Disclaimer: Tragically, nothing is mine except for the plot and angst-ridden situations I intend to plonk these poor boys into.

Do I have to warn for slash in this fandom? In any fandom, really? Surely that's slightly oxymoronic?

Warnings for: Slash, violence, swearing, non-con and a boatload of angst.


-Evolutionary-

-Chapter One: A Small Observation-

As with most phenomenon of substance and endurance, this particular one happened gradually and quite without initial warning. It was reminiscent of the process of evolution, perhaps. No, definitely. Evolution had been gradual, progressive, unhurried. That was the best...but wait, evolution was subject to the occasional burst of sudden change out of nowhere. Rare though they were, without them there could be no significant change and ultimately no evolution.

Well, that was an unsatisfying train of thought. Now I would have to spend all night arranging and compartmentalising it until it was neat and orderly. How intensely annoying; a smudge of dirt on the previously immaculate floor of my mind palace. God damn it, I'd just cleaned that. The previous smudge had taken weeks, if not months to remove all lingering traces of it's unpleasantness.

"Sherlock?"

I looked up sharply, brought back to the warm safety of 221b with a snap. I blinked once and saw John peering curiously at me.

"Hmm?" I asked with as little inflection as I could get away with, There was always a good possibility John had been in the midst of asking me a question or telling me something, and I had drifted off. It was rare but it did happen. Like evolutionary leap frogging. But what was the genuine cause of such bursts through an otherwise progressive status quo?

"You're doing it again."

Damn. "I am not."

"Do you even know what I'm referring to?" he asked, amused.

"Whatever it was, I'm certain I wasn't doing it."

"You were talking to me and then you stopped mid sentence and drifted off. For two minutes," he added, glancing at his watch. Traser H3 Classic Chronograph; worn constantly, five years old, damaged twice and repaired – sentimental value. "You do that sometimes."

"I do?" I asked, non-committally. My mind was still buzzing irritably at the smudge. Also I'd left the previous train of though broken down on it's tracks, waiting for inspection. They would start to pile up soon unless I gave it the necessary attention. "Seems highly out of character."

"Yes," John said quietly. "It does."

His tone pulled at my attention, almost magnetically. Something's wrong with John – find out what it is now and fix it so he can be John again, but louder.

Only I had no idea what to say. Instead I looked at him expectantly, with what I hoped was an expression that conveyed my interest. He stared at me for a moment before he smiled and shook his head.

"Ah well, never a dull moment I guess. Tea?" He got up without waiting for my answer and I watched him go to the kitchen. Part of me curious in a detached, clinical way at what had just happened. The other part of me scolding that part for being stupid and forgetful.

How could I have forgotten what I had just discovered only minutes ago, when I had suddenly drifted off?

I was in love with my flat mate. I had fallen in love with John Watson and I had no clue what to do about it.


OK, so I wasn't that stupid. I knew what I should do. I had seen the occasional (terrible) romance film. I should tell him. Be hopeful. Phrase it carefully. Maybe do so in a life or death situation. I should maybe even be brave and try to touch his hand or even his face...my God his face, I loved his face. All the emotions reflected there that were so lacking in every other dull face I saw a million times a day in the real world. All the confidence and mystery and things I had no experience with. All the smiles and kindness and not-taking-my-crap when I was mischievous and bored. Patience. Interest. Endurance. These were foreign qualities to me in people I had come to know. Even Lestrade, who was arguably much more tolerable than most other humans, could barely hold a candle to John.

Hold a candle, such a strange turn of phrase. My brain helpfully provided me with the information that it was first mentioned in William Norris's 'No New Thing' and that it referred to the apprentices who's sole job it was to hold candles up for the more experienced workmen to be able to see. One who could not even hold his candle, was a failure indeed. In retrospect, that seemed a little harsh; Lestrade was competent in his way and...damn it.

Digressing again. But it had only lasted a second, thankfully and John seemed not to have noticed this time. He was taking a look at the dead body on the slab while Molly chatted away nervously beside me. She was wearing a new perfume; it stuck in my throat, unpleasantly. I had never liked the smell of women's perfume. Too many chemicals, to much illusion. Though I hadn't paid much attention to what she was saying, I easily deduced that she was seeing someone new and she was worried that she wasn't good enough for him because he was a published writer. It took nothing less than a glance at her trembling fingers, the bulge of a hardback book in her jacket pocket and the false smile in her laugh to come up with that.

