Heya everyone, another Great Game ending scenario from me, but this one is a little different than the others. For one, it happens about six weeks after the swimming pool incident, and for two I've had to do so much research for this, considering how I know next to nothing about the streets and roads in London, or Benzodiazepines and their effects :)

I got the idea for this one halfway through watching Knight and Day in the cinema, and it was intended to be a oneshot, but I checked the wordcount and this was getting way too long, so I split it into two parts. I haven't finished the second part yet, so that might not be up for a while, especially since I'm starting back at college soon.

If I get any of the information wrong in this, then I blame Google. ^^ Oh, and if any of the victims' names happen to be any actual people's names, then I'm really sorry but Moriarty may have just murdered you. ^^;

Same goes for the places mentioned, should anyone actually live there. :)

This is going to be John/Sherlock romance, so if you don't like then don't read, ok?

Ok then, onwards! Read on and review for me please!

John's POV:

They'd discovered the sixth body today. It was another woman this time, found in the early hours of the morning in an apartment near Kensington Road. And, just as all the previous murders had been, it was painfully obvious that she'd been left there as yet another blatant message for Sherlock Holmes from one Jim Moriarty.

After that incident back at the pool where Carl Powers died, John knew that the search for Moriarty had become something of an obsession to his dark-haired flatmate. In fact, it was more than a bloody obsession. Every moment of every day, Sherlock poured over whatever tiny scrap of information he could find that could be a potential lead on where the hell the psychotic bastard was hiding, but so far he'd found absolutely nothing. That in itself was worrying enough, but it swiftly became clear that Moriarty didn't want to be tracked down until he'd finished toying with them, leading them on this merry dance around half of London and leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Too many innocent people had already been caught in the crossfire of this stupid dangerous game, and many more would go the same way if Sherlock didn't somehow manage to track down the consulting criminal soon.

It had been six weeks since that fateful first meeting with Jim Moriarty. Six weeks since Sherlock had gravely underestimated his opponent, and six weeks since John took a bullet that had been intended for his flatmate.

The bomb had been a fake. Of course, neither John nor Sherlock had realised that until the dark-haired detective had pulled the trigger of the Browning L9A1 with the intention of blowing them all straight to hell and that single bullet had drilled through the material of the incendiary vest at Moriarty's feet where it should've ignited the explosives instantly. Only it hadn't, because there weren't any explosives.

That cunning bastard had played them right into his hands, and if the smug knowing grin on Moriarty's face had been any indication, things were about to get even worse from there on in. Sherlock's face had slackened momentarily in unexpected shock, but then his features swiftly rearranged themselves back into their usual imperious aloofness, despite the fact that they were now backed into a corner with nowhere to run and no way out. John had seriously hoped that his magnificent genius of a flatmate was putting that massive intellect of his to good use and was working on an escape plan.

But then out of the corner of his eye, John had noticed Moriarty give the tiniest of gestures with his left hand, so small it was barely more than a twitch. It would've seemed completely insignificant if it weren't for the cruel gleam in his dark eyes as he'd done it, not to mention the fact that all those ominous red dots of light had blinked out except one, which was now trained directly on the back of Sherlock's head.

So John had let his military reactions and instincts take over, and had lurched up from the floor without giving his brain a chance to catch up with his body, slamming his shoulder into the taller man beside him and knocking him to the floor. And in that exact same moment, there was a muted pop of a gunshot from one of the snipers above, and John's world exploded into nothing but searing burning pain that literally swept the legs out from under him, crashing him down face-first onto the tiles alongside Sherlock.

He didn't remember much after that, only the unbearable agony of the bullet lodged in his back and the harsh scent of blood and chlorine in his nostrils. It hadn't been a fatal wound, thank God, but that didn't stop it hurting like a bitch. The last thing John could recall was the sound of Sherlock's deep baritone voice calling his name and a pair of pale hands scrabbling to turn him over, those intense grey-blue eyes coming into view for a few seconds before John's eyesight blurred and turned dark as he let himself slip away into wonderful painless unconsciousness.

And the next time John opened his eyes again, he'd found himself staring up at a stark white hospital ceiling with a drip in his arm and a lingering ache that throbbed dully just below his left shoulderblade. How he'd managed to get there at all was a complete mystery to him, since he'd been pretty damn certain that they'd needed nothing short of a miracle to escape Moriarty alive, but apparently that's exactly what they'd received.

