Author's Note: Welcome to the sequel to 'The Last Drop'! It took about four complete rewrites and some tortuous brain-storming sessions but here you have it. My apologies for the slight wait. I hope to post more consistently now that I have my foundation. Once again, thank you so much for your support with this project. In fact, if I had to punch your face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth, I love you that much.

And one more thing is just a note that this is, in fact, the sequel to The Last Drop, and while it might be able to function on its own (I really can't tell...), I'd recommend reading that one first. Cheers!

John had been angry with Sherlock many times before. In fact, it was generally expected that the consulting detective would say cruel, apathetic things or be reckless with his own well-being to the point of insanity, for which John would respond accordingly. Such responses usually ranged from belligerent yelling to silent treatments, with all manner of chastising in between. Truth be told, being angry with Sherlock was not only anticipated, but was a fundamental aspect of their friendship. It was familiar and temporary, usually ending as quickly as it began, with each side conceding to the other in the smallest possible way.

This time was different.

John had never been as profoundly furious with another human being as he was standing there, rain soaking though every layer of clothing, eyes locked on his flatmate. He had finally reached his breaking point.

For one long week he'd put up with the worst version of Sherlock Holmes he'd ever had the displeasure of witnessing. At first, he'd chocked it up to another one of his moods, a fleeting fixation brought on by their perplexing new case, but when it continued, incessantly, day after day, something inside John began to fester. John had always prided himself as a patient man, but nothing could have prepared him for such a specific brand of torment.

John was being ignored.

And 'ignored' was a very gentle way of putting it. More accurately, it was as though Sherlock had deleted John's existence from his mind, particularly when they were out on the case. He'd been left behind, talked-over, kept uninformed, and, worst of all, almost never looked at directly. Even the dim, imperceptive spectators from the Met could tell something was out of sorts, and they weren't privy to the practically catatonic state Sherlock exhibited in their flat. He wouldn't sleep, he wouldn't eat, he wouldn't move from the sofa (despite John's protestations), and he certainly wouldn't engage John in any significant way. The most John had managed to get out of him since Lestrade called with information about the case (the morning after what John affectionately referred to as 'Apocalyptic Hangover Day') were grunts, taciturn refusals to eat or sleep properly, and, if he was really lucky, a demand for absolute silence.

John did his best to rationalize that Sherlock's sudden change towards him had nothing to do with the innocent night of cuddling they'd spent in his bed, but to little avail. He felt embarrassed and regretful, as though something in their partnership was tarnished beyond repair from his pathetic desire to share some body heat. As a result, he'd withheld from mentioning any discontentment with Sherlock's new attitude towards him (or lack thereof), which only served to quietly inflame his frustration like an infection. The more John turned a blind eye to Sherlock's disregard, the more his fury festered.

He had been following Sherlock along the bank of the Thames for hours in a torrential downpour when the last of his reserves dried up. He was freezing, soaking wet, and exhausted, which was only made worse by the reality of how much more detrimental the weather would be on Sherlock's health. From the sparse glances John had stolen of Sherlock's face, it was evident that the consulting detective was what could only be described as 'unhealthy.' His sharp cheekbones were jutting out more than usual, his eyes sallow and skin practically blue it was so pale. The doctor in John was going crazy.

"Sherlock?" John asked in his last attempt at a level tone. Nothing.

"…Sherlock?" he tried again. When the consulting detective didn't turn around from the pile of rubbish he was riffling through, John's careful mask cracked.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" he erupted, heartbeat instantly revving up in his chest.

Sherlock didn't turn around.

"What?" he replied in a tone so low and flat John could barely make it out over the smattering of rain on river water.

"You heard me," John said severely, teeth clenching.

"Busy."

"I don't care. We're soaking wet and it's been hours, Sherlock. This is so far beyond acceptable at this point. You're freezing, you're exhausted, you've barely eaten anything all week…it's time to go home." John was surprised by how logical he'd managed to sound. Inside, he was simmering with rage, frenzied and clawing just below the surface.

