A/N: Hey, guys! I've been working on this story since Love Ballads for the Nonbelievers came to an end, and I'm so excited to finally post it! Many thanks to my fabulous beta-reader, resrie71, for editing this chapter and making some wonderful suggestions.

A few things to know about this story:

-After the first few chapters, the angst will abate and things will become fairly lighthearted

-This story will mostly focus on the hijinks that surround Janine and Sherlock's fake relationship, as well as John's resulting jealousy

-And lastly (and most importantly) Johnlock is endgame!

Enjoy! :)

When Sherlock Holmes returned from his two-year stint as an undercover agent-slash-deceased flatmate, several notable things occurred.

First, he was punched in the face.

To be fair, Sherlock shouldn't have been surprised that John Watson, former army doctor and renowned hothead, did not react well to him randomly showing up on the porch of 221B in the middle of the night, after he'd supposedly been dead for the past few years.

"You bastard," John growled.

Actually, 'did not react well' was a bit of an understatement, because the moment Sherlock opened his mouth, John wound up his arm and gave Sherlock a throbbing black eye that would've made a professional boxer wince.

Second, he was hugged (rather tightly).

Immediately following the brief assault, John choked out, "You bastard" in an entirely different tone, and lunged forward to haul Sherlock into a suffocating embrace. Shocked but relieved by this turn of events, Sherlock gratefully wrapped his arms around John's back and returned the hug, his face tucked firmly into the side of John's neck.

"I missed you, John," Sherlock mumbled into the scruff of his jumper. The familiar smell of laundry detergent, aftershave, and warm skin sent Sherlock careening back to a time when John was just his blogger, and the biggest conflict they faced was whether or not Sherlock had forgotten another dismembered body part in the fridge. It was a smell that reminded him of home, of safety and comfort. He inhaled as deeply as he could and melted into the embrace with a sigh

"You're here, yeah? You're really here?"

Sherlock nodded as much as he could given their close proximity. "I'm here, John," he assured him. "I'm here."

And finally, after another ten minutes on the porch, he was ushered into the flat and given a cup of tea and a sandwich.

"John, I'm not hungry," Sherlock tried, politely declining the plate in John's hand. They were in the sitting room with the curtains drawn and Sherlock was seated in his black chair. The leather had creaked with disuse when he sat down, which made him wonder if John had really left it untouched for all this time.

John pointedly did not acknowledge Sherlock's statement and set the food before him anyway. "Eat and then talk," John said, taking a seat in his own chair. Sherlock started to protest again, but John raised a hand to silence him. "And don't even try to tell me you don't want it, because you look like you've lost thirty pounds. Eat the sandwich or I'm kicking you out."

Sherlock scrutinized John's face and tried to determine if he was serious or if the statement was merely a bluff. After a beat or two passed and John's determined expression did not waver, Sherlock sighed and took a bite of the sandwich. It was roast beef.

"John, I don't know where to start," Sherlock said. He wiped his mouth and reached for his tea for the sake of having something to hold onto. "I've been imagining our reunion for two years, but now that it's here, I find myself at loss for words."

John took a deep breath and stared into his own mug of tea. "Then start with this: why did you lie to me on the roof?"

That was easy. Couldn't risk you following me into battle, could I?

"I was trying to give you closure. I thought that maybe if you hated me before I died, it would be easier for you to let go."

"Hate you?" John laughed, but the sound lacked all humor and the light didn't quite reach his eyes. "You always do this, you know."

"Do what?"

"Underestimate the way I feel."

Sherlock frowned and placed the cup down on the table. "What do you mean?"

"You think I would ever be able to hate you, Sherlock?" John asked, his voice low. "Do you really think I'd be able to switch my feelings off just like that? You were my best friend and you remained my best friend even when I thought you lied to me and jumped off a fucking building for no reason. You always underestimate how important you are and how much I care about you. It didn't give me closure, if anything, it made it even more difficult for me to 'let go'. Lying to me didn't help anything. You killed yourself right in front of me, Sherlock, how could anything soften that blow?"

Sherlock leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. "John, if I hadn't jumped, Moriarty would have killed you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. Mycroft and I had no choice but to devise an escape route."

John rubbed a hand down his face. "I have a question, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded readily, as he'd been expecting this. "Yes, you want to know how I did it. Well, first of all, it required quite a bit of precision and—"

"No," John interrupted. "I don't care how you did it, I want to know why you didn't call me," he said. His brows drew together and the exhausted bags under his eyes seemed to grow more pronounced.

