Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does NOT belong to me, but to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Also, the 2009 movie - on which I have based this story - has NOT been directed by me, but by Guy Richie. I am just borrowing their magnificent creations. Unfortunately.

A/N: Well, this idea came to me while I was lying in my bed and couldn't sleep. I have been working on three different Sherlock Holmes-stories for more than three months, to tell you the truth, and I haven't finished any of them. And this story, I wrote in just one night. xO Funny how things can go...

Warnings: Implied HolmesxWatson. And no happy ending. I'm sorry. Next time, I'll make up for it.

READ THIS BEFORE YOU START READING THE STORY: I switch between the present and the past. The paragraphs in italics (so, at the beginning and the end of the story) represent the present; the rest is set in the past.

And sleep doesn't come

He lies there on his back, staring up at the ceiling, rubbing his right arm. Sleep doesn't come.

He thinks of many things: of how the night seems too dark, too cold, too long, and how the city is too quiet.

London can sleep; Sherlock Holmes can't.

But most of all, he wonders about the one thing that has kept sleep at bay for weeks on end: a certain doctor, probably sleeping in a certain house next to a certain woman whose name tastes foul on his lips.

Ah, all the things he has tried to get Watson back to their apartment, to their home, to him. But… To no avail.

So, he lies there, thinking about blue eyes and Jezail bullets and wedding rings. And about what he can do now to visit Watson again.

And again.

He is looking at the knife in his hand. It's sharp: it could tear any clothing away in a mere second. And it could rip apart flesh in a most interesting way.

He isn't thinking when he puts the blade against his right shoulder; for once, he is feeling, and the sensation of cold metal against his bare skin is just as brilliant as cracking a code or solving a case.

As he thinks of Watson, he suddenly feels more alive than ever, and as he slowly cuts through his flesh, all the way down to his arm, he smiles through the tears he refuses to shed. After all, Sherlock Holmes never cries. In fact, he is deemed incapable of feeling anything like sadness. He is only made to think, not to feel.

He drops the knife, admiring the long, red line it has left on his arm, then rips the sleeve of one of his shirts apart and puts it on: blood immediately stains the white fabric, dripping down his fingers. It looks quite realistic, as if he has just been attacked. Perfect.

He smiles again: it doesn't hurt as much as he would've thought.

Watson's adieu had hurt more.

He clenches his upper arm tightly, walking down the stairs and onto the streets of London. It is already dark, and he is greeted by as starless sky. But he doesn't need their guidance to go where he wants to go.

His feet know exactly where his heart wants to take him.

He knocks on the door. Then he knocks again, more urgently. He is soiling the threshold with his blood, but he doesn't even notice; he is only fixated on the hurried footsteps coming down the hall. As the door opens, he smiles at the dishevelled appearance of his favourite doctor. He must have woken him up.

'Ah, Watson,' he states pleased, although he is being consumed by his inner turmoil. He grips his arm tighter. 'I was already beginning to wonder whether you'd open the bloody door or not.'

The doctor rubs his eyes, seemingly not believing who is standing right in front of him. He looks confused and doesn't appear to have seen the detective's wound.

'Holmes, what are you-'

As the doctor cuts off his sentence rather abruptly, Holmes knows he has spotted his injury; a surprised gasp escapes Watson's mouth.

'What on earth has happened to you?' he questions urgently, but softly: he probably doesn't want to wake his most beloved Mary.

Holmes glances down at his arm, then smirks as he studies his friend's astonished face once more.

'An accident, obviously,' he replies calmly, just before he stumbles, feeling dizzy in his head, and nearly falls forward. He is caught just in time by Watson's strong hands, before being jerked into the hall.

'You utter fool,' Watson whispers as he drags the detective along to his study, urging him to sit down on his chair rather forcefully. He immediately tears Holmes' shirt away to tend to his arm, and oh, how the detective wishes this would've happened under other circumstances. But now this has become a clinical meeting, and he hisses as Watson cleans the wound.

'You're lucky,' the doctor says with a hint of relief in his voice. 'Although it's long and shallow, it is a clean cut: the one who did this to you, must've put some thought behind it. He has carefully avoided every tendon and muscle, otherwise you would've already bled to death.'

Holmes doesn't reply, and after some moments of silence in which Watson tries to stop the bleeding, he can feel the doctor's eyes resting on him. He looks up, smiling apologetically as his friend stops his nursing, knowing he has been caught. And indeed. Watson's wit alarms him that something is not right.

