So far, so very not good. I do have endless fun playing with everyone's emotions, though I blame Moffat and Gatiss for that influence XD.

(I think you were all probably wondering if this would ever see the light of day, again I can only apologise as my life isn't letting me have free time at the moment.)

I have successfully converted my boyfriend to the BBC 'Sherlock' series, which, I think you'll find, isn't actually a very hard task in hindsight.

…

'You bastard.' John said coldly.

Sherlock released his grip on the door handle. He didn't even need to look at John to deduce that he was livid, nor did he even need to think to know what had made him so. He turned slowly to face John and saw the man hunched over on the edge of the sofa, ashen faced.

'Is this about Markin? I was getting round to that.' Sherlock said softly. He meant it in a candid tone, but it came out wrong, if John's hard expression as anything to go by.

'You…absolute…bastard.' John hissed lowly, rising to his feet. Sherlock stood his ground, adopting a passive aggressive stance.

'John, it's okay-' He began, raising his hand gently.

'DON'T!' John roared, his fists curled by his sides, his whole body tense. Sherlock stopped in his tracks, hand still hovering in the air.

'It is NOT okay.' John panted, pacing in front of the sofa in short flat strides, 'Whatever it is, it isn't "okay". Were you even planning to tell me? In that great, oh-so-superior brain of yours, did the thought of enlightening me about Markin ever float to the surface?'

Sherlock inwardly flinched at John's derisive, acidic tone, though he wasn't surprised. John was much more volatile when it came to emotions than he, and Sherlock had seen the smaller man explode like this on several occasions. It had sometimes been directed at him, though it had never contained such directed anger before.

'Just calm-'

'Don't tell me to calm down. Don't you dare….Don't you dare Sherlock Holmes!'

Sherlock lowered his hand. John continued to stare accusingly at him, his jumper clad chest rising and falling with his breathing.

'Well?' John spat. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, his face set in a cold mask.

'Well what?' He threw back, his own fingers clenching.

'Why didn't you tell me?' John's own eyebrows travelled up his forehead, his voice had an almost hysterical pitch. Sherlock, in truth, hadn't told John because he had thought it was information John didn't really need to deal with on top of their current situation with Moriarty. In his mind, it was for the best, why did John feel Sherlock had done him wrong? He was only trying to protect him after all.

'Did you know when we went to the Arches?' John continued.

'Yes.' Sherlock answered bluntly. 'But-'

'What? Too trivial for you to care?'

'No. Just listen-'

'Did you think I was too stupid to handle it?'

'Of course not. But-'

'Well then you better explain.' John snorted 'Because I, for one, don't understand.'

'If you let. Me. FINISH!' Sherlock shouted, feeling his pulse rise. Well that certainly wasn't going to help matters, if he got too emotional, all rational argument would just descent into childish 'yah boo sucks' jibes. He forcibly steadied his breathing, and continued.

'Markin was killed the day you got home from hospital. The killer then stored the body somewhere until he thought it funny to shove it in your wardrobe as a nasty reminder of what happened to you.'

John's face clouded as this sunk in, Sherlock felt a twinge of pity, but quickly felt it smothered by a sort of weird anger that John really couldn't see it, John was an idiot. His temper flared ever so slightly as John's mouth sagged open. God, didn't anything sink into John's thick skull? Had nothing Sherlock ever tried to install in his brain stuck?

'The killer? But-'

'Oh well done.' Sherlock injected sarcastically, 'Finally, he gets it. Yes, Moriarty killed Terry Markin, yes he must have been involved with the kidnap, and yes, I knew about it but I didn't tell you because I didn't think you wanted to have to deal with that on top of everything else.' The last bit came out as more of a hurried babbling than the calm tone he wanted it to be. Thinking that maybe John had mellowed out a bit, Sherlock took a few steps closer. John didn't move away. Sherlock studiously ignored John's shaking fingers. He opened his mouth to elaborate further when John's gaze dropped to the floor. He had to press on. He had to make John understand.

'Look at it this way, Moriarty's made himself a nuisance to you too many times before. I didn't…I thought it'd be easier for you if he wasn't involved with Markin's body. I, thought I was-'

'You thought you were being noble. Shielding poor old John Watson from anything bad.' John laughed derisively, shaking his head in disbelief. He stepped backwards out of Sherlock's reach, a mirthless smile playing across his face. 'Was it fun for you? Keeping me in the dark while you played Mr Enigmatic? I bet it was a right laugh for you, watching me be confused.'

