A/N: Ok, this is an awful chapter, I apologize profusely. I had such a stressful hard week, but schools over! YAY! It's summer! So, that should mean that I would have more time to write and update, but unfortunately I'm going away for two weeks, and I'm leaving tomorrow. :/ Sorry! So this means no updates for as least two weeks, that's why I just wanted to get this chapter up before I left. It's also really late right now so if i'm rambling and not making sense, once again, my apologies. This chapter was written by a teenager suffering from high stress levels and sleep deprivation, so sorry for any mistakes.

I'm considering finding a beta reader for either this story or some of my others, so if you are interested in beta-ing(? idk if that's the phrase) any of my stories, please don't be afraid to PM me or contact me on tumblr. Even if you don't want to beta or aren't eligible, I will always take your suggestions into consideration if you PM me. Alright, enough with my ramblings, here's the chapter 5. Enjoy. xx

Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating the channel of dust motes and shining a red haze in Johns closed eyes. John groaned as he came into consciousness. The first thing he was aware of was his pounding headache and parched throat. He opened his sleep swollen eyes, then shut them again when he was caught by the full morning glare of the shining sun. Rolling over on the couch, he became aware of the ache in his neck and back. Not so young anymore, he thought to himself, apparently sleeping on the couch was not a wise choice at his age. He tried to drift back to sleep, but after several long minutes of uncomfortable shifting, the ache in his back or throat became too much to bare. He sat up and instantly a wave of nausea swept through his body. The bile rose in his throat, hot and acidic, burning with the leftover taste of alcohol. He heard shuffling and looked over to see Greg moving around the small kitchen. His short hair was sticking up and in a disarray of scraggly bristles. He looked over at John, all blurry eyed, and nodded, then winced at his headache. He continued to quietly rummage around in the kitchen as he prepared tea and cooked a few eggs for breakfast.

After breakfast and showers, the two were feeling slightly more refreshed and clear headed. Their hangovers had been reduced to little more than slight throbbing and John had composed himself from last night and was ready to go back to the flat. "Thanks so much for letting me stay, I really appreciate it. It's nice to get away from the flat and... from Sherlock, every now and then." He said. Lestrade nodded understandingly.

"Anytime. You're a good man, John. Don't you give up on that Sherlock," Lestrade said, giving John a stern look, "he's impossible, but he really loves you John. He really does; anyone can see it, you just weren't looking." He said softly. They were quiet for several seconds, then the moment was over, and John looked up.

"Well, thanks again for having me." John said, as they walked towards the door.

"No problem John,"

"Oy, here's some money for the cab ride back." Lestrade said, shoving a few pounds into John's hand.

"Greg, I-"

"No no, you have to. Consider it payment for you two love birds resolving your drama fast eh? I don't want you two having any teenage girl drama on a crime scene." Lestrade joked, giving John a crooked smirk. John chuckled and nodded. He thanked Lestrade one more time then left, still smiling to himself.

The entire cab ride back, anticipation shifted in John's stomach. The small butterflies in his gut flapped and twisted, in a excited sort of way. He realized how much he was looking forward to seeing Sherlock and wrapping him in a tight hug. He closed his eyes, imagining the warmth of Sherlock's arms, he pictured his head, nestled perfectly in Sherlock's neck. The scent of Sherlock's faint cologne lacing between their intertwined bodies. The close proximity of their bodies syncing their breathing and bringing their hearts to beat as one. Then, he would look up, tilting his head slightly to see into Sherlock's eyes, and he would marvel at what unique color they would be that day. Perhaps a silver blue, maybe a emerald green, or possibly an incredible, burning golden. And if Sherlock kissed him, he wouldn't object, he couldn't. Because how could he refuse such perfectly formed, succulent lips? Such passion and precision and focus they would deliver. So no, John would not oppose.

