I apologize for any spelling/grammar mistakes, and I apologize for the angst and the choice language. Please don't hate me? Thank you for reading though!

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"So you see, I ended up staying at Sherlock's a bit longer after everyone had gone, you know that. We just talked for a while about nothing in particular, and then..." John crossed his arms and looked to Mary, who was listening with wide eyes and Molly, whose face was incredibly stoic. He could feel a twisting in his stomach, as if his innards had picked that precise moment to go for the knot tying championship. As he looked to Mary's open, enraptured face and Molly's accusing stare, John found that he just couldn't tell them the truth. He instead said the first thing that came to mind. "Then Sherlock got called out to help with a case, and I went with him. It was pretty dangerous, and we got banged up pretty bad, but everything was taken care of and we ended up returning to Baker Street." The words had begun to pour out, and John wasn't doing a thing to stop them. "I ended up crashing at his place. He offered me the use of his bed for the night." John cast a furtive glance over at Molly. "I forgot to set my alarm so I woke up late and didn't have time to go home and change before coming into work."

John let out a breath and stared back and forth between Molly and Mary, gauging their faces as they digested the massive lie he'd just told them. From the looks of it, they both seemed to believe him, and though he felt relieved at this, John felt equally as disgusted with himself for what he'd done and now said to cover up his lecherous actions. He didn't deserve the warm smile Mary gave him, or the hug he received when she left, claiming to be 'so glad' he and Sherlock were okay. He didn't deserve the contrite look he got from Molly when he turned to leave and go change. He couldn't bear to stick around to hear the undeserved apology she tried to give him.

Unfortunately John was unable to stay away from Molly for very long, due to the fact that she was working a shift there as well. He tried his hardest to avoid her and the apologetic glances she gave him every time he passed. By the time he clocked out for the day John was mentally exhausted, as well as physically from some very close calls with Molly in which he'd basically run away from her. Once to get away from her he'd ducked into the nearest room and ended up attending a lecture on various cardiovascular diseases and possible preventions, and then ended up giving a speech at said lecture. He still wasn't quite sure how that had happened, though it had been a much-needed distraction from his worries.

Unfortunately, there had been no distractions to be found in the back of a cab on his way back to Baker Street, so by the time John reached the door his mind was incredibly frazzled and his heart was pounding. His hand was shaking as he brought it up to ring the doorbell, and he held his breath until he heard the door unlock.

Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly at John, and he tried his hardest to smile back and not let it show how distressed he was. He stood silently and listened to the woman chatter about the weather and her new cat for several minutes, then made an excuse to go ahead upstairs. He was there to see Sherlock, after all. He opened the door to Sherlock's flat and looked around, finding it to be empty. He held his breath and listened for any signs of life coming from further upstairs or Sherlock's bedroom, but didn't hear anything. He ventured through the kitchen and down the hallway, pausing at Sherlock's bedroom door and placing his ear against it. He heard nothing, but still knocked before he went inside.

Sherlock was nowhere to be found, but John could see the wooden box sitting on his bed. The latch had been unhooked, but the box was still closed. John wasn't exactly sure how to proceed, so he stood in the middle of Sherlock's room for several minutes looking around, trying not to think about the last 24 hours or so, and definitely not looking at the neatly-made bed and remembering what had taken place in it the night before.

"Oh, you're back."

The sound of Sherlock's voice caused John to turn around, and he saw him standing in the doorway, dressed in his signature long coat and scarf, hands shoved into his pockets. He jerked his head in the direction of the kitchen, and left. John followed him out into the sitting room and they sat across from each other at the desk in the centre of the room. The tension in the air was thick, and it nearly suffocated John as he sat there with his hands folded in his lap, struggling to maintain eye contact with Sherlock.

"Alright," Sherlock finally said on the exhale of a sigh. "I haven't got all day. You said you wanted to talk, so talk." John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, but sighed and nodded his head.

"Well, first off: what's in that box?"

"I'm pretty sure you've figured it out. You're not an idiot John." Sherlock started to stand from his seat. "I'm making tea."

"You're going to sit right there." Sherlock froze, glaring intensely at John, but didn't move. "Why, Sherlock? What happened to get you back on it?" Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and stared out the window.

"If I'm going to be honest here I should tell you I was never off it." John stared at him with his mouth hanging open, trying to comprehend what Sherlock had said.

"So, the entire time you were living with me-"

"Yep," Sherlock said, popping the p. He finally turned to look at John, his face completely expressionless. His eyes locked with John's and he heaved a heavy sigh. "Don't look at me like that. I told you I don't need your judgment."

'I'm not judging you."

"You're lying!"

"Please, keep your voice down."

"Or what, John? It's obvious you disapprove and though I can't blame you I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't look at me like I'm some puppy whose just chewed up your favourite pair of shoes." John ignored Sherlock's strange metaphor and sat back in his seat, letting out a low sigh.

"I have to tell your brother."

"He knows." Sherlock brought his hands to rest on the table and tilted his head. "Honestly John, it's not a problem."

"Not a problem? What- Sherlock!" John took a moment to calm himself down before he said or did something he'd later come to regret. He stared at Sherlock and they remained silent for several moments. Finally, Sherlock dropped his gaze and stared down at the table. 

"I'm... sorry John." John's eyebrows nearly shot up to his hairline and he stared at Sherlock with his mouth open. 

"Sorry for what exactly?"

"For lying to you I suppose. I should have told you and I understand that." He slowly lifted his eyes to meet John's and the look on his face caused John physical pain. "I hope this doesn't make you rethink your decision."

