When John woke he was feeling better than he had in a long time. He opened his eyes and was surprised to find no Sherlock in bed. Frowning, he licked his lips (a bad habit of his) and sat up, rubbing his eyes.
The sheets beside him crinkled, and he turned his head, seeing a folded piece of paper. He reached out and grabbed it, he glanced at the door and unfolded it.
'Dear Johnny boy,
Did you miss me? I know I missed you. Why don't you come to the café at 10 and you and I can have a little chat.
John frowned; the handwriting was bugging him. There was something about it, but he just couldn't place it. He glanced at the clock it was only 9am. He shook his head, what a big sleep in, and got up. He went over to the bathroom and had a shower, cleaning himself up after last night.
He walked into the kitchen in a pair of fresh clothes and saw Sherlock sitting on the couch, clearly thinking. "Tea?" John asked as he walked past, wondering how to tell Sherlock about the note.
"No thanks, John," John paused briefly, glancing at Sherlock.
His voice was distant and clipped. He shrugged it off and made himself some tea. He sat on the couch opposite Sherlock and watched him as he sipped his tea.
He knew the face Sherlock was pulling. It meant he wouldn't be talking.
He settled down, glancing at the clock.
As it ticked closer to 10, John became fidgety. He wanted desperately to know who wrote that note (though he had a good feeling on whom it was) and what they wanted to talk about.
At quarter to 10, John sighed, standing up and grabbing his coat, pulling it on. "Look, Sherlock, I'm just popping out for a bit. I don't know how long I'll take but I've got my phone, so if you need me, just give me a text," John said, stuffing his phone into his pocket.
"I won't be needing you," Sherlock murmured.
John pulled a blank face on; trying to hide how deep that comment had hurt. "OK, well, just in case," John responded softly, walking out the door.
Why was Sherlock acting like this? It was as if he John was a stranger to him. And I hurt, a lot. Considering what they had done last night…
John shook his head. Fine, if Sherlock wanted to be like that, John wouldn't let Sherlock get to him.
John walked into the café, looking around for someone with an empty seat. He saw Moriarty watching him, then waved him over with a smile.
John had suspected as much. He walked over to Moriarty and sat down stiffly opposite him. "Moriarty," he greeted.
"Please, John, don't be so formal! Call me Jim."
John was shocked to find that Moriarty's smile was sincere. That didn't mean he trusted him, though. "What do you want?" John asked, studying Moriarty.
"Just as I said, to talk."
"About what?" John demanded.
"Mycroft isn't the only one with connections, you known, Johnny boy. When Sherlock was sick, who do you think sent you cookies so you wouldn't starve? You are oh so loyal to him, I knew you wouldn't leave him," Moriarty drawled.
"Water would have been more helpful," John said to disguise his shock.
Moriarty laughed. "Yes, of course. But that would have been too obvious!"
"Why did you warn me about the bomb? Why not just let it blow me up?" John asked after a short silence.
A few different emotions flashed across his face, too quick for John to decipher. "That wouldn't have been fun, of course!" then a dark look crossed his face. "Why did you choose Sherlock?"
"What do you mean?" asked John cautiously, wondering where this was going.
"To be with. To be your boyfriend. "
"I don't think that is any of your business, Jim," he said, saying his name sarcastically.
"Oh how defensive! It's alright, I won't tell anyone," Moriarty said with a smile, pretending to zip his lips.
"Why do you care?" John demanded.
"Because I wish I were in Sherlock's place right now."
With that, Moriarty stood, walked to the door. He opened it, turned, a blew John a kiss.
Confused, John ordered a coffee with no sugar using gestures and pictures. He stayed and thought over what Moriarty had said. What did he mean?
After John finished his coffee, he paid and left, still none the wiser as to what Moriarty had got out of that.
Seeing as John couldn't catch a cab, he was forced to walk back to the flat. He was seriously confused.
He walked up the stairs and found Sherlock in the same position. He glanced at the clock and was shocked to find it was 1pm. He had been out for about three hours.
By the evening, John was fed up. Sherlock was ignoring him for most of the time, and when he wasn't he was being cold and distant.
He was texting Greg, telling him all about it, seeing as he might understand as he was dating the other Holmes brother.
