Diclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, Moffat, blah, blah.

"I can't Sherlock, I can't. You will have to leave, I'm sorry...Sherlock?"

A bunch of curls collided with the floor and a pair of icy-blue eyes closed abruptly, not wanting to let the traitorous sunlight into his eyes as of yet. Or ever again.

This was l'enfer, hell on earth. Why didn't John see how much this hurt?

But Sherlock wasn't given much time to complete his thought process; his exhausted mind swiftly fell into a deep slumber, so that he couldn't feel the strong arms that now guided him back to bed again.


One blanket later John found himself at Sherlock's bedside, staring at said face. Strangely enough it felt kind of good to be here, in a completely non- creepy way of course. He had never thought that to watch someone sleeping could provide any sort of pleasure, but here he was. Staring at his flatmate's face as if he was an angel.

But Sherlock's face truly had something angelic, especially in this position. Whilst sleeping Sherlock looked so peaceful, so at ease with the world.

Sherlock should by all means sleep a lot more, that was sure. The man sometimes went for centuries without sleep; the last days a good example for that.

Phew, he should get his mind off of things a bit; this was all a bit heavy. He had never seen Sherlock be so emotional for his entire life and it scared him to bits. This was not the Sherlock he knew, but it was kind of interesting what emotions did to the poor man. Almost like an experiment for Sherlock.

But John did worry about Sherlock, more than enough. He had not expected for Sherlock to ever fall in love, who did? And that especially with him? The normal, ordinary John Watson. Sherlock's pet and loyal blogger.

Good lord gracious, this was too much. He should be leaving now.

So, off to the pub? The pub it was!


What was it always with the blankets? There always was one: either for shock, for illness or the simple sheet for a normal day out. Sherlock had become a trend-setter.

But what was rather the question was why did Sherlock have a blanket wrapped around him right now? And why was there a tea? For him? He was by no means worthy of tea; he did not deserve it unlike John.

John. Had it been him? If he wasn't completely covered up in a blanket, he would slap himself right now. Naturally it had been John. Who else cared for Sherlock anyway? And who else would be able to do it without the relatively high chance of certain death? Let's just skip the relatively high chance. Without dying in an instant?

But where was John? Had he just vanished? The simplest solution would be that he was out to get his nerves intact. John had strong nerves, but sometimes even patience itself had an outbreak.

Yes, that was most likely. Maybe he was in the pub?

Sherlock now tried to rid himself of the tons of blankets that seemed to be glued to his torso, only to trip over it again afterwards. It was so alike a slap-stick film; there would probably be a banana soon.

In his mingle he had overseen one important fact; there was a note lying under his cuppa in the neat but yet hasty hand-writing of no one else but John Watson.

Am gone to the pub with Greg, won't be home tonight. Soup is in the fridge; if you need anything just give me a call- John

John Watson, ever the predictable. Ever the loyal. Ever the heterosexual.

Oh god, why did his brain have to keep doing that? It was insufferable. No, John was not gay. And he would most likely never be. He felt a little pang at his heart.

Stop it, stop, stop, STOP! God, he hated his brain. Well, what was there to love? He had more than once been laughed at for his deductions, had never been one for sentiment until now. He had never been normal, complete, human. After all what was he?

The fake, the alien, the freak. Lord, what nickname didn't he possess?

He really had to bring this to an end, this was no good. Maybe he should follow John's example and get his mind cleared a bit as well? He had to leave eventually in any case. Had to leave this wretched place.

Perhaps he could go to the Cotswolds to one of the Holmes's manors; this one had always been a favourite of his. The only thing that disturbed you there were the sheep, nothing else.

It had been a while since he had last been there and maybe, just maybe it would do him good.

Why hadn't this idea crossed his mind before? It was brilliant.

John didn't have to notice that he was leaving, perhaps he could just smuggle himself out of the house, unnoticed like a shadow. He had had enough practice for that anyhow, the time during Reichenbach had not been completely without a sense.

So, Cotswolds then. Interesting choice.

He left the flat after a few hours of packing, leaving only a note as a sign that he had ever inhabited this flat. It felt so wrong. All so very, very wrong. But what was there to do? John did not love him, this was his only possibility to stay sane. Well, as sane as he ever could be.

