I won't kill you. (SherlockxMoriarty, violent)

Sherlock's smile only aggravated John further, he really didn't seem to understand John wasn't happy at all.
He wanted to break something, but there was nothing close enough and even though he considered running his wheelchair through the soil samples he decided not to.
He frowned at himself for being so soft.

"I had no idea you were a doctor, Sherlock," he snapped sarcastic, all he wanted was to go to his room and hide, but he didn't know whether he had a room here at all. Considering how Sherlock cared about this kind of things, he'd probably have to sleep on the sofa.

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Such a irreplaceable useless companion I am!" he snarled, and took in a deep breath. "You are just too lazy to try and find someone else..." he mumbled under his breath.

"You wouldn't believe how hard it is to get a decent cup of tea round here," Sherlock joked idly as he added the milk. "I had Mycroft send some over for me."

He paused with the sugar, unable to remember whether John took any or not. These were the little details he didn' bother storing in his mind palace, but he knew asking him now would only make him mad. He added two sugars to each and stirred them up.

What was John getting so angry for anyway? It was starting to get on Sherlock's nerves.

"What is the matter with you?" He snapped. "Aren't you glad I'm alive? Stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself!"

John noticed Sherlock's hesitation, he noticed he put two sugars in his tea and it only added to his anger to know that Sherlock had never bothered to learn that.

"What is the matter with me?" he snapped, taking in a few deep breath. "That's so bloody typical of you!" he snapped, wishing so much he could walk at the moment because he wished he could punch Sherlock.

"Maybe I am feeling sorry for myself, but the only selfish one here is you!" he snapped. "You drag me here without even asking for permission and expect me to do things for you just because? What makes you think this is what I want, Sherlock?"

"Not to mention the tiny detail of you faking your death and leaving me to mourn you for months! Letting me drown in guilt and regret!" he snapped, and his eyes were filled with tears of anger. "You promised you were never going to leave me!" he shouted eventually, his heart felt so heavy it could implode.

Sherlock stared at the floor as John's words stung his pride. He remembered that he had indeed, swore never to leave John, and yet, he did leave. He knew how his 'death' had affected his best friend and yet he still hadn't apologised or offered any explanation. He had expected things to just fall into place. Sherlock cleared his throat after a moment of silence.

"I am...sorry," he muttered awkwardly. "I should never have made you a promise I couldn't keep and...and I wish I hadn't have left you the way I did but it was the only way out at the time. Moriarty was going to kill you John and you know I couldn't let that happen. I had to do exactly as he said although in the end I had a little time to prepare things and outwit him. I never meant to hurt you."

Sherlock turned to the cups of tea and threw one of them down the sink. He'd seen John looking at them earlier and had deduced he'd got it wrong about the sugar. He began to make him a new cup.

"How many sugars do you take John?" He asked, "I promise I'll make a special place for it in my mind palace so I'll never forget it again."

Finally Sherlock dropped down to his knees in front of John's chair and pointed to his left cheek.
"Go on. Punch me," he grinned. "I don't mind. And I know you want to."

John did not take it well, he knew Sherlock had to have a reason to kill himself, but he couldn't think it had been for him. Why would he do that? Why would he put his life before his?

He shook his head, refusing to reply to any of that, refusing to punch him, he was overwhelmed by all this.
He wheeled himself back and into the sitting room, again looking at the place.
Why was he here?

"I can't take this Sherlock... one thing is being angry because of what you did, but one thing is knowing you did it to protect me... god, it's... I can't..." he whimpered, burying his face in his hands.

"You should have just let Moriarty kill me... I can't be of help to anyone any more anyway..."

Sherlock followed John back into the living room, and crouched down beside him again. He could see he was clearly upset and confused, and so he reached up an arm and placed it gently around his shoulder.

"It's OK..." he said quietly. "I'm going to fix this. I'm going to make you better."

He squeezed John's arm a little, then stood up again, rubbing his hands together and trying to move on from uncomfortable displays of emotion.

"Right...you never did answer my question about the tea?"

John jumped at the touch on his shoulders and instinctively he pushed Sherlock away, wheeling himself back a bit. He did not need this, he didn't want Sherlock's pity and his touch was so warm it had made his heart beat faster. He couldn't take that.

