"How is your blog going?"

John was only half listening to what his therapist was saying. If you asked him, he would tell you that she was nothing but a waste of time and money, but no one asked him. No one ever asked him.

"Good."

"And have you been catching up with your old friends like I asked?"

"Yes."

"And how are your friends?"

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yeah. . . just great."

His therapist's sharp eyes felt as though they were trying to borrow into his mind. He could tell she was exasperated but he couldn't bring himself to care. The whole thing was bloody ridiculous anyway. He didn't need someone to tell him how to live his life.

"John, do you realize that you haven't looked at me once since we started our session?"

"Yes well, maybe it's another problem I have. Cannot make any bloody eye contact! You should write that down."

"John, I'm only trying to help and talking to me about everything that happens in your life will honestly help."

Instead of responding, John stared blankly at the wall.

"I check your blog everyday."

"Do you?" He almost winced at his bitter tone. He couldn't help but wonder how this had become his life.

"Yes. You've written five words so far."

Nothing ever happens to me.

John stood, coat in hand.

"Where are you going?"

"For a walk. You always tell me to go out and get some fresh air. This is me, getting some fresh air."

"Mr. Watson, our session isn't over."

She could only hear an echo of his voice as he made his way out the door. You've already been paid, so why do you care?

"John, that was very unbecoming of you."

The voice on the other end was low and chastising. He could almost hear the underlying tsk, tsk.

"Well, I didn't ask you to pay for it in the first place. It's all bloody ridiculous if you ask me."

"I did not ask you."

"Mycroft, is there a reason you called?"

Mycroft, who was quite possibly the most terrifying man in the world, never, ever did things without a purpose. Or, at least, that's what he led John to believe.

"I need your help. My brother has been on a rather self destructive streak recently. He won't let me help him."

"And what, exactly, am I supposed to do about that?"

"He's currently in front of your flat having an argument with his boyfriend." The word boyfriend was venom on his tongue. "He won't have a place to stay tonight."

"And?"

"Let him stay with you for a couple of months. I want to take care of him, but he wont accept my help."

"I'm sorry –a couple of months?"

"John, I'll pay you a large sum of money –"

John wasn't about to take any more money from this man.

"No. That's fine."

"Very good then."

John recognized Sherlock Holmes immediately. He had the same aura as his older brother: arrogant, self-righteous, and very, very dangerous.

"Moriarty," he was saying- no pleading. "Please."

The man he was talking to –Moriarty –laughed.

"You look so pathetic. I thought you would be a challenge, but it turns out you're just another easy conquest. It was so easy, Sherlock. So incredibly easy to break you. Look at you. The man who had the world at his feet brought to his knees."

"You need me," Sherlock screamed. "You'll get bored."

"You bore me, Sherlock. You're so ordinary."

"I'm not."

"You're nothing," Moriarty spat.

Sherlock was having the argument with himself. No matter how much he screamed and yelled – I am not ordinary; you need me; I love you –Moriarty didn't even so much as show remorse. Even when Sherlock was on his knees groveling, he didn't even so much as change his countenance.

A large crowd had gathered to watch. Some were debating calling the police, but, of course, no one did. There was something so entertaining about a man in pain, something about the raw emotions presented there that grabbed peoples attention and kept it. Many in the crowd were engaged. Some were yelling at Moriarty, calling him a prick or an arse; others were yelling at Sherlock, telling him to move on, to get over it. He obviously doesn't love you.

Sherlock was on edge. He was almost in tears when Moriarty finally bent over and said, "Don't call me. I don't want to hear about you ever again. Unless, of course, you're dead. And if you do die, please make it interesting. The obituaries are so boring these days."

He sauntered off. John couldn't help but find him a tad bit ridiculous. It probably had to do with the fact that he carried himself like somewhat of a runway model.

The crowd dispersed, but few lingered. They looked as though they wanted to offer a word of advice, but Sherlock Holmes wasn't the most approachable man.

John had to commend him on his ability to get himself together. The man had become so poised you would never have guessed what he had been up to.

John walked over to him.

"Tell Mycroft I don't need his help," Sherlock Holmes spat.

Surprise was evident on John's face. "Did Mycroft tell you about me?"

"No."

"Then how did you –"

"I saw."

"You saw what, exactly?"

The man scowled. "Where does Mycroft find you absurd men?" He gave John a once over. "Clearly he has lowered his standards. A recently discharged soldier with a bad leg? Really? How are you going to get me all the way to Mycroft's mansion all by yourself?"

"How could you possibly know about the military?"

"What is it like in that tiny little brain of yours?" The man asked mockingly. "As I said before, I saw. The way you approached me said that you know me; however, your countenance was hesitant so you know of me. You could be a fan, but you're clearly just home from military service and my fame ended a while a go. The only option left: you're one of Mycroft's men. Now, as for your military service, I could read that in the way you hold yourself. The way you walk and cut your hair says military. How did I know you're recently discharged? Your jumper is small. I can see your tan line, I can see that it's rather new. "

John didn't looked nothing short of stunned.

"That was brilliant," he said as Sherlock began to walk away.

Sherlock stopped and turned towards him.

"Was it?"

"Yes, of course it was. You know it was."

"That isn't what people usually say."

"Well, what do they usually say?"

"Piss off."

John smiled. He couldn't help but like this man. This dangerous, unstable man.

"Come stay with me. Even if it's just for the night. I happen to know you don't have anywhere to go."

"Why? So you can fulfill your thirst for human interaction that you obviously don't get seeing as you have no friends or family."

"Yes, now I can see why people tell you to piss off."

Sherlock grinned. "You don't know a thing about me, yet you're inviting me into your home for the night?"

"Mycroft asked me to and I owe that man everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes, and I would gladly repay him with my life."

Sherlock watched him wearily. John could practically hear his mind reeling. Observing, seeing, deducing. Finally he said, "Lead the way."

John began to walk towards his flat. "My name is John Watson, by the way."

"I really could care less. I'll be gone by morning, anyway."

Please review with your thoughts. Should I/ Shouldn't I continue?

Thanks :)