AN: Part 2 of 2.

John twisted his hands. He was hunched over in a tense, jumpy position he can maneuvered himself into within his chair.

There was a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Sherlock hadn't been answering his phone for the last two hours.

Yeah. The Moriarty bloke got him, finally.

He straightened his spine and knees, standing a dialing Lestrade's number. The detective inspector picked up on the second ring. "Dr. Watson?" His tone was curious and surprised.

"You haven't, ah, heard from Sherlock at all, have you?"

"No, I haven't," came his nonchalant reply and John's eyes closed. "Is something wrong?"

"Ah, no…no. I'm sure his phone's died. He's pretty careless." He forced light-hearted laughter into his voice, but it came out sounding as if he were frightened.

He hung up with Lestrade and ran his hand through his fair hair. Sighing, the man picked up his jacket. He was going to kill him.

If he wasn't already dead.

He grasped his jacket with white knuckles.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, hand poised to turn the knob. He lowered his arm and stood back as the door opened more, smirking. "Going on a—what is it?"

John stepped back in barely contained fury as Sherlock pushed past him into their flat. "Wh—Where the hell have you been?"

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, turning his body halfway to look at his friend. "Out. I told you I'd be back at twelve," he replied in his a tone that was clearly asking why John was overreacting.

"It's three o'clock in the morning."

"…Oh. Apologies."

John grit his teeth, and Sherlock seemed to have heard it from where he was standing, because he looked at him…really looked at him. His expression narrowed slightly and his dark eyebrows drew together.

"Your hands are shaking, John."

"Probably because I'm so bloody mad."


You were worried.

Sherlock took John's coat from his tight grip and set it down over a chair that wasn't covered in dusty books or lab equipment. He put his cold hands over John's warm ones, eerily silent as he squeezed, waiting until the trembling was subdued and almost gone before speaking. "I'm sorry."

John huffed and then laughed slightly, surprised. Sherlock saw he was paler than usual. "Moriarty could've—"

Sherlock flinched visibly, not at the name but the insinuation and John stopped immediately. "I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated more firmly and he tangled his fingers through John's, eyes on their hands.

"…Alright. Don't do it again. Ever."

John's face was solemn and Sherlock though his chest hurt a bit, but he was unsure of the reason why.

"I know."