Here's a new little story that I've started with my friend, Petrichor1110. We're writing it together, so I hope you all enjoy it! It will be updated once a week just in case our schedules conflict.

We're both publishing this, so if you see it under both our names, it's planned that way. :) I hope you enjoy it! Reviews/comments welcome!

Also, we own nothing about Sherlock, we're just playing in this sandbox, and hope to leave it better than we found it!

Seeing John trussed up in a bomb vest created a crack, a problem in Sherlock's mind. Of course he was able to put on a brave face in front of Moriarty, but once he was gone, an unfamiliar feeling settled in his chest, right before he rushed to get the vest off his friend. That led to a general uncertainty and nervousness. They eventually get back to the apartment and Sherlock locks himself in his room for a little while, enough to talk himself out of seeking out the calming influence of drugs. When he comes back out, he's in just his shirt and pants with a robe over it, a few fresh nicotine patches on his arms. He goes immediately to his laptop, needing to settle his mind with a problem, a puzzle, some kind of research. Barely taking in where John is in the room, Sherlock only glances over at him a few times to make sure that he's there and that he's okay. Finding out that he cares for someone is unusual as well, and it's all got his Mind Palace all twisted.

Unfortunately it's not but a few minutes before he gets frustrated and shoves his laptop away, sitting back and steepling his fingers, elbows resting on top of the desk as he stares off into the distance, thinking and trying to fix what he sees as wrong with himself.

John fiddled with the remote, the television on mute, just switching from channel to channel. He seemed to be tied to Sherlock's movements, his sighs, his sly peeks. The nights events had them both high strung and out of sorts, both on the edge. Finally he settled between the news and what looked to be a wildlife documentary. He watched the news headlines flash by before going back to the exotic desert which only reminded him of the army. He sighed, knowing that eventually they would have to talk about what happened, but also knowing that now wasn't the time.

His mind seemed preoccupied with the thought of waking up to that vest strapped around his body, realizing he was trapped, the terror flooding his body as he realized there was no escape. When he was in the army, he nearly died more times than he could count and it was all he could do to beg God to let him live. This was different, this time the only thing he thought of was Sherlock. He wasn't even a side note. It was Sherlock's face, everywhere, and this time he was pleading, not for himself but for this man who he had only known a short time, but trusted with every fiber of his being.

Not finding any help from the wallpaper that he's been staring at, Sherlock gets up, stripping off his robe because while it may be a little dramatic, it's just getting in his way. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, the top button of his shirt undone which is normal of course. He feels the need to fill the silence but he has nothing to say, even opening his mouth once and shutting it, striding over to the window. One hand rubs over the patch on his arm, before it works its way up to his elbow where he rubs the crook for a few moments, staring out onto the street through the window which was at least repaired that day. He even flips through the pages of whatever violin piece he was last working on, before he crosses the room to the kitchen, starting to search through the cabinets for something which he of course doesn't feel the need to voice.

Deafening silence still fills the air as Sherlock searches, the clinking of glasses the only indication that he found something that he wanted. He pauses, going completely still for a moment before he pulls a bottle out of a cabinet, the scrape of metal across glass being heard before the clink of ice and the pouring of liquid, but still Sherlock remains silent. Which is not surprising, and he did warn John about that when they first met.

John could just see Sherlock out of his peripheral vision, moving around the kitchen gracefully (as he always did). He knew what he was doing, he knew Sherlock was looking for a distraction, and really he didn't mind, anything to keep him away from the drugs again. He only hoped that what ever he was doing, it didn't have anything to do with the toes in the freezer.

He smiled thinking about their first day and the eyeballs in the microwave, before shaking it off. He hated that kind of thing, so why was he smiling? John looked over as he felt Sherlock move behind him. He was an eerie presence, just lurking over his shoulder.

"Look, Sher..." He started before something hard and cold was shoved into his hand. "Is this alcohol?" John asked as he carefully eyed the liquid, sniffing it to see if he could identify what it was.

