeit incomprehensible, goodbye. He was leaning down again. He intended to kiss Sherlock farewell, right in front of Mycroft's cameras. The very cameras that Moriarty hacked into. With horror, Sherlock realized that John would soon be as good as dead.

The manic detective pushed past John and waved his arm dramatically. "Very well Doctor Watson, since you insist, you may take the second bedroom upstairs."

Confused and with his brow deeply furrowed, John Watson opened his mouth to protest.

"Shut up, John!" said the crazy detective. "I'm too tired to argue with you any further. You insist on claiming half of this flatshare. Very well. We shall be flatmates." The confused blond tried again to speak and received a very painful kick in his shin. Now, his eyes narrowed.

"But remember this John Watson, I don't have friends," Sherlock paced the flat like a captive tornado, clearly displaying this argument with John for the cameras. He had to watch what he said, the microphones should have been removed, but there was no guarantee that they hadn't been replaced. And up until now, he had been very remiss in allowing open conversation.

"We shall be flatmates, I say," continued Sherlock, "and I will also accept your offer to work as my assistant, with a very generous salary, of course. But we shall never be friends. Sentiment is for the losing side. I shall not change my lifestyle for you. Now enough of this nonsense. Off you go."

John stood rooted to the spot, his mouth opened and then closed. He frowned at the madman in front of him, then gave his head a little shake to clear it.

"Go to bed, Doctor Watson!" ordered the genius. "Your scowls are putting me off. I believe that I shall play the violin."

"But…" John began, then, displaying the reflexes honed by years of military service, he skipped out of the demented detective's reach, avoiding another bruising kick from his new flatmate, who was evidently not his friend. "Look Sherlock I have no idea what you're on about now…"

"Of course you don't understand, you have the brain of a pigeon," exclaimed the tall, lunatic. "Bedroom. Upstairs. Now!"

John started; he almost obeyed the direct order. With clenched teeth, he forced himself to stand his ground. Of course, John thought, it would be awkward trying to leave at this hour of the night or more likely, the morning. His clothes were in Mrs. Hudson's flat, and he hated to wake her. Perhaps, he could follow Sherlock's request with his pride intact.

"I would like a drink of water," said Doctor Watson, mustering his dignity.

"NO! Upstairs!" ordered the handsome but unstable genius. His crazed, steely-blue eyes bored holes into John's brain. Oh God, he's probably a demon too, thought John.

John turned to make his escape down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat, but the sexy mind-reading devil, in a dark bespoke suit, cut him off. John turned tail and fled up the stairs to the small, rather bare, third floor bedroom. The soldier slammed the door behind him and searched in vain for a lock.

A/N

Thank you for reading this fic. (Please let me know if I've gotten sloppy/confusing with the changing POV's. It looked okay to me, but then it all came out of my head in the first place so, I don't always see the problem.)

I am sorry for the persistent delays in responding to your reviews. I read and treasure each and everyone of them, but I have problems with the Internet on weekends and even sometimes on weekday evenings. Enough with the excuses! I promise to try harder to respond to your lovely comments, news, suggestions and questions.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed Chapter 16-Johnlocked86, Wicked Winter, SamuelE8688, Lady Laran, EJ 12212012, adrichan, JustCallMeMarly, Kyuubigurl74, Quiet Time, dana-san, DarkDAmson, anyrei1, AiLoveS, power0girl,InuChimera7410 and Nevyn(Chapters 2-13)

Oh yeah, I hope to update before the weekend with it's blasted Internet curfew!

Disclaimer I don't own anything Sherlock because if I did John Watson would not have any mustache at any time in season 3 (unless Sherlock got to shave it off. Heh, heh, heh!)