"One word, Sherlock, that's all I would have needed. Just one."

"John, there were so many times that I nearly made contact," Sherlock said earnestly. His fingers uncurled from his fist and stretched towards John, as if subconsciously reaching for him. "But I couldn't risk the sanctity of the operation. And before you say anything," Sherlock hastily added at John's look of protest, "I'm not implying that you would have said anything indiscreet. But there were people, dangerous people, watching your every move, and if you so much as smiled a bit too brightly one morning or ate a portion more than usual at dinner, they would have captured and immediately interrogated you. Or held you for ransom. Or worse. It was extremely delicate business, John, and while I do believe you would have been capable of handling it, Mycroft and I agreed that it would be foolish to add any unnecessary risk to this already tenuous operation."

There was a long pause that felt as heavy as cement. Finally John placed his mug down and looked up at him.

"Do you know what it was like, Sherlock? Thinking you were dead?" John asked quietly, his eyes glossy. "At least you had something to work towards for the past two years. You got to think about coming home. I didn't, Sherlock. I thought you were gone and there was no end in sight. I was just—drifting. I was lost."

A deep remorse ached in his bones. "This was the last thing I wanted to do, John. Lying to you and deserting you were some of the hardest things I've ever had to do. Every second of those two years was spent waiting for my chance to come back here and reunite with you, John. I wish there had been some other way to dismantle Moriarty's web, because I would've taken it in a second."

Sherlock's comment seemed to soothe some of the tension, but it hadn't destroyed it entirely; John was still staring at Sherlock like he wasn't quite sure what to make of him and the air was still charged with an oppressive silence.

Ah, the apology. That's what was missing.

"John," Sherlock said, his grey eyes locked on John's. "I'm sorry." The words escaped his lips in a gust of breath and left him feeling ten tons lighter. "I'm sorry," he said again, feeling a stinging wave of regret and love rise and crest inside his ribcage. "I'm so sorry, John, if I could have done things differently, I would have. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

John just looked at him, and for a long time, neither of them said anything. Sherlock's chest was heaving and John's eyes were wet and full of unshed tears, but the bitterness of the atmosphere was gone. Though there was still silence hanging in the air, it no longer felt hostile. It felt pure.

"John…perhaps I could hug you again?" Sherlock asked, standing up. He cleared his throat, feeling as though his knees were made of water, because it was just now occurring to him that he was back for good. He was once again here with John, living, breathing, wonderful John, and he needed to touch him to make sure this was real.

"Okay," John said, standing up too. Sherlock stepped forward and wrapped his arms around John's shoulders, pulling him flush against his body.

"If you're, um, still hungry, maybe we could head to Angelo's," John mumbled into Sherlock's shoulder. His hair was tickling Sherlock's nose and his hands were fisted in the back of Sherlock's coat.

A flood of relief crashed over Sherlock and a bright, sweet ache settled somewhere within his chest. He felt like crying, in a good way.

"I'd love to, John. "

And though things certainly weren't patched up entirely, they felt okay, and that was good enough for now.

Six months later:

For a very long time after Sherlock's return, the two of them fell back into their usual routine. John made tea and Sherlock took cases and the two of them lived in the same banter-filled, bickering harmony they always had. They still argued over whose turn it was to take out the trash, and how many dismembered fingers were appropriate for an individual to possess. They still walked around London on the weekends and people-watched, deducing strangers' lives and snorting at all the sordid details. They still laughed together and got annoyed with each other and read the morning paper side by side on the sofa. In one word, it was wonderful. In two words, it was bloody wonderful.

Unfortunately, John's proclivity for dating also resurfaced with the rest of their old habits.

On the bright side, John's love life was still as sporadic as it had always been, so there was no real danger of him scampering off and getting married any time soon. Thus, the random lipsticks marks and late nights didn't particularly concern Sherlock. Since his return, he and John had been so exceptionally close that not even the most beautiful woman in the world could tear them apart. All he really needed at the moment was time. A bit more time with John Watson, Confirmed Bachelor, and everything would be perfect. Because the thing was, Sherlock cared greatly for John. Both as a friend and…something more. At the moment he was just biding his time until he could find the perfect opportunity to confess his feelings or, better yet, suss out whether or not John felt the same. Ideally, he would be able to discern John's stance before baring his soul, but if a perfect chance to confess the truth presented itself, Sherlock certainly wasn't going to turn it down. It was just a matter of time, really. Maybe it would happen during a case when they once again found themselves wedged in a cramped space for several hours (stakeouts were rather time-consuming). Perhaps John would stare at Sherlock for a moment longer than he needed to and they would both become simultaneously aware of their proximity to each other, their shared body heat, the enticing pout of the other's lips…

But, anyway. The point was, Sherlock had given it quite a bit of thought. Admittedly, it was quite frustrating to watch John scamper off with his army of single women, but Sherlock took quiet comfort in the knowledge that this situation was only temporary. Sometime soon, he would find the perfect moment to sit John down and finally confess years of suppressed emotion, and it would be absolutely exquisite.