Even so, it was more difficult than it should have been; I sensed my attention was not properly focused. John was talking, albeit to himself, and it was very distracting. His notes were broad, but accurate and he occasionally had some genuine insight into the accidental murder of this woman; a very high class escort with a discreet and contained drug habit. I was momentarily content to allow him to take the reigns. It was fascinating to see him at work, to see his confidence rising and his tone growing stronger and deeper. The Doctor in John thrilled to be of service.

"Sherlock, are you listening to me?" Molly asked, mildly indignant. Not fully indignant, she was too shy even although she had been my most trusted confidant at one point.

"You have nothing to fear from a writer, he has nothing but respect for your work which he could never do himself, but wishes he could. As a writer, he can only dream of the experiences you embrace every day. He'll want to channel your bravery and experience and adore you when you open up to him," I said casually, not taking my eyes off John. As expected, he stopped what he was doing and turned to me with an expression of surprise and approval. Actually, more like surprised approval. Lestrade looked at me like I'd just announced I was pregnant and Molly blinked rapidly and looked around like she thought she'd slipped into a parallel universe.

A strange warm feeling blossomed in the pit of my stomach and I had to actually work to conceal a smile. It was ridiculously pleasant to see John looking at me like that. It was making me want to do things. (Things? What things? Those stupid romance films always faded to black before I could take notes! The internet was deeply unhelpful and intensely disturbing. I had given up trying to utilise that tool for my research a long time ago.)

The moment passed.

"Well, uh...thanks very much," Molly said grinning tentatively. "Always great to have the opinion of a genius."

"The truth requires no gratitude," I said and everyone relaxed at the reappearance of my usual, brusque self. "So, Lestrade, you say you found her lying face down?"

"Yes, she was bludgeoned in the back of the head by a blunt instrument and died almost instantly. No ID and as far as we know, she's not one of the local girls."

I minutely shook my head in wonder. Despite a certain amount of well concealed fondness for Lestrade, it baffled me endlessly at how he had ever managed to land London as his area of operations.

"Of course you don't recognise her, you're not supposed to. She's a very high class and very exclusive escort; observe the clothing, worn only once and purchased less than twenty four hours ago. The shoes are also new, but have been worn a few times – barely scuffed at all though, not much walking in her profession – note the broken heel, that's important. Look at what she's wearing. The outfit of the wife of a powerful man, girlfriend at least but no ring, no sign of jewellery that's not rented. She owns nothing that she's wearing. Everything is an outfit, a costume."

Lestrade looked like he was biting down a, "Hang on a minute!" Molly was listening intently. John gave me a questioning look.

"The hair?"

I nodded, understanding immediately. "Perfectly arranged, but then pulled out of it's style. He was bigger than she was, stronger and without the patience or foresight of an older man. He got drunk, lustful and then forceful. He grabbed her by the hair, tried to make her kiss him. Observe her smudged lipstick smearing dramatically to the left. She dragged her face away, causing the smudge."

"And then he killed her?" Lestrade said, watching me to see if I agreed.

"Or she?" Molly questioned.

"Definitely a he. This woman was smart, careful and not without the ability to take care of herself to some extent. Hence the small half formed bruise on her knee. She kneed him hard after he tried to kiss her. Probably aiming for the groin, but he swerved, causing the small bruise."

"She could have fallen to her knees," Lestrade suggested.

"The other knee is intact. Definitely a male because she was aiming for his groin. Definitely a male because he overpowered her. She wore the tacky dress, the overblown jewellery, the lipstick. All of it screams desperate, rich male."

"But you said young?"

"Yes. Strong, tall and young."

John frowned. "Why would he even need an escort? Surely if he's loaded, built and young he could get someone on his own?"

I sneered a little. "He didn't want someone who chose him for who he was. He wanted someone who would do exactly what he said, when he said it. Wore what he wanted – he chose the dress, of course – and said whatever he wanted in front of all his friends."

"Right," Lestrade said, with the air of a man trying to grasp something. "So he murdered her then? Lost his temper and bludgeoned her?"

"Nope. It was an accident," I said calmly. "She shoved him backwards after the missed attempt on his groin – observe the slight darkening on the heels of her palm – but then the heel of the shoes that she was not used to because he picked them out...snapped! The heel snapped, she went down and landed on the edge of a table, possible the arm of a chair. The impact was fatal, she died almost instantly."