"As always, your powers of deduction astonish me, John." Sherlock says in his deadpan sarcasm, waiting until he takes it before he himself takes a drink of it. "It's Scotch. I don't usually drink, it clouds my mind. However, I believe you would disapprove of my other solution tonight." he says simply and casually, taking a rather large drink out of his glass for a moment, before he walks back over to the window. It's not something they've ever really discussed, Sherlock's past drug abuse, not something he's ever gone into detail with, but there is the knowledge - from that first case - that at some point Sherlock did do drugs. And knowing the detective, it was not some minor drug.

"You are not a man unused to alcohol, John. People tend to give others a drink to help calm their nerves after a traumatic event." The younger man says in his clinical, detached manner as he stares out at the street for another moment, drinking out of his tumbler before he puts it aside and reaches out to pick up his violin, plucking a few of the strings and tuning it almost absently.

John laughed under his breath, leaning forward to his elbows rested on his knees. He ran his free hand through his hair. "God. I could definitely use one right about now. "

John sipped at his scotch, before just deciding to down it, letting it burn inside his chest. he looked at his empty glass, swishing around the remaining unmelted ice cubes. "Sherlock, can we talk about what happened? " He asked, feeling a memory creep back in. He wanted to know how Sherlock was feeling, what he was feeling...if he was feeling the same thing that he was. He had no idea what this was, but yet he wanted to know if it was just him.

"Sherlock?"

Slowly and gently putting his violin aside, Sherlock downs the rest of the liquid in his glass before he walks to the kitchen and retrieves the bottle, filling John's glass and his own. "You were kidnapped and strapped to a bomb, John." He says bluntly as he looks at his friend. "And used against me. It seems that my brother was right, alone protects you." He says though he's not exactly sure what else the doctor is looking for, taking a smaller sip out of his glass this time but leaving John with the bottle before he goes to stand by the fireplace. In a little bit of OCD, he adjusts some of the things sitting on top, before he rests his tumbler on it.

"What else do you wish to talk about? Should we recount the entire evening in detail?" The detective asks, using his normal defenses to keep the emotions at bay, mainly his prickly attitude.

John's eyebrows pressed together, letting him think. "I, I just..." he said, tripping over his words. He took a deep breath and started again. "Your brother, while brilliant is an idiot. Alone does not protect you, it isolates you. It makes you cold, but I suppose that the way you want it, isn't it?

Sherlock looked puzzled, his face twisting. "You want to be left alone. So you use isolation as an excuse, to hate, to put yourself above everyone else. But you can't do that with me. You can't be holier than thou, because deep down you want to keep me here." John didn't want to make him angry, he just wanted an explanation, that's all.

His hand was shaking, trembling just like it used to. He took another sip of his scotch and placed it down on the coffee table. He smiled, half heartedly. "I just want to understand what you're feeling." He said, finally looking at the detective.

Taking another drink of the amber liquid, Sherlock glances at John. "You're wrong, John." he says as he looks into the fire. "I have not sought isolation in order to hate. It's a simple fact that compared to me, everyone else is an idiot." He says as he glances at John. "I have maintained isolation to protect myself. Emotions. They are messy, overwhelming. Isolation allows me to prevent the pain that inevitably comes with getting close to anyone." While his tone starts off soft, and even a little hurt, it grows until it's full of the kind of hate that comes from a person who has been hurt by others more times than you can count.

"The Work is all that matters, John." Sherlock says in a firm tone. "Unfortunately, you are right in one sense." He says reluctantly as he stares into the flames of the fireplace. "You have somehow become an integral part of the Work. I do want you here." He allows, turning his head just slightly to glance at John with his piercing blue-green eyes.

John couldn't believe his ears. "That's it, that's all, you don't have anything else?! I am an 'integral part of the work'? Is that all I am to you? You saved me, over and over. I'd like to think I did the same for you." He said, his voice raising word by word.

John could tell Sherlock was hurting and didn't understand what he was feeling, but he was in the same boat. He couldn't just brush this aside and act like nothing happened. This thing that was growing inside of him, was trying to force its way out, no matter how hard he tried to stuff it down.

John looked down at the floor. "Tonight when my life should have been flashing before my eyes, it wasn't. But you were. You were the only thought in my head when I thought my life was going to end. Please Sherlock, tell me what that means." He said quietly, so quite it could have been the wind, even though both had heard what had been said.