'John that's not-'

'No. Enough.' John barked, raising his own hand. 'I'm tired of feeling stupid so you can astound me with information that you already knew. I'm tired of being the last to know.'

'How is this any different from you keeping Sculptor from me?' Sherlock snapped back, abandoning any pretence at being calm now. Now, he was angry. He wasn't sure why, but he felt a hot, almost savage triumph when John froze.

'That's not…that's different…' John stammered, blinking rapidly. 'I was trying to protect you.'

A cruel, harsh laugh escaped Sherlock's mouth before he could stop it. 'Protect me? From what?'

Stop it. His brain warned, you're bad at these social things. Stop before you go too far.

John's face tightened almost imperceptibly at Sherlock's response. But Sherlock just couldn't let it go. Really, what was the difference? Why was it that John was acting on best intentions but Sherlock was being malicious? It just didn't make sense. He found he was no longer interested in sparing John's feelings; he could deal with that later. All that mattered now was that he was right.

'In what way do you think you were protecting me? How weak are you that hiding things make it all go away in your stupid bloody head?'

How weak. How worthless.

John didn't respond, but something in the way his shoulders sagged told Sherlock he had, indeed, gone too far. Sherlock inwardly winced at John's dead expression, like the doctor had just broken.

Oh God. Say something. Get mad at me John. I'm sorry. Don't just stand there. Say something!

John stayed silent, the word 'weak' hanging in the air like an invisible fog between them. For a long, agonising second Sherlock's mouth opened and closed of its own accord, unsure of how to retract the insult. He waited for an outburst from the man opposite him, waited for a punch, a shout, anything please…

'Fine.' John said softly, in a voice almost flat with resignation. 'I'll get outta your hair then.'

'What?'

John refused to elaborate further, he simply walked with a stiffness Sherlock had rarely seen towards what had once been his bedroom but was now just storage. Sherlock stood there, wanting to follow but he didn't dare. Silence filled the flat, oppressive and cold. Tentatively, Sherlock crossed the flat to the doorway of the storage room.

John was shoving an array of clothing into a black sports bag, viciously punching the fabric into it before starting on another. Sherlock stood in the doorway, watching with a thrill of dread.

'What are you doing?' He enquired.

'What does it look like detective? You don't want someone weak like me dragging you down. I'm leaving for a bit.'

Sherlock swallowed, his throat dry, 'When will you be back?'

His insides clenched, what if John decided not to come back?

Of course he'll be back. He has to. You'll die without him, you know it.

John met his eyes briefly before dropping his gaze again. 'I don't know yet.'

Sherlock felt a surge of relief, hot and sickening in his stomach. So there was a possibility John wasn't, you know, leaving leaving. Still, if there was a chance to reconcile with him now, Sherlock certainly wasn't going to let it pass.

'John I-'

'Save it. You've said what you needed to say.'

'No. Please…'

John looked up expectantly. Sherlock couldn't help but feel glad that John was the worst actor in the world; Sherlock couldn't have read John's emotions easier even John had drawn him a picture. John didn't want to leave, not really…but Sherlock had hurt him, which was clear. Sherlock faintly remembered John's fear in the hospital that he would be too slow and too weak for Sherlock to stand. Sherlock had, however accidently, confirmed John's worst nightmare. He felt he should apologise, say it was just a slip of the tongue. It hurt the back of his head to realise that he, for once in his life, truly had nothing to say.

John zipped the bag shut. He seemed unwilling to look at Sherlock, as if scared his resolution would waver. Sherlock felt his palms go clammy, the sweat greasing the skin. Interesting. Even his hands were showing signs of agitation.

'It's fine.' John said shakily, 'I get it.' He made to swing the bag onto his shoulder, grimacing as the strap grazed the old wounds.

Sherlock shook his head. 'Don't go. Please. I'm- I'm sorry.'

John's arm stopped mid-swing. His head snapped up, his eyes seemed torn between shock, wonder and stark disbelief.

'What did you say?' He asked, voice wavering. Sherlock's knotted fingers were wound so tight Sherlock genuinely believed he may have to break them to untangle them again. He forced his dry mouth to work, shaping his tongue around alien words.

'I'm sorry.' He repeated. John arched an eyebrow sceptically.

'You never say 'sorry'.' Sherlock thought he detected a hint of dry humour in John's voice. Best not to push it though, he could be wrong.

'Don't go John.'

John hesitated, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Sherlock forced calm breaths through his nose, as he had in fact forgotten to breathe properly for a second or so.

