I didn't get around to writing this one as soon as I would have liked due to a 6.5 hour long hospital trip that didn't accomplish anything, and then I had a very VERY long chat with a friend who has just lost a grandparent, and then I decided to torture my scalp and hair with bleach. I was sick of only having a purple patch and decided to dye the rest of my hair blue. Oh, and then I painted a scene from this story because I just couldn't not paint it. Sorry for the delay and if this particular chapter isn't quite up to snuff. Life is distracting.

As usual, I own nothing. Well, I have a watercolour painting.

"Just as well. They were given to you last night. You forgot them on the bench while you made tea." He says after regarding my silence. He says this rather too flippantly after insinuating he may have poisoned me.

That's it.

"Why do you have to be so damned dramatic?" My outburst startles him judging by the flutter in his hand on my leg. "You and Mycroft both. You're both just so fucking desperate to make an impression, even well after it's been made. Mycroft and his stupid car, and your obsession with your own brilliance! Sorry Sherlock, we aren't all geniuses. Most of us are nowhere near your level and you just hold it above our heads, like we should be so much cleverer than we are. If you're trying to make a point, just… just spell it out for me." I don't even know what I'm trying to say anymore; I'm just tired. My day started off painfully but I was so happy, but now I just want a cuppa and some shit telly to lose myself in.

His hand tightens on my knee. We sit in silence for a moment or two, and when he speaks it's low, quiet and clinical. I focus on his voice but refuse to look anywhere but out the window. The sun is low in the sky and blinding me as it flashes brilliant orange between buildings, adding to my scowl.

"Friendship; love. Romantic, platonic, aromantic, whatever. People categorize their friends into groups all the time. Acquaintances, enemies, colleagues, lovers, friends, best friends, brothers, comrades in arms. They all have a definition. Maybe what you're scared of is your redefinition of me. And I don't blame you for being apprehensive, I'm not easy to categorize. People far more qualifications than you have been trying to find a word for me for years. But whatever word you settle with, I want you to know its fine. It's all fine."

"What on Earth do you mean what I'm scared of? Why couldn't you just tell me this like a normal person? Why does everything have to be cat and mouse with you? Why do you try so hard to be so mysterious all the time?" I'm aware that I'm starting to yell and it's hurting my head.

"You wrote that stupid message; you left your searches open, you made my bed with new sheets and then you ran away. You keep running away. NO, don't talk right now, I'm not done." His hand is sliding off my knee as he clears his throat slightly as if to speak- making my point exactly- but I grasp it and keep it there as my own personal anchor. The sun is still bright and blinding and the pain tablets aren't working at all.

I take a deep breath and say a bit more calmly, "You ran away from me and made me think you were dead. You couldn't physically run, so you closed up when we could have died last night. You ran away from me after tea. You ran away from me this morning and set up a trap- and yes, it was a trap for me to fall into. Of course I'm going to look at what you've left open and running on my fucking computer and left specifically for me to see- only to run. And now? Now you're running away again. And it isn't like you," I squeeze his captured hand harder and harder as I speak, getting angry all over again. His hand is becoming clammy and slick with sweat in mine.

"I've never seen you run from anything. What is so damn scary about me?" I force myself from the window to finally look at him.

A look of pure concentration is on his face, as if I'm a very interesting corpse. His brow is furrowed, lips pursed and his nostrils are flared. His eyes are what catch me the most- they are the colour of a storm rolling in at dusk, reminding me of the blackness that took them over as we waited for rescue. He squeezes my hand and pulls me towards him, bringing our hands between our faces which are suddenly much closer.

"Everything," he whispers as we pull up in front of Scotland Yard. Our conversation is finished for now, but his eyes have a look of promise to continue.

By the time we're allowed to leave after giving our official police statements it's well into evening. The beautiful blue sky of the afternoon had turned black but for the reflection of city lights on low hanging, dripping clouds. The fine day I woke up to has disappeared into darkness and rain.

We've not said anything directly to each other except to collaborate our stories. At one point Donovan and Anderson were being quite obnoxious and I couldn't help but smile as Sherlock called them out in his usual way.

My limp is back, it seems. Give me 'run for your life' instead of 'let's brood and tiptoe around tension' any day. When I finally get outside, Sherlock is standing under a street light and has just lit a cigarette. He looks strange and ethereal, his coat collar flipped up as normal, his hair collecting rain drops glowing orange and blue in the night. Sharp shadows are thrown across his face, hollowing out his eyes, cheeks and Cupid's bow. He inhales deeply on his cigarette, throwing his features into even starker contrast. Black but for the strange blue-y orange glow of his forehead, nose, cheekbones and mouth. As frustrated as I am with him, I can't help but admire the picture in front of me, like a masterful watercolour. The rain beats down a bit harder, and I'm surprised that his cigarette stays alight at all.

"John. Let's walk," he nearly orders.

I stand still. 'I'm not your lapdog you self absorbed bastard,' I think.

"Please." As if this was on the same page of him asking for his fags back.

I take a few steps towards him and he notices I'm limping. He frowns and steps out of the lamplight and towards me. Much like the night before, he offers me his elbow to assist me. I look at his offered arm warily. Today has just been strange. Of course I've had stranger days, but I don't think I've waffled so much on where I stand with this infuriating man.

I decide not to take his arm and soldier on without a crutch.

"You know, I woke up feeling so happy. I was in a world of pain but I was bloody happy to be alive. And if you could just… get over yourself, I'm sure the rest of my day would have gone just as well. For a man so set on facts you can be infuriatingly cryptic." I say ironically cheerfully as we walk in the rain. I'm tired of ignoring him and I'm tired of looking the other way. I'm looking up at him as we walk past street lamps and darkened buildings sharpening and softening his face in their lights. A taxi with its bright yellow light temporarily blinds us and slows down, kindly offering us a ride out of the rain but I wave him on.

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock flicks his cigarette butt to the curb. Without warning, I find myself in his grip, being pulled to the nearest wall and shoved against it, but not so hard that I hit my head again. One of his hands is on the front of my jacket and the other against my cheek and he's so close. His brow is furrowed and he looks terrifyingly angry. Droplets of rain weigh down his curls until they fall down into his eyes. Water cascades from his hair down his cheeks and towards his throat and chin, each glowing variants of orange and blue.

"EVERYTHING about you is terrifying," his voice is low and harsh, his eyes that dark stormy blue and all I can smell is wet pavement, tobacco and that screaming desperate scent from before. I can feel the hand on my face trembling, and he takes a tentative step closer.

"Then face your fucking fears, Sherlock," and I force my way out of his grip, my heart is pounding and my head is still killing me.

"Face your fears, don't pin them up against a wall and overpower them, face me head on and I'll show you exactly how scary I can be."