Sherlock doesn't move, staring into the fireplace for a moment. "You obviously are expecting something from me. This is your area of expertise, John, not mine." he says as he looks over at John, sounding almost reluctant to admit that. Which he likely is. His hand resting on the mantle tightens, the only outward sign of his frustration. With the added pressure that John is putting on him right now, drugs are looking like a better and better option.

Finally, he moves away, suddenly all energy and movement. "I don't know what it means!" He suddenly yells, running his hands through his hair. "I don't know!" He says in frustration and anger, because he doesn't like not knowing. "I told you before you're my friend, my only friend." He says in a voice that borders on yelling. "When you stepped out, there was a moment when I thought you were Moriarty. That you had betrayed me. Seeing you strapped to a bomb made me panic." He admits as he looks at John. "Me. You tell me, John. What does THAT mean?!" He demands as he looks at the older man, considering it for a few moments, looking at the door and seeming like a rabbit that is about to bolt.

John stood up finally looking at the tall brunette, wanting to see the desperation he could only hear. Sherlock was scared. Hell, so was he, but John had to be strong, he had to be the strong one here. He looked over Sherlock's long and deceptively sturdy frame, taking a deep breath as he did. "I think it means that we need to figure this out...together. Because whatever this is, what ever is happening here, it has both of us terrified." He said looking at the man he had grown to trust and care for.

"I know you're scared, but so am I. And honestly all I want to do right now is take you in my arms and get rid of whatever hurt or pain or whatever you don't want to feel. But that's just one more thing that scares the life outta me." He said as he wore his heart on his sleeve. Admitting everything he was feeling and had been feeling since the moment he fell into Sherlock's waiting arms at the pool.

He took another step towards Sherlock, and another, and another, until they were both standing at the fireplace, sharing the same breaths. The air was tensed and charged and John could only stand there, staring into Sherlock's deep eyes. He had never really noticed if they were green or blue, but now he could see clearly that they were both, shifting in the light of the evening.

With little humor to his tone, Sherlock laughs shortly as he looks over at John, staring down at him for a few moments with a small frown on his face. "I think we both discovered in Baskerville that terrified is not an emotion I deal well with." Looking away again, he seriously fights the urge to step back, to put more space between the two of them.

"I always knew you were more of a physical person. But I believe you have been quite adamant the last few months about not being gay." he points out with a challenging arch of his eyebrow before he looks away, still tense and seeming ready to bolt, his eyes darting around the room, taking in everything without his usual calm examination. Once again, his hand returns to his forearm where he rubs the inside of it a little, an absent-minded gesture that John probably hasn't seen before, because this is the most stress and emotion he's been under since he met John.

Still, Sherlock scoffs lightly and turns toward the fire completely, hands resting on the mantle, his lean frame highlighted and outlined by the flickering flames of the fire, the light silhouetting his body as it flashes through his white dress shirt. "You were a soldier, John. It seems unlikely that emotional duress would make you terrified." He observes, looking at John over his arm for a moment before he drops his head to stare down at the fire, hiding a little between his arms too.

John laughed, now feeling the stress in the room floating away. "Yes, but this isn't just emotional, Sherlock. This is you. This is our friendship we are talking about." He said as he shifted in place.

Yes, he had been quite sure he wasn't gay...until he had a bomb wrapped around him. That was what changed. He and probably been feeling this way for a long time, but he didn't want to admit it. He was not gay. Sherlock was his exception. In fact John was fairly sure Sherlock was everyone's exception. How could he not be? John stared at the stunning detective, his pale skin glowing in the light from the fire, his dark hair a shadow, and his bright eyes peeking out underneath.

God. Why had he never noticed how beautiful he was before. It was like a flood of bricks hit him instantly, a wall came breaking down, just leading to his further realization. He had feelings for his flatmate. John Watson was in lo...crushing on Sherlock Holmes. This was strange, unwelcome, and so far past the invisible line that he couldn't even see a spot to turn around.

