I open my eyes. Ugh, it's morning. I look beside me. The bed is empty. I stumble out of the bedroom. Without anyone telling me, I know John is gone. An unexplained panic overcomes me. I run out the front door, heedless that I am in my robe. Barefoot I run towards the sound of running water. There is a small stream. I make my way down the embankment, slipping and sliding through algae covered reeds. Plop, I fall down into a pile of muck. I am covered in mud and green slim. I don't even attempt to get up. I just lie there. I want to cry, but I can't. So, I just curl up, making no attempt to right myself.

I must have fallen asleep for I open my eyes. I hear someone calling my name.

"Sherlock, SHERLOCK," it's John's voice.

I don't move. I hear him splashing through the muck to rescue me. Without a thought about his own comfort, John throws himself beside me. He rolls me over. "Sherlock, Sherlock, please be alright."

I open my eyes. I lay in his arms. The look on his face is enough to burn the heart out of the most stalwart individual. John has left himself open. For it is obvious that my death would destroy him. His eyes are swollen. He has been crying on and off for about 6 hours. For that is how long it would take for the skin under his eyes to appear, red and puffy. John extends his hand towards me and pulls me out of the primeval looking ooze.

There is a suction noise as my body breaks free of the mud. John steadies me as my legs adjust to walking. Like soldiers escaping from a horrific battle, we trudge back to the house. Once inside John leads me to the bathroom.

"Get, those clothes off. You'll be lucky if you don't get pneumonia," John snaps as my dirty robe hits the ground. Without a sound John guides me to the tub, hooks on a hose attachment and sprays me off like an errant dog that has rolled in dirt. "Sit on the edge of the tub, while I wash your hair," John orders.

I do as he says. Chill bumps cover my body as his hands work their way through my hair. Once I am clean he helps me out of the tub and hands me a towel. His eyes move to the marks on my neck. The marks are from his teeth scraping against my skin during his drug induced state from the previous evening. I wish that you had scarred me, John, that way the marks would be with me forever. Your eyes next travel to my right pectoral muscle where you bit into me. I long for you to touch the sensitive tips of my breasts. They begin to harden as the idea runs through my mind like an out of control forest fire. "Touch me, John, please," I think.

I can tell you've noticed their hardness. For you take a deep breath and throw another towel at me. "Cover up," you snap, your voice hard and tremulous at the same time.

I reach out to you. "John," I whisper.

You glare at me as you say, "Sherlock, enough."

I hang my head, for I have indeed lost this game. "John, I'm sorry," I say.

You nod. "Fine, Sherlock I'm sorry too, for you know…" He says as he gestured towards the marks on my body.

He doesn't know that I dread the day that they will heal and fade. "It's okay," I reply.

An awkward silence overtakes the room and threatens to swallow us up. I surrender to it. You do not. "Sherlock, I know you're curious and so I forgive you. Just don't…don't ever do that again."

I stare down at the bathroom tiles. "So, I was repulsive then?"

You looked shocked. "Sherlock, the torment doesn't stop with you does it? What do you want me to say?"

We are at a bridge. I want to cross it, but I don't know how. I hang my head in cowardice.

"Sherlock, I haven't come to grips with what happened last night. I've experimented before but never…never… have I…"

I don't know how to save you. So, as usual I say the wrong thing. "John, relax it was just for science. I was bored. It meant nothing to me. So, why should it bother you? It doesn't bother you does it?"

The stricken look on your face tells me that I have said the wrong thing yet again.

"Fine, yes. I'm having Mycroft give me a lift to a colleague's house. Your treatment plan is finished." John looks at me for a second time and then looks down.

I reach out and take your arm. You turn around, your eyes are wide, scared. "Sherlock?"

"I just want to say that…that well I need to…umm." My words tumble from my mouth like a bumbling idiot.

"Sherlock, I care for you more than you could ever know. But I don't know how to…how to love you anymore than you do me. Let's just leave it at that shall we?"

I nod mutely. I listen to your footsteps as they retreat away from me. Your limp is more pronounced, you must be upset-stressed. I stay in the bathroom until you leave. I then run upstairs so that I can watch the limo drive away. You get into the limo. You don't look up. But I know you know that I am watching you. Your back tightens and you turn away from me at a 45 degree angle. Then you are gone, speeding away from me.

I stand there at the window alone. I stand there for an hour and twenty minutes, until Mycroft comes for me.

"Sherlock, come away from the window. Get dressed and quit feeling sorry for yourself, brother dear."

"I'm not feeling sorry for myself. John has just left me when I needed him the most," I snap at him in anger.

Mycroft laughs. "For someone who is so intelligent, you can be incredibly stupid. Sherlock, when you died in John's arms I have never seen such devastation in an individual's face. It would break my heart if something were to befall you, brother dear. John, on the other hand would die slowly inside. Take care dear brother; his heart is in your hands."

"He still left," I say as I pout.

Mycroft sighs. "He will come back to Baker Street. However, brother dear I wouldn't take him for granted. There is only so much the human heart can take."

"He doesn't want me." The words come out of my voice like a curse.

Mycroft throws back his head and laughs again. "Sherlock, though he may not say it, John wants you. But then I forget how would you know about matters of the heart?"

In that moment I hate Mycroft, for I know nothing about the human heart other than its physical attributes. The average male heart is 300 grams.