Hello everybody! Here's the new chapter. I hope you enjoy the story so far :)

„Good morning, Sherlock."

Rustling of the newspaper.

A chair scraping the floor. Clinking of porcelain.

"Sherlock, would you hand me the coff- … thank you."

…

"So? Anything interesting in the newsp-"

"No."

Ticking of the clock. Noise of a honking car outside.

"Did Lestrade already call you about the c-"

"Yes."

" … so?"

"Case's solved." Rustling. Chair scraping the floor. Footsteps.

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Hi, Sherlock. Where are you?"

"At the crime scene."

"What crime scene?"

"Lestrade called me this morning. Double homicide."

"Where is it? I'll join you then."

"Not necessary. The case is practically solved."

"But-"

"I said, it's not necessary."

"Alright. I'll see you … later."

"John? You're home already?"

"Yes, Barry took over my shift. Dr. Merswiak's orders. I told him about the … the thing today. … uh, Sherlock? Where are you going?"

"I've got something to do at the … the … lab."

"But what about your experi-"

"Don't wait for me."

Door falling shut.

"Sherlock?" John stood in the door frame to the living room, looking at the detective, who was sitting in his chair, legs crossed and lost in his thoughts. John had to repeat his name once more to make Sherlock snap out of his trance. His pupils finally moved to look up at him.

"John."

"You, uh … can I talk to you for a moment?"

Sherlock's composure became rigid, his features hardening. "To be honest, right now is not a very good time for that." He got up and buttoned up his suit jacket. "Molly's got an autopsy report for me, I want to pick it up before she leaves. I'm not sure when I'll be back, but you don't need to wait for me."

Sherlock was about to step past John into the hall, but the doctor grabbed his arm to stop him. "What's the matter, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at him in confusion. "What's the matter with what?"

"You know what I mean."

"Could you be a little more specific? And quick please, because as I said I need to go to St. Bart's?"

"Why are you avoiding me?"

Sherlock pulled his arm out of John's grip and furrowed his eyebrows. "Pardon?"

John blinked briefly. "You're avoiding me, Sherlock, you … you barely speak with me, you don't tell me when Lestrade has a case for us, but you're going on your own." John didn't want to admit how much Sherlock's behaviour really hurt him, but his emotions betrayed him by making his voice sound very shaky. "You're like this since you know about my … my disease. Why? I thought if there is a person I can rely on, then it would be you."

Sherlock clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. He started to feel nauseous. He knew that John would want to have this conversation sooner or later, but he tried to stall that moment as long as he could, because he wasn't ready for this yet. Not ready for this conversation, not ready for the words, he had to say to go through that topic and not ready for the emotions that would be attached to it. His first impulse was to run away, like the rabbit runs from the fox. Before he knew it, his legs started to move. "I … I got to go." He pushed past John, but the doctor moved quick enough to block his way.

"No. You won't run away again, Sherlock. I want to talk about this."

"Let me pass."

"No."

"John ..." Sherlock's voice was a warning murmur now. He moved to invade John's personal space. "Get. Out. Of. My. Way."

"Why don't you want to talk about it?"

Sherlock glared at him.

The doctor was barely able to hide his disappointment and hurt feelings. Should he really have been that wrong about Sherlock? Wasn't he a friend at all? Just a flatmate who leaves him alone in troubled times? Didn't he have a friend to help him through the most difficult time of his life? Was that the conclusion he had to draw?

Slowly John lowered his gaze and stepped aside.

Wasting no time, Sherlock walked past him, grabbed his coat and pulled the door close behind himself.

John felt miserable, abandoned and sad. All of this he put into one single teardrop that slowly rolled down his cheek.

John stood in his room in front of the small window and looked outside on the streets of London. A few hours ago it had started to rain, the wet streets reflecting the light of the street lamps while a car now and then tore through the puddles of rain.

He didn't know for how long he was already standing there, but when he had stepped into his room to look out of the window it had been bright and dry outside. Now a church tower was striking three o'clock, but John wasn't able to turn away from that bleak sight he felt to be a part of.

