"I didn't just get called up here to deal with an accident, did I?" Clara asked, wiping down her tweezers with the wet cloth. "John could've handled that, I mean, he's a doctor, isn't he? And you didn't even know this was going to happen. So what's the emergency?"

"I'll put on a pot of tea, dears," Mrs. Hudson said, gently squeezing Clara's shoulder before disappearing upstairs. Sherlock winced as he pulled a t-shirt on over top of the bandages littering his chest.

"Can you keep a secret? A very big secret?" he demanded. John had a sudden flash of anger and almost demanded that Sherlock shut his trap right that bloody second, the twat, but instead winced and dropped into his chair. Clara dragged the client chair to its usual spot and sat down, staring at the boyfriends.

"Yeah, 'course I can. What do you need?"

Sherlock told her about his experiment, concluding with, "And so we think John might be pregnant, and if he is then obviously he's going to need a doctor, a proper doctor, one that can keep a secret well and - "

"Honestly, Sherlock!" John snapped, the flash of anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach. "I'm not bloody pregnant. And even if I was, I can handle myself! I'm a doctor, you know."

"Yes, but you can't take care of yourself, John. I want what's best for you, you know I do. I thought you wanted kids, anyways," Sherlock said.

"Not like this, Sherlock!" John thundered, suddenly furious again. "You want what's best for me? You shouldn't've tested your drug on me and made me a pregnant freak! For that matter, maybe it'd have been best if you stayed away - or better yet, if you really had jumped to your death!"

Clara gasped, staring in wide-eyed shock at John. Sherlock's face was twisted in a strange emotion. He opened his mouth to respond, but John said, "Save it!" He stood, grabbing his coat and pulling it on over his fuzzy jumper. Then he left slamming the door of 221B behind him.

John stormed down Baker Street, heading for the park within walking distance. And as he walked, he realized what the strange emotion was that had appeared on Sherlock's face.

Guilt.

* * *

It was Clara who found him.

He was sitting on a park bench, bent forward, shoulders hunched, hands jammed in his jacket pockets. It wasn't very cold, but there was a wind that drove it in and pierced straight through his clothes. His eyes were closed, because the cold was making them water, but he heard the small thunk of someone sitting down next to him.

"Go away, Sherlock," he growled, and he hated the way he sounded shaky, like he was going to cry.

" 'M not Sherlock, John," the person said, and no, that didn't sound like Sherlock. It was a female voice, soft, with a bit of a musical lilt to it. Clara. John opened his eyes and looked at her. She smiled sadly, and he noticed that she was wearing a familiar black coat.

"You're wearing his coat."

"He said I oughtta. I haven't got a non-patched winter coat, and he said he wanted me to give this to you." She reached into the pocket and pulled out a folded piece of blue fabric. Sherlock's scarf. John wrapped the scarf around his neck and buried his nose in the fabric, inhaling deeply and breathing in the scent of Sherlock. It smelled like cigarette smoke, it smelled like the rosin Sherlock used on his bow and the cologne John had given him and it smelled like the parchment-y paper that Sherlock composed on. It smelled like the Sherlock element of 221B.

"You aren't really mad at him, you know," Clara said, watching John snuffle into the scarf. "I tested out the chemical elements of that serum, and I'm almost positive that it worked. I thought that you said you wanted kids, anyways."

"I do, but he should have asked me before he tested his bloody chemicals on me! I'm a circus freak now - just another one of his experiments," John said bitterly, pressing the scarf to his cheek.

"The way I understand it, you administered the serum to yourself accidentally, didn't you? You thought it was honey and put it into your tea. And John, Sherlock loves you. He doesn't love a lot of things in this world but I know that he loves you. He came back from the dead for you. I think the reason you're lashing out here is partly due to pent-up emotions from the whole fake-suicide-two-years-of-hell thing, right?"

John took one look at Clara, sitting there shivering in Sherlock's too-big coat and looking at him with those big blue eyes, and before he knew it he was starting to cry. "Two years!" he sobbed. "That bloody idiot! Mycroft knew, Molly Hooper knew, even a whole hoard of his homeless network knew! Random strangers knew, and I didn't! I came so close to ending the whole thing somany times, I - "

John pushed up his sleeve, revealing faded scars on his wrist. "I thought, 'If he's dead, then I'll join him.' He wasn't dead, but how the hell was I supposed to know that!"

Clara hugged him, throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing tightly. "John, it's okay. What Sherlock did was wrong, but it's all over now. You holding onto it is only going to cause problems, for you and he both. Please, let that all go. It's in the past now. Be free of it, and don't go back to it. Ever."

John sat up, wiping at his eyes with the scarf. "Thanks, Clara. Sorry about the way I acted."

"You're welcome. And I'm not the one you should be apologizing to, John. Sherlock's been in an awful state since you left. Mrs. Hudson think's he's going to die."

"What? Why, what's going on? Is he back to doing drugs again? I knew I shouldn't have left him unattended - "

"No, not drugs. Although I wouldn't put it past him. He got a box of nicotine patches and plastered them on his arms - seriously, he must have like three on each arm and I think he's got one on his forehead. He just curled up in this little ball in his chair and he's staring at yours while clinging to one of your jumpers. When I left, Mrs. Hudson was threatening to call Mycroft if Sherlock didn't stop trying to - "

"Trying to what?" John stared at Clara, suddenly very concerned.

"Trying to go to St. Bart's. John, he thinks you really want him dead."

John stood, pulled Clara to her feet, and ran towards Baker Street, dragging her along behing him. He burst through the door and raced up the staricase, leaving Clara panting at the bottom. But 221B was silent.

He opened the door quietly, not sure what he expected to see. What he found was exactly what Clara had desribed. Sherlock was wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his head, and his sleeves and forehead bore nicotine patches. He was snuggling with one of John's jumpers, nuzzling his face into it. He was curled into a ball on his chair, facing John's. The only difference was that he was sound asleep.

John quietly tugged the nicotine patches off of Sherlock's arms and forehead. He heard soft footsteps as Clara entered the flat and gently shut the door. Togehter, they lifted Sherlock up and set him down gently into bed. Then John pulled off his coat and unwound Sherlock's scarf. He changed into loose pajama bottoms and a white cotton t-shirt and pulled the jumper out of Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock opened his eyes sleepily and flailed his arms feebly, searching for the jumper. John slid into bed and wriggled his way into his boyfriend's arms.

"John!" Sherlock gasped, trying to pull away. John snuggled closer and pulled Sherlock's arms around him.

" 'Lo, Sh'lock," he murmured.

"John, I'm sorry, I - "

"S'okay. I was still upset 'bout you leaving me. S'fine."

John turned his head and pressed his lips to Sherlock's. The consulting detective kissed back enthusiastically before John turned and snuggled into Sherlock's chest.

The last thing he remembered before dropping off was Sherlock burying his nose in his hair and sniffling quietly, "Love you, John."

[A/N: Dedicated to a lovely girl who's birthday is August 10. Happy birthday, 222B_Fandom_Lover !]