"Sherlock," Lestrade snapped. "You can't know for sure that he didn't push her!"

"Look at her then!" I snapped in return. "Only her lipstick and hair have been touched and interfered with. The dress is unharmed anywhere and with this flimsy material you would see any stretch or tear. He just wanted her to kiss him. He was so shocked by what happened that he didn't even try to hide the body or get rid of her. You found her in the hotel suit didn't you?"

"Well yes, but..."

"The room was booked in her name of course, complete anonymity, but he still took a huge risk. Finding him will be child's play. It was accidental. Full stop."

There was a long stretch of silence during which I'm certain Lestrade was telling himself not to ask me where to start looking. John seemed to take pity on him.

"So give us a call once you've talked to the escort agency, Greg," he said with a smile. "You won't need us for the piddly task of talking to the hotel clerks and finding out more about the escort. I'm sure they'll have all the info you need."

"Right," Lestrade said coming to life. "Will do. Thanks guys, you too Molly."

"Bye!" she said cheerfully and he left. "That was nice of you," she said to John after he was out of earshot. "He's so distracted lately with the divorce and all."

"And the affair," I added absently. "Molly, would you please do me a favour?"

She seemed reasonably shocked that I had asked so politely and waited for an answer.

"Uh...of course!" she replied. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw John cocking his head with interest.

"Do you have a UV light?"

"A UV light? You mean like a black light?"

I nodded.

"Actually, I think we do somewhere. It'll be in the supply room though, one minute!" She dashed off, almost excitedly.

"A black light?" John queried.

"A theory," I replied.

"About...?"

"The escort agency."

"Ah. How so?"

"I found one!" Molly exclaimed as she came bursting into the room waving the long, thin light. "Knew we had one somewhere." She handed it to me and I turned it on, immediately holding it close to the body. I started at the top, checking her neck, and worked down each arm until her left wrist finally showed me what I was looking for.

"A tattoo," John supplied helpfully. "In UV ink. What is it?"

"It's the mark of her agency. An eagle," I said staring at the minimalist outline of an eagle as it glowed beneath her skin. An eagle: USA national emblem, imperial power, freedom, John the Evangelist, Greek God Zeus...no. Aigle – French, águila – Spanish, adler – German.

German word for eagle – adler.

Irene Adler. Of course, just as I had suspected for some time. She really should have stayed away, though. I cleared my throat, hard;y any time had passed since I'd last spoken and no-one seemed to be on the same vein of thought I was. I decided to keep it to myself for now.

"That hotel will give Lestrade a false agency who in turn will say they've never heard of her and it'll be weeks before he finally gives up. They might find the young man, but they'll never find the agency," I said.

"Why not tell Lestrade?"

"Because he'll draw them out just enough for me to see them But not yet. Not today. Thank you Molly, indispensable as always," I said with a nod and a smile. She stuttered for a moment, perhaps unaccustomed to such benevolence.

"A-any time," she said with a wide smile.

"Bye Molly," John said with his customary friendliness. "See you soon, no doubt." I marvelled at the ease of his kindness and it's frequency. I almost envied it, but then that was just who he was. John Watson. My chest contracted oddly for a moment and I found it a little difficult to breathe. He gave me a funny look.

"Are you sure you're OK? You keep looking...ill."

"I assure you I'm quite fine," I told him.


We arrived back home together. I had never though of 221b Baker Street of home – a term so elusive and romantic to me – until John had agreed to move in with me, despite what I'm certain was an alarming first impression. Perhaps it was the simplicity of having someone to return to or spend time with. John had made all kind of adjustments to the flat after he moved in. At first I was quite violently against most of them but then after he patiently explained, (Yes Sherlock, we do need soap! Yes Sherlock the washing machine DOES need to be fixed! Yes we definitely need two microwaves! What do you mean why? I opened it the other day and there was tongue splatter everywhere. One for body parts, one for food!) I realised that there was a certain elegant efficiency to his alterations. I particularly enjoyed clean towels. And real food. I had never been able to cook more than two slices of burnt toast and it was rather wonderful the first time John made a real, hot actual dinner. With chicken and everything.

So yes, it was more home now than any place had ever been, including the dreaded place I was born.

I grimaced inwardly and pushed the unpleasant memories back. The last time I had been dragged there had been well over six years ago for a monstrously forced Christmas dinner. Mycroft's fault really, he thankfully never tried again.