Over and over Sherlock's face popped up in his mind, the way he had looked at him, so cold that it almost made him shiver. It left him completely dumbstruck. He really believed that Sherlock would be there for him. That he would help him in the most difficult time of his life. It hurt so much that he was so wrong about his friend. The disappointment and shock made him feel like plummeting from great height onto concrete ground – leaving him dazed, numb, but the throbbing pain keeping him conscious at the same time.

He felt so lonely like he was when he came back from Afghanistan. Only this time he felt even more abandoned, because now he would lose more than what he had before he met Sherlock.

"John?"

He swang around, spotting Sherlock standing in the door frame to his room. It was too dark to see many details. The only thing John was able to make out was Sherlock still wearing his coat. Why didn't John hear the front door opening and closing, the creaking of the wooden steps, when Sherlock went upstairs, but did hear the low baritone of his friend's voice that has been enough to pull him out of his thoughts?

For a moment they both just stood there, Sherlock still hidden in the darkness, while John was illuminated by the moonlight coming from the window.

"John, I … I wanted to apologise for my behaviour earlier and the previous days."

John was surprised to hear those words from his flatmate, for he never says such things usually. He didn't dare to move or speak, fearing Sherlock might leave if he does.

Sherlock took one step further into the room without taking his eyes off John. "I ..." He cleared his throat and lowered his gaze. Suddenly he looked unbelievably lost, like he was seeking the right words to say, hoping he would find them there on the floor.

"Sherlock", John whispered and then moved to stop right in front of him and draw his eyes back on him.

Hesitantly Sherlock's gaze climbed up the doctor's body, stopping briefly on his chest, as if he has to bring himself to look him in the eyes. He opened his mouth, meaning to say something, but then he closed it again. This repeated a few times.

John waited patiently for his friend to find the right words he wanted to say. Truth was, he had to hear them, even if those words would pull the rug from under his feet.

"I … I avoided you, because ..." Sherlock's mouth hung open as he stared at a random point somewhere behind John, lost in thought. Then he closed his eyes, forcing himself out of that trance. "I just didn't know how to deal with this … with you." Finally he managed to look at John's face.

"I was afraid to say something wrong … do something wrong. Afraid you might want to talk about about it and that I might have no idea how to react, John. I feel … helpless. I want to help you, but I can't. I just can't, damn it! All I can do is watch. It's making me crazy. I just wanted to avoid all of this, do you understand? I didn't want to mess about with it, I wanted to distract myself. The more I got worried the more desperate I got and tried to seal myself off from you, because … I feel guilty, John. Guilty. I couldn't bear the mere thought, let alone talk about it. How am I supposed to comfort you? Support you? The truth is that … that there hasn't been anyone in my life I wanted to comfort and support. And now, look at me … I'm running away like a child. I-I'm sorry, John, I just don't know what to do."

While he spoke, his gaze dropped back down on the floor. And now he was standing like this in front of his deathly ill friend, his head lowered and his voice almost breaking. It was unbearable for him to be so vulnerable and helpless when he should be strong for his friend.

A sting went through John's heart at Sherlock's words. He didn't have a clue about what was going on in Sherlock's head. This was more empathy than he ever expected of his sociopathic friend. The overwhelming feeling of relief and gratefulness welled up inside him.

"There is nothing specific you got to say", John replied after a while as he sought Sherlock's eyes.

"It would help me a lot already when you just treat me and talk to me like usual. Please let us live like we used to do as long as we can. I don't want you to be afraid to talk to me. I'm still the same person. I didn't change in any way just because I fell ill. I was never looking for the people's pity. Not back then when I came back from Afghanistan and I don't do now. You were one of the few people who never pitied me. Please, don't start to do that now."

John swallowed, waiting for Sherlock to look back at him. "I'm still the same."

Sherlock nodded his head, taking in a deep breath and straightening himself up. "You're right, I … I should have known that."

"It's alright", John assured him and a small smile showed on his face. "How about a cup of tea?"

Sherlock smiled back at him. "Sounds excellent."