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Hacked	By : SoftPurpleSherlockian Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 4354 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters and am making no money off of this story.

Chapter List
- 21
- 22
John paced back and forth through the empty flat, frantically trying to come up with something to occupy his thoughts. In an effort to keep busy, he’d made more tea than was humanly possible to consume, if he drank another cup he would be sick. He was fighting the urge to vomit as his stomach knotted and twisted every time images of Sherlock’s hurt expression flashed through his mind.
The doctor really hadn’t thought his actions through properly, this was Sherlock! Of course he had been hurt and embarrassed, what else had John expected?
John picked up his phone for the umpteenth time, checking again to make sure he didn’t have any missed calls. Letting out an audible sigh, he tossed his mobile on the sofa, only to sit down next to it and pick it up again. He scrolled through his sent text messages, rereading the pleas he had sent to Sherlock over the course of the evening.
Where are you? Sent 20:49
Are you alright? Sent 20:52
Sherlock, please answer me. Sent 21:04
I’m headed back to the flat, please be there. Sent 21:16
Where are you? Sent 21:51
I’m sorry. Please come home? Sent 22:02
You don’t want to talk, fine. Let me know you’re okay. Sent 22:16
Damn it, Sherlock! It’s been over 2 hours. I’m worried. Sent 22:54
Please text me back, I’m sorry. Sent 23:28
I was wrong and stupid, more stupid than usual. Sent 00:06
You can’t keep ignoring me, we need to... Sent 00:15
I can’t sleep not knowing if you’re alright. Sent 01:36
I’ll come and get you, just tell me where you are. Sent 02:02
You’ve had time to calm down. Please come home? Sent 03:13
He tapped on the screen to compose yet another message.
Sherlock, it’s all fine. Sent 03:51
John leant his head back and closed his eyes. In that moment, he wished he’d never found out about the bloody e-mails, that he hadn’t asked Mycroft to – Mycroft!
He knew that Sherlock would have hated the idea of John ringing his older brother for help, but his friend really wasn’t leaving him with any alternatives.
The eldest Holmes didn’t disappoint, answering on the first ring after John dialed the number he didn’t recall saving in his contacts.
Before Mycroft could utter a single greeting, John cut him off.
“Where is he?”
“He’s perfectly safe, John. I’ve been keeping an eye on him since he left the gallery.”
"Mycroft, please just tell me where he is?” John asked again, trying to stay calm.
“Tut tut. Things didn’t exactly go according to plan, did they, Doctor Watson?”
“Don’t give me that shit, Mycroft. Just tell me where he is!”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone before Mycroft finally spoke. “Sherlock is being Sherlock. I suspect he’s experiencing some unfamiliar emotions,” he spat out the word as if it were a nuisance, “He doesn’t process them the way normal people do, instead he shuts down."
“Thanks, but I figured that out myself after fifteen text messages and just as many unanswered calls,” John spoke coolly into the receiver. “Now, please, tell me where he is.”
John chose to ignore the exasperated sigh coming from Mycroft, and instead waited as patiently as he could before the eldest Holmes finally gave him an answer.
“He’s in Regent Park right now. He was wandering NW1 until an hour ago.”
Without saying goodbye, John hung up and put his shoes on. Needing to gather his thoughts, he flipped back through the messages he had sent Sherlock. Surely there was no doubt that John was sorry, he had pleaded, practically begged his flatmate to return to Baker Street.
Running his hands over his face, he realised the fatal flaw in his plan- Sherlock neither wanted nor needed John to beg him for anything. He needed John to take charge of the situation, needed him to fix things he himself was unable to, and the way to go about it wasn’t for John to plead with him.
Keys in hand, he stepped outside into the early morning air and took his first steps in the direction of setting things right.
*