The only thing that separated him from the cabbie now was the wet pavement and he wished it would just vanish. He was not ready to go, not yet.

Goodbye John, I don't know when I will see you again. Or if I ever will.


The door flew open and lead the way into the already welcoming and warm pub. So unlike Sherlock.

John took a look around, wanting for the feeling to seep in. Normally it made him feel more whole and less like the drunken idiot he was, but today everything reminded him of the detective. It just felt so wrong to be here and not with his little burden. Well maybe a burden, but a nice one. One that needed him.

Lord, he was here to enjoy his evening wasn't he? So, let´s-

What if something happened to Sherlock? He was not his proper self at the moment, anything could happen. Anything at all. Think about it John, your flatmate. In a dark alley. Half-dead. Blood . Everywhere. Dead.

God, stop it! He understood Sherlock now; a brain could be a right-out millstone. Wasn't there anything to occupy his mind with?

And in that exact split second he caught the sight of Greg. What a relief. A second more of this and he would've gone more nuts than he already was.

He let out a deep breath before rashly walking through the swarm of people, fighting his way through to Gregory. This club's popularity seemed to increase by the minute.

When he finally reached the cheerful man at least a tiny bit of the tension was blown from his frame and he started to relax, if only a little. Greg had at all times a calming and happy air about him and John was glad for it more than once, this being said occurrence.

"Hey." John said, too exhausted to initiate a conversation. This whole affair had been tiring him to no end.

"Hello John. " He said with positive surprise written all over his face. "How's your day going so far?"

"Well... it's okay. Not really my day."

"Oh. Has something happened? Trouble in paradise?" Lestrade assumed with his facial expression caught up in something between amusement and concern.

"Trouble in par-? Greg, we're still not a pair. And I'm not gay! How often do I need to repeat that?"

"Until you don't believe it yourself anymore."

"That's going to take an eternity then." John said, but for a completely unknown reason (*cough*-*cough*) he didn't feel as sure as he had done beforehand. It felt like lying.

"Anyway you want it soldier." Greg said trying to overshadow the awkwardness that had just ensued. "Let me introduce you to my date."

His date? John did not see her anywhere.

"Robin, come here!" he said, looking in the direction of a pretty woman who was chatting comfortably with another guy.

"Yes?" exclaimed a voice that sounded dangerously masculine. Was Greg gay?

"I proudly present my date, Robin." Greg said smugly.

"Date? Really Gregory?" said the dangerously masculine voice, whose owner was proved to be as manly as Chuck Norris. Fuck.

"Wouldn't boyfriend be a better term?" Robin said, afterwards smiled and continued smiling into their kiss.

This was the proof, Greg was a poofter. No denying that now. God, where had he ended up?

John turned his attention from the still passionately kissing pair onto the lady Robin had been chatting up. And damn, she was beautiful. One could say that this was the most beautiful lady he had ever seen in the entirety of his life. Good god!

He slowly began shuffling closer awkwardly, but then composed himself. If he was going to seek her attention, he would do it as a real man would. He wasn't a coward.

"Hello, I'm a good,old friend of Robin's, saw you standing here all alone and wanted to ask you whether I could give you some of my company?" John said being all gentlemen-like, but a tad bit clumsy.

"You don't know Robin at all, do you? You're just saying all of this to chat me up, hmm?" she said with a smile hidden behind her eyes.

"Yes. Could be." He was beginning to like this woman. A lot. Witty she was.

"I like honesty in a man. " She said and chuckled slightly. "Your name?"

"Oh, John Watson. And you?" he said, hoping he had not looked too much like a love-sick teenager.

"Mary, Mary Morstan."

Author's notes: Oh my god! Will Mary destroy it all?

I don't really know much about the Cotswolds, my mind just gives me the image of wet and many sheep all the time. Sorry if this is wrong!

You don't know how much fun it was writing this, especially because this chapter is a lot bigger than the last ones. I didn't have much time writing them, so I now feel relieved to be able to be more productive again.

You may have already noticed that I am rubbish at making up chapter names, sorry! I am who I am.

Thank you for your support! I love you all!

-me (sorry, I'm lazy)