"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

There's a shattering sound, like angry glass - except it plinkplinkplinks and rolls around. Coins explode around him, and a hot hand grabs onto his. He makes a noise that eerily sounds like a swear, and is pulled toward a person that is breathing heated and heavy. John's eyes have never looked so much like molten steel. "Who the fucking hell do you think you are?" John yells, spitting up flames. "That was probably the only money that man had. He probably hasn't eaten in two days, you absolute twat, and you - you..."

Sherlock looks over at John, squinting his eyes, and cuts him off with a quiet, "Stop."

His eyes shoot open, shocked, appalled, in a disgusted kind of awe - his mouth opens as if to speak, but he is silent. Rain splatters onto his lips, and his tongue rests there, halfway through a whisper. "Stop?" John hisses. "Stop?"

"Do you need me to repeat myself? Or did the grenade that blew out your shoulder fuck up your hearing, too?"

Well.

"Heh."

John readjusts his shoulders to fold his arms tightly across his chest, shifts his weight to one leg, and smiles. His brow furrows deeply, and the lines don't go away like they do when he laughs for real - they become deeper, different, concave and absent of light. It looks like he is inverting.

He lets out a small chuckle, a forced, "Ha," before tapping his foot a couple of times, and sniffing. "God," he says, "good one." His smile tightens even more. His lips are dry and chapped; he can feel them splitting, and the sting as water droplets hit bleeding skin. "That... is so... fucking funny. You really got me good there, old pal. Because, of course, I needed a reminder, hmm, to put me in my place. To show me who's boss, yeah? Well. You certainly showed me. You certainly fucking showed me. Because, of course, fucking princess, it's okay to make assumptions on things I've never fucking told you, and no, it wasn't a grenade, it was an SA80 assault rifle that shot through my shoulder, and yes, it disgusts me that you even brought that up, you fucking kleptomaniac!"

Sherlock scoffs and replies instantaneously, wasting no time. "Next time that you want to make a convincing case, try not to be a hypocrite and attack my mental illness in the same sentence-"

"That's bullshit!" John yells. "Absolute bullshit." He steps forward. "You know that isn't a 'mental illness.' Stealing a homeless war veteran's only money from him is not categorized as a mental illness." John points back to where Sherlock picked up the cup of pence, and shouts, "Don't fuck with me." Sherlock's eyes follow his finger to where a bewildered, bearded man is looking at them, a sad expression on his face, a badge on his chest, a scar on his brow.

"Oh." Sherlock grimaces. "So that's why your pants are in a twist."

"Yes, Sherlock, that's why my pants are in a twist." John seems to think, for a millisecond. And then he says, "Did you steal my bag?"

"Your what?"

"My bag, you bloody tit, my bag."

"Why in God's name would I steal a bag?"

"It wasn't just 'a bag,' Sherlock, it was my bag, David's bag."

"Honestly, John, why," Sherlock lies, "would I steal that old, dirty, disgusting thing?"

"Oh, I don't know, because you're a fucking sadist?"

"John-"

"Did you steal it?"

"Steal what?"

"I gave you a simple question, and you can't answer. Did you steal my bag?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Really?" John hisses. "Because a second ago you did. Now," he repeats, "I'm going to say it one more time: did you steal... my bloody bag?"

Sherlock has the lie at the tip of his lips. He's going to say it. It's starting to come out, loud, and clear, but then, his voice just... stops. "John," he starts.

"I fucking knew it. I fucking knew it." He kicks a rock into a bystanding vendor, and shouts, "What else have you fucking stolen, hmm? Huh? My books? My movies? My jewelry? My wallet? Hell, have you stolen my fucking money? Is that why I can't pay the rent? Because... you stole... my money?"

"You-"

"I trusted you!" John shouts. "I let you into my flat, I - I let you eat my food, and you steal from me? Are you fucking-"

"Please, cut the 'I trusted you' insincerities and produce the actual reason you're behaving like a wild animal-"

Then, John laughs, and it sounds like boiling poison. "Do you... ever... stop," he wheezes, "being a complete dickhead?"

Sherlock holds a finger to his chin for a minute, as if thinking, and then he says, "No," and that's enough to make John yank Sherlock in by his coat collar and dig his fingernails into his skin.

"I swear to God, Sherlock," he says, "I swear to God, if you utter one more idiotic sound-"

"You'll what? Ground me?"

"I'll make you wish that you had a daddy to run back to."

"Don't presume to know me, John," Sherlock says, "just because I told you that I might not be as emotionally impartial as I previously believed. You aren't better than me; you're just a lost little boy that ran away from home when his family got a little dysfunctional, and then he landed in a war zone, and his friend died, so he got a title, and he tricked himself into thinking he was brave; you have no reigning position over me; you cannot tell me if I'm worth it, and honestly, if you had a shred of moral decency, you would attempt trying to humble yourself, lest you trip on your ego."