"I really want you to meet Mary," John said one morning as he prepared Sherlock a cup of tea.

That sentence, along with the disgustingly tender look on John's face, completely shattered the peace of the early morning atmosphere and Sherlock's relatively good mood.

"The name rings a bell," Sherlock said noncommittally, without looking up from the article he was reading.

"Mary as in Mary Morstan. You know, the nurse? Blonde, short, green eyes? We've been dating for a while now, Sherlock," John added with a tinge of annoyance. For some reason, John always expected Sherlock to commit to memory every detail of the women he dated. It was absolutely ridiculous. Not even he had that much mental space.

"Ah, in that case, no," Sherlock answered with easy finality, flipping to the next page of this month's issue of Practical Reptile Keeping. "I'd rather not do that."

"I know you'd rather not, Sherlock, but I'm asking you to do it anyway. As a friend." When that inspired no reaction from the detective, John huffed and sat down across from him at the table. "Please, Sherlock. This is important to me."

"Why?" Sherlock snapped, finally deigning to look John in the eye. He shut the magazine with a moody flick of his wrist and shoved it aside. "If I met every one of your girlfriends, do you know how many useless, short-lived acquaintanceships I would have accumulated by now? You go through them like tissue paper, John, I see no point in meeting each one."

John clenched his jaw and looked at the ceiling, evidently practicing those breathing exercises Sherlock had seen in his search history last weekend. Supposedly, they lowered his blood pressure and allowed 'peace of mind'.

"Sherlock, Mary is different," John explained. "She's incredibly important to me and she isn't like the rest."

"Oh? And why's that?" Sherlock asked sarcastically.

"Because, Sherlock," John said, folding his hands on the table very deliberately. "I'm moving in with her."

If a pin had dropped somewhere across the globe at that moment, Sherlock was certain he would have heard it like an explosion. The silence in the kitchen was deafening and his hands all of a sudden felt quiet numb. A low buzzing noise that reminded him of the static on the telly droned in his ears in an endless, deafening loop.

"Sherlock?" John asked after an indeterminable amount of time. His voice sounded muted and far away, as if he were speaking underwater. "Did you hear what I said?"

Dazed, Sherlock stood up and blindly reached for his coat which was hanging on the back of his chair. He needed to leave. Right now. His head felt fuzzy and a strange choking feeling was beginning to well up in his throat.

How had he overlooked this? How had he not noticed John's increasing absences? It was true that he often spoke to John even when he wasn't in the flat, but even still, he should have realized that the nights of silence and solitude had increased immensely over the past few months. John still came along on cases, which was perhaps why Sherlock hadn't noticed something was wrong, but he no longer offered to watch films on the sofa together. He no longer milled around the flat for most of the afternoon, typing up cases and chastising Sherlock for his mess. He no longer ordered takeaway and ate dinner with Sherlock on the floor of the sitting room. All of those small, wonderful gestures had stopped and for some reason, Sherlock hadn't noticed until right now.

He was always so careful about this. He always made sure that John's relationships never lasted. He had a cabinet in his mind palace dedicated solely to John's love life and he watched over it with great care. In the year since Sherlock's return, John had dated Jessica for a week, Samantha for six days, Nina for a month, Lucy for two, and Nancy for three weeks. They hadn't lasted because John's lifestyle was too dangerous or John's flatmate was too mad, or John didn't spend enough time with them, or something. There was always something.

But this Mary person—she was different. She didn't mind the cases or the abrasive friend or even the cancelled plans, in fact she found it all quite charming.

Sherlock had only seen her once before, when she'd come by the flat to pick up John before one of their nauseating dinner dates. Mary was what most people might call 'cute', with her dimpled smile and bottle-green eyes. She'd been wearing a red sweater and a black skirt with silver shoes and matching earrings, and when John had seen her, he'd pretended to swoon. Mary had blushed, John had giggled, and Sherlock had made a retching noise and stormed out of the room.

