As promised, another SH story.

I'm having a 'let's-super-overwhump-all-of-my-favourite-charact ers-just-because-I'm-sad-again' time, so be warned that I'll probably make this a tear-jerking heart-breaking story. Don't like, don't read. Like, read by all means and enjoy ;)

'Are you serious? Do you even have a brain? Are you capable of any…any logical processing in your head or is it just a box crammed with useless scientific formulae and your bloody big ego?!' Watson knew that Holmes was more than capable of logical processing, and all his knowledge was far from useless. Still, he couldn't help the spiteful words escaping. He had been pacing around the sitting room at Baker Street for the last quarter of an hour, reprimanding Holmes for his stupidity and selfishness. Once again, they almost got killed because the detective thought he was infallible. Once again he had to excuse himself in front of Mary and his patients, for rejecting his responsibilities. The only difference was that this time many of them wouldn't come back. This meant that Mary's father would be far from happy about the way that he was taking care of his daughter. Watson felt like his whole life tumbled down, professionally as well as personally, all because of Holmes.

Holmes didn't reply, but merely looked at him, indicating that Watson already knew the answers to his questions. Deep inside he was hurt, as guilt was eating away at his mind. If he was capable of any feelings, it was hatred towards himself for putting his friend in danger again. He would never have the heart to say it however, feeling that emotions would overtake logic. This, he could never allow.

'Of course. Just glare at me mysteriously Mr. Intelligent, as you always do. You don't even care, do you? As long as you get the result, you don't care how many people get hurt, do you?!'

Holmes wanted to protest. Boredom was a factor, yes. But he could employ his intellect in scientific research and making a name for himself instead of running around London, risking his life, simply because other people asked him to do so. Still, no sound left his mouth, which was now only a thin, straight line, betraying no emotions whatsoever.

'And all this was convenient, wasn't it? Mary getting upset about it?' Holmes rolled his eyes in response to the last remark. It was convenient in a way, of course. The more time he got to spend with his best friend, the better, but he decided long ago that it was time to start behaving like an adult and accept the state of affairs, as they were. 'But do you know what? Even if you manage to make Mary leave me, even if your pathetic attempts succeed somehow, you can still only dream about having me back here, old boy.'

Watson knew that he went too far when Holmes's body suddenly tensed up and the detective clenched his jaw. He knew that it was a particularly sensitive topic. The doctor's reason was telling him to stop pushing it, to leave Holmes alone, but for the first time in his life he felt like he wanted his companion to know what it meant to be hurt by another human being.

'Because you know what? Maybe my departure isn't even about Mary…Maybe it's just because I'm so sick of you. How I wish I had never even met you on that damn morning…How I wish that you were de…'

Watson stopped himself the moment he realised what he was about to say. How could he? How did this even come to his mind? To say such things to his best and only true friend? The man who would lay his life on the line just to protect him? The man who had done that on a number of occasions already? He looked down on Holmes sitting in his armchair. The detective suddenly looked much smaller, as if he did really want to disappear from the surface of the Earth.

'Truth be told Watson, so do I at times. Especially since you've left. Well, excuse me old boy, there are things that I need to attend to. Forgive me the inconveniences I have caused, this shall never happen again. For once, I'll make sure of that myself.' Holmes's voice was getting gradually more and more quiet, and the last sentence was nothing more than a pained whisper. Watson realised that Holmes accidentally managed to cut himself with the knife that he was clutching in his hand. He didn't even seem to notice the blood that was now trailing down his wrist, only to disappear behind the white fabric of his cuff.

As the detective rose from the chair and dropped the knife, Watson made a move in his direction. He tried to reach out to Holmes, but he skilfully managed to avoid the doctor's touch.

'My dearest, dearest friend. Please forgive me. I don't know what came over me. I…I should take a look at that cut. We don't want it to turn septic.' Watson's own voice was trembling, as was Holmes's entire body. He held Holmes's shoulders, trying to get the detective to look him in the eyes, to listen to his pathetic apology…

'I will be all right Doctor Watson. I shall not burden you anymore. Fare you well and give my best to Mrs. Watson, would you?' Watson had never heard the detective's voice falter so much. He hated himself for knowing that he was the cause of his friend's anguish.