Guilt was pooling in his chest, for he realized his behavior was insane to say the least.
"No... I... I need to rest... is there a bed I can use? Or should I just lay on the sofa?" he muttered, he needed to shut off his mind for a while.

Sherlock nodded silently. The tea could wait. He understood that John was probably tired from his journey, as well as feeling rather emotional and overwhelmed. He realised he'd been quite rude in not showing John to his room immediately.

"Of course," he replied. "Your room's just through here. I made sure Mycroft got me a two roomed place. I...I always hoped you'd come."

Sherlock led the way through the living room and out into a small corridor where there were three doors - a bathroom, and two bedrooms. Sherlock pointed out the different rooms.

"The bathroom's just here...this is my room...and....this is yours." He opened the door rather over dramatically and bowed, his arm outstretched. "I've...um...well I've got some work I can be getting on with so uhh...just get some rest. Let me know if you need anything."

John looked at him for a long moment before he moved to follow, Sherlock was taking for granted that he would stay. How was he supposed to stay and live at the second floor of a place without an elevator?
He sighed, feeling quite stupid as he wheeled himself into the room.

"Thanks," he said simply, moving automatically towards the bed.
"I didn't doubt that," he muttered when Sherlock mentioned his work, looking at the mattress, waiting for Sherlock to go, he didn't want him to see him stumble clumsily on the bed, it was humiliating.

He noticed the room was nice though, it looked like someone had prepared it for him.
"It looks nice..." he whispered sheepish.

"Thank you." Sherlock replied quietly. It had taken him a long time to get it looking so clean and tidy. In fact, John's room was easily the cleanest and tidiest in the whole apartment.

"I'll...um....I'll leave you to it," he added, then made a hasty retreat, closing the door gently behind him. With a sigh, Sherlock headed back into the living room and sat down at his desk. He picked up one of the soil samples off the floor and looked at it under the microscope, then turned to his laptop and began typing up notes about it. He looked at his watch. He'd check on John again in a couple of hours.

John scrambled clumsily on the bed, it took him a while, but he was able to spread himself on the duvet at some point. He sighed, exhaustion falling on him suddenly.
He just wanted to close his eyes and forget all about this.

He didn't want to forget Sherlock was alive though.
He hadn't let it show, but he was glad of that, regardless of how much he still felt depressed and hurt, he knew his only friend was fine, and it reassured him the world wasn't such a horrible place to live in after all.

He curled to the side, and was soon to fall asleep.
He missed him now.
How queer.

An hour and a half later, Sherlock called a halt to his experiment and decided to go and check on John. He tiptoed slowly to his room, pushed open the door and peered in. He was fast asleep, snoring gently.

Sherlock's eyes fell upon the wheelchair laying dormant at the side of the bed. He crept in, ever so quietly and laid his hands on it, then carefully wheeled it away and out of the room, closing the door behind him. Once he'd got the wheelchair out, he folded it down and hid it away in a locked cupboard in his own bedroom, then went back to his desk with a small smirk on his face.

John stirred only a few hours after he fell asleep, oblivious to the changes in his room, he rolled to the other side and scratched his stomach.
The light from the window was still clear and bright, it was quite a change from bleak London.

He realized only then that his wheelchair was missing, panic curled around his stomach before he realized what had happened.
"SHERLOCK!!" he shouted, furious.

Sherlock heard the shout and realised John must have noticed the little trick he had played. He leapt up from his desk and ran to John's room, opening the door and leaning against the door frame with a grin.

"Something wrong?" he asked playfully.

John had the impulse to throw something at Sherlock's face, just to wipe that grin off, but he restrained himself, growling. Why was he doing this to him?
"Where's my chair?" he asked, his face quickly becoming red.

"It's not funny, Sherlock..." he snapped, his whole body shaking. "I cannot walk!"

Sherlock stopped smiling. He knew it was cruel to laugh at his friend's misfortune, but this was all for his own good.

"Look," he explained, as kindly as he could. "If you don't have your chair, then you're just going to have to learn to walk. Aren't you? I know you can bloody do it John. It's just going to take time. And it's going to take hard work. But I'm here. I'm here for you. And I'll be here every day. And every day we'll practice, and you'll get better, and you'll get stronger, and you'll learn to walk again."