Sherlock rose to his full height but still didn't turn to face him.

"Go home, doctor," he said. The words stung John in both their meaning and in the emotionless tone in which they were delivered. They sounded machine-like against the gentle roar of the rain.

"Fine, but you're coming with me."

"No, I'm not."

John had never despised the back of anyone's head more. He glared daggers at the sopping wet curls.

It briefly occurred to him that this was the most Sherlock had spoken to him at once since the case work began. He felt fleetingly relieved, and hated himself for it.

"Sherlock, we aren't getting any closer to solving this case by scavenging in the rain. I know this one has been…challenging, but you're not doing any good out here making yourself, and me, sick." He managed to sound extremely compassionate considering how close he was to throttling the man. Sometimes the composed soldier in him seemed to take over without solicitation.

"It is not challenging," Sherlock snapped, his head jerking to the side like he meant to look at John, but facing forward again. John's lip twitched upon hearing the irritation in Sherlock's voice. Irritation was good. He could deal with that. It was the complete lack of anything that confounded him.

"You've certainly been taking longer than usual with it."

"I'm distracted."

"By what?"

"Leave, John." The flat disinterest had returned.

"No!"

"Yes. I don't need you. Go home."

"Stop it!" John shouted, stomping his foot on the ground, which sent a spatter of mud up his trouser leg. He squeezed his eyes tight. Heaving breaths wracked his chest against the frantic beat of his heart. When Sherlock didn't reply for a few moments, John opened his eyes once again, wiped away the rainwater clinging to his lashes, and looked back at his flatmate.

"Sherlock?"

In reply, the dark, drenched figure leaned forward, evidently more interested in the rotting pile of filth than John.

"Sherlock!"

He watched as Sherlock's used his slender, pale hand, to flick dismissively over his shoulder, as if to say 'shoo.'

And that was all it took for John to officially snap.

Suddenly consumed with a primal ire, he charged at Sherlock, pouncing onto his back and sending them both crashing into the mud and rubbish. While John was a military man who had picked up a fair share of hand-to-hand combat training, Sherlock was a self-taught master of shifty maneuvers and tactical restraints.

As soon as they hit the ground, Sherlock managed to spin around in John's arms to face him, though John kept his left arm locked around Sherlock's neck. He quickly fisted his right hand in tweed lapels, tousling Sherlock a bit. Responding instantly, Sherlock grabbed John's waist, and kicked off the ground, rolling them over so that he was properly sprawled on top of him.

John squirmed, trying to kick off the ground as well, but unable to get his footing in the slick mud. Sherlock pinned him with a forearm to his chest.

A frustrated sob escaped John's throat and he pounded his head back. Tightening his grip on Sherlock's neck and coat, he attempted to prove that he hadn't lost just yet, and glared, eyes blazing, at Sherlock's face. Sherlock turned his head to the side in a blatant attempt to keep from meeting John's eyes.

In one swift move, John released the coat lapels and gripped to Sherlock's chin, pulling his face towards his own.

"Look at me!" he commanded, as a captain, resonant and final.

Time ground to a sudden halt. For the first real time in a week, Sherlock's eyes locked with John's.

And John was outright dazzled.

He could make out every fleck of green, blue, and grey in Sherlock's irises, their faces mere centimeters apart, closer than ever before. An instant shock of release jolted through him at finally being the center of Sherlock's attention again. A part of his mind, which had been wound up and tense, relaxed as if to say 'yes, precisely this.' John was always knocked a bit sideways when Sherlock's eyes pierced through him, and having gone without it for a whole week, the effect was amplified ten-fold.

They were both panting against each other's mouths, sending a tingling thrill through every one of John's nerve endings. He could taste Sherlock's steaming breath on his tongue, in his throat. Sherlock's gaze flickered to his lips, and when they returned to his eyes, even more penetrating than before, John swallowed hard, his mouth bone dry.

