The next few days passed in a tense haze. They never spoke to each other except when absolutely necessary, and Sherlock had stopped asking John to help him on cases. Sherlock could see it in his flatmate's eyes that he longed to accompany the detective, but was either too good at holding a grudge or too respectful of Sherlock's wishes to impose - maybe a combination of both. What a contradiction.

Sherlock always felt his pulse increase every time the distance between them grew. Both of them were angry at the other, and both were stubborn to the grave. Even Mrs. Hudson had noticed, and Sherlock had heard her speaking in low, concerned tones to John outside the door. Sherlock felt shocked - the landlady had only known the man for a matter of months, and already she was this concerned about their relationship?

The same atmosphere followed Sherlock even to crime scenes, where he saw a pair of detectives off to the side whispering in conspiring tones and glancing at him. Since the two had been around a while (meaning one was not telling the other about all the weird things he'd heard about the loopy consultant), it probably meant they were commenting on some new development about him, which could only be John's absence, since Sherlock had been to a crime scene twice in the past week (Moriarty was showing off, it seemed) where those detectives were present, meaning they were not talking about his encounter with Moriarty. Sherlock rolled his eyes and inspected the crime scene as usual. He hissed in annoyance; this place had been positively trampled by police, making his job infinitely harder with their destruction of evidence.

"Where's John?" Lestrade queried, his arms crossed where he stood above Sherlock. The detective glanced up from his crouched position over some watery footprints, an annoyed expression on his face.

"Has the entire Yard made bets concerning how long I can maintain a friendship?" Sherlock asked caustically, gesturing with his head and eyes toward the pair of gossipers at the other end of the room, who noticed his glance and pretended to look at something on their phones. Idiots.

"Friendship?" Lestrade asked, raising a knowing eyebrow. Sherlock cursed himself inwardly for the slip but maintained external stasis.

"Well, probably not what the rest of you would consider friendship," the consulting detective replied with a shrug, and turned away to hide a pink tinge when he realized how Not Good that sounded.

Lestrade huffed but didn't push any further, and allowed Sherlock to finish his examination of the scene without further interruption, to the consulting detective's relief.

It was that very case that forced the two men into communicating again. Sherlock had worked himself into the ground, not resting or eating for the full 48 hours. It ended with him eventually finding the thief's hideout; and, contrary to his expectations - the perpetrator was still there. This oversight earned Sherlock a bad blow to the head and a tweaked ankle, and a colossally bad mood. By the time the Yard showed up, Sherlock was sitting with his arms and legs crossed in a chair, tapping his fingers on his arm. The criminal was handcuffed to the leg of a solid oak table, not going anywhere. It was another three hours of statements and legalities before Sherlock could go home, which he did gladly. He'd managed to keep from revealing his injuries to anyone, and the police had never been the most observant of people, nor were they prone to worrying about the local pain-in-the-neck.

He strode through the front door confidently, but as he ascended the stairs he allowed himself to feel the pain, and limped pathetically up the remaining steps. A hand hesitantly reached up to inspect the area under his dark curls that had been struck with a frying pan. He hissed in pain at the touch, and his hand came away bloody. Great. He'd be fortunate not to have a concussion.

The door to the sitting room swung open quietly, and Sherlock sighed with acute annoyance when he saw that John was still up, reading a book. Now he'd have to make sure John didn't notice his limp - the man's doctoral instincts could not be deterred, once activated. He bit back a growl of frustration when John turned around, eyeing his slightly slouching flatmate. Sherlock forced away his exhaustion and straightened quickly, but John had already seen it. Sherlock was about to dash off to the bathroom to get the first aid kit and then promptly lock himself in his room, when John's voice, in a very Captain Watson tone, broke the silence.

"Sit down."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock snapped, eyes narrowed. He was not one to be ordered around.

"Sit. Down. Don't make me say it again," John warned.

"Why would I?" Sherlock said in a calm but purposely infuriating voice, and was turning to walk into the hallway. He got about two steps before he heard John again, and stopped, but didn't face his flatmate.

"Sherlock. We need to talk," John insisted.

"Not really," Sherlock growled, very irritated with the situation.

"Actually, we really do," John retorted. "Because if we keep this up, one of us will move out before the month is over."

Sherlock clenched his fist and his teeth, bracing himself for his own words.

"And that should concern me, why?" he asked coldly.

"Because Moriarty is out there, and he's coming for you!" John exclaimed, exasperated.

Sherlock turned around, his expression frozen, a thousand thoughts running through his head so quickly, like so many birds in flight, that he could not reach out and snatch one of them before they flew away.

"What difference does that make?" Sherlock asked lowly, but his eyes were searching John for a genuine answer this time. The ex-RAMC stepped closer, and for them, it was the equivalent of laying a comforting hand on another's shoulder; but due to how incredibly stoic and non-tactile they were, it was enough to communicate the same sentiment.

"Because I've seen what Moriarty can do, and you need to have someone there to have your back," John explained. Sherlock's eyes glinted as he was reminded that John was an army man - it was drilled into them from day one that fighting he enemy was a team effort.

"I don't need anyone to have my back. I can handle myself," Sherlock argued.

"No doubt," John said skeptically. "Now sit down, so I can treat your limp."

Sherlock blinked in surprise. "How did you know?" he asked, slightly bewildered.

"You forget that I walked around for months with a limp. I know how it sounds," John replied as he took Sherlock by the shoulder and took him to his chair.

As John worked on his flatmate's injuries (the idiot had gotten himself a mild sprained ankle and a concussion - sure, he could handle himself just fine.), meeting with little resistance due mostly to the fact that Sherlock was exhausted, he pondered what he should say. He was still livid with Sherlock for his actions that night. The stupidity of going in alone was utterly unparalleled. It was not uncommon for Sherlock to do something of that nature on impulse, but this was premeditated and planned.