"I once told you, normal people have people they like, people they dislike, friends, acquaintances, girlfriends, and boyfriends, ect...In your mind what category do I fall into?" He asked, suddenly a bit to self conscious. After a few moments of silence, John finally spoke up. "Sherlock? You still with me?"

This is something Sherlock is not even sure he understands, and so he stays silent for a few moments, only a small bob of his head showing that he's even still listening. He shifts, straightening and dropping his hands from the fireplace, looking over at John for a few moments as he tries to figure him out, deduce what he can about the doctor.

"I think we can safely say that you do not fall into people I dislike, or mere acquaintances." Sherlock says dryly as he looks the doctor over for a few moments again. "I don't spend time analyzing our relationship, John. Beyond the certainty that we are friends. You're my friend, my doctor. You're reliable, steady, protective. When you aren't storming out of the flat to spend the night at your girlfriend's." He does feel the need to bring Sarah into it, since he was over at her house not too long ago, but there is also perhaps a note of jealousy to his tone as he looks John over. He's never liked Sarah, never had any qualms about expressing that, either.

In one smooth movement, Sherlock turns away from John and takes a few long strides over to where he left the bottle of scotch, pouring more into each of their glasses before he presses the cold tumbler into John's hand once again.

"Well maybe it's time you start analyzing. "He said as he took a sip of the dark brown liquor. It was strong, but also deep and rich, making that feeling in his chest that much warmer. Its not like he was in love with Sarah, it's not like he really even liked her. At this point it was convenient. She was nice, but did he really want nice? Or did he want shocking, exciting, and death defying?

"Sherlock, you knew Sarah and I were doomed from the start, as I'm sure you also know it's not going to last much longer. Perhaps it's because of this, maybe it's just that we're incompatible, I really don't know. All I know is she's not you. No girl could ever be, they can't even compare! You are the standard now, you are the bar, and you set it high." He laughed.

It was true though. While none of his girlfriends had ever left miscellaneous body parts in the fridge or ever had such a dangerous profession, that's not what he liked about Sherlock. He liked that he was different, he liked that he wasn't afraid to say what he thought (even when it offend people), he liked that he played by his own rules.

And that is something you can always count on, Sherlock to play by his own rules. He does snort a little though as he takes a drink out of his own glass. "I never understood why you were interested in that woman." he says with distaste. "She is insufferably boring. And even more of an idiot than you." And perhaps he did try to sabotage things just a little and he probably was a little jealous of anyone monopolizing John's time.

The detective is starting to relax a little now though that there is a little more pressure and a bit more alcohol burning through his system. And he maybe does preen a little bit under John's scrutiny and that he says he sets the bar high. "Analyzing takes time." he points out as he swirls the liquid around in his glass for a moment, staring into the liquid.

"Well I'm not rushing you. You can have as much time as you need. But I will be waiting, I want to see where this goes." John said, eyeing the detective. Now that he realized how gorgeous Sherlock really was...he couldn't get enough. He had always known he was attractive, but only to other people, because John Watson was straight. Was.

John looked down at his glass, empty. How many was he up to? Three, four? He didn't know, every time he got low Sherlock would come back with another round. He had to be getting up there though.

"Sherlock... I want you to take your time but I need to know at least which way you're leaning. I need to know if we are on the same page."

John closed his eyes, hoping that he would respond positively, but really, Sherlock was unpredictable. John had no way of knowing how he would react or what he would say, or even if he agreed with what John was proposing.

Of course most of the time Sherlock has no idea what John is proposing, and the small army doctor is a perplexing puzzle that he's yet to figure out. "You have to stay, John." He says finally, not sure if that's the right thing to say or even if that's what the other man is looking for.

Sherlock has also had quite a few drinks and has less of a tolerance to alcohol than John does, which makes him a little more unpredictable of course. He reaches out, hesitating before he runs his long fingers through John's hair briefly, before he rests that same hand on the man's shoulder. "I don't understand your question, John. But you can't leave. I... would not do well if you left." He says with a small nod of his head, not knowing how else to vocalize it, so he just downs the rest of the liquid in his glass and drops his hand away, before he moves away from the doctor a little, out of arm's reach at least, his little lapse with the physical touch over it would seem. Then again, he's uncomfortable as much with admitting he didn't understand as he was with what he just did. Why did he just do that with John's hair? Sure, he's been curious about it, it always looks nice, and soft, and sort of feathery. He didn't realize until just now that he wanted to touch it. Still, it's going to seem really odd and might make things awkward, which just makes him frown into the remains of his ice.

