It's too short, I know, and too quick! But enjoy!

The next day found the two at a crime scene involving the murders of a young couple. The mother of the girlfriend had found the two on the roof when she was going to call them back inside for dinner. Apparently the boy and girl were having problems before their untimely deaths, but the detective knew they were not suicides, like the Met seemed to think.

"That's what the killer wants you to see, you imbecile!" He spat at Anderson, who was astonishing him with how absolutely stupid he could be over something so simple. What was wrong with everyone today? It seemed as if he was the only one in the world who could recognize that the angle of the gun-shot wound was completely wrong to be one of a suicide.

John was standing to the side warily, watching as the detective stalked around the crime scene. It was obvious that Sherlock was putting everyone on edge, and John was honestly surprised that no one had tried to throw a punch at him yet. He was being a bit more intense than his usual self. John felt like he was putting too much attention on him, though. But how was he expected to take his eyes off the man after last night? He pretended to be preoccupied with examining the young girl's hand, but then a commotion from across the roof top made him turn. Sherlock had made a young officer burst into tears.

John quickly rushed over to the two, where Sherlock was viciously rattling off the descriptions of people that the officer's boyfriend had recently slept with, grabbed his arm, and jerked him roughly away from the poor girl.

"Sherlock!" he hissed. "You can't just say things like that! It's a bit not good!" Really, he knew Sherlock sometimes said things like this, but recently he hadn't done it too often, and John thought he was getting better. Apparently, he was wrong.

Sherlock turned to him and realized just how pissed John was at him. But he didn't care. His head was aching and his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. How was he expected to solve a crime if every step felt like a ton of concrete was on his shoulders? His eyes narrowed, and as he was just about to tear John to pieces for interrupting him (his John, he shouldn't say such things to him because he loved him), he felt his legs give out underneath him.

His vision swam, and he blinked rapidly. There were now three Johns instead of one.

"John," he stated, still fluttering his eyes. "I didn't know you were a triplet."

And then the detective fainted.

John was still holding onto Sherlock's arm when he passed out, so he didn't let him fall to the ground, but instead gently lowered him until he was lying on the roof top. John's heart was pounding in his chest. The delirious look in Sherlock's eyes before he passed out worried him to the extreme. Why didn't the detective tell him that he wasn't feeling well?

'Because he couldn't stand to not take this case,' John thought, rolling his eyes. Of course Sherlock wouldn't tell him. He wouldn't let anything stand in the way of his work, especially not his own health. And John had to help him with that, because it was beginning to get out of hand.

Lestrade jogged over to where John was crouching over Sherlock's body. "Oi, what happened to him?"

John sighed and tilted his head up to look at the detective inspector. "I guess he isn't feeling well. He just passed out. That'd explain why he's acting like such a drama queen today."

Lestrade laughed and ran a hand through his hair. John could see the worried look in his eye, and was going to ask what was bothering him, when Lestrade quietly asked, "You don't think it's drugs, do you?"

John shook his head. Drugs weren't an option. He knew Sherlock was clean because he was with him almost 24/7. But he could understand Lestrade's concern. He had known Sherlock long before John had, and it wouldn't do to have someone high off of cocaine barking insults at police officers. He also knew that Lestrade was worried because he was one of the few people who actually cared about the detective's wellbeing.

"I guess I should take him back to the flat," John said, sighing at the thought of carrying his flat mate's body down the two flights of stairs that it took to get up to the roof. Not that Sherlock was heavy; he never fucking ate anything.

It hit John like a ton of bricks.

Of course.

Sherlock passed out because he hadn't eaten since John had convinced him to consume that yogurt yesterday afternoon. And they had rushed out the door so early that John hadn't had time to bribe Sherlock into eating anything, so he had been running on empty. John could have hit himself. How was he supposed to help Sherlock if he kept forgetting?

He pressed his lips together tightly and scooped Sherlock off the ground, again pushing from his mind how ridiculously light he was. This was unacceptable. John would help him. He would. He bid Lestrade goodbye and tried to ignore the looks he got from most of the officers as he carried his friend through the house and outside to get a cab.

The ride home was uneventful, and John was slowly growing more and more worried because Sherlock had still yet to wake up. He hadn't even thought to take him to the hospital, but he knew Sherlock would have woken up extremely angry if John had taken him there, so maybe he had done the right thing after all.

When the reached 221B, John paid the driver and gently extracted Sherlock from the cab. He had a bit of difficulty opening the front door while supporting Sherlock, but he managed. Getting him up the stairs was easy, at least. John placed him on the sofa and set about to make tea for the both of them, hoping Sherlock would wake up sometime soon before John went into cardiac arrest over worrying about him.