"Humble myself!" John forces out a snort. "Do you know the meaning of humility? Do you even know what it even means? Is sure as hell doesn't mean stealing, and lying, and cheating, as you've done, as you do-"

"What?"

"You think," John says, "you think, that just because you're Mr. Bloody Holmes, that you're some superior fucking being. That just because you've been through a little soft-core trauma means that you're entitled to me, and implying things about my life like it's some sort of game. My life is, and never was, a joke, and for you to even - even insinuate-"

"Your life isn't a joke, you say? What do you call a 26 year old who lives in a dilapidated flat and drinks beers all day? What do you call an unemployed man that has a porn stash under the kitchen sink - yes, John, I've seen it - is gaining five pounds a month, and has a chronic obsession with crying over comic book movies? You call him a fucking joke, John, a hilarious, ill fated, cautionary tale. You call him things that would make normal humans cry, except this man isn't human, he is literally - just - a joke!"

"How about this," John shouts, "how about you tell me why you talk in your sleep? How about you tell me why, when no one is looking, you look like you just heard that your mum was hit by a car, how about you fucking explain why you're such a bloody creep, who thinks it's all good and well to break into people's homes and take whatever you want? How about you tell me-"

"How about no," Sherlock responds. "How about you shut up. How about you just shut up, and walk away? Too hard? Is that limp impeding you? The sidewalk isn't moving, John-"

"I want to fucking strangle you!"

"At least I'm not the only one-"

"Does it even bother you to know that no one on earth loves you? That if you disappeared, no one would even blink?"

"I could ask you the same-"

"Does it-"

"I-"

"I hate people like you!" John yells. "You take advantage of people that have less. That can't fend for themselves-"

"And you probably murdered someone overseas in cold blood!"

"That's different!"

"That child had parents, John, how is it different? He didn't want to be there, he was just trying to feed his family-"

"Don't you dare guilt trip me. God, I've got a fucking diagnosis for that, I don't need your help, prick."

"He probably wanted to see his mum, and his sister-"

"I killed people! And?"

"I steal things, and you have the fucking audacity to tell me that I'm a bad human being? Take a look in the mirror, John! Get a magnifying glass - you obviously aren't looking hard enough, given your less-than-perfect mental capacity-"

"The difference between you and me is that I did it for the greater good. You steal because you're selfish. You want things. Your 'more-than-perfect mental capacity' won't let you even admit what you're doing is wrong. At least I have the mirth to face what I've done. I've burned villages, and ripped apart families. My ledger is red. It's war. And you've never been in a war. You're a privileged little kid, Sherlock, who needs a spanking once in a while to find his way back to the herd-"

"You're not even whole! You scold me like I am a child, when you, yourself, don't know what it's like to be anything but a broken kid running away from the monsters that go knock knock in the dark - you know nothing about loss, John-"

"My father left when I was eight, my mother dated men that had nothing better to do than abuse her, my sister is an alcoholic, and my best friend died when I was twenty-five, don't you fucking dare tell me that I know nothing about loss when you... you probably-"

"We all have sob stories. Yours is a story I've heard a thousand times before, a thousand different ways; divorced parents, bad boyfriends, slutty sister, dead lover. At the end of the day, it doesn't even matter."

"Mum and Harry and my past don't matter? David doesn't matter?"

"Well. David didn't matter. He's dead, remember?"

And then Sherlock's face is boiling - a crack that sounds eerily like a gunshot connects with his chin and makes him keel over three steps backwards. All he hears is screaming. He hadn't even noticed the crowds gather until there'd been a man kicking at his sides, and an angry woman pulling at John's clothes. She promptly is pulled forward as John tackles Sherlock, who's already in a windswept daze on the ground.

The blows come in groups of three. John feels his knuckles split as his fists connect over and over, and finally, he flips Sherlock over - and begins choking him. Police whistle frantically as the crowd shouts obscenities, as men and women try to pull John off, as Sherlock chokes heavily on John's forearm. The Belstaff is slipping off John's shoulders, he's so enraged, and spit froths and flecks across Sherlock's face as John is forced away.

There is nothing left except the screaming, and the taste of blood. And yeah. Yeah, Sherlock wishes he had a daddy to run back to.

A/N: shit

Also put this in your browser url

I HAVE WATCHED THIS 10,000 TIMES DEAR GOD

Sherlock + John - 'Grounds for Divorce': http://youtu.be/aRq0YA6KdHE

It's so good

And so *ahem* hot