John awoke to the feeling of a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. He pried his eyes open and squinted against the harsh morning light permeating the flat through the windows of the sitting room. After several moments he noticed a figure looming over him, tall and lean and very much Sherlock. He was standing in front of the sofa, staring down at John as he fought his way to awareness.

"I'm going out." John stared up at Sherlock for a moment before his words finally registered in his mind and he nodded.

"Alright then. Is-"

Before John could finish his question, Sherlock had turned and was already halfway towards the door. John stared after his retreating form and watched him descend the stairs. When he heard the front door close, a bit louder than usual, he sat up and groaned when the muscles in his back twinged in protest of the movement. He didn't see how Sherlock could spend so much time lounging on this sofa and not have severe back problems. Then again, John was sure his muscles were more tense than usual, and sleeping on the sofa couldn't have helped that very much. He rolled his head around on his shoulders for a bit and tried to stretch out any discomfort.

So, he was certainly in the dog house. That much had been made very clear. Rather than sit still and dwell on how badly he might have messed up his marriage and drive himself mad, John opted to busy himself with making breakfast. He tried to focus all of his mind's energy on the task of making tea and toast, but thoughts of Sherlock and the look he had on his face the previous night kept worming their way into his brain.

He stared down at his reflection in the tea and sighed. He had to apologise. He knew that. Only, how could he do that if Sherlock wouldn't even give him the time of day. John had seen Sherlock give others the cold shoulder, and had felt the secondhand chill that came with witnessing it. Now he was experiencing the brute force of it all aimed at him, and he couldn't stand it. The thought of having upset Sherlock so much was almost too much to bear.

John switched his attention back and forth between the television and his laptop for several hours, trying to convince himself that he was okay with Sherlock being gone. He tried to tell himself that he didn't physically feel his absence from the room, or from the flat. He did so in vain. He missed Sherlock so much it hurt. Every inch of him ached with the sense of longing for his husband to return to him.

It was dark when John heard the front door open. He was half-asleep and reclining in his chair, watching some soap opera with terrible actors in a terrible plot line. He had been amusing himself with wondering what Sherlock would have to say about such a show. Although it had provided a source of entertainment, it also constantly reminded John of Sherlock's absence.

John fought the urge to jump out of his seat and run to Sherlock when he heard him ascending the stairs. He instead turned his head to face the door and tried to keep a neutral expression on his face while he waited for his husband to appear.

Sherlock stepped through the door and his eyes immediately went to John's. He held his gaze for a brief moment before turning away and removing his coat.

"Did you have a nice time out?" John asked, only a bit hesitantly. He desperately wanted to hear Sherlock's voice, and he hoped his question would be welcome and would warrant a response.

"Hmm." Sherlock finished removing his scarf and threw it onto his armchair, then turned and went into the bedroom. John waited for a moment, and when it became clear that Sherlock wasn't coming back out he stood from his seat and walked to the closed door. He raised a hand to knock, but Sherlock spoke before he could.

"Just come in."

John paused by the door. Sherlock's voice had sounded so... exasperated. As if he felt talking to his own husband was a chore. It made John's heart sink to his stomach, but he bit back any nervousness and turned the door handle.

Sherlock was laying on the bed staring up at the ceiling. He had changed out of his suit into a pair of sweatpants and a loose shirt, but he still looked as gorgeous as ever.

"I erm, wanted to talk."

"Oh really? Because I thought you just wanted to come in here to gawk at me."

Sarcasm. Lovely. That meant Sherlock was still very much upset. John swallowed thickly and gestured to the bed.

"May I sit down?"

"I don't care." John walked over and sat down at the foot of the bed. Sherlock sat up and pulled his knees up to his chest. He rested his chin on top of his knees and stared at John, his face completely blank. John wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. They sat staring at each other for what felt like eons, until John gathered enough courage to break the awkward silence.

"So ..." Sherlock sucked in a breath, and John paused. He tried to meet Sherlock's eyes but the detective turned away to lay on his side, facing away from John. John let his chin fall to meet his chest. Now wasn't a good time to talk, apparently. He had a feeling that he wouldn't get anywhere with Sherlock acting like this. He figured he just had to wait until Sherlock was ready to talk about whatever it was that had happened between them, and try not to get too depressed in the time it takes for that to happen.

"Right," he said. "I'll just ... go then."

"No, wait." Sherlock turned over and reached a hand out towards John. John was so surprised that Sherlock asked him to stay he didn't respond for a moment. Sherlock's hand remained outstretched for several moments, but when John didn't move he began to draw back in, his facial expression going from imploring to chagrined. John immediately reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand.

"I'll stay. I'll stay." Sherlock laced their fingers together and sat up, turning to face John. He stared down at their hands and shrugged.