'Sherlock I'm not sure-'He began, striding forward. Sherlock desperately blocked his way.

'No! I won't let you. I can't face this alone with you. You know I can't.' Sherlock pleaded. He inwardly cringed at the pathetic tone in his own voice. John raised his gaze to meet his. Sherlock wasn't sure what he saw in the one eyed stare. Hurt? Forgiveness? Resignation?

'Of course you can.' John replied simply. Sherlock shook his head. He was right, facing Moriarty without John was suicide, he needed someone to rely on, and John filled that need like nobody else he knew. John was like a rock, a foundation stone for everything he saw as vital, like a chain keeping him to reality.

Sherlock would have rather had his teeth pulled out than actually admitting this; instead he opted for silently pleading with his eyes. John seemed on the point of refusing, his mouth setting in a harsh thin line. It was there only a moment before his features melted into a sad little smile.

'What're you doing?' Sherlock asked stupidly as John turned from him and placed his bag on the floor.

'What does it look like genius?' John smirked back. Sherlock's brain, usually so keen and sharp, was a little slow on the uptake.

'You're—you're staying?' He spluttered, hardly daring to believe the worst was over. John looked at him with a of course you idiot look on his face. Sherlock let out a ragged breath, leaning against the doorframe. John raised his eyebrows and held up his arms.

Sherlock was confused. What was that supposed to signify? He was on the verge of questioning further when John rolled his eyes and walked over to Sherlock.

'Come here idiot.' He murmured, wrapping his arms around the detective in a tight hug.

Shutupshutupshutupdon'teventrytoquestionthis Sherlock's brain spluttered rapidly. He reached his arms around to place them on John's back, the jumper's itchy material scratching at his fingers. They stood for a moment, silent and unmoving, and then John pulled away, much to Sherlock's reluctance.

'You're not worthless.' Sherlock muttered, 'I really am sorry.'

'Shut up.' John smirked 'Don't spoil it.'

'Right.'

….

The guard's breath rushed out in one ragged gasp, blood spraying everywhere. Then, as swiftly as the horrible gurgling began, the man dropped to the floor, dead eyes lolling into his head.

Jim wrinkled his nose in disgust, carefully stepping around the mess. 'Couldn't you have been a little more delicate? Suits aren't cheap you know.'

Sculptor shrugged and wiped his scalpel between his thumb and forefinger. 'We don't have time for art and being careful. It's only a matter of minutes before those fatheads discover something's not right.'

Jim inclined his head, as if to say that he really couldn't care less. They could go on looking all day, but Sculptor and he would be long gone before they even found the guard with his throat slit. Sculptor tutted, like a babysitter trying to rein in a wayward child.

'Oh stop moping. Sebastian'll be back in a few months.'

Jim's eyes narrowed behind Sculptor's back, his fingers itching to throttle something. Sebastian would have at least tortured the guy a little bit first, get some information and the like. It annoyed him having to hack and slash their way without at least pretence at subtlety. His hand tightened its grip on the suitcase handle, relishing in the potential destruction he was carrying.

It was odd, he had to admit, being torn between wanting to cause chaos and hoping Sherlock Holmes would be clever enough to avert it in time. It was like a deadly game of chess between the two. Jim would win. Jim would always win.

'You done?' he snapped, stalking towards where Sculptor pulled off a protective plate from the electrical system.

'All yours.'

Jim knelt down, swiftly releasing the lid of the briefcase. It was always thrilling, looking at a mess of brightly coloured wires and casings. Enough explosives to take down a building.

A power station for example.

Jim supressed a giggle as he pressed the device between the wires, the timer glaring red.

Sculptor tilted his head; the red casting a weird pallor on his skin, his eyes looked bloodshot. Jim guessed he didn't look much better either.

'Moriarty?'
'What?'

Sculptor's fingers clenched over his scalpel. 'When it comes down to it, it's you and Holmes. I understand that, I agreed to that.'

Jim nodded, 'What's your point?'
'What about his boyfriend?'

'Oh,' Jim said carelessly, waving his hand, 'He's all yours, have your fun there.'

Sculptor nodded and grinned. Jim spat out a bit of chewing gum into his hand and pressed it onto the edges of the gap. Taking up the plastic plate, he covered back over his little adjustments. The timer began to count down.

'Showtime.' Jim smiled.

…

Finally! This chapter is done! HUZZAH!
I will try to upload quicker next time, but no promises.
Next time: 'Isn't it obvious?' Sherlock spat 'He's made his first move. And if we don't respond, over two hundred people are dead!'