As it turned out, it hadn't been divine intervention that had saved their lives. It had been Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother and 'arch enemy'. John didn't really know any of the details, since Sherlock had hardly been forthcoming with any information as to what he'd missed back at the pool, but what he'd gathered was that Mycroft and his men had arrived just in the nick of time to overrun Moriarty's horde of snipers and rescue his infuriating younger sibling and his flatmate from the mess they'd royally dropped themselves into. Moriarty had somehow managed to escape, though, which was the reason why Sherlock was working himself to death in his determination to hunt the suited psychopath down.

Right now, the dark-haired detective was sat in his favourite armchair, his piercing grey-blue eyes barely blinking as he stared unwaveringly at the huge map of London he'd pinned up on the wall above the three-seater sofa, completely covering up the yellow smiley face and bullet holes in the faded wallpaper beneath. His hands were pressed together beneath his chin, his fingers steepled in his usual thinking pose, and there was a slight crease between his eyebrows as he frowned slightly at the coloured lines of roads and streets glaring back at him. He hadn't moved a single muscle from that position ever since they'd come back to 221B after visiting the latest victim earlier that morning, and John was starting to get a little bit worried for his flatmate's health and well being.

There was something really off about Sherlock lately. It was so small, practically indistinguishable to someone who didn't know the consulting detective as well as John did, and even then it took him a fair few weeks to realise that something had definitely changed. Every now and then, there was a strange emotion that clouded his usually bright grey-blue eyes, accompanied by an almost minuscule tightening of the skin around his eyes and lips. John couldn't put a name to that emotion, no matter how hard he tried.

The first time he'd noticed that expression was when he came home from the hospital a couple of weeks ago and Sherlock had been sat there in his chair, waiting for him. The dark-haired man hadn't visited him once while he'd been recovering in that hospital bed. And to be honest, that had really pissed John off. He'd taken a Goddamn bullet for him, and the man couldn't be bothered to come and see him, or hell, even thank him for it. Even for someone as socially-inept as Sherlock Holmes, a little bit of gratitude wasn't so alien that he couldn't express it to someone who had literally been willing to die for him back there.

But then again, this was Sherlock Holmes. John couldn't even stay mad at him for being left alone in that hospital, because when he'd finally arrived back at the flat, everything had fallen neatly back into place as though nothing had happened. Granted, he'd had to hobble around with his crutch for a few days because his back still ached and burned if he stayed standing up for too long, and Sherlock had taken to depriving himself of sleep and trying to overdose on nicotine patches to stay awake, working over evidence and information and trying to join all the dots together until ridiculous hours of the morning, but despite all this, John decided that it was great to be home.

John finished reading the newspaper he'd borrowed from Mrs Hudson, folding it up and putting it aside as he relaxed back into his own armchair, looking over at the map Sherlock was currently so engrossed in. Spread out on the coffee table that his flatmate had dragged over in front of him were six autopsy reports and God knows how many crime scene photographs, arranged in order from the first victim to the sixth. John tried not to look too closely at those, because every time he risked a glance, the pictures made him feel sick to his stomach. Not for their brutality, though.

No. He didn't want to look at them because every single one of the victims was unmistakeably Dr John Watson.

Four men and two women, ranging from age nineteen to forty-five. Their sex and age were the only way they differed from each other, because everything else was eerily and purposely similar. All of them were short in stature, petite, with dark mousy blond hair and tawny eyes. They wore identical denim jeans and a knitted jumper, their hair cut in a military style exactly like John's own, and they had all been murdered by a single stab to the heart with a serrated hunting knife. Moriarty's message couldn't have been any clearer if he'd tried.

But why? Why him? Why would Moriarty go through all this trouble to find someone who looked vaguely like him, murder them and dress them up as John's double before leaving their corpses for Sherlock to find? Was he taunting him with the fact that John could've died back at the pool for him? It didn't make sense... or did it?

John knew for a fact that he was the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes had probably ever had. Moriarty knew that too, damn him. So was he attempting to use their friendship against them? Trying to hurt Sherlock by throwing a load of dead John Watsons in his face? Was this all just another twisted part of their idiotic game of cat and mouse, or was Moriarty making things a lot more personal? Huh, well the answer to that one was painfully obvious. It was definitely personal now.

Without warning, Sherlock sprang up from his chair and John jerked a little in shock at the unexpected movement.