"Yesterday was ... a bit not good." John remained silent for fear of spooking Sherlock and ruining what might be their reconciliation. "I understand I might have been overly cryptic, but-"

"I overreacted." John blurted against his better judgment. Sherlock glanced up at him through his eyelashes, and remained silent. John took a deep breath and glanced down before meeting Sherlock's eyes again. "Sherlock, let me just say that I'm glad that you've found someone you connect so well with. You and Victor ... I can see why you two are friends, and I'm so pleased that you have a friend like him. And ..." John took in a deep breath and tried to school his face into an expression of impassivity. "I have no problems with you spending time with him. I just ... didn't imagine you would choose to spend time with him on our anniversary, is all."

"John, I think we both know this isn't about our anniversary." The surety with which Sherlock spoke flummoxed John. What else could this possibly be about if not their ruined anniversary?

"It isn't?" Sherlock shook his head, and sighed.

"This is about Victor." John pulled away slightly, but still held on to Sherlock's hand. Their hand holding felt like the only thing keeping them connected at this point, and John didn't want to lose that when he caught sight of the path they would be going down.

"How is this about him?"

"You're jealous of him."

"Wha- jealous?" John didn't want to think about how Sherlock had figured that out. Sherlock was the most observant man in the world, of course he would figure out that his husband was jealous of his old university friend. How could he have been so stupid to think he could keep something like that hidden? "I-"

"Oh please John, are you really so surprised I know? I mean, you couldn't have been more obvious." Sherlock's brow was furrowed now and his hold on John's hand had slackened. "I didn't say anything at first because from what I know jealousy often leads to pretty fantastic shagging. However, all I've gotten out of it is an angry husband and a ruined anniversary."

"Sherlock you don't understand-"

"No, I understand perfectly. What you need to understand is that you've got nothing to worry about, John. I love you. If I wanted Victor I could have had him ages ago."

Of course. Sherlock was aware of Victor's feelings for him. Apparently he has been since university, and never thought to break off the friendship. John was sure Sherlock meant that to be a comforting statement, but it didn't do anything but comfort John.

"Somehow, hearing that doesn't make me feel any better."

"Then what will?!" Sherlock shouted suddenly, releasing John's hand to throw his arms in the air. John gaped at Sherlock, taken aback by this outburst. Sherlock calmed down after a moment, and took in a deep breath to relax himself. He stared down at the bed for several long moments before lifting his eyes to meet John's. 'I just want you to trust me."

"I do trust you, Sherlock. I trust you with my life."

"But what about your heart?"

John stared at Sherlock, unable to believe what he had just heard come out of his mouth. He wanted to say of course he trusted Sherlock with everything. He wanted to say it was Victor he didn't trust, and that he knew Sherlock would never betray him, but his lips failed to form the words he so desperately needed to say. He stared blankly at Sherlock, whose face twisted into a grimace before relaxing again. His eyes were now completely blank.

"Perhaps you should go now."

Before John could answer, Sherlock turned away and curled up on his side, his back facing John. He stared at Sherlock's back and tried to think of something to say to convince Sherlock to let him stay, but he knew there was nothing he could do then to repair the damage he had done. With a sigh he lifted himself from the mattress and left the room, subjecting himself to another night on the couch.

When he awoke the next morning Sherlock was sitting in in his armchair, watching him. Not fully awake yet, John yawned and scrubbed at his eyes while he sat up. He ignored the pain in his back and shoulder and blinked at Sherlock.

"Lestrade's called. He needs help on a series of murders that have transpired over the past week." John stretched again and averted his eyes when he responded.

"Alright then. I suppose you'll ... be back later?" John asked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and stood from his chair, adjusting his cuffs while he spoke.

"Well, if you're not coming with me then-"

"Do you want me to come?" John stood up as quickly as he could, and wobbled a bit. Sherlock stepped forward quickly and placed a hand on his arm, steadying him. Once John had fully regained his balance Sherlock dropped his hand and straightened the already-straight collar of his shirt.

"You usually come with me now, don't you?"

"Yes, but I figured-"

"John." He met Sherlock's eyes, and felt his throat closing. His gaze was intense, a warning. In his eyes read a simple message: Not now.

John dropped his head and nodded, padding away to the bedroom to find a change of clothes. He managed to locate a flannel in the bathroom and had a quick wash up, then brushed his teeth, changed, and met Sherlock in the kitchen. He tried not to focus on how Sherlock was pointedly avoiding eye contact with him and instead turned to go down the stairs and out the flat. Sherlock trailed behind him, wordlessly, and remained silent in the cab. By the time the cab reached the crime scene John was already questioning his decision to come along. Work or not, it was obvious that spending any extended amount of time with Sherlock without having resolved whatever had happened between them would be unpleasant. He just hoped they could manage to put up a happy front in front of the Scotland Yard workers. The last thing either of them needed was jeering from Anderson or Donovan.

Sherlock opened the door and climbed out of the cab while John paid the cabbie. They approached the crime scene walking side by side; John wondered if this was Sherlock's way of telling him that everything was okay between them. Then he remembered the way Sherlock had looked that morning, and the night before, and he knew they weren't okay. The look that had been on Sherlock's face was burned into John's memory, causing him more and more pain with each passing moment and disintegrating all other thoughts in its fiery blaze.

