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

At first John was surprised, even shocked about what Sherlock was saying, it felt surreal, and his mind stopped working for a moment, his heart started to beat faster.
Then he realized Sherlock was probably manipulating him.
The detective never really had sweet words for him, so why now? After all the times he had insisted he had no feelings at all!

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, right, more than I could possibly imagine, of course," he muttered sarcastic, annoyance clear in his voice. "And what are those strong feelings I cannot possibly imagine uh? The ones you feel when I compliment you?" he insisted viciously.

Sherlock turned back from the window to face John, suddenly quite angry that his friend could misunderstand him so greatly.

"I know everyone likes to make out I'm some kind of inhuman machine with no emotions," he snapped, "and yes, sentiment is stupid, love is illogical, feelings make you weak, but that doesn't mean I don't have them John. Everybody has feelings for God's sake, they just have different ways of expressing them. I'm sure even Jim Moriarty has his moments. I care about you John, don't you see? Why else would I do something so utterly ridiculous as faking my own death? Because I care. I never used to bloody care. Not before I met you. But now I do. It's my only weakness, you're my only weakness, and that's why Moriarty finds it so easy to manipulate me. Because I would do anything for you John, don't you see that?"

Sherlock sighed and blushed, awkward silence falling over him.

"Now please...don't make me say all that again," he muttered under his breath. "Hard enough saying it the first time. Are you going to let me help you or not?"

I would do anything for you...

John felt his heart clench at the words, a long shiver running up his spine.
He had been effectively silenced and for a long while he just stared at his hands clenched on the duvet.

His lips tensed in a thin line.
"I would prefer you had chosen for those snipers to kill me at the moment, Sherlock..." He muttered, closing his eyes.

"I don't want your help because you will just be disappointed at the end..."

Sherlock felt a strange tightening around his chest at John's response. It took him a few moments to realise he was hurting. John's words had hurt him. He perched on the edge of the bed and grabbed his friend's hand.

"Don't say that," he replied, "Don't you ever say that. And you're going to get my help OK? I'm not giving you a choice in the matter. Now eat your damned toast."

John looked at Sherlock's hand on his, he didn't feel anything, a touch like that used to make his heart beat faster, now he just wanted to disappear all the same.
He felt sorry for himself.
He felt sorry for Sherlock.
He knew he was being selfish.

He pulled his hand away and groaned at Sherlock's orders.
"You would do anything for me, yeah right, you just want me to do what you want..." he snapped, taking the tea and sipping it slowly.

Sherlock felt angry, confused, bitter. He was angry at John for being so bloody awkward, for not listening to him, for not wanting to take part in any of this. He was angry at himself for not being able to express his emotions properly, for not treating John the way he should, for ordering John around all the time instead of being kinder. He was just...angry, and he didn't know what to do about it. With a small yelp of frustration he balled up his right hand into a fist and lashed it into the mattress, punching it several times in a row. Then he quickly stood up and began to pace anxiously, feeling a mild improvement.

"I need you John," he muttered under his breath. "Life is dull without you."

Again Sherlock's words made John look up surprised, the detective was clearly upset, but John had no idea why, it wasn't the Sherlock he knew, like he wasn't the John he used to be.
He looked at his useless leg, he felt he wanted to punch it, just like Sherlock was abusing the mattress.

"You don't need me, Sherlock," he said, rolling his eyes, still unable to take him seriously. "I am not your bloody soul-mate, if you just let it rest, you'll get over it..." he said, waving his hand.

Sherlock continued to pace up and down by the bottom of John's bed, lost in thought. Then suddenly he stopped, turned and leapt up in the air with excitement, a big grin on his face.

"That's it John!" He cried, realising the doctor had hit the nail on the head. "That's exactly what you are. Just the word I was looking for, thank you! Soul mate. Describes it perfectly."

Sherlock moved back towards the bed and sat on the edge, taking John's hand in his.

"You are my soul mate John," he said quietly, "and I'm not just suddenly going to 'get over' you. Like I said, I need you in my life, always." Sherlock felt blood rush to his cheeks and realised he was blushing quite badly. He tugged his hand away from John's and stared at the floor.

John started when Sherlock suddenly leapt in the air like a mad man, he knew it was like that when the detective came to a conclusion about a case.
John wasn't expecting that conclusion to be drawn though.

"You are mad, you lost your mind," he exclaimed, his heart beating in his throat. He looked at Sherlock blushing furiously and he hesitated. Could it be?
"Sherlock, do you even know what soul-mates are? They are lovers! You can't possibly say you are in love with me," he protested, the detective was clearly being over emotional. Something he really didn't think he'd ever see him be.

Sherlock stood up, feeling flushed and confused. He suddenly felt like it was really hot in the room and he wiped some sweat from the back of his neck, making a mental note to turn the air conditioning up higher, all the while contemplating John's words.

"Love...." he muttered the word quietly and with a hint of distaste. "What does that even mean John?" He turned to face his friend again.