The dark-haired man didn't say a word, but the determined expression on his face spoke volumes as he climbed over the coffee table and crossed the room in about three strides, pausing only to rummage around in one of the drawers of his desk and pulling out what looked to be a roll of red wool (probably 'borrowed' from Mrs Hudson's flat without her knowledge) and a handful of small red pins. John just watched him in bewilderment as the taller man then stepped up onto the leather sofa cushions and surveyed the map with a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

"Sherlock? What is it?" John asked, leaning forwards slightly in his chair. Sherlock was unravelling the wool in his hands and he glanced back over his shoulder briefly at the ex-army medic before returning his gaze to the map with a length of red wool twisted in his grip, "Have you found him?"

"Benjamin Rhodes." Sherlock announced, brandishing one of the pins and wrapping the end of the wool around the sharp point before jabbing it harshly into one of the coloured lines. "Found dead in an apartment on Gloucester Place, the street directly opposite us, which was a location chosen specifically to grasp our attention. He was the first pseudo-John Watson, and the first message."

John couldn't help but wince at the 'pseudo-John Watson' bit, and he noticed that Sherlock had that look on his face yet again for a split second, but then it disappeared beneath the detective's usual imperious expression as he ploughed on regardless.

"One week later and we received the second message, Bethany Lambert, left in a hotel room on Connaught Street." Sherlock pulled the wool taut along the map and stabbed another pin into place, connecting the two together with a line of red. "The next week, and Stephen Morgan is found, his body dumped on Bayswater Road, near Brook Street."

Another name, another pin. John had to lean a little further forward to peer around Sherlock's slender body to see the map, causing his back to ache painfully in protest, but he forced himself to ignore it.

"Victim number four was Zachary Evans, and his body was found in roughly the top left-hand side of Hyde Park. Another week's gap and we find David McCain in his apartment on Westbourne Grove."

"And then today we find the sixth victim in her flat on Kensington Road." John finished for him, pulling himself to his feet in order to get a better view. Sherlock shot a glance back at him again, one side of his mouth quirking up into a satisfied smile as he twirled a pin carelessly between his long pale fingers.

"Exactly. Joanne Wagner." He said, pushing the pin deep into the line that was the road in question before he jumped down off the sofa in a strangely feline way and stepped back beside John to admire his handiwork. The six small pins were stuck in their specific places, all connected by the length of wool. On the map, the markers were set out in the rough shape of a diagonal 'T', stretching out across the expanse of green that was Hyde Park.

To be honest, John couldn't really see how this changed anything, but it was obvious that Sherlock certainly seemed to think it had, judging by the wide indulgent grin on his angular face, all pearly white teeth and sparkling grey-blue eyes. If this had been any other time and they weren't discussing the murders of six innocent people who looked like him, John's heartbeat would've just about taken off into orbit from that one smile alone, but in his defence, it wasn't entirely his fault.

Sherlock Holmes was a very attractive man. That much was a well-known fact, and John wasn't ashamed to admit that he'd noticed that fact a fair few times during these past few months as the brilliant detective's flatmate. What he was ashamed to admit, however, was that he'd caught himself admiring Sherlock's attractiveness far too many times to be considered healthy by the average heterosexual male's standards. But was John even the average heterosexual male? He wasn't so sure anymore. At one time, he would've been able to answer that without a second thought, but the longer he spent with Sherlock, the more he considered that maybe he wasn't as straight as he'd previously assumed. Which was a bloody nuisance, considering how he was supposed to be dating Sarah and found himself thinking more about his flatmate than he did his potential girlfriend.

John just couldn't help himself. Sherlock was so impossibly fascinating to him, so… mysterious. The man had an aloof untouchable air about him, striding around in his slim-cut suits, long flowing coat and woollen scarf, looking so superior and impressive that every other person around him seemed so dull and insignificant in comparison. His skin, white as marble and completely flawless, contrasting so amazingly with his crop of dark chocolate brown curls that hung down around his chiselled cheekbones and intense, hypnotic eyes. Oh yes, John had noticed Sherlock. In fact, scratch that, he'd more than noticed. He'd stared. Stared at his flatmate whilst the detective had examined yet another cadaver, or irritated Anderson and Donovan at a crime scene, or chased a suspect around several back alleys of London, or even when he sat there in those horrid grey pyjamas and blue silky dressing gown, curled up in his armchair with his knees pulled up to his chest and a cup of tea in his pale hands, his full soft-looking lips pursed at the rim of the mug as he took a drink. Jesus Christ, John had stared alright. That's all he seemed to be doing lately around Sherlock. Well, that and imagining what went on beneath said horrid pyjamas, but he always tried to cut off that particular train of thought before it led him past the point of no return.