'I'm sorry…I'm sorry, please listen. I don't know…I was angry, I'm sorry Holmes. Please, don't go…You know I didn't mean to say all this, I was so angry, so very angry!'

'I think we both wanted to say this for a long time. Only you were the one who finally found the courage to.'

Before Watson could do anything, Holmes sprinted down the seventeen stairs of his Baker Street home and without even bothering with putting on a coat, he disappeared into the storm that was raging outside. All he wanted was to get away. Now Baker Street, the only place that ever felt truly familiar and safe, would be no more than just a building haunted by memories of those few spiteful words that left the doctor's mouth. At the moment, Holmes would rather be buried several feet under the ground than in that bloody living room.

Watson sank down into the armchair that used to belong to him, when he was still sharing the lodgings with Holmes. His mind still couldn't quite come to terms with what he did. The hurt and anger that he felt moment ago towards Holmes, were now centred exclusively on himself. However, he couldn't worry for too long, because Holmes was out there doing God knows what, and he might be in need of the good doctor's help.

XXXXXXX

Fighting a boxing match against an opponent twice as big as oneself was never a good idea. It was especially not a good idea, when the neurons inside one's brain had been tampered with by cocaine, and one's judgment and instinct were blunted by alcohol. But since when did Sherlock Holmes pay any attention to what was good for him?

Contrary to popular belief, the drugs and the alcohol actually made it easier. He knew that in his current state he should have given up the fight long ago. However, the pain wasn't somehow as intense as it should be, according to Holmes's extensive knowledge, neither was his self-preservation instinct working anymore. Besides, his opponent seemed to be enjoying himself, so why prevent yet another man's happiness?

The next time someone dragged Holmes up by his arms, his body refused to cooperate. He could already feel that he had at least two broken ribs and a concussion. He couldn't identify precisely the internal injuries to his organs, but from the beating his abdomen took, he was sure that there should be some. The more, the merrier, he thought. Even though he had been hoping for the physical pain and exhaustion to cover the emotional suffering he was going through, he still didn't feel any better. Finally the decisive blow came, and the last thing he though before he passed out, was that he wanted his boswell to be there, to help him. Surely, Watson would have wanted him to remain conscious; passing out after such a blow couldn't be a good thing. Then he remembered all the things that the good doctor said and willingly gave himself into the arms of Morpheus.

XXXXXXX

It took Holmes a moment to identify his surroundings. He wasn't surprised at all to find himself in an alley, next to the pub he had been fighting in. The owner never wanted to waste his time for caring for the pathetic, little losers who only caused trouble since people lost their money because of them. The detective tried to find some leverage to get up. His hand only slid down the wall that he was trying to use for support and he fall to the ground with a groan, as his broken ribs protested against the sudden movement. He didn't really mind the fact that he couldn't get up. He had nowhere in particular to go. Baker Street would probably be the reasonable place to get cleaned up and even more drunk, but Watson could still potentially be there. Even if he wasn't, the place was associated with too many memories, that Holmes definitely didn't want to have to revisit right now.

'Hey Mr. Detective! Not so smart now, are we?' Holmes heard a low voice coming from the unlit end of the alley. He wasn't sure why, but something was telling him to get away from this place immediately. He tried to obey, but something hard stomped down on his chest, eliciting a groan of protest from the detective lying on the ground. 'My boss has a couple of questions he'd like to ask you. I hope you won't answer them too quickly. This would be too boring.' Having registered a definite 'DANGER!' in his brain, he felt no more.

Finished for now. So, was it disastrously bad, mildly horrible or maybe a tiny, little bit good? Let me know what you thought. Criticism is always welcome, it's the only way to improvement!

I feel like this is really out of character, but anyway…

REVIEW, if you want to have me continue this ;)