While the ground was freezing, and Sherlock's body was pushing his cold, wet clothes against every inch of his front, John felt like he was on fire. The tips of a few of Sherlock's curls were grazing against his forehead, depositing droplets of rainwater that John imagined would sizzle into steam on contact.

Then, most inopportunely, John's thoughts shot to their hips, which were slotted against each other. He was blisteringly aware of every bit of their bodies that were touching, but nothing was as overwhelming as the push against his pelvis. A traitorous flush of heat surged in his cheeks, which was soon matched when a few pink splotches blossomed on Sherlock's face as well. It was the first time John had ever seen Sherlock blush. John realised they must have had a similar thought process. Yet, despite the ridiculously un-platonic nature of their position, and the increasingly uncomfortable state of their drenched clothing, neither of them moved a muscle.

Soon, the pace of their breathing slowed to a normal tempo, and John closed his mouth, yet maintained their eye contact. They steadily loosened their grips, tension receding. John was fleetingly aware that they were breathing in unison, chests rising and falling together. At the thought, he began to shiver, and once he started it seemed that he not only couldn't stop, but instigated the same tremors in Sherlock as well. Or had he just not noticed until then? His mind was too clouded to tell.

Gradually, Sherlock slid away the arm that pinned John's chest, digging his fist into the mud next to John's head and pushing himself up. As an unfortunate consequence, it pressed his hips harder against John's for just a moment. John bit his lip to keep from gasping, letting his fingers fall from Sherlock's chin and arm slip aside as Sherlock clambered to his feet. He extended the hand that wasn't muddy to John, leaning over him. John stared at it, temporarily paralyzed, but eventually took it and allowed himself to be pulled up.

For a long moment they just stood there, letting the mud and rubbish slide off their backs and plunk onto the ground. They weren't looking at each other, which John did not like, but he couldn't bear to see Sherlock's expression for fear of what he might find.

The choice was taken from him, however, when Sherlock said, in an impossibly quiet voice, "I'm dizzy."

As if on cue, Sherlock swayed on his feet, eyes lolling back. John sprung forward, catching him around the waist and steadying, watching as his grey eyes regained their focus.

"We are going home right now," he stated with authority. As he pulled his thankfully dry mobile from his inner coat pocket and dialed Lestrade, Sherlock offered no form of protest.

It wasn't until John hung up on Lestrade and began guiding Sherlock back up to the road, that he realized how violently they were both shivering. Whether from his immense experience as a doctor, or from some deep-seeded human instinct, John could swear he felt himself getting sick. The back of his throat tingled, and his skin felt like a hot casing around a freezing interior.

Sherlock seemed to be a bit steadier on his feet, requiring little more than John's palm flat on his lower back to ascend to the road. Even through the thick, soiled wool John could feel Sherlock's tremors against his hand. He bit the side of his mouth, angry with himself for not dragging Sherlock away sooner.

The rain mercifully dulled to a light drizzle as they waited for Lestrade's police car to pull up, but as far as John was concerned the damage was done. There was no chance in hell that they wouldn't get sick.

"I wonder how long it will take for Lestrade to notice how much mud we got on his seats," John mused as he pushed open the door to their flat.

"Almost made riding in his detestable vehicle worth it," Sherlock returned, pulling his coat from his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. John sighed and picked it up, unacknowledged, and hung it with his own coat on a hook where it couldn't touch their less-filthy outerwear. Sherlock kicked off his mud-coated shoes, initiating a grumble from John, who placed them neatly beside the door before removing his own.

Before John could register his protest, Sherlock flopped face-first onto the sofa in his drenched hair and clothes, his shirt being only marginally less sodden than his trousers.

"What…no! You'll get the whole sofa wet."

"Don't care."

"Well I do. And you're going to be sick if you don't change. Of course, there's probably little chance of avoiding that now."

"Don't care. I have to think."

"Sherlock…"

"Silence."

