I do not own the characters in this story.

Part One:

As usual the case had gone exactly as planned. Planned by Sherlock that is. Not that John doesn't trust the man, it's just that he would like, for once, to actually know the plan before it's put into play. Or even while it's happening. Hell, he'd even settle for a decent explanation after it's all played out.

"You used me as bait, Sherlock!" John snatched the keys out of the slender fingers of his companion which were slowly sorting through the mess of metal and key rings

-when did we get so many keys? we don't really have anything to lock up. I should really go through them and-

and shoved the right one unceremoniously into the lock. As it clicked over and he pushed the door open, Sherlock was already not apologising. In fact, he had been not apologising the whole of the taxi ride home.

"Of course I used you for bait John. Was I supposed to use someone else? The assassin's granddaughter maybe? Or maybe the third victim's next door neighbour? Yes, I'm sure they would have made great targets."

"That's not the point Sherlock!" John nearly shouted, choosing quite generously to ignore the use of the word target.

"Then what is?"

"You told me to stand lookout! How am I supposed to be your lookout and the bait?"

"Can't you be both?"

He would never get it. No matter what John said, the man would never understand what John was asking for. He would follow Sherlock to the end of the earth and beyond, all that he was asking was that he occasionally get a glimpse of the map.

By now they had moved beyond the vestibule and ascended the stairs. Pulling off his overcoat, John slid into his chair, feeling like he'd been awake for weeks. The unfortunate reality? It was only three in the afternoon. And he had been unconscious for a fair part of the day. Despite his exhaustion, he was unable to sit still for long, and soon he was on the edge of the seat, hands prep-d for intense gesticulation.

Sherlock calmly followed him, pulling off first his coat, hanging it on whatever was handy, then loosening the scarf around his neck, freeing it and sentencing it to the same fate as the coat. He sat opposite John.

-I am going to have to find that later, wash off the plaster dust and put it in his room, or else it'll never be seen again. I-

"I could have died!"

"Don't be silly John. I was keeping an eye on you. Everything went according to plan."

"So the case was a success then?"

"Undeniably."

"Great! Another case gone horribly right for the great Sherlock Homes!"

"I don't understand why you are reacting like this John. You and I are both fine, there is no longer danger or a threat of any kind. One would think you might have been able to calm down by now."

Somewhere, deep inside of himself, John knew that he was right. He had known little of what he had been getting himself into, all that time ago, but now he had received enough experience to know better, and he kept making the same decision. He knew what Sherlock was like. He should know not to expect anything else.

The rest of him, though, was considering strangling the world's only consulting detective and calling Lestrade in on a favour to help him dispose of the corpse.

"It's not about threats! It's about you and me."

"You and I, John."

"Stop-"

"No, you stop it John." Sherlock's voice was a drawl, like he was sinking back into boredom already. "This is quickly becoming a childish over-reaction. The case was a success, why does it matter how the events played out?"

"Why does it matter?" John was up on his feet again, suddenly not at all tired. "Why does it-?"

The man wouldn't look at him, choosing instead to study the steeple of his fingers, pressed together in front of him.

"Are you serious? I'm supposed to be your friend Sherlock! Not your bait!"

"Can't you be both?"

John ignored him.

"Or your experiment!"

"Again, can't you be both?"

"And you're supposed to actually care about what happens to me! But did you even ask me if I was okay?"

"John-"

"And I'm going to have to write all about it now! Relive the whole thing! Like going through it once wasn't enough."

"I would be happy if you never logged on to the blog again-"

"And I don't suppose you actually liked Samantha, that was all a ploy to get me to invite her out with me too that stupid Midsummer Festival thing, so that you could stalk the buyer of that lucky seven headed dog statuette?"

"Of course I didn't-"

"I'm sick of it Sherlock! I'm not going to play the Kent to your Lear any more!"

"Who to my who?"

"Shakespeare Sherlock!" John threw his arms up in exasperation, feeling, as always, that he would have better luck trying to get through to a brick wall. Before Sherlock could say anything else, offer some new comment to infuriate him, continue not apologising for making John feel used and undervalued, John grabbed his coat. It was, after all, still early, and there were other places he could be.

When he was at the door, he turned back to face his friend. Sherlock had not moved from his seat, hadn't even moved his hands.

"All that I'm asking is that you act a little more... human. Just a little, just for me. But I suppose that's impossible."

John left, slamming the door behind him, repeating the action with every door in his way until

-did that door just catch? I'm going to have to check the frame and the hinges when I-

he was out on the street. As he was crossing the road, he didn't look back, back up to the window, where sometimes Sherlock would stand, playing his violin or just watching.

But that was okay, because Sherlock wasn't there.