John was suddenly glad for the fact that Sherlock was never very romantic when working. This way he could pretend that Sherlock wasn't holding his hand because they were at a crime scene and not because he had made a colossal arse of himself the night before and had ruined their anniversary the night before that.

Lestrade was waiting for them just beyond the police tape. His eyes flickered back and forth between Sherlock and John for a moment, then he began the debriefing.

"This is the fourth in six days. Poisoned, from the looks of it but we won't know for sure until we can get an official autopsy."

Sherlock didn't respond, and set about examining the corpse lying face down on the ground. John stood by and watched, trying to keep a neutral expression on his face as to not tip anyone off to the distress he was feeling.

"John, over here."

John's feet were moving before he realized it, and soon found himself crouched beside Sherlock, staring down at the body.

"Yes?"

"What do you think?"

"Well Lestrade said-"

"I didn't ask for what Lestrade thinks. I asked what you think."

"Well I think Lestrade has a better idea of what's happening than I do. Why don't we just trust his opinion?"

"Guys, guys," Lestrade said, waving his hands in the air. "I know you two aren't exactly spring chickens, but don't you think it's a bit early for you to be fighting like an old married couple?" Both John and Sherlock turned to Lestrade, nearly breaking their necks in the process. Sherlock was glaring daggers at the Detective Inspector, but John was simply staring.

Was it that obvious that they were fighting? John had been hoping to keep their row under wraps, and he figured Sherlock would want the same thing. They were private people, they didn't like having their affairs to be general knowledge. Apparently keeping their problems a secret was harder than John had originally thought it to be.

John then noticed the smile on Lestrade's face. Though it had begun to falter after their dramatic reaction, there had certainly been a smile there. Lestrade had simply been joking, and they had both overreacted, most likely placing some sort of idea into the minds of everyone around them that there really was something going on. Great.

"Very funny," he managed to say with a smile. He glanced at Sherlock, who was staring down at the ground, and nudged him in the side with his elbow. "Come on, let's get back to work." Sherlock nodded his head and went back to examining the body. There was a beat of silence before John heard Sherlock mumble something under his breath.

"What was that?"

"I said, funny how you're so trusting of him."

John felt his heart stop. Never before had he heard Sherlock's voice sound so cross, at least not directed towards him. He stared open-mouthed at Sherlock for several seconds before he realized he was gaping and turned away. He pretended to examine the body, but all he could think about was how upset Sherlock sounded.

"I trust his professional opinion. Sherlock, this has nothing to do with-"

"John, now is not the time for any sort of-"

"Don't you give me that. You started it!"

"Um, guys?" John froze at the sound of Lestrade's voice behind him. He hadn't realized just how loud he had been talking. The lightheaded feeling he felt and his laboured breathing indicated that he must have been yelling at Sherlock. Perfect. Now everyone definitely knew they were having a row.

John avoided eye contact with Sherlock and stood, turning slowly to face Lestrade. Sherlock stood behind him, completely silent. John lifted his eyes just in time to see Sergeant Donovan saunter over with Anderson trailing close behind, identical smirks plastered across their faces.

"What's the matter boys? Didn't you just have an anniversary? Shouldn't you two be still all happy and sex-sated?" Anderson nudged her in the side with his elbow and sent her a sly grin.

"Sounds like trouble in paradise." John opened his mouth and managed to bark out an angry "Piss off!" the same time Sherlock began speaking.

"Oh you want to talk about relationships? Fine, let's talk about yours. Tell me Phillip, how much of your money did your wife take in the divorce?"

Under normal circumstances John would have attempted some sort of reprimanding. However, he didn't think now was the time for that, especially not when Sherlock was defending their currently shaky relationship. He remained silent and allowed himself to appreciate the looks of shock and awe on the faces surrounding him, before turning to Sherlock and forcing himself to look into his eyes.

"We can discuss this later. Right now, there's a crime to solve." Sherlock held his gaze for several beats, and John watched slowly as the anger and tension drained from his face. Sherlock heaved a heavy sigh and nodded his head.

"Right. Of course."

No more words were spoken while Sherlock turned back to the body. but the silence spoke volumes. Normally, there would be the usual chatter of those not actively working but still required to be on site. Sometimes playful banter could be heard between various Scotland Yard workers, but now everyone was completely silent. Everyone at the crime scene had seen Sherlock lash out at Anderson. It would take a fool not to realise that his comment had struck a nerve with Sherlock, and that something was obviously going on between them. John felt as if he and Sherlock were animals on display, out in the open for everyone to dissect their interactions and holding their breath to hear any comments that might be muttered from one to the other. It was tortuous.

After several moments Sherlock stood up abruptly and began looking around at everyone with his eyes narrowed.

"Alright, this is absurd. I can hear all of you thinking and I'm not going to pretend I don't notice all of you staring at us. Yes, everything is not one hundred percent alright between me and John but I really doubt being observed like some bloody science experiments will help. You guys can solve this without me."

Before John was able to completely