The cab pulled up to 221 Baker street, and he paid the driver quickly. He opened the door with shaking hands then bounded up the steps, wearing a large smile. He flung open the door and just as he was about to announce "Honey, I'm hoomee!" in a Hollywood fashion, he saw the living room. The whole room was a disaster, papers were strewn all over the floor, his laptop was lying upside down on the floor, his armchair was overturned, and Sherlock's mantelpiece skull was rolled in the corner of the room with several of it's teeth knocked out. His eyes swept the room, and the scene really began to sink in. What he saw on the couch hit him like a punch in the gut. Sherlock was laying on the couch, shirtless, his smooth, pale chest exposed. A dark haired young man was straddled on top of him, also shirtless. The young man was bent down and busy kissing the milky skin of Sherlock's neck and shoulders, while Sherlock stared at the ceiling with a bored expression. As the stranger moved, his biceps flexed and rippled, his bare back was strong and defined, and he was evenly tanned as though he had just come back from holiday. The smile melted off John's face as though it were candle wax, dripping from the heat of the stranger's presence.

John tensed his shoulders, instantly resuming stiff military posture. He felt the happiness and excitement he had felt just moments ago, leave him like the pressure released from a soda can. Suddenly, his hangover seem to return, and his head throbbed and pounded. He pointedly looked away before loudly clearing his voice from the doorway. The young man jumped slightly and looked up, a radiant smile broke across his face and he jumped off of Sherlock. "Ah! You must be Mr. Watson! I've heard so much about you!" He exclaimed, enthusiastically.

"Dr. Watson, if you don't mind." John replied with a touch of disdain. He was rather annoyed that the man didn't even have the courtesy to look embarrassed that he had just walked in on him with his best friend. "And you are...?"

"Dr. Watson," Trevor laughed, ignoring John's question. "Sherlock! You never told me your dear John was a doctor!" Sherlock ignored them and continued to stare at the ceiling. He shrugged and turned back to John, "Victor Trevor," The young man said, "I'm an old friend of Sherlock's," he explained, thrusting out a large hand. Sherlock rolled off the couch and lumbered towards them, he was acting as though John were the biggest inconvenience to his life. John looked uncertainly between the two of them, they both towered a good three or four inches above John. Then he focused his attention back to the stranger, gingerly shaking his waiting hand. Victor looked back at Sherlock.

"We go way back to uni. Isn't that right, love?" Victor asked fondly, throwing an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock rolled his eyes, not agreeing, but not breaking away from his arm either. Victor grinned down at John, his perfect teeth bared in a menacing smirk, his muscular arm was possessively wrapped around Sherlock's thin frame. Everything from his posture to his appearance spoke "competition" loud and clear, but behind that John could clearly read the subtext that said "back off, you're too late, he's mine now".

John felt hot fiery rage and jealousy burning in his throat. He had only just met the man, but he hated Victor. He hated his chestnut colored, lush hair; he despised his clear bright, eyes; his rich tenor and patronizing voice. He loathed his powerful, masculine body, that so perfectly complemented Sherlock's thin, lanky one; he absolutely abhorred the fact that together, Sherlock and Victor looked more dashing and perfect than John and Sherlock ever would. But what he hated the most was that Sherlock didn't hate Victor. Sherlock looked at him with cool awareness and respect; then when he looked at John, the walls were back up and John was the one receiving the cold nonchalance. That look shook John to the bone, he felt as though he had just walked through a blizzard, found a warm home with the door wide open, only to have it slammed right in his face. It tore at his heart, and it clenched and ached in his chest.

John didn't trust himself to speak, so instead he just curtly nodded once. He pursed his lips and walked over to grab his wallet from the kitchen counter. He walked back over to the doorway and cleared his throat, the whole time two pairs of eyes followed him. "Um," he cleared his throat again, "Right then... I, uh, well, I'll, leave you to it?" He said awkwardly.

"John," Victor said, rushing forward, "It really was so great to meet you," he gushed, positively beaming with triumph from having won the silent rivalry. "I wish we could have chatted longer, but I'm sure I'll be around quite a bit, and we'll have more of a chance to get to know each other." He said.

"Yes, I'm sure." John said stiffly. He turned his gaze to Sherlock, meeting his eyes briefly before the consultant detective's currently steel grey eyes flickered away and back to Victor's face. "See you later Sherlock." John said, almost desperately, trying to entice a reaction. He received no acknowledgement. His eyes flickered between the two before he nodded once more, gave a tight, fake smile, and left the flat.