'Holmes… Don't tell me that you-'

'I told you it was an accident,' Holmes cuts him off rather coolly. 'I never told you how it happened, or who did this to me.'

'Holmes, don't you dare tell me that it was-'

'My own doing? Well, yes. I had to have a reason to come and see you again, didn't I?'

Watson throws up his arms in an exasperated fashion and stands up, leaving the wound to bleed further. Holmes' dizziness is getting worse; he even begins to see black spots in front of his eyes from all the blood loss.

'I can't believe you! Why would you injure yourself like this? It can't be just because you wanted to see me: you could've just come visit me!'

Holmes shifts in his seat, brown eyes turning cold.

'You know perfectly well that I couldn't do that. Then we would have tea with Mary, and we would laugh with Mary, and we would talk with Mary, and Mary would try to hide the fact that she resents me for what I said to her last year, but she would fail and I would have to leave again to avoid a tense atmosphere. And the next time, we would again have tea with Mary, and we would laugh with Mary-'

Watson silences him rather effectively by placing a finger against his lips, and Holmes shuts his mouth.

'What's your point, Holmes?' the doctor asks sternly. The detective sighs and clutches his head with his good hand. The darkness threatens to take over, and he closes his eyes.

'My point is, my dear doctor, that I would rather just have tea with you, and laugh with you, and talk with you and you alone; that would unfortunately be impossible with your dear wife around.'

Watson shakes his head, anger beginning to show through his features.

'So you are jealous because I have found someone else to spend my life with?' he demands, and the detective can't do anything else than shrug.

'Of course I am jealous. She doesn't want me around you anymore or vice versa. She wants you to sever all ties with me, throwing away years and years of friendship and devotion. She doesn't want me to visit you anymore, Watson. I know she doesn't like me.'

'And you don't like her either,' Watson accuses him through gritted teeth.

Holmes smiles wryly. 'Touché,' he mumbles, before everything turns dark around him.

As he wakes up, he finds himself in an unknown bed. Blinking, he sits up carefully, taking in his unfamiliar environment. But, as is to be expected from the famous detective, the events of last night start to replay in his head rather quickly, and instinctively, he reaches for his right arm. He looks down as he feels rough fabric against his calloused fingertips, and notices that a white bandage is wrapped tightly around his upper arm. He smiles: it's of course Watson's doing.

He swings his legs over the bedside and sees that a clean shirt is placed next to him on the bedside table. How thoughtful of his dearest doctor.

Happily, he stands up and slips on the shirt: it smells like Watson, and he takes a few seconds to just breathe in his scent. Then, he slowly pulls his injured arm through the sleeve. A painful hiss escapes his lips as the bandaged cut burns. It seems like it will take a while to heal.

'Already up?' a warm voice calls from behind him, and he turns on his heels, looking at the most welcome intruder.

'Of course: I might be rude and unmannered at times, but I possess enough humanity to not keep you from your own bed any longer. I hope the couch was comfortable enough?'

Watson raises an eyebrow, but Holmes can see how he holds back his question: it is only common for the detective to be able to deduce that the doctor has spent the night on the narrow couch, judging from his still rather sleepy and unkempt appearance.

'It was, thank you,' Watson replies curtly, stepping over towards Holmes who is clumsily trying to button up his shirt. He tenderly brushes his hands away and begins to button up the shirt himself, concentrating on this task while saying: 'I'm glad you are okay, and I must say that I feel honoured somewhere deep down. You, the vain detective, resorting to self-mutilation in order to see me again… I hadn't been expecting that.'

Holmes closes his eyes, enjoying the gentle treatment of Watson's expert hands.

'Well, life is full of surprises,' he mutters, and he feels how the doctor tugs at his shirt. He opens his eyes and smiles as he is met by the blue orbs he adores so much. 'And you should feel honoured. I wouldn't have done this for anyone else. Even I can barely comprehend how I managed to injure my flawless skin without regretting it…'

Watson smirks at Holmes' playful vanity. Despite the whole situation, he is glad to see Holmes again; and most of all, he is glad to still see him alive and kicking.

Holmes sits down on the bed again and rubs his arm. A dull ache is throbbing through his shoulder, but most of the pain has disappeared. Watson takes a chair and sits down in front of him, taking his friend's hand in his in order to feel his pulse.

'I gave you some painkillers yesterday, in an hour or so I will probably have to give you another injection,' Watson explains as he rolls up Holmes' left sleeve to take his blood pressure. 'You have lost quite a lot of blood, but knowing you, you'll be alright soon enough,' he adds, and he smiles up at the other man. 'But you should probably still stay here for a day or two. I had better put you under supervision.'

