Author's Note

Hello everyone! This is my first fanfic ever, after years of reading them. Yaaaay breaking fic virginity. All rights to ACD, Moffat, BBC. AKA not me unfortunately.

Sherlock Holmes was running for his life. His feet beat down on the pavement as he bolted from the café, frantically looking which direction to run before choosing left. Only one thought pounded through his usually busy mind. John. John. John. It was like a rhythm in his mind, pushing him forward, keeping him going long after his leg muscles were burning and his lungs screamed for air, because it wasn't his life he was running for. It was John's.

Two Days Earlier

Retro Nike shoes were laid out on the lab table. A computer quietly beeped beside them, flashing the names of different substances and the words 'No Match' after each. John paced back and forth in the lab, nervously wringing his hands. Sherlock Holmes was seated in the middle of everything, coolly regarding John.

"Hospitals are full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you cry by their bedsides and see what good it does them?" Sherlock said sardonically, just as the computer's beeping sounded loudly. "Ah-ha!" Sherlock said triumphantly. The words "Search Complete" now flashed on the computer screen. At last, he thought, he might have that vital clue to discover the owner of these wonderfully mysterious shoes. They had been unyielding in any really useful clues so far, but the data was coming more easily now, and he knew soon he would have his answer.

Molly walked into the room. "Any luck?" she asked as she strode over to Sherlock. He glanced over at her. Her voice was slightly higher pitched today. She was happy about something. Good news? New clothes? Whatever someone like her would care about. Hair styled, dash of lipstick applied. She weighed 2 pounds more? No, three. It was definitely three. Happy, looking a bit self-confident, but physically she was doing worse. Spending more time getting out, going to more restaurants, with someone else paying to get the more expensive food. New boyfriend?

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock said, turning back to his microscope. He heard the door swing open for a second time. Curious, Sherlock glanced up again. A man, who he had never seen before in St. Barts, stood at the doorway. Young, around his age. Physically, deceptively weak, but obvious to someone like him to be in good health. Sherlock looked back down through his microscope. Hair: short, dark brown, and styled with a bit of product. Eyelashes had been dyed three days ago? Possibly four? Clear skin, signs of taurine cream in the frown lines. Bags under the eyes, which are a bit bloodshot. Not bloodshot enough to suggest drug use. Just from staying up late consistently then. Clubber probably. Overall, clean. Too clean and neat. Clothes more expensive than they look, designer labels. Underwear visible above the waistline, a bright yellow band indicating a brand he saw in case once involving a particularly violent domestic dispute between two men. The man was introducing himself to Sherlock now.

"Gay," said Sherlock, as he stated the obvious fact that everyone around him must know by now. Even this man's voice made it clear that he was the farthest from straight a man could be.

"Sorry, what?" Molly said, apparently surprised by the tone of her voice. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Nothing. Um, hey," Sherlock said dismissively, as he gave a faint smile to this man before returning to his work. Sherlock watched through the corner of his eye while Jim not-so-accidently knocked the metal pan off the table where it clashed to the ground. Picking it up, and muttering an apology, Sherlock observed him slipping a piece of paper under it. How subtle. It must contain his number. Sherlock rolled his eyes again. Like he would ever even consider a man like him. Maybe when a few years ago, but now…

Interesting. What's changed? He likes to think that his personality has remained the same. What else then?

Molly, being the naive little girl that she is, was getting emotional about him calling her 'boyfriend' gay. Sherlock quickly explained to her and John, who was surprisingly incredulous about it as well, the quite obvious facts as to why Jim was not as innocent as he was made out to be. Molly left hurriedly and upset as John started to lecture him. This was getting increasingly more common. As Sherlock quickly changed the subject to the much more interesting topic of the shoes, he quickly and quietly slipped the piece of paper into his pocket.

On the cab ride home after explaining the story of Carl Powers to John, Sherlock's mind couldn't help but dwell on why he had kept the number. An inconsistency like this must be accounted for. Usually all his actions were logical and well-thought out. He already knew that he couldn't care less about this man and the last thing he wanted was to meet him again. Why keep the number though? And why wasn't he even considering the offer?