"What decision?" Suddenly Sherlock's eyes were much sharper and his face was voice was cold again, his face completely devoid of emotion. 

"Your decision to leave Mary."

"What?" John asked incredulously, leaning further back in his chair. The room was suddenly much hotter and John felt as if his face was on fire. He had no idea just what was coming next in this conversation, but he knew it would not be good. The thought of how badly this could go caused hot tears to sting the backs of his eyes, the weight of his soul crushing guilt becoming too much to bear. "Sherlock, where did you get that idea?" John couldn't help but notice the brief look of hurt and confusion that crossed over Sherlock's pale eyes.

"Well, last night..." He didn't finish his sentence, and John covered his face with his hands. "John?" Sherlock's voice was softer now, and very distant. John could feel the stifled uncertainty emanating from Sherlock's being more and more with each second that ticked by. "John, there were tears in her eyes as she hugged- hugged, not kissed- you goodbye yesterday. Before that you two had a long chat in private and though I was not eavesdropping I heard what she said before she left. She said, 'I assume you'll be staying here for a bit then', and you said 'yes, of course'." Sherlock's voice broke on the last word of his sentence, and John felt every ounce of his morality shatter.

"She- She has allergies. Her eyes are always watering now. She had a family issue to attend to, and that's why she left and I didn't. Well, that and I just wasn't ready to leave yet."

"John, I don't understand. You didn't break up with her?" John couldn't bring himself to meet Sherlock's eyes and stared at the table, whispering his answer to the polished wood.

"No."

"Then what the hell, John?!"

"I-"

"You've turned me into some god forsaken home wrecker!"

"There's no wrecked home." Sherlock sat back in his seat with a huff and licked his lips, staring up at the ceiling and shrugging.

"Oh, so she's completely fine with the fact that her boyfriend fucked another man."

"No, she... She doesn't know." John bit his lip and shook his head, already hating himself for what he was about to say. "If anyone asks, we were out on a case last night." Sherlock's eyebrows shot up and he stared dumbfounded at John.

"You mean you want me to lie?"

"No, just..." John ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Forget it. Just, forget about... everything. Last night didn't happen. Just forget about it."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, John. I'm only human, and-"

"That's all I'm asking you to be. Every human makes mistakes-"

"You think it was a mistake?" John could hear the rage in Sherlock' voice, and instantly wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. "Last night was the best night of my life, John, and I'm afraid it would be impossible to delete from my memory even if I wanted to."

"Sherlock you don't understand..." John sighed and leaned forward, pressing the heels of his hand to his eyes. When all of Sherlock's words finally registered he removed his hands, but kept his eyes cast downward. "Best night of your life?" John carefully looked up, but Sherlock turned his head just as their eyes would have met. "Sherlock-"

"Forget I said that. Since your so very keen on forgetting now, I'm sure it won't be hard."

"But Sherlock, you don't really mean that do you?" Sherlock's eyes instantly snapped to John's, and they were full of disbelief, anger, and anguish, and John couldn't bear it to look into them.

"Of course I mean it John, but that doesn't matter. So what if last night was spectacular and everything I'd ever dreamed of. Who cares if I somehow managed to develop romantic feelings towards you during the course of our... association despite my inability to do so ever before, and last night just happened to be the best thing to happen to me in years. So what if the very thought of you returning to that woman after what we did is making me sick to my stomach. None of that matters right? Because to you it was just a mistake and it'll be okay because we'll all just forget about it, right?" John had sat silently and listened to Sherlock as he became more and more livid with each word he spoke, and though he knew it would do no good he tried to defend himself.

"Sherlock, we were drunk."

"You were slightly intoxicated. I was sober."

"Sherlock-"

"I think you should go."

"Why?" 

"Why?" Sherlock huffed and sputtered before he was able to form a coherent sentence. "Because I refuse to be your Bertha Rochester!"

"My what?"

"I will not be the lunatic that you once cared for but are now ashamed to have ever looked upon with a fond eye."

"You're not a lunatic." It was the only thing John could think of to say. Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes, forcefully pushing back his seat to stand up.

"Oh, pardon me, would drug addict be a more appropriate term?" He stalked over to the door and unlocked it, staring down at the floor. "Either way, consider Thornfield burned. Your future with your precious Jane will be safe." He opened the door, and John stared out at the landing, knowing what Sherlock was asking him to do and refusing to leave.

"Sherlock, you're not making sense."

"Read Jane Eyre and you'll understand." He took in a deep breath and steeled himself before looking directly into John's eyes. "As for now, get out of my flat." 

"Sherlock, please-" Sherlock stormed over to where John was sitting and yanked him up out of his chair by his collar before pushing him towards the door.

"Out. Now." John sighed and tried to get Sherlock to look at him, but his gaze remained rooted to the floor. John took one long look at what he could see of his profile, of his perfect, cupid's bow lips pressed into a firm line, his beautiful multicoloured eyes now red and shining, and his smooth, pale skin now flushed with anger and most likely a slew of other emotions. He looked absolutely wrecked, and John knew he was the reason for it all. He had never hated himself more than he had in that moment.

"Sher-" He broke off, taking a moment to clear his throat and take in an adequate breath. "I'm so sorry." He sucked in a breath and placed his hands in his pockets. "Please, do try and get clean, at least."

Sherlock growled and gave him another shove, hard enough to get him over the threshold but not hard enough to send him flying down the stairs, and slammed the door before John had the time to regain his balance. His feet felt like lead as they carried him down the stairs and out of the building, and John suddenly felt as if the weight of the world had been placed upon his shoulders. That could have gone better, he supposed, though he wasn't exactly sure how. He certainly didn't see how it could have gone worse.