Holmes raises an inquisitive eyebrow. 'A day or two?' he repeats as Watson rolls down his sleeve again. 'And how about Mary? And your bed? Are you sure she would allow me to stay here for two days?'

Watson shrugs. 'I'll convince her,' he mumbles, reaching out again to straighten Holmes' shirt. 'And be careful with that, will you? It's one of my better shirts, so I don't want too many wrinkles in it.'

Holmes ignores the last remark and instead insists: 'You'll convince her? Why, that I have yet to see. She is a devious woman, Watson: I'm sure she knows some ways to persuade you to throw me out.'

Watson's laughter, void of joy, resounds through the room. 'A "devious woman", you say? I have never once viewed her like that. But if it makes you feel better, I promise you that you can stay here for a few days. Besides, you're injured: whether she likes you or not, she cannot throw you out once she sees your present state. I'll see to it that you remain where you are now until your wound is fully healed.'

'You know you won't. Not if she insists that I leave the house immediately,' Holmes says quietly, looking down at his folded hands and refusing to look at the doctor. The latter sighs.

'Oh come on, Holmes. Be reasonable for once; she wouldn't do something like that. Not even she can steal your right to be here when I have just granted you permission to stay.'

The detective chuckles. 'Oh, now wouldn't she?' he asks sarcastically. 'Then I believe I have bad news for you, dear doctor, for she has already stolen many rights, for example my right to visit you and vice versa, and your right to join me in one of my cases.'

He grabs Watson by the shoulders, ignoring the pain that shoots through his own arm, and forces the man to look at him.

'But the worst thing of all is yet to come, because all these things, all these stolen rights are derived from her worst crime: she took my Watson away from me.'

They both fall silent, and Holmes cannot misinterpret the look of utter shock on the doctor's face. He narrows his eyes, trying to fight the anger and sorrow he is feeling, and opens his mouth to say something. No words cross his lips, however, and with a pained expression, he closes his mouth again before slowly, ever so slowly leaning in.

He is breathing Watson's scent; he can nearly taste it, so close is he to the other's face. The doctor's own breath feels warm against his cold skin, making it tingle, and he is almost shivering nervously as he closes his eyes, ready to make the distance between their lips non-existent…

But then, Watson's cold voice breaks through his haze, shattering him apart.

'I was never yours to begin with,' he snarls, only then pushing Holmes away. Watson stands up and walks towards the door, leaving the detective to watch him rather pathetically, before he turns around and sharply says: 'I love Mary, Holmes. I really, really do. And I don't want you to change that. We had our time together, and you had your chance. But you never acted upon your feelings. And now you choose this exact moment to show your emotions, just after I got over it, over you, and found myself a loving wife? I'm sorry, Holmes, but it's too late now. You can stay until your wound is healed, then I want you out of here. This is it, old boy. The game's over.'

And with these words, Watson walks out of the room. Out of his life.

Holmes just sits there, mouth hanging open slightly whilst his brain is trying to comprehend what his heart has already identified as the worst pain ever. Slowly, he stands up, walking out of the bedroom and down the stairs towards the doctor's study where he pauses for a moment. He reaches out for the door handle, then changes his mind and turns around, heading for the front door. He silently opens it, slips out into the cold morning and carefully shuts it again behind him. Turning around, he sees the bloody stains on the threshold; the only proof that he has really been in the house. His eyes scan the house one last time, resting on the window where he knows is Watson's bedroom. He places his hand against the cool wood of the door, then rests his head against it.

'Watson…' he whispers, and he chokes on his words. 'Is it really too late? Would you really have chanced a life with me… If I had only told you?'

But he doesn't get an answer. Empty hallways don't speak.

He lies there on his back, staring up at the ceiling, rubbing his right arm. His wound has not yet fully healed, so he has to take it easy the coming days. He turns on his side, carefully avoiding hurting his already injured arm even more.

He closes his eyes, replaying the events of the last day again before his eyes. It's an unpleasant experience, but somewhere deep down, he knows he has deserved it. He should never have acted upon his feelings, or perhaps he should've done it before it was too late. But the bitter truth is, that it is too late, and there is nothing he can do about it anymore now.

He has lost his Watson forever.

Oh yes. Sherlock Holmes is feeling lost in this world for the first time in his life.

So, he lies there, thinking about blue eyes and Jezail bullets and wedding rings. And about what he can do now to visit Watson again.

And sleep doesn't come.

It never does without him nearby.