"You are bloody mental!" he snapped, struggling to sit up, his nervous state didn't help him at all. "I need physio, I can't just start walking like this! Who do you think you are really?" he continued, and moved towards the side of the bed.

"You want to see what happens when I try to walk?" he asked, defiant, his face hard. "Here, I will show you, so you can laugh at me all you want!" he added, pushing his legs off the bed and placing them as well as he could as he slid off it.

He moved his weight on his good leg and sighed, even though it was shaky for the exertion, then he made to walk and his other leg buckled, he tried to grab for something to hold himself up, but there was nothing and he fell miserably to the floor. Humiliated even though he knew it was going to happen.

Sherlock observed the scene silently. It was tempting to run to John's aid when he saw him struggle and then fall. He did in fact, take one instinctive step towards him, but he stopped himself. John needed to do this. He couldn't help him too much. It had to come from him, ultimately.

Sherlock approached his now rosy cheeked embarrassed flatmate and held out his hand to help him up.
"Here, take my hand," he demanded. "That was a good start."

John looked up at him, his eye filled with hurt, he wanted to slap Sherlock's hand away and tell him to piss off, but he knew it would be awfully immature, and he prefered to stop being helpless on the floor.

"I hate you, you know," he hissed, even though with not much heat. He took the other's hand and hoisted himself up on his healthy leg. "I am not your experiment... I want my chair back..."

Sherlock grabbed hold of John's arm and hauled him to his feet, then he wrapped his friend's arm over his shoulder.

"You'll thank me for this you know..." he muttered as he wrapped his other arm around John's waist. "Come on...lean on me as much as you need. Drag your bad leg if you like, but let's make it to the living room and sit down on the sofa eh?"

Again the instinct was to punch Sherlock in the stomach, but his frustration was quickly dying down. "It doesn't feel that way at the moment... it just feels like you are being cruel to me..." he muttered, even though he found himself blushing for the close proximity they were in.

It took them a long time to go to the sofa, John slid on it with exhaustion, his forehead wet with sweat.
"You really have some guts to force me to come here and play games on me like this..."


((Told you he was going to be difficult >> ))

The walk to the sofa was long and quite a struggle, but Sherlock was patient, holding tightly onto John so he wouldn't fall, muttering words of encouragement under his breath throughout. Finally John fell back onto the sofa and Sherlock flopped next to him, breathless.

"You did well," he grinned and slapped John affectionately on the back. Then he grabbed the TV remote off the table and handed it to him. "Here you go. Any channel you like. Most of them are in Italian mind but we do have the news channel. And I've got a few DVDs...um...mainly scientific stuff but I think there's a couple of murder mysteries..."

Sherlock stood up, ignoring John's remark and headed towards the kitchen. "Are you hungry?" he called. "I'm...well...I'm actually going to cook something would you believe?"

He took the remote silently and turned the TV on. Channel six had a TV show he was sure he had seen before, but it was spoken in Italian. "Mm... do you speak Italian?" he asked over his shoulder, it sounded rather sexy, he had to admit, but he understood nothing at all. Another reminder of how stupid an idea it was to stay here anyway.

"Do they not have take-out in this country?" he asked, his expression turning suspicious. "Who are you? What have you done to the real Sherlock?" he joked off-handedly.

Sherlock bent down and opened one of the cupboards underneath the cooker, taking out a dusty old pan which had been in there since he'd moved in and never been used. He gave it a quick rinse under the tap then placed it on top of the cooker.

"I speak a little," he replied. "Enough to get by here...I can ask for directions, buy things in shops, interrogate people, order chemicals over the phone. Just standard things. Nothing complicated."

Sherlock filled up the kettle with water and flicked it on, then dug into the plastic bag of shopping he'd brought home with him earlier that day, and took out a packet of spaghetti. He opened up the pack and stuck it into the pan, then he poured in the boiling water and turned on the gas.

"I normally get take aways," he nodded, "or microwave stuff. But...well...I wanted to show you I was serious. About...about taking care of you."

John laughed at the other's words: "You're pretty much fluent then... I didn't think you would be modest about anything," he said, looking at the TV with a bothered expression. "I would like to hear you speak it..."

He turned around on the couch incredulous. "You know that poisoning me with bad cooking cannot be considered taking care of me?" he joked again, and then sighed. "I don't know why you think it's a good idea to do this anyway..."