"Look," he said, dropping to his knees by the bedside and grabbing John's hand, "you're my best friend John, OK? And I would do anything for you, you know that. I can't possibly imagine my life without you because...because I've tried that John...I tried it for three months and it didn't work. I actually missed you. And I realised how much I really...how much I..."

Sherlock faltered, searching for the right words. He found this all so bloody difficult, but if John insisted on being awkward he'd have to just get through it. "How much I cared about you," he continued, "How much I enjoyed having you in my life...being with you every single day...living in Baker Street with you...just having you around John..."

He stopped then and sighed, not really looking forward to the next part. "If all of that means that I am 'in love' with you, if you really want to use those vague and meaningless terms to describe something much more important and valuable than that...then yes, I am in love with you John. Why else would I put up with all this shit you've been giving me?"

Then yes, I am in love with you John.

John stared at him speechless.
As much as it felt preposterous to John's insecure mind, Sherlock had explained his case quite thoroughly and he couldn't deny it made sense.

So his best friend was in love with him.
Sherlock Holmes was in love.

"You must be joking," he voiced his first reaction, feeling guilty as soon as the words left his lips.
He could hardly look in Sherlock's eyes, they were so intense he thought they could burn him to the bone.

"That's..." his hand moved to pat Sherlock's hair, and then slid on his shoulder. "That's why you are so set on this, isn't it... it's... kind of cute..."

Sherlock stared at John, studying his face intently for any kind of reaction. His first one was, quite predictably, shock. Then disbelief. Denial. Insisting it was a joke. Sherlock tried to hide his hurt expression. Of course this wasn't a bloody joke. He didn't exactly bare his soul very often....

He was just about to open his mouth to protest when he noticed the expression on John's face change yet again. Guilt at the words he had just said, followed by realisation that this was not some kind of joke, then acceptance of the facts of the situation. Sherlock saw everything in a few short seconds, then moved his hand to place on top of John's resting heavily on his shoulder.

"Cute?" he asked, surprised.

John didn't know what to say.
He knew he had used the wrong word, but he hadn't been expecting this to happen and it felt a lot like he was just getting manipulated into agreeing to get help.
Not that he had any hope of winning this fight with Sherlock to begin with.

"I think it was the most unromantic confession I have ever heard," he teased him eventually, shaking his head. "And I still won't let you hold me while I pee..."

He sighed then, giving up. "But I guess that.. just for this once... because I don't want to hurt you... I will start training to get back on my feet..."

Sherlock nodded, feeling awkward, suddenly wondering whether it had been a good idea or not to announce he was 'in love' with his former flatmate. He wasn't really considering the implications of it all. How did John feel about it? Surely John wasn't 'in love' with him? That wouldn't make any sense. And even if he was...what then? Would he expect to do other things like kissing and...sex?

"Romance isn't exactly one of my strong points," he admitted, staring at the floor. "Erm...John...I didn't mean to upset you. Just...forget I said any of that stuff. I apologise."

John laughed a bit. "I know, you told me the first time we met, it was not your department," he commented, and scratched his leg a bit nervous.

The rest of the words made him frown though. "What? Why?" He asked, blue eyes questioning. "I am not upset, just surprised... they are your feelings Sherlock, why would I want to forget them?"

His frown deepening as he realized something. "Unless you are saying you didn't mean them..."

Sherlock shook his head vigorously and grabbed hold of John's hand again, staring deep into his eyes.

"No John, I meant every word," he insisted with sincerity. "I was just...just worried that you might think I was being weird...I mean...we're just friends and I know...I know you're not really interested...like that...."

Sherlock blushed and looked away. Was he interested like that? Could he imagine him and John taking their relationship further if John wanted it too? Becoming more than just friends? It was something he'd never even considered before. Would he even know what to do? Hm. One thing at a time, he told himself. Let's just see what John thinks first.

John looked at him strangely, his thoughts jumbling up to try to catch up with Sherlock's words.
Right.
He was supposed to answer with a confession of his own.

"I am not... exactly in the right state of mind to be... talking about my feelings..." he muttered, sitting back with a sigh.

"I... I am still so angry..." he admitted, he really didn't know what to think, what to say.

His eyes moved on Sherlock's face, hesitant.
"I have always had feelings for you, Sherlock... but now... I don't know... anymore..."

Sherlock processed the information, surprised to hear that John had feelings for him. For how long, he wondered. What kind of feelings? Did John love him? What kind of love? What did he expect from it? So many questions swimmed through Sherlock's mind it was making him ache...

He frowned sadly and hung his head, "Forgive me John," he said, "I didn't mean to hurt you. I....I promise I won't leave you again. I know I said that last time but...I shouldn't have done that. I shouldn't have made a promise I knew I had no intention of keeping. I..I am sorry."

Sherlock reached out his hand and grabbed hold of John's. "I...I love....you...?" It was said almost as a question, still unsure of whether it was the right thing to say.