'Well, at least he isn't controlling what you eat -.- '
John laughed aloud, and then muffled it with his hand.
Sherlock looked up. "What's so funny?"
John waved his hand dismissively in the same manner that Sherlock did. "Nothing."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
'Thanks a lot Greg now he's getting suspicious. Probably thinks I'm talking to a girl.'
He set his phone down and glanced at his watch. His phone dinged, and John frowned, that was quick.
He picked it up and opened the text. Unknown number.
'Hello Johnny boy. I miss you again. Did you figure it out yet? Why Sherlock's being so distant? – J'
John sighed; of course Moriarty had gotten his number somehow. John frowned, reading the text carefully. So Moriarty knew why Sherlock was being distant…
'Of course I don't, I'm no genius. Are you responsible?'
When he didn't get a reply, he groaned in frustration and rubbed his face with his hands.
Two days later, and John couldn't handle it anymore. He had tried talking to Sherlock, he had tried ignoring Sherlock. Nothing worked. He was sick of it. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, drinking coffee he had made himself. John picked up his phone and walked into the bedroom. He dialled Mycroft's number.
"Mycroft speaking, what do you want, John?" Mycroft greeted instantly.
"Look, Sherlock's being too much for me to handle, can you get me a plane ride back to London?"
"What has he done this time?" Mycroft sighed.
"I dunno; he's just… not himself. He's ignoring me and acting as if I'm a stranger. Please, Mycroft, I can't take it anymore, I need to be back in London and find a job," John sighed, struggling to keep his voice emotionless.
"Very well, the plane with be at the airport in two hours."
Mycroft hung up after John had thanked him. Looking around the room, John grabbed his suitcase and started packing his things.
In an hour, he was finished. He looked up on his phone how to say 'airport' in French and kept repeating it until he had memorised it.
Then he walked out of the room. He paused as he saw Sherlock sleeping on the couch. He put down his luggage for a moment and grabbed a blanket, wrapping it around Sherlock. He brushed some curls out of his face and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. "Goodbye, Sherlock," he whispered softly.
John got out of the expensive jet and thanked the pilot, getting into the waiting car. "221B Baker Street, please," he said, glancing at Anthea who was texting, as usual.
The car ride was short and silent. John couldn't wait to be back in his own flat again.
Mrs Hudson was going to be away for another two weeks, but John didn't really care. As he trudged up the stairs, he revelled in the sense of being back home again.
He gave Greg a call and told him to meet him and the bar in an hour. He whistled cheerily as he unpacked his stuff into his drawers.
He grabbed his cream, woollen jumper and put it on, grabbing the key to the flat and locking the door on his way out.
He grinned widely as he saw Greg. He strode over to him and ordered a beer. They cheered and clinked their glasses together.
"To being home!" they cheered, grinning widely and taking a deep drink.
Later on in the night, John's phone buzzed.
'Where are you? – SH'
John rolled his eyes; he sure took his time to notice.
'Why do you care?' John replied, still slightly pissed at Sherlock for his behaviour.
He took another deep drink.
His phone rang, not a text, someone was calling him. Oh God, that meant he had to hear Sherlock's voice. He hit the 'end call' button and shoved his phone back in his pocket.
He and Greg stayed at the bar until it closed and they were forced to leave. They said their drunken goodbyes and stumbled back to their respective houses.
John stumbled up the stairs and opened the door to see a pissed off and slightly concerned Sherlock, standing with his arms crossed and brows furrowed in a frown, a scowl on his lips.
"You arse, Sherlly," John slurred, stumbling towards him.
Sherlock caught his as he fell and braced himself to handle John's weight. He half carried, half dragged John to his room and lay him down on the bed. John captured Sherlock and brought him down on the bed, laying Sherlock on top of him.
He smiled, his eyes closing. He felt Sherlock lay stiffly on top of him, then relax as he realised John was going to let him go anytime soon.
One of John's hands tangled in Sherlock's thick black curls while the other wrapped around Sherlock's middle. Sherlock buried his head in John's neck, breathing deeply.
"I love you Sherlly," John mumbled, yawning.
"I love you too, John. And I'm sorry."
John struggled to stay awake and ask Sherlock why he had been behaving the way he did, but his body betrayed him and he slipped off to sleep.