He hadn't bothered registering her as a threat, though, because John had a rather unimpressive track record when it came to relationships and Mary did not appear to be the sort of dazzling woman that could captivate him enough to make him change his ways.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Sherlock had made a fatal miscalculation.

What made this entire event even crueler was the fact that his two years away had brought some much-needed lucidity to his previously ambiguous feelings for John. Never before had he been this certain about his desire for John.

Soulmates was a silly phrase that was tossed about quite often in pop culture, but Sherlock couldn't help but think it suited him and John perfectly. He'd never cared about anyone this much before, nor had he ever been so eager to maintain a relationship. John was the kind of man (the only man, really) that Sherlock wanted to grow old with. He wanted to wake up every morning and go to sleep every night knowing that John was only a room away. He wanted to eat breakfast across the table from him, sit beside him on the couch, laugh with him, take cases with him, touch him, talk to him, have lunch at Angelo's and make silly jokes with him. Everything was brighter when John Watson was in the room. And he couldn't exactly have that if John was living with some woman.

"Sherlock?" John's concerned voiced snapped him back to the present. He was standing a few inches away, waving a hand in front of Sherlock's glazed eyes.

"What?"

"I said, where are you going? You grabbed your coat and said you needed to go somewhere just now."

Sherlock blinked and looked down and sure enough, his coat was there, clutched in his white-knuckled hands.

Away, that's where he'd meant to go. Away from here. Away from all this bad news.

"You're moving in with her?" His voice sounded like an echo to his own ears.

"Yes, I've been thinking about it for a while, now, actually. It feels like the right time to do this, you know?"

No, I don't know. "Oh."

"Sherlock, are you okay? You look pale."

"Don't I always?"

"No, I mean 'on the verge of passing out' kind of pale. Here, sit down and have some water."

"No," Sherlock said sharply, shaking off his daze. "I do need to go, actually. Errands to run, you know. Very important things to do."

John frowned. "Errands? What errands? I just went to Tesco and Molly already stopped by with that new shipment of livers, what else could you possibly need?"

"Scarves, stationary, I don't know," Sherlock answered distractedly as he strode towards the door. "I'll be back soon, John."

"Sherlock, I really think you should stay so we can talk about this!" John called as Sherlock swung open the front door.

"We'll talk later," Sherlock called back, and then disappeared down the stairwell with his heart still caught in his throat.

…

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock did not actually have any errands to complete; he merely wandered around London for the rest of the morning.

On the corner of Newbury and Watford, he stumbled across a very interesting homeless gentlemen with a grey beard and several theories on alien life forms. Sherlock stood there and listened for ten minutes simply because he had nothing better to do, and the man was so grateful for the attention that he removed one of the colorful pins from his backpack and offered it to Sherlock.

"For the end of the world, mate," he said gravely. Sherlock accepted the accessory and peered down at it.

"'Kiss me, I'm Irish'," Sherlock read aloud. After clearing his throat and tucking the pin away, he looked up at the man and inclined his head politely. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," the man said sagely, and then wandered off to reiterate his theories to the pigeons on the pavement.

…

After that, Sherlock milled around a few well-known alleyways because there was always something noteworthy happening there, and he was still desperate for a distraction. Sure enough, after ten minutes, he managed to bust two teenagers who were attempting to buy fake marijuana from a thirty year old man wearing stolen sneakers.

"You two are wasting your time," Sherlock announced lazily from the mouth of the alley. The two boys looked up, startled, and the man retracted the proffered bag and hid it in the pocket of his oversized sweatshirt.

"N-nothing's happening here, mister," the shorter, freckled one stuttered. His tall, blonde-haired friend scowled at Sherlock and stepped forward.

"Move along, old man," he snarled.

Sherlock merely raised a brow and leaned against the brick wall. "Fine, if you're content to spend your money on kitchen spices, by all means. Go right ahead."

Blonde whipped around to stare accusingly at the man. "What's he talking about?"

"I don't know, do you want the weed or not?" the man snapped, his movements jittery and abrupt. His eyes had a cagey quality to them which made Sherlock believe he was either on something or waiting to be on something. "Well?"

"Um…" Freckles said hesitantly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I don't know anymore…"

Blonde clenched his jaw and held open his palm. "Gimme the bag and I'll inspect it. There's no way I'm spending twenty five pounds on rubbish."