John looked at him sadly when he apologized. "You were the only person I have ever trusted Sherlock... I trusted that promise more than I trusted myself..." He whispered, unwilling to think back to that time.

"You left me alone with this-" he almost punched his useless leg. "I hate myself... So much..."

He grimaced at the words, rolling his head back. "I know I should concentrate on the fact you aren't really dead, that you say you love me, I know I should be happy... And I am... I really am... But... I just can't... All I can think about is that you lied to me..."

Sherlock felt a dull, aching pain in his chest when he realised just how seriously John had been affected by his lies. He pulled away, ashamed, angry, hating himself. He stood up and ran a hand through his hair.

There was nothing he could say right now that would make it better. Apologising again would be pointless. 'Sorry' was essentially just a word, unless you could do something or show something to back it up, then it would always remain just that. A word without any actual meaning. One of the reasons Sherlock hated apologising.

And this...all this that was happening right now. This was exactly the reason Sherlock never opened up to anyone, why he shut off his feelings, remained cold, taught himself not to care. It was too painful. Caring would just get you hurt in the end.

He walked to the window, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Inside his mind palace he visualised and replayed the last five minutes of his conversation with John. He imagined it typed up like a script on a piece of paper. Then he imagined taking that piece of paper, setting fire to it and watching it burn. When he opened his eyes again he had effectively deleted it from his mind and he felt a calmness gathering around his chest.

"I'll get you your chair so you can use the bathroom," he said coolly, "Then we'll begin training." And before John could answer he quickly turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

John looked at Sherlock, he could tell the detective was upset about the whole matter, but when he pulled away there were no words for him, no apology of any kind, and John started to think maybe he had just imagined the whole thing.

Blue eyes watched Sherlock move away and he felt something break in his chest.
He had never felt the detective so distant, it was like space and time were separating them in that moment, and John felt lonely, alone.

I should have been the one who died...

"I want to sleep some more," he said simply, laying back down on the bed, hoping Sherlock would leave.

Sherlock watched John a moment, hesitating, then strode out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Back in the living room he paced anxiously up and down, the pain in his chest growing larger. He was supposed to have banished those memories from his mind. Why wasn't it working? He cursed himself. Then cursed John.

Then he threw himself onto the sofa in a heap, his mind a mess of thoughts. He began to wonder if there was anywhere in Italy he could buy drugs. Of course there was, he told himself. Just a matter of knowing the right people. And Sherlock knew enough criminals. It wouldn't be a problem getting his hands on some. His hand reached for the phone. He'd been clean for nearly 4 years but right now he felt like drugs were the only thing that could stop his mind aching, his heart aching, everything aching. He just needed to shut off.

He stared at the phone, his hand shaking, inwardly fighting with himself. He really shouldn't be doing this. He made the call. He was told that someone would be coming round in an hour's time, and that he should have the money ready. He sighed and hung up. An hour? Sherlock really didn't think he could wait that long.

John laid in his bed for a long time, thinking about what had just happened. A few months ago he would have been truly happy hearing Sherlock's confession, he would be all over him, he would have demanded a kiss at least.
At the moment it didn't work though. It was like his nerves were broken, unable to make him feel the things he should feel. He felt empty and numb.

"God, I need to shake this off," he told himself finally, not sure how long had passed.
He moved to sit up and pushed his feet to the floor.

"Sherlock! I need help here!" he shouted, swallowing his pride, he had to learn to walk again, it was the first step at least.

Two hours later and Sherlock was laying spaced out on the sofa his heart pounding with the euphoric effects of the cocaine he had just injected, still holding the needle in his limp hand, an inane grin permanently spread across his lips. He wasn't thinking about John now. He wasn't thinking about anything. His mind was clear, empty. It was bliss.

Sherlock heard John shouting from the bedroom. It took a while for the sounds to register, to reach his brain and process into actual distinguishable words. He realised John was calling him. That he was asking for help. Right. Get up off the sofa, he told himself. Get up. It took a while longer for Sherlock to make his brain send the messages to his legs to move.

Finally he managed to stand up and slowly staggered towards the bedroom, holding onto the wall for support. His legs were shakey and weak, he was dizzy and spaced out. He opened the door to John's room and stumbled in.

"John..." he giggled, slurring his words. "How are you my friend? You called..."

John felt himself grow anxious when there seemed to be no reply from the other room. Sherlock would have never left without him, would he? He called again, and again, his voice shaking in anger and disappointment, and then in panic.

His eyes were filled with tears of frustration when finally he heard movements, his door opened, but what he saw only filled him with dread.
His first thought was alcohol, but he hadn't noticed any on his way in, and Sherlock's dilated pupils and turned up sleeve were a sign of something quite different.

"You didn't," he exclaimed, "What did you do, Sherlock? How much did you take?" he insisted, overwhelmed by feelings he couldn't control.

"God, you... you are an idiot..." he snapped, how could Sherlock help him like that?