John didn't see Sherlock Holmes for the remainder of that day. He had left the apartment before John had come out of the bathroom; where he went John didn't know, but he didn't come back all day. Sherlock, however, had been generous enough to leave him a plate of sandwiches on the coffee table before he left. It seems chivalry isn't quite dead, yet.

John went to get dressed, realizing as he did so that he owned absolutely no clothes. His previous attire of tight leather had been thrown away; he'd been wearing a white jumper and black slacks, donated by Mrs Hudson, for the past couple of days. It seems she had taken it upon herself to take it for washing, leaving John with nothing but a freshly pressed suit to wear.
'I'm sure Sherlock wouldn't mind if I... just borrowed something of his.' John thought as the coldness of the apartment was beginning to nip at his arms.

And so off he hurried down the tiny hallway, easing open the bathroom door and slipping back inside. He glanced around and found the large, wicker clothes hamper in the corner. He looked inside; there was only the sweatpants Sherlock had worn just hours ago. It was better then nothing, so John pulled them out and slipped them on. They were long, but not too baggy, and very comfortable. There were no other clothes in sight, so John checked the rest of the apartment. Sure enough, slung over a chair in the dining room, was a thick, grey hoodie. Sherlock didn't seem like the type who'd wear them, but John wasn't complaining. He picked it up and pulled it over his head.

Suddenly, the intoxicating aroma of Sherlock Holmes washed over him, filling his mouth, his nose and all his senses. John's eyes closed, his legs weakened. He sat down on the sofa, pulling the material up to his face and inhaling, long and deeply. It was heavenly; like coffee, smoke and a cinnamon muskiness. John pulled up his legs, laying down on the dusty couch as he inhaled the other man's addictive sent. It was just like him... like he was right there, holding John in his long, toned arms, whispering promises of safety and protection.

John was so lost in this fantasy that he barely realized that he was crying. His breathing was thick and broken, tears crawling down his cheeks, dripping onto the hoodie.

And so John lay there, inhaling the aroma, crying hopelessly and shivering. He felt broken, worthless, pathetic, incomplete...

Eventually, mind fogged over with dreams of Sherlock, he slipped into a very, very deep sleep.

Soon enough, Sherlock Holmes returned home in the early hours of the morning, around 2 am. The case he'd been called to simply didn't interest him in the slightest; then again that might have been because his mind was elsewhere... back in 221B Baker Street.
Sherlock was absolutely furious and ashamed with himself. When he first began to get involved in the gang business he set himself very strict rules that he could not break... no matter what the circumstances.
1) He must never get too emotionally close with his 'clients'
2) He must never make any sexual or romantic advanced towards his clients
3) He must never see them again after the three days

So far he had broken two of his three rules; those rules were his law.

What was it about John Watson, a kid, a broken toy of a prostitute, which made him abandon his morals? What was it about the skinny, scarred, blonde boy which... made him feel the way he did? He shouldn't have inticed him into joining him in the shower... it was a stupid, selfish mistake. One Sherlock would pay for the rest of his life...

Sherlock entered the apartment silently, slipping off his coat and scarf and leaving them on the floor. He sighed softly, rubbing the space between his eyes. He might as well go to bed... there wasn't anything else to do. For some reason, his eyes were drawn over to the kitchen. Strange, he was sure he had left his hooded jacket there. He'd wear it to blend in with the right crowd... had Mrs Hudson taken it for washing? He shrugged it off.

Suddenly, in the corner of his eye, he noticed a small, grey shape on the sofa. Fast asleep, chest rising up and down gently, was John Watson, wearing the hoodie.

In spite of himself, he couldn't help but smile. He smiled, even though his chest was aching, his stomach twisting, his soul breaking.

He grabbed the quilt from John's room, gently draping it over his sleeping form. John smiled softly, snuggling down under the quilt, yet not stirring from his sleep.

Sherlock knelt down near the boy's head, touching his soft, fair hair gently. Sherlock couldn't deny how beautiful he looked; so at peace...

Sherlock leaned in slowly, to press a soft kiss against the boy's forehead... then stopped. He had to contain himself. Instead he just looked down at him, his heart aching to feel the soft presence of the other lips against his own. A single tear rolled down his cheek, dropping down onto the sofa, just missing John's head.

He knew he'd never be this close to him again... tomorrow he would leave him forever... he had to.

Slowly and painfully, Sherlock pulled himself away. He gave the sleeping John Watson one final, lingering glance, then retired to his room.