*

*
Sherlock was unaware of how long he’d been walking. The buildings and people mattered little to him as he ambled down the pavement, completely oblivious to the stares he was getting from fellow pedestrians.
It was only when a drunk stopped him to ask him where the party was that he looked down and remembered he was still dressed, head to toe, in the tuxedo he wore to the art show. He couldn’t be bothered to care, his mind was preoccupied with a million different racing thoughts, and at the heart of every single one was John. John knew. John had found out. How had John found out? He had been careful, or so he thought. John was waiting for him at home and Sherlock had no idea what he was going to say to him when he finally mustered up the courage to return and face him.
The detective had silenced his phone after the first few messages and call, he was too much of a coward to answer them. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but it was true. He, who chased down London’s hardened criminals. He, who could walk into the bloodiest, goriest crime scenes in the city with so much as flinching, was afraid to answer a simple text message. It was laughable at best.
He ended up in Regent Park, though how he got here, he couldn’t say. Until he sat on the bench, he was unaware of the exhaustion in his limbs and cursed his body for never being able to keep up with his mind. He tilted his head back and admired the sky, the sun was starting to rise, but a few twinkling lights could still be seen. While he had no use for the knowledge of stars and plants, he could still appreciate them from a purely aesthetic point of view.
He retreated into his mind, it was a dangerous place to venture off into when he was in this kind of state, but it couldn’t be helped, he needed to get things in order. The chances were pretty good that he would be able to afford the rent once John moved out, Mycroft would see to that if nothing else. He’d have to come up with a new way to attract possible clients, most of them generated with John’s blog and without that, he’d need alternate means to yield cases when there wasn’t anything interesting at Scotland Yard.
There was going to be a lot to do, and he wasn’t looking forward to any of it. Still, he’d brought this on himself and he was the only one to blame for John’s disgust. Yes, his flatmate had asked him to come home, but more than likely it was out of some misplaced guilt or the desire to confront him about it. That was the only reason Sherlock could fathom John even wanting to look at him. Surely he was appalled at Sherlock’s behaviour and lack of self-control, the detective was even outraged with himself. He had a good thing going with John, and he’d messed it all up for one-sided delusions of intimacy.
He heard him before he saw him, brisk footsteps getting louder in his direction and pausing when the owner stood directly in front of him. Keeping his head tilted back he spoke, “I see you’ve found me. I’ll be honest, I had expected you sooner.”
“Yeah, well,” John started, sitting down next to Sherlock on the bench. “It didn’t occur to me to ring Mycroft until a little while ago.”
“Obviously.”
John smirked at that, leave it to Sherlock to remain cocky even in their uncomfortable predicament.
“Sherlock,” he started after an awkward silence, but was cut off by the detective.
“You don’t have to say anything, John. I’m sure I can manage by myself for a while until I find a suitable flatmate.”
“Oi! Hang on, what are you going on about? You’re kicking me out because I invaded your privacy?”
Sherlock jerked his head and stared at John, opening his mouth to argue but was silenced when John kept rambling on.
“May I remind you that it was you who hacked into my e-mail account? If anyone should be miffed it’s me! Where do you get off throwing me out of the flat because I read a bloody message that was sent from my own address?"
Though the streetlight was dim, John could still make out the small flush of crimson that was creeping into Sherlock’s cheeks.
“John,” Sherlock finally looked at him, “the content of those messages…” He nervously started stroking his thigh and tried to gather his thoughts. “I mean, I understand you not wanting to be around a…”
“Around a what, Sherlock?"
It was barely a whisper, but John heard him clear as crystal.
“A freak.”
Understanding washed over the doctor whilst simultaneously feeling like he’d been punched in the stomach. His heart clenched and he instinctively raised his hand to Sherlock’s face and urged his friend to look at him.
Sherlock fought him, stubbornly holding his chin in place, refusing to look into John’s eyes.
John could feel his nostrils flaring and the gentleness in which he was cupping the detective’s face was gone. Placing his thumb on the other side of Sherlock’s jaw, John gripped it tightly and forced Sherlock to unwillingly face him. The taller man closed his eyes, not wanting to meet the doctor’s gaze.
“Sherlock,” John had lowered his voice. “Look at me.”
John could see Sherlock fighting himself over the simple command, his body wanting to comply and his mind wanting to refuse. It was difficult for John to watch because he knew what Sherlock needed, he knew that the gorgeous man wanted it and was ashamed of that fact. Knew that Sherlock hated the fact that his body had betrayed his mind, knew that Sherlock considered surrendering to his transport a weakness.
“I said,” John tightened his grip on the detective’s face, “look at me.”
Slowly, Sherlock’s eyelids started to flutter open, he held John’s stare and really looked at him. In the doctor’s eye there was understanding and compassion, there was trust and there was assurance. There was something else there too, something just below the surface, there was heat and there was control.
“You’re not a freak, Sherlock,” the doctor whispered softly, his fingers losing some of the harshness, though not moving from their position on the detective’s face, “and I’m not going anywhere.”
If ever there was a perfect moment for a kiss, this was it, and it took every ounce of strength John had to pull away. The rejection was written all over Sherlock’s face, though he didn’t utter a word and John scrambled to reassure him.
He lovingly stroked Sherlock’s curls and pressed their foreheads together before taking a deep breath. “We’re going to do this, but we have a lot to talk about. We have to figure out what this is.” Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat and John continued, “I want this, god, I want this, Sherlock. Don’t think for a second that I don’t, but when I kiss you it’s going to be in our home with you begging underneath me, understand?”
Sherlock was vaguely aware of his head nodding his comprehension and agreement.
When John rose and cleared his throat, the detective felt empty. The warmth of John’s body was no longer surrounding him and he craved it. Glancing up, he saw his friend standing over him, waiting for him to rise and join him.
When Sherlock came to stand next to him, John took a hold of the crook of his elbow and led the way towards home.
- 21
- 22
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