The man stepped back. "Buy it or walk away, brat, I don't need you questioning my damn product. Why are you going to take his word for it, anyway? He's just some weirdo lurking around in a black coat."

Sherlock hummed in amusement and examined his cuticles. "As to opposed to you, a highly accomplished thirty-something year old with stolen Lacoste shoes and an unwashed sweatshirt that indicates you still rely on your mother for clean laundry? Right, yes, my mistake. I'm clearly in the presence of greatness."

Freckles snorted. The man's shadowed face twisted into a scowl. "Beat it, unless you want trouble, mate."

Sherlock pointedly looked right past the man and made eye contact with Blonde. "It's oregano and stems. If you're looking to season a nice chicken sometime soon, perhaps it is still a worthy investment. If not, however, I suggest you pocket your money and spend it elsewhere."

Blonde turned to the man with disgust and stormed away, dragging Freckles along with him.

The man watched them go and then whipped around to glare at Sherlock, his yellowed teeth just visible in the darkness of the alley. "I oughta cut you for that."

Sherlock scoffed and turned on his heel. "Wouldn't recommend it," he called over his shoulder. "My best friend is quite trigger happy."

…

After Sherlock walked around the block for yet another lap, he looked up at the sky and realized that he'd been out for far longer than he'd intended. How many hours had he spent wandering about? Three? Four? Somehow, in that time, he'd managed to forget his dilemma and lose himself in the endless, colorful chaos of the city. Unfortunately, now that the distractions had come to an end, he had no choice but to face the reality of the situation: John was moving out.

Feeling glum and rather defeated, he sat down on a bench in St. Regents Park and pulled his mobile from his pocket, only to find eight unread messages and six missed calls.

Sherlock, I know it's a lot to absorb. Just take however long you need, ok?

Ok, it's been an hour and a half, are you alright? Should I come find you?

Where are you?

Sherlock.

Please tell me you didn't do anything stupid.

Sherlock, please remember that the Thames is extremely dangerous and you definitely should not 'go for a swim', as you jokingly suggested yesterday.

Or at least I hope you were joking.

Sherlock DO NOT go near the Thames.

Sherlock sighed and clicked on John's number.

"Sherlock? Where the hell are you and why haven't you been answering your phone?"

"Hello to you too, John. I'm in the park right now," Sherlock answered calmly. "I'm people-watching."

"Sherlock bloody Holmes, do you know how scared I was? You just up and left the sodding flat without even telling me where you were going. What the hell was that about?"

"I needed time to think, John."

John exhaled loudly and Sherlock could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Okay. Well, what conclusion have you arrived at?"

"I've decided that you won't be moving out," Sherlock stated.

"Pardon?"

"I don't believe I stuttered, John."

"No, you're right, you didn't. I was saying 'pardon' to give you a chance to revaluate that statement," John said flatly. "How exactly do you plan on keeping me in the flat? How would that work? Is Mary supposed to move in with us?"

"Mary? In the flat?" Sherlock snorted derisively. "No, certainly not. That sounds terrible. I propose that you remain where you are and continue courting Mary as you've been doing. No need to move in together and make any rash decisions."

"Sherlock, I'm done courting Mary, I've been doing that for months. This is a very important step that all couples have to take at some point, and it's time for Mary and I to do the same."

"You and I have been living together for years," Sherlock pointed out. "If sharing quarters is as significant as you claim it is, then shouldn't I be given priority here? We've been flatmates for far longer."

"It's not the same thing," John explained, in the same tone he'd used when Sherlock had asked what the difference was between John's dates with Sarah and John's dates with Sherlock. (Apparently, the difference was that when he was with Sherlock, they weren't called dates, even though nearly the exact same things occurred).

"So then you want to leave?" Sherlock asked, unable (and unwilling) to hide the bitterness in his tone.

John sighed. "Sherlock, I don't want to leave you, if that's what you're asking. But there just comes a time in a man's life when he has to settle down and find a woman he cares about and—"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, "I would rather swallow a mouthful of gravel than listen to the rest of that sentence."

"Fine," John huffed. "Then will you at least come home? I want to talk about this in person."

…

The first thing John said when Sherlock returned to the flat was, "You're Irish?"

"What?" Sherlock asked irritably as he strode into the sitting room and shed his scarf.

"Your pin," John said, pointing to Sherlock's lapel. "It says, um—" he caught sight of the exasperated look on Sherlock's face and stopped himself "—doesn't matter. What were you doing for all those hours?"