"Take off your clothes!" John shouted, an immediate rush of color flooding his cheeks. Sherlock tilted his head to look at him, cheek pressed into the cushion, smirk evident in the corners of his eyes.

"You'll have to buy me dinner first."

For a brief moment John wondered if he liked Sherlock better when he wasn't speaking to him. Of course he didn't, but that didn't make him any less inclined to throttle the shivering detective.

"If you didn't look so horrible right now I'd-"

"I never look 'horrible.'"

John rubbed his face in his hands, muffling the groan that escaped his lips.

"I'm going to have a shower," he managed, arms falling to his sides. "When I get back you'd better be wearing something dry."

"No."

"What?"

"The case isn't solved. The riverside was a dead end, that's clear now. Inconsequential. I just need to think. Without distraction."

The anger, which John thought had been dispelled by Sherlock's grey gaze on the bank of the Thames, swelled with renewed vigor.

"I don't care about the stupid case! If you want to pretend I don't exist, fine, but when you stop taking care of yourself the way you did this week, I swear on my life, Sherlock, I…I'll…"

"What, John?" Sherlock said, all playfulness gone from his tone to be replaced with a bored, unsettling drawl.

"I don't know."

"How threatening…" Sherlock murmured sarcastically. "I'm not some child for you to mollycoddle, John."

"No, but I am your doctor. How can you expect to solve a case when you let yourself get to this level? For God's sake, look at you. You're shivering."

"So are you."

John was a bit tripped up by that, but found the traction of his argument again quickly.

"Because I was trying to help you!"

"I don't need your help," Sherlock stated, rolling onto his back and draping his forearm over his eyes. "I need to think."

John pivoted with a stomp and stormed into the kitchen. He ripped open a cabinet door and took out a mug, slamming it as hard as he could onto the countertop without breaking it. As he rifled around for the kettle and fixings for tea, he made as much sound as possible. He slammed drawers, threw down cutlery, and kicked the refrigerator.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, agitation behind his tone, and John turned to find him standing in the doorway.

"Making tea," John replied through clenched teeth.

"You're purposefully making noise to distract me."

"Why would I do that?" John asked in mock innocence. "I thought I could never be a distraction to you."

He could feel his anger barreling him towards dangerous ground, out of his control. He knew immediately that Sherlock recognized the word, spat with so much weight, from their pub night together. Sherlock's eyes narrowed on him.

"On the contrary."

John blinked at him.

"What does that mean?"

"I thought you were going to take a shower."

"Don't deflect." John managed to sound considerably more commanding than he felt. "Is that why you've been ignoring me since we…since you got the case? Because you think I'd distract you?"

"If you won't be using the shower then I will," Sherlock sneered, eyes flashing, before striding to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him. John grabbed the closest thing to him, an empty test tube, and threw it as hard as he could across the room.

It shattered against the wall, showering flecks of glass onto the tiles and countertop. He didn't feel any better.

To his great exasperation, John could barely get the tea brewing his hands were shaking so badly, head swimming with fatigue and dizziness with every movement. Just as he finally managed to fill his cup, a fit of sneezing so violently wracked his body that he dropped it, sending it crashing to the floor in an explosion of ceramic shards and searing liquid.

For a long moment he stared down at the steaming mess at his feet, mind blank, and shivered against the clinging damp of his clothes. He almost laughed as the memory of how lucky he'd considered himself, just one week before, seeped into his thoughts. It felt so absurd now.

He jumped when his phone beeped from beside the door, still inside his coat pocket. Kicking a piece of mug across the floor, he shuffled to claim it. Flicking it on, he had a message from Lestrade.

Thames river killer turned himself in. Case solved. Break it to Sherlock gently.

Despite himself, John grinned somewhat maniacally as he read over the glowing letters. Perhaps his luck was changing.

Author's Note: Ohhhhhh boi! Poor John. I get way too much pleasure out the idea of him and Sherlock shivering. It's not normal. THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH ME