For the second time in less than twenty four hours, John rushed down the street with confused emotions and not going in any particular direction. He walked for almost thirty minutes, he took random turns, not caring where he ended up. His feet were beginning to form blisters and he was slightly out of breath when he finally stopped. He looked up at the street sign and realized he knew where he was. This was tenth street, not far from his surgery. Oh! Tenth street! He thought, he quickly checked his watch and saw that it was 11:55. He still had time to go to that little coffee shop he had told Mary to meet him at! That felt like it was ages ago.

A bell chimed when he opened the door to the cozy little shop. He was instantly bombarded with the warm aroma of coffee and pastries, the warm shop was a welcome change from the bitter London cold. His breath caught in his throat when he saw her. She was sitting in the corner, staring out the window, a dreamy expression on her face and far away eyes. She was wearing a vermilion pink pea coat and her short blonde hair was pulled back in a delicate style with an elegant silver pin. Her slender hands grasped a steaming cup of tea, and she sipped it slowly as she watched an invisible scene out the window in the sky. She was absolutely breathtaking and John practically tripped over his feet walking towards her.

She looked up when she saw him, relief flooding her face. "John!" She said. "I'm so glad you came! I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up." She said shyly.

John looked her straight in the eye, "Never" He said.

They had coffee, and Mary told him about her job as a nurse and John about his job at the surgery. He told her about his time in Afghanistan, that he was an army surgeon. He told her briefly about life with Sherlock as a flatmate, and she shared stories of her past roommates. They talked for hours, about nothing in particular, John just trying to make the other smile. She had that kind of smile that defined happiness. It defied the laws of the universe that stated energy cannot be created or destroyed because John was absolutely certain that energy and light was emanating from her being. He was sure that when she smiled, people halfway across the world could feel the warmth. He told her about the comic strip series he had collected since he was a kid. He recited a few from heart, and she laughed, a light, wonderful laugh; one that filled up John's chest with tingling happiness. Finally, after two cups of tea each, and a shared biscuit, they stood to pay the check.

"This was really great." Mary said.

"Yeah, it really was, wasn't it?" John agreed. He smiled and he felt a pang of longing in his chest, though he wasn't quite sure what for. "You know, my flat is a minutes away, if you wanted, I could show you some of my comics series." He suggested timidly. Her eyes lit up and she nodded. John paid the check and they left, the jingling bell ringing out behind them.

When they arrived at the flat, John was surprised to find it empty- and cleaned. There was a small flicker of emotion in John's chest, one he couldn't quite place. It was a mix between sadness and happiness, and regret and love. He shook it off and turned back towards Mary. She took a seat and he went to get his collection from his room. As he turned into the living room again, Mary shot him a terrified look and then he heard a deep voice, "Who the hell are you?" John nearly dropped the box he was carrying. He had never heard such venom and hatred in Sherlock's voice, and so very rarely did he hear Sherlock swear. They must have just been quietly in Sherlock's room. The thought made his blood boil. He set his box down with an angry smack and went to stand protectively over Mary, giving Sherlock and Victor a challenging stare. Victor was standing close to Sherlock, their arms touching, as though he couldn't be left alone for one moment.

"This is Mary." John said gruffly.

"Why is she in our flat." Sherlock stated coldly.

"Why is he in our flat?" John shot back heatedly, gesturing to Victor. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, glaring at Mary. His eyes were icicles, piecing into mary's warm friendly eyes, emanating such contempt and disgust that Mary looked away and at the floor.

"I invited Victor. We had dinner. You weren't here." Sherlock answered coolly.

"Well I invited Mary. We had tea." John replied. "We were just going to take my box and leave. So no worries," John sneered, "We'll be out of your way soon. Then you and Victor can continue shagging or whatever the hell you were doing!" John practically yelled.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly with surprise, "We weren't-"

"Oh Sherlock, don't deny it! There's nothing to be ashamed about!" Victor interrupted. To hear the words out loud was like a punch in the gut. Suddenly the thought of Victor's large hands on Sherlock made John sick. His candy pink lips spreading their sticky sweet venom on Sherlock's body physically repelled him. His hair tickling Sherlock's skin and his hot breath poisoning his lungs. Victor grinned at John like a hyena, his lips pulled back in a sneer; knowing he had beaten John and needed to rub it in a bit more. John grabbed Mary and pulled her up on her feet. He shot Victor a loathing glare before storming out up the flat for the third time.