Sherlock sat down in his chair with a dramatic hmph."I accosted a D-grade drug dealer and listened to conspiracy theories from a new member of my homeless network."

"For four hours?"

"I also wandered about," Sherlock stated dismissively. "Tried to clear my head a bit."

"Right," John said with a nod. Stiffly, he marched over to his chair and took a seat across from Sherlock, seemingly reluctant to address the topic that was looming over their heads like smog. After a few moments of awkward silence, he finally cleared his throat and said, "I thought perhaps we could talk about Mary, now." He paused. "About me and Mary, I mean. And all this moving out business."

"Right, yes, I nearly forgot," Sherlock muttered. "We only spoke about it twenty minutes ago."

John sighed his infamous weary sigh and rubbed his forehead. "Sherlock, you have to accept that this is going to happen. Mary and I are going to live together no matter what, so it's useless to act like this."

At John's words, Sherlock expression clouded and he curled his hands into fists to keep from anxiously drumming his fingers against the chair.

It wasn't fair. They'd just found each other again, why was John so eager to leave? What was so bloody incredible about this Mary woman, anyway? Why was John choosing her over Sherlock?

"Fine," Sherlock said curtly. "If it's that simple, then is there really a need to discuss this any further?"

"Yes," John said firmly, "because I want you to understand that just because I'm moving out, doesn't mean I'm going to stop spending time with you. We'll still take cases and get lunch at Angelo's and go the St. Regents Park. The only difference is that I'll be living somewhere else. That's all."

Sherlock scoffed and looked away. "John, I'd really appreciate if you didn't speak to me like a six year old whose parents are getting a divorce. Don't bother sugar-coating everything, I completely understand what's happening here."

John frowned at him. "Then, please, enlighten me."

"You're moving on with your life. Yes, perhaps you and I will initially spend time together after you move out, but eventually, you'll become completely invested in your relationship with Mary and I'll begin to fade into the background, until one day you and I won't even speak anymore," Sherlock said, bitterness coating his words like tar. "So please do not patronize me by pretending that nothing is going to change."

John looked both hurt and surprised by Sherlock's words. "Nothing is going to change, Sherlock, and frankly, I'm a bit offended that you think so little of our friendship."

"I think so little of our friendship?" Sherlock repeated incredulously. "Well, I'm not the one moving out, am I?"

"Sherlock…" There was that patent John Watson weariness, again.

"When are you moving out?" Sherlock asked at length, the anger now sapped from his tone.

"Sometime this month," John said. "I, er, may need help with moving my stuff, but if you'd rather not, I understand."

"Of course I'll help you, John," Sherlock said tiredly. Willingly helping John erase his presence from the flat was one of the last things Sherlock wanted to do, but he didn't have the heart to refuse him. Especially not when John was looking at him with those impossibly sincere blue eyes.

"Thank you."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek and drummed his fingers against the chair's armrest, finally giving into his bad habit. "I do have one condition, however."

John's brows drew together. "And what might that be?"

"I'm not going to spend time with Mary," Sherlock said flatly.

John frowned and sat up straighter. "Sherlock—"

"No," he interrupted resolutely. "I will not. And I sincerely hope you never bring my friendship with you into question because of this. I care about you, John, and you are important to me, but this is something I cannot do. At least not right now, anyway."

John seemed caught between frustration and understanding. Eventually, he let out a breath and nodded slowly. "Fine, I get it. If it's too much right now, you don't have to spend time with her."

"Good," Sherlock said with a sharp nod. "Everything is settled, then?"

"I suppose it is," John said, looking just as unsatisfied with the resolution of this conversation as Sherlock felt.

"Well, then I suppose I should return to my bedroom to finish recording my experiment," he said, rising from his chair. In truth, he could have easily written down his data anywhere in the flat, but he desperately needed some time away from John at the moment. With his chin held as high as his wounded heart would allow, Sherlock exited the sitting room.

"You're still my best friend, Sherlock," John called a minute later, almost unthinkingly. Sherlock froze in the doorway with his hand above the doorknob and waited for John to continue. When several beats went by in silence and it became clear John wasn't going to speak again, Sherlock released the breath he'd been holding and proceeded into his bedroom as if he hadn't stopped at all.

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments, your feedback is food for my writer soul!

Chapter 2 will be up by next Sunday, so don't forget to subscribe!

You can find me on Tumblr at sienna-221b.

Until then, everyone! :)