It stung, because it gave John the distinct feeling that Sherlock didn't want him around because he was slowing the genius down. That he was useless and unwanted. That seemed to be what Sherlock wanted him to think.

Yet, John knew that couldn't be completely true. While he honestly had no clue how invested Sherlock was in this friendship, he knew that they were undeniably more than flatmates. They could go days without speaking word to each other, yet communicating in spades - in looks, in offered cups of tea. There was a strange camaraderie between them, almost like a shared solitude. The fact that Sherlock was the first one to call them friends made John wonder if, perhaps, the detective was more eager for companionship than he let on.

And, of course, there those looks. Looks, expressions, that spoke of all the things that were never said.

The look on Sherlock's face when John was forced to step out of the changing area.

The look on his face when he saw the bomb vest.

The look on his face when John jumped Moriarty - and the way the gun trembled like a leaf in the wind in his hands.

And, of course, the way Sherlock had frantically tried to put distance between John and that vest.

Not to mention the expression on Sherlock's face when John had mentioned Moriarty just a few minutes ago. He'd looked - almost afraid.

The Irishman's threat came back to John - the promise to 'burn Sherlock's heart'. Suddenly, he thought - maybe - Sherlock was afraid for him? It was a bit self-centered, to think he was that important to anyone, let alone a self-professed sociopath. But in the few months they'd been together, there was a powerful force drawing them to each other - something bigger than themselves, it seemed. While John didn't see Sherlock as vulnerable or needy, he felt like Sherlock really needed him - needed a friend to be there for him, needed an anchor when the genius swung between extremes like a pendulum. Sherlock certainly didn't need emotional support, but he did need someone he could rely on to have his back. John had found the purpose he'd lost when he'd been invalided when he filled that need, even if it meant his intelligence was insulted on a daily basis.

What an almost obscene thought - Sherlock Holmes was afraid - he was sure of it - even if it wasn't for him.

More importantly, Sherlock Holmes was human - astoundingly so. The man wasn't that much younger than him, but somehow he made John want to protect him, the way John had wanted to protect his sister when they were younger.

"Sherlock?" John asked when he'd finally finished. The concussion had been checked - not serious, but John would wake him up in a few hours to be safe, and the ankle wasn't too serious either.

"Yes?" Sherlock replied, already starting to fall asleep.

"Next time you're about to do something stupid, call me."

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked as John helped him struggle to his feet.

"So I can try and stop you, and then most likely end up helping you," John replied. Sherlock turned an amused look to him, and John was once again thinking about how silly it was of him to actually believe Sherlock about anything concerning himself. Sherlock suddenly sobered for a moment, clearly seeing something in John's face, but it passed quickly back into playfulness.

"I don't do stupid things," Sherlock protested, as they walked to the hallway side by side.

"Yeah you do," John retorted knowingly, a vague smile on his face. Something else flickered on Sherlock's features, but John couldn't catch it this time.

"Goodnight," Sherlock said, limping (not as bad as earlier) to his room.

"Night," John replied, and turned to go up to his own room, his mind awhirl with the discoveries of the night - tentatively wondering if he was mistaken in his seemingly irreverent conclusions.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and prepared for sleep, yet his pulse was racing. Was he really so weak?

He was terrified.

This was all happening too quickly for him to process - it was like being dunked into freezing cold water, after which you come to the surface gasping, trying to reorient yourself and figure out what the blazes just happened. Yet, it was a different apprehension than before. It was the kind of fear in one's stomach before the drop of a roller coaster, or the tense anticipation in the moments after kicking a winning goal and watching as it sailed past the goalie.

John was incredible. Sherlock had sort of known before, he supposed he'd known since their first case, but he refused to fully acknowledge the fact until now.

So many layers - and so much patience, yet so short-tempered. Both a soldier and a doctor, a killer and a healer. Unassuming and submissive, yet can take control of a situation with ease. Kind and compassionate, but stoic and sarcastic. A crack shot, an athlete, and adrenaline junkie, but one who loved a quiet evening. And, not to mention, truly brilliant in his own way.

Most importantly, he was Sherlock's friend. The very thought made Sherlock's brain give a repeated default message: Error Error Error Error Error…

Sherlock's. His. No question about it, now. A person who was actually willing to put with him, for some reason that had yet to be revealed. How did Sherlock ever earn this? What incredible turn of fortune had brought to two of them into each other's paths, they who fit together as if by design?

He laid down, his aching muscles loosening at last. There was a constant dull throbbing behind his temples and a persistent ache wrapped around his ankle, but nothing his great mind couldn't handle. He closed his eyes, content for once to let his mind drift into inactivity to let his transport repair itself.

Sherlock wasn't prone to emotions, normally. He was generally disconnected, too busy for hormonal highs that others seemed so disgustingly prone to. Even though he did put forth effort to avoid them whenever possible like a typical British man, it came naturally to his analytical nature. On an average day he felt nothing strong enough to interfere with his mental processes, and that was the way her preferred things. Under his control, and within his realm of understanding.

But right now, in the darkness of his own room, a ghost of a smile touched his pale face, before he feel into the peacefulness of sleep, leaving the deeper questions of friendship and loyalty to be pondered another day.

A/N: I hoped you liked it! Let me know what you thought below. I enjoyed this, been wanting to do it for a while. I'm not here to argue into eternity, but just so you know, it bothers me when these two are not portrayed as stoical as they actually are. While I'm not 100% satisfied with the characterization, I just wanted to let you know what I was aiming for, while still giving them room to be the emotional creatures that all humans are. Idk about you but when I have any conversation that's halfway meaningful my pulse races like crazy.