John bent under the weight of Sherlock's hand, loving the feeling of his touch. "It's alright, I have no intentions of leaving. I couldn't leave you." He said, groaning at the loss of the touch.

He smiled up at the taller man, cursing him for taking his hand away. "Why did you do that? Why did you pull away?" He asked. "If we are going to do this, you're gonna have to open up a bit. " John said, closing the space between them. He reached his hand over, resting it at the top of his shirt collar, moving his hand down and undoing the first of the buttons. Not having his hand slapped away seemed like a good sign but seeing the look on Sherlock's face said otherwise. He look petrified.

Tonight is apparently a night for confusion and his brief lapse because of the alcohol does not cover what's happening now, but with his mind slowed, it allows his comprehension to be slowed enough that John gets in close to him before he can really process anything. And physical matters? No, that's a little too much for him tonight, after everything that's happened, everything they've managed to discuss. After being as still as a statue, he suddenly jerks back from John and he shakes his head. "No." Is all he says before he does what he's wanted to do all evening: bolts.

Without thinking much about it, his feet carry him to the door and he sweeps up his jacket and scarf, putting them on as he fairly well runs down the stairs and out into the cold night. He can't handle this, not everything together, it's too much. Too much for the nicotine to compensate for, too much for alcohol to dull. After nearly four years, he needs something stronger. Briefly, he glances up at one of the CCTV cameras that he knows Mycroft is likely monitoring, suddenly cutting down an alley, following routes he knows are not monitored to the man he knows is in a certain place every night. The one that will have his formula on hand. Why? Because it's good business, good profit. And if he doesn't, then he can always mix it himself. Takes a bit longer, but he needs it. Once an addict, always an addict, that's what they say, isn't it? When his phone buzzes in his pocket, he doesn't even look at it, not knowing who it is but he ignores it.

John will be disappointed. If he finds out. He doesn't have to find out, he convinces himself. There are bolt holes he can go to where John won't find him, he'll return back home tomorrow and he'll be fine, the doctor will never know, never has to know. And then maybe they can move forward, after Sherlock gets himself under control.

Sherlock, please come home. - JW

I didn't mean it. -JW

Sherlock, I'm sorry. -JW

He wanted to tell him to come home and he wanted to say he didn't mean it, but he couldn't. Because he knew Sherlock wouldn't come home, no matter how much he pleaded, and really he did mean mean what he was saying and doing. Though he understood why Sherlock was freaking out, this wasn't the right time for this. After the night they had, Moriarty, and all this on top of it, it made sense. Really he knew he should have slowed it down, Sherlock had little if no experience in this area. But this is what John was used to, getting drunk = having sex. Hell, he didn't even know if he was ready for that. Now that he thought about it, he should have been more responsible, especially when it came Sherlock. God, how could he have been so stupid. He had had quite a few stupid moments, but this one was at the top.

He wanted to bang his head into the table but instead he looked into the dying fire. For a moment he considered building it up once more but quickly dismissed the idea. He didn't want to move, he just wanted to sit here and erase the night that had just passed.

Sherlock attains his goal and finds a seedy hotel which isn't horrible, a place that he's been before rather successfully. He looks at his phone after he gets the injection prepared and he hesitates, tempted to reply, a part of him wanting to reassure his doctor.

I'm safe. -SH

That's all he says, that's all he feels the need to say. He won't make promises, he won't spew words of forgiveness, that's not what John needs and it's not Sherlock's style. Making sure that his phone is set to vibrate, he sets it aside before he feels the slide of a needle into his skin and he falls into oblivion.

Back at the flat, a different person arrives, in person this time. There is a ring at the doorbell, a slick black car waiting outside with the engine running meaning its occupant who is currently standing on the stoop is not planning on being there long. But the man, with his umbrella and impeccable suit, waits patiently for an occupant of 221B to let him into the flat.