"Sherlock," John asked, pulling me back to reality once more. I realised I was standing in the doorway, coat still on.

"Yes?"

John was already making tea (he made wonderful tea) and was giving me another look. This one seemed much more cautious. The kind of look he'd been forced to adopt a while ago when things had been bad (horrible, immovable smudge no matter what I use...) and I had fallen back into old habits. He'd had to ask me questions with a carefully controlled expression. I'd tried to lie, but it was a dismal failure. He was a doctor after all, he knew the effects of drugs.

"You've been acting really...well, more strange than usual," he told me, pouring the hot water in to two mugs. "I've noticed that since this morning you seem incredibly distant and definitely a bit off your game."

I slipped my coat and scarf off and flung them over the back of the sofa. "How so?"

He handed me my tea. "I just said it, you're being much more distant and weird than you usually are."

"I'm always distant and weird."

He shook his head. "Not like this."

With an exaggerated roll of my eyes I asked, "Well then define the differences!"

He took a careful sip of his tea, avoiding looking at me.

"You're staring at me a lot."

Immediately, a hot blush began creeping up my neck much to my horror. My body was violently betraying me. I silently promised it no food for a week if it didn't stop, but it seemed to ignore me. I wished I hadn't removed my scarf now, it would have given me perfect cover.

Of course he looked up.

"Umm...are you...blushing?"

"No!" I snapped, and the heat decided to attack my face. "I'm...I'm getting ill, that's all. I've felt it all day and you're right, I'm off my game because I'm ill and sick and need medicines!"

John he didn't look remotely convinced. "You're not ill. I know when you're ill and oddly enough it's a rarity somehow with all the shit you put your poor body through."

'Oh yes,' I thought scathingly. 'My poor body. Betraying me in every way!'

"So," he went on sounding resigned. "It's something else. Are you using again?"

"Of course not. You'd be able to tell immediately."

"I know," he said, watching me intently. "It's just routine to ask in these scenarios." He hesitated and I knew straight away what was coming next.

"Is it...the November thing?"

Impressively, I remained seemingly impassive. "No, it's not. You know I would tell you if it was."

"Probably not," he sighed. "Then what is it, Sherlock? Something is wrong, I can see it coming off you in waves. Everyone can."

Shouldn't have been so nice to Molly. Maybe it's because I understand more of where she was coming from when she was in love with me. Gave me away though.

I could just tell him. It was be easy, save me all this lying and pointless postponing of the inevitable. I could just look at him and say, "I've fallen in love with you, John. I love you and all I can think about is you."

But then I imagined his reaction and it made me turn a little cold. What if he was repulsed? What if he was angry, awkward, disgusted? He had never shown the slightest inclination towards me, unless you counted that awkward and possibly misinterpreted first night we met. No, he wouldn't be any of those things. He would reject me as kindly and nicely as he could, promising we were best friends...but nothing else. Somehow, that was more unbearable than the former.

So I said, "It's nothing I can't deal with and I will, as soon as I can, I promise you, John."

"Are you going to tell me what it is?"

"Nope."

He looked disappointed, hoping I would trust him as implicitly as he trusted me. If only he knew, but no – he mustn't know, bad choice, bad move, bad consequences disguised as normalcy. "As is your choice, Sherlock. But I'm always here if you need to talk."

I gave him a rare, genuine smile. "I know, John. I know."


November.

Every scenario I had gone through in my mind completely abandoned me as I was faced with the unexpected. Rare, to be confronted by something I had not even considered, let alone planned for. It was strange, reduced me to an almost childlike state of confusion and terror.

It was not supposed to happen like this. Not in a million years.

I had barely escaped with my life and certainly not in one piece. It had been the final location of Moriarty's empire, the last outpost of all that stood between my return to life, to Baker Street and to John. I had badly miscalculated; a result, perhaps, of so many months without sleep, regular food. More likely the feverish certainty that this was the final chore to be done before going home to John. Either way, I was ill prepared and they captured me.

I was their captive for four months. They were spectacularly angry with me for what I had done to their friends, their boss. Their way of life. They had a long time to make me pay.

By the time I escaped, I was half dead and halfway to wishing I was fully so. I killed every last one of them, the final man died in the most obscene fashion, I had nothing left but my thumbs and his wide, inviting eye sockets. They were all dead and I was on the brink of losing what little sanity I had left.