While he waited, he had time to ponder what had transpired the night before. Not like he needed to think about it at all. Although the last thing he had expected Sherlock to admit to was being in love with him, he knew all along that that's what he really wanted to hear. He had dated all those women just to get Sherlock to be jealous, and it was obvious that he had been jealous indeed, but John had just marked it as Sherlock being upset that John wasn't there as often to stand in for his skull. He never considered in a thousand years that Sherlock returned his feelings. It seemed like a dream come true.

That sounded so soppy of him, but he couldn't help it. Coming back from Afghanistan, he never looked toward the future. He tried to block all the thoughts of what was to come from his mind, because without the rush, without the danger, he was nothing. To be honest, John couldn't convince himself that he even wanted to live without the army. It was more to him than just protecting his country. It was honestly his everything. And having that ripped from his grip made his head spin. He had sat on his dull beige bed in his dull beige, tiny flat, and he had stared at his gun every night for weeks in a row. John always told himself that he never actually would have done it, but he knew he would have. He really would have. If it hadn't been for Sherlock.

Sherlock came into his life when everything else was blurring to nothing.

And then everything was so right. The chasing criminals through the streets, the laughter that filled the cab after a crazy case, the telling Sherlock off because he was being a bit not good to a client, the ridiculous leaps Sherlock could make from something as simple as a loose thread on a shirt, the energy that would strike when Sherlock had just got a lead on a suspect, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

The detective was his entire world now. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

Sherlock groaned. His eye lids felt like they were glued shut, and his head was pounding. He tried to lift his arms up in order to rub at his eyes, but he found that he wasn't exactly strong enough to do so. He huffed out a sigh and feebly called for his flat mate.

"John..?"

He heard John's quick footsteps and lifted his hand out in the direction of the sound. He didn't like being without his senses. Those were the things he could always count on. Well, sometimes. Not today, obviously.

He felt John's fingers intertwine with his and he exhaled in relief. He could feel John. He was okay.

Sherlock finally cracked an eye open and squinted up at his doctor. "What happened?" he questioned, his words slurring together slightly. All he remembered was snarling at some stupid girl and John yelling at him, but after that, he hadn't a clue.

John breathed in deeply before replying. "You passed out at the crime scene. I had to carry you off the scene and bring you back here. Lestrade suspected drugs, but I knew it wasn't because I would have noticed immediately. I know why you passed out, Sherlock. Do you?"

John's voice was filled with a sadness that Sherlock couldn't even begin to comprehend. It made him screw his eyes shut again at just hearing it. He had disappointed John. His John. Oh, how he hated it.

"It's because I didn't eat, of course I know why," Sherlock said, sounding a bit more upset than he would have liked. "I forgot to eat, and you didn't say anything about it, so I don't see why you're giving me that look."

He could feel John stiffen, and he knew he had said the wrong thing. Now John would blame himself for Sherlock fainting, when it wasn't his fault at all. Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes to look at his flat mate. The hard look on John's face filled him with despair.

He sat up quickly, ignoring how his head spun at the action, and wrapped his arms tightly around John's waist, pressing his face into John's stomach. He felt John's hands hesitantly come up and rest on his shoulders, but Sherlock could feel that he was still tense.

"I don't want you to think that it was your fault, John. It wasn't, don't be an idiot," Sherlock cringed as the words spilled out, but he didn't know how else to explain that it wasn't John's doing that caused him to faint. "You shouldn't have to be responsible for my welfare, yet you insist upon it because I don't really care about it myself. But…I can't…I can't help it, John. I really don't care whether I live or die. I don't want to eat, ever. I don't want it. I'll never want it. And I don't know what to do, because you care so much about me, and I don't."

Sherlock could feel John's fingers tightening the entire time he was speaking, and now they were gripping him hard enough to bruise. He didn't want to look up at him and see how angry he would be, didn't want to see the hurt in his eyes that he knew would be there.

He was surprised when John suddenly released him, and he was even more startled when John's hand slid from his shoulder to cup his chin, tilting his head up to make the detective's eyes meet the doctor's.

John's eyes were filled with warmth, not hurt. And, if Sherlock wasn't mistaken, which, damn him, he seemed to be more and more wrong recently, they were filled with love?

John leaned down slowly and gently pressed his lips to Sherlock's. Sherlock's lips trembled beneath John's, and John's hand moved to card his hand through his flat mate's unruly, black hair, reassuring him with his touch.

Sherlock's mind was moving sluggishly, trying to comprehend how John wasn't mad at him. He didn't, couldn't understand. John was still a complete mystery to him, even after all this time.

But, he wouldn't have it any other way.