An opportunity like this where no foreplay would be expected, no socializing, nothing would be expected of him, probably just some quick sex and he would be done, is not easy to come by for someone like Sherlock. All he's ever needed before was to satisfy his boring physical need and then carry on. He would dream of a situation like this when he was in Uni. He avoided clubs and pubs there. Too much noise, too much human stupidity. He found that he was barely able to stand 10 minutes in one.

He glanced over at John. Brilliant, emotional, broken, loyal, tea-drinking, jumper-wearing, stupid John.

Sensing Sherlock's eyes on him, John turned away from the window and look up at Sherlock. "Um, so I got a text from Sarah, and she was thinking about us meeting up tonight. Well us, as in her and me, but if the case was too important…" John drifted off, looking awkward.

"No, no, it's fine. I think I have it from here." Sherlock said promptly.

"Really? Because if you need my help…?" John looked worried but Sherlock couldn't understand why.

"I said I'm fine," Sherlock snapped, not too kindly, and looked away. First the number, and now this? What was going on with him? Sherlock sat in silence pondering the complexities of his current emotional state. He felt angry and something else, and he had no idea why. What was different? Was he different? Why was he different?

Sherlock continued to contemplate this even after they arrived at the flat, hoping that once he discovered the root of the problem it would instantly go away. It was a vain hope. He threw himself on the couch and thought through all the possibilities for his current actions and, god help him, feelings. Once he started thinking about this however, the proverbial floodgates opened.

Sherlock could hear John speaking to him several times as he lay on the couch, but Sherlock wasn't in the mood to listen. He NEEDED to figure this out. Soon. He didn't think he could go on like with this uncertainty in his thoughts for much longer. He needed action. He was in the middle of a case of Christ-sakes. That should be 100% of his attention for every second of everyday until he solves it. The door slammed below him, causing him to jump out of his reverie. Sherlock looked at the time on his phone. It was late afternoon.

Sherlock jumped up and looked out the window, like he had last night. John was walking away from the flat quickly. Leaving for his date then. Of course. Sherlock stepped over the table falling on the couch again with dramatic flair. John. Leaving in the middle of an important case. Abandoning him. Didn't he care about all these people dying? Obviously not then, if he was leaving to go 'get off' with Sarah.

Sherlock, frustrated, grabbed a pillow and held it over his head, and yelled into it. Why now of all times to feel like this? Why now in the middle of perhaps the most interesting case so far in his career did he have to have some sort of identity crisis? He's Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't have identity crisises.

Sherlock attempted to push all the swirling emotions in the back of his brain like he had been able to every other moment of his life. His attempts at restoring his cold, heartless shell now though were highly unsuccessful. Doubts, hurt, uncertainty, anger, confusion, and something else continued to seep through. This was a complete disaster. A complete and utter disaster. Why did people even have feelings? They're more useless and destructive than Anderson.

Sherlock's phone beeped from his coat pocket. He was torn from looking at the text or not. If it was Lestrade, there might be something new for the case that would distract him. If it was Mycroft, it would most likely make him even angrier. Five minutes later, the phone beeped again. Sherlock felt around the top of the coffee table, picked up one of John's medical journals and threw it. A short while later, it beeped again. And then again. Finally, it started ringing, as someone was now calling him. Sherlock took the pillow and covered his ears. "Leave me alone Mycroft. No one likes you." He folded himself even more deeply into the cushions of the couch with a huff.

Muffled through the pillow and cushions, Sherlock could hear a knock downstairs. Sherlock groaned, but remained where he was. He wished it was John, but he knew that that couldn't be more wrong. There was the scraping sound of a key being turned in the lock, the door opening and closing, and slow footsteps up the stairs.

"What could you possibly want now? Leave me. I already told you I'm not working that dull case of yours," Sherlock mumbled loudly into his pillow.

"I just wanted to talk," Mycroft said quietly.

"That's bloody brilliant Mycroft. Go away."

"About John."