My plan had been to go to John, for as long as I could remember, but when it was done I found that the last four months had destroyed most of what John would recognise. I vaguely recall that I chose to leave England, to hide away and leave him to his quieter, safer life.

And yet somehow, he was in Sunderland that day. He was there for some Godforsaken medical conference thing, one of those tiresome weekend excursions. He was obviously trying to get away from London, away from everything.

I was just going to go to a hotel, that was all. Lay on a bed, sleep for a week, heal if possible. That was all I wanted.

It was like it was meant to be.

He was there, standing right outside the hotel with a fake smile plastered on his worn, pale face as he chatted impressively to some middle aged woman wearing a knitted jumper with a cat on it. I was already out of the cab, having thrown too much money at the driver by way of an apology for the blood on his seats.

I looked up and there he was, looking right at me.

At first he didn't even look shocked, just a little bit sad. Then fond, then faintly agonised and he turned back to cat lady. I realised he thought he was hallucinating and it was clearly not the first time. I stood there, unable to move or breathe, moments away from collapsing. I couldn't move.

He frowned slightly, still not looking at me but now seeing me out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head a little. The frown deepened and now cat lady was looking at me too, her mouth wide. John looked at her and then at me, back and forth a few times before his frown vanished and he went completely blank.

My legs were trembling with the effort of standing, I blinked the blood out of my eyes and struggled to breathe with cracked ribs.

The blank look continued, he didn't seem to understand at all, so much so that his brain seemed to have given up.

"John," I gasped and his mouth opened, his whole face coming to life in the most terrifying expression of shock I had ever seen. It was the last thing I saw before I passed out.


"All right, I give up. How bad is it?" he asked, without looking at me. We were side by side, watching mind numbing Saturday night TV, eating deliciously unhealthy Chinese food.

I viciously stabbed a piece of deep fried squid. "That's a rather broad question, John," I informed him loftily. "To what precisely are you referring? Global warming? The threat of imminent war with the East? Christmas dinner with your sister?"

"Whatever is going on in your head," he replied calmly, eating his chow mein with a finesse that I envied. "It must be pretty bad, you haven't made a single comment about Britain's Got Talent. There was a man dancing with a painted nun head and you didn't say a word."

"Maybe I was engrossed," I said but without inflection. I knew he would easily counter it and then demand that I be fully honest.

He never disappointed me. "Absolute crap. If you don't tell me what's happening then I'm calling Mycroft and asking him to stay the night."

An empty threat mostly, but it showed his determination and need to know.

I coughed. "I was thinking about November."

Silence. "I knew it."

"Then why ask?"

"Because it's what humans do, Sherlock. They care enough to ask." He paused, considering his words. "What specifically were you thinking of?"

"You."

"Ah. Well. I was a prick."

I smiled. "Hardly."

"A bit."


November.

When I opened my eyes again, I was in a soft, warm bed. I was clean (how?) and in pain, but my wounds were tended to (how?) and I was wearing crisp, previously unworn pyjamas.

The how transformed into John as soon as memory returned. I felt immediately sick, haunted by that look on his face. The horror of just bumping into him, like it was a random accident.

I sat up very slowly, agony flooding my chest first; the cracked ribs seemed to still be cracked. Everything else followed, all the other pains from every other horror that had been done to me. Suddenly so nauseous that I actually felt bile rise up in my throat, I realised that John might have examined me thoroughly. I was in pyjamas after all and completely clean. He would know then that I had been repeatedly raped. It was too much to bear, too much to cope with. This was never any one of my plans. Never.

Which was of course when I realised he was sitting directly to my left, watching me.

I couldn't even look at him. I stared blindly down at my hands, watching them wring together and grasp at the pale, weak flesh.

"How do you feel?" he asked, the professional doctor. Not John at all.

I nodded, unable to speak. I hoped he would take it as the yes it was intended to be.

"Are you sufficiently out of danger that you could go to hospital?" Another clinical question, not something my John would say.

I wanted to lie; the last thing I wanted was hospital. Mycroft making sure I got the best treatment, the best post traumatic therapist. He would pity me, look at me delicately. Know what had been done to me.

But I couldn't lie to John any more. I nodded again.

Silence for a minute and then, "You did it to protect me," he said, almost to himself. "I know that. I know that's why you did it. To keep me and Mrs Hudson and Greg alive. I know that."

I grimaced, already knowing where this information had come from. Damn my brother.

"You faked your own death and then went deep underground to root out and kill every last one of Moriarty's crew," he said, sounding horribly calm. "You did it for me."

I managed a small nod.

He let out a bitter and almost cruel laugh. It made my skin crawl.

"You expect me to be grateful, I suppose? Swoon and fall over myself to thank you? Yes, of course you do. You're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?"

He stood up from the chair and I almost looked at him.

"Well I'm not grateful. I'm not thankful. I don't even applaud you for trying," he spat. "You think because you're hurt and broken that it somehow makes up for what you did to me?"

"No," I whispered. "No."

"Oh but you do! I can see it, Sherlock. I can see how you think you're the little martyr, all banged up and injured! You want me to just take care of you? Be thankful just to have you back in my life again? Well I'm not! I was just starting to move past all...all of this and then you pull up outside a fucking conference and THERE YOU ARE!"

He was panting, red faced and more furious than I had ever seen him.

"Back in my life as if nothing had ever happened. You died, Sherlock. I grieved, I cried...I lost part of who I was when you fell. When you died. You're dead to me still."

He left the room, slamming the door as hard as he could.


"You were not a prick."

John rolled his eyes. "Well, you were hardly the best judge at the time. You were barely coherent."

I watched him carefully as he looked down at his food, fleeting agony tearing through him only for a moment. I knew how terrible he felt, even now almost eight months on. There was a tremor in his hand. I wanted to reach out and take it, hold it in my own and stroke the distressed flesh. Make it better, somehow. The impulse was brand new and utterly terrifying. I had no idea if this impulse should be obeyed or ignored. I decided against obeying it and went back to pretending to watch the TV.

"Why were you...um, why were you thinking about me?" John asked after a few minutes.

Because you're all I think about now. You're filling my mind, making me delirious with need to touch you, tell you how I feel. You are all I see, all I know.

I shrugged. "Random memory."

"Yes but what specifically about me were you thinking about?"

Ah. The minefield of human emotions and the expectations that came with them. As usual, I felt lost and utterly confused in such unfamiliar territory. But he was looking at me in earnest, waiting for an earnest answer and although I could think of a few things (lies) to say to get him off my back about it, they all stuck in my throat.

"It's just that it still amazes me that you forgave me."

John laughed self deprecatingly. "After my pathetic little tantrum you mean? Not exactly extravagant kindness."

"You could have left me."

He took another bite of his rapidly cooling food and very quietly said, "I wouldn't know how."

The silence resumed momentarily, during which time I could feel John building up to something that I probably wouldn't like. Already anticipating exactly what this would be about, I winced inwardly and waited for him to find his words.

"Sherlock, I know you don't want to talk about it, but please just know that when and if you do...I am always here. I mean I really want you to talk about it, we never really did and I know it's because of how I acted when you first came back. But like I said, I was a prick and I couldn't regret my actions any more if I tried. All I'm saying is that I'm ready when you are."

He suspected, I knew it. I had never told him the full extent of my injuries from that four month period, let alone the abuse I suffered. Despite what I had originally thought, John had not been the one to tend to my injuries. Mycroft had apparently been searching for me all those months and upon finding me, he had flown up North with the best medical team he could find at such short notice. John hadn't even been in the room. Mycroft knew, of course. That was bad enough. I couldn't bear the thought of John knowing.

He had tried to make me talk about it after he had calmed down, immediately overwhelmed by terrible (and unnecessary) guilt, but I had point blank refused.

"There is little point delving into the past." He looked disappointed again, but nodded as though expecting it. "I appreciate the sentiment though," I added softly.

He froze, hand mid air with a prawn balancing delicately on his fork.

"You...appreciate the sentiment?" he echoed, sounding baffled. "Sherlock, since when do you appreciate any kind of sentiment?"

There was absolutely no way of answering that without giving everything away and making myself look like a complete moron. Instead, I looked at the TV for some kind of distraction and it provided one in the form of a tragically off key singer.

John carried on looking at me for a long time before he turned away.


Author's Note: OK, so my first Sherlock fic because dear God this will not go away and I miss fanfiction way too much. Anyway, prepare yourself for a long multi-chaptered story. I really hope you guys enjoy and (of course) review? Sorry this was a little short, the next will be longer. This is going to be a little dark at times and as later chapters go on, fairly graphic.

Apologies for any mistakes, more up soon!

Bex

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