"He hasn't finished yet." Sherlock mused aloud, his smooth baritone voice tearing John out of his thoughts and bringing him abruptly back down to earth. John blinked and turned his head to look curiously at the side profile of his dark-haired flatmate.

"Sorry, what?"

"Moriarty. He hasn't finished killing yet. There's a definite pattern to these murders, and it's not complete, meaning he still has more messages to leave for us."

"Meaning we'll have another dead 'John Watson' on our hands next week, then." John sighed, bringing his hand up to rub wearily at his forehead. Despite his view being half-covered by his palm, John didn't miss the way Sherlock's body subtly stiffened at his words, his shoulders becoming suddenly tense and his smile rapidly disappearing. A muscle twitched in his jaw as he kept his gaze fixed resolutely on the map in front of him, but then his eyes swiftly brightened again, as though he'd just been struck with another ingenious idea.

"Perhaps not, John." Sherlock grinned enigmatically, clambering back up onto the sofa cushions again, the remaining length of wool dangling around his skinny ankles before he yanked it impatiently up to hold it against the map again. From where John was standing, it looked like the detective was measuring the distance between the pins on Westbourne Grove and Kensington Road. "Pass me the scissors, will you?"

"Where – ?"

"Mantelpiece. Should be sticking out of my skull's left eye socket."

"Oh, of course. Where else." John muttered under his breath as he turned and moved over to the mantelpiece, shaking his head slightly at the skull that grinned back at him as he retrieved the scissors from the space where it's left eyeball used to be. Sherlock didn't bother to look, instead just waving one arm behind him impatiently, gesturing for John to hurry up and give him what he wanted. The ex-army medic obliged and the dark-haired man wasted no time in cutting two pieces of red wool into the same length before tossing the scissors uncaringly aside, no longer needing them. John winced at the loud thud sound the heavy metal made as it bounced away out of sight across the floorboards.

"Was that really necessary?" John asked with the slightest undertone of exasperation in his voice. Sherlock ignored him, his attention fully focused on obviously more important things as he pulled out the Westbourne Grove and Kensington Road pin markers, looped the separate lengths of wool around both and then stuck them back in the laminated map before he took the red strings in each hand and pulled them across the map until they met in a point.

John didn't think he'd get some form of explanation of what was going through the detective's magnificent mind any time soon, so he turned away and left him to it, making his way back over to the armchair he'd previously vacated.

But then he stopped as his eyes unintentionally landed on a couple of crime scene photographs that had been knocked off the coffee table when Sherlock had climbed over it. His brow furrowing, John gingerly bent down and picked up the topmost photograph, taking it with him when he straightened back up again.

John hadn't seen the first two victims in the flesh, because the fortnight after the incident at the pool, he had still been recovering from his gunshot wound in the hospital. Sherlock visited those crime scenes alone, and John had only found out about them when the third body turned up and his flatmate filled him in on what he'd missed on their way to Bayswater Road to examine the latest grisly message. It'd been a horrible and sickening experience to look down at a dead body that was supposed to represent him. John could only imagine how the consulting detective reacted when he'd found the first pseudo-John Watson all those weeks ago. Actually, he couldn't imagine. Would Sherlock have reacted any differently than he usually did when he discovered a murder case intellectually stimulating enough to relieve his boredom? John was his friend, his only friend, so surely the man would've felt something, right? Ah, who knew? John definitely didn't, that's for sure.

John looked down at the picture in his hands and glazed, vacant tawny eyes stared back at him. A shudder trailed his spine as he ran his own tawny eyes over the corpse's face. This was obviously the second victim, Bethany Lambert. He already knew that she was nineteen years old, but what he hadn't realised was just how young she truly looked. She'd been a very pretty girl, with a slightly heart-shaped face, wide eyes and thin lips. The harsh military haircut made her features appear a little boyish, which John supposed was rather the point, considering how she was supposed to resemble him. Oh God, she still had dimples in her cheeks, even with her face frozen in death.

His stomach clenched painfully in a tight steely grip. Nineteen. Jesus Christ, poor Bethany's life was over before it had really begun. She could've been someone's wife in years to come, a mother, a grandmother... Not now. Now she was dead. Nineteen years old. What an unnecessary waste of a life, all because Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes couldn't leave each other the bloody hell alone!

"John," Sherlock called without turning his head, jabbing a final pin into the map with flourish. John brushed his fingers solemnly over the edges of the photograph before he placed it gently back down onto the coffee table and turned back to face the self-proclaimed 'high-functioning sociopath' that was his flatmate. "John, I know where he is."

Those six words were like a lightning bolt to John's system, adrenaline racing through his veins like liquid fire as he practically tripped over his own feet in his haste to get to Sherlock's side when the taller man leapt gracefully off the sofa cushions again.

"You do? How? Where?" John questioned, and instead of answering verbally, Sherlock simply stepped aside so the ex-army medic could see the map in all its entirety. The diagonal 'T' was no more, and in its place was a glaringly obvious arrow outlined with bright red. Suddenly the seemingly random locations where the murders had occurred made a lot more sense, and John felt a thrill of anger rise in his chest. Moriarty had been playing them like fucking pawns; killing innocent people just to carry out this stupid vendetta of his against Sherlock. He'd left those six victims as markers for a crude arrow across part of London, taunting Sherlock and John with its lack of subtlety as he led them straight to him. The bastard.

John leaned closer to read the street name beneath the seventh pin that formed the tip of the arrow.

"Kensington Church Street?"

"Yes. That's where we'll find our consulting criminal." Sherlock murmured, his features thoughtful as he tilted his head slightly to one side, his eyes roaming over the map with something akin to excitement. Then his expression faltered almost imperceptibly, as though something important had just occurred to him. If John had still been looking at the dark-haired man at that moment, he would've noticed how those grey-blue eyes flickered over to him and white teeth clamped down on one full bottom lip uneasily for a split second. But John missed it and Sherlock's chiselled face hardened back into its usual unreadable expression.

But there was a gleam of cold determination in his piercing eyes that hadn't been there before, and in hindsight, John really should've paid more attention to that.

"Tea?" Sherlock spoke unexpectedly, brushing some non-existent lint off the front of his suit jacket as he turned to look inquiringly at the ex-army medic, who was understandably thrown by the random question. What? Tea? Sherlock had just figured out where Moriarty was hiding, and instead of jumping into the first taxi they came to and speeding straight to the psychopath's front doorstep, they were going to sit around and drink tea? British they may be, but that was just plain ridiculous!

"Are you being serious?" John gaped at his flatmate, somewhat dumbstruck. The taller man gave him an amused half-smirk as he walked over to his desk and dropped what remained of the ball of wool back into the drawer he'd pulled it out from.

"Oh, absolutely. It'd be better for us to wait until after dark before we start creeping around all the apartments on Kensington Church Street looking for a psychopath. I don't know much about the social norms of today, but I doubt the general public would be very impressed if we tried breaking into their houses in broad daylight."

"Fair point." John conceded, giving the other man a small smile as he sheepishly ran a hand back through his mousy hair before he made to head towards the kitchen to put the kettle on for them.

A warm hand on his shoulder made him stop in his tracks. John turned his head inquiringly, raising his eyebrows at the detective who had crossed the room and was now stood behind him, his grey-blue eyes as unreadable as his face.

"Allow me," He said softly, his rich baritone voice a smooth silken rumble in his chest that literally made John's brain go completely blank for several seconds. He felt his face start to heat up, the detective's touch on his shoulder practically burning through his clothes. Christ, Sherlock, don't use that voice ever again, oh please don't...

And then the hand was gone, and Sherlock sidestepped John neatly, making his way into the kitchen of 221B. John just stood there, blinking dumbly as though he couldn't quite believe what had just happened. Sherlock Holmes making tea? Now that was a first.

John glanced over towards the nearest window, absently listening to the sounds of chaos coming from the kitchen. Did Sherlock actually know how to make tea? He'd never done it before, since it had always been John's unspoken duty around the flat.

It was early evening now, so it was still pretty light outside, which meant they had about an hour or so to kill before they went out to do some breaking and entering in their hunt for the suited psychopath Moriarty. God, he hoped his flatmate was right about this. The last thing they wanted to do was walk straight into another trap like they had back at the pool. Last time, he'd been shot, and who the hell knew what else the tricky bastard could have up his sleeves? Probably another bomb, a real one this time.

Sherlock reappeared in the doorway, two cups of tea held in his pale hands. He offered one to John and the ex-army medic moved to take it from him, trying not to let their hands brush against each other as he did so.

"Um, thanks." John murmured with a smile, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip. Sherlock didn't smile back, watching the smaller man drink so intensely that his eyes felt like they were boring straight through John's head.

They sat down and drank their tea in companionable silence, John in his armchair and Sherlock on the sofa. Half an hour passed in that same way and darkness started to fall outside. Throughout that time, the consulting detective's eyes were fixed almost unblinkingly on John, and the shorter man was ashamed to admit that it unnerved him slightly. It was almost as though he was waiting for something. But what, John had no idea.

John yawned widely, suddenly feeling a hell of a lot more tired than he had ten minutes ago. He had a headache coming on; he could feel it growing and throbbing at the front of his skull and he let out a small groan, letting go of the mug with one hand to press his palm against his forehead. Sherlock's eyes sharpened and he sat up straight, his gaze turning, if possible, even more intense than before.

Trying to ignore the dull ache in his head and sudden fatigue, John took another sip of tea, then paused thoughtfully after swallowing his mouthful. It tasted... weird. He'd only just noticed it now, but there was a strangely bitter aftertaste that really shouldn't have been there considering how Sherlock had put two generous spoonfuls of sugar in for him. John frowned down into the cup, his eyes having a little trouble focusing.

"Sherlock, I don't... feel right. The tea tastes a little odd... did you check if the milk had gone off again?" John asked, his eyelids growing heavier with every passing second. He lifted his head sluggishly and saw that Sherlock had put down his own cup of tea and had walked over to the door, pulling his long coat and scarf down from the coat rack and putting them on.

"It's not the milk, John."

The way he said that was the verbal equivalent of dumping a bucket of icy water over John's head. A thick wave of dread rose up in the ex-army medic's chest as he dragged himself to his feet, staggering unsteadily as his head spun with vertigo. He still had the half-empty cup of tea clutched in one hand, holding onto it like a lifeline.

"Then what is it?" John said hoarsely, the words catching unwillingly in his throat, "What did you put in my tea, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stayed completely silent as he looked over at the shorter man, his grey-blue eyes impossibly calm. John's vision tilted alarmingly and he stumbled on legs that had given up trying to keep him standing. The cup slipped out from between his fingers and smashed at his feet, spraying hot tea and jagged pieces of mug across the wooden floorboards.

John would've fallen straight down along with his cup if it wasn't for the warm body that caught him at the last possible second, gripping him firmly by the upper arms. John peered up through blurry eyes, catching sight of Sherlock's face swimming in and out of focus less than five inches in front of him.

"S-Sher… Sherlock…" John slurred, reaching out for something to grab onto to keep him grounded and his fingers closed around the soft woollen scarf that Sherlock hadn't finished tying around his pale white throat. The consulting detective's facial features might've softened slightly, but John could barely see anything anymore, his vision a sickening blur of shapes and colours that danced and morphed in front of his tawny eyes. God, he was so tired… so, so tired

He felt himself being moved backwards until the backs of his legs came into contact with the sofa and his flatmate lowered him carefully down onto the leather cushions. John thrashed weakly in protest, but his limbs had turned unbearably heavy and refused to cooperate. He just couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock's baritone voice murmured, sounding so far away even though John could feel the other man's warm breath on his face. Sherlock leaned closer, his rich woodsy scent filling John's nostrils as the ex-army medic felt soft full lips press tenderly against his forehead.

And then Sherlock was gone, moving away from him completely. John's lax grip was still caught in the detective's scarf and it unravelled from his throat, but the taller man made no move to catch it or pull it back.

"S-Sh… Sher…" John tried to shout the other man's name, but his tongue felt numb in his mouth. He reached out desperately with one trembling scarf-free hand, his eyes lidded and pleading as he furiously attempted to focus on his flatmate. He could just make out the dark-haired man's figure as he walked away from him, his coat flowing out behind him as he headed for the door without a single glance back.

"Sherlock!" The ex-army medic somehow managed to cry out. Sherlock paused in the doorway for the shortest moment, but then he swept out of 221B, the door slamming harshly behind him.

John's hand fell, and his world went black.

So what d'you think? I wasn't sure about this, but let me know if you liked it! :)

In regards to the second part, I was thinking about making it a bit steamy on the romance hehe ;p Don't know how graphic yet, but the rating may go up.

Second part's in Sherlock's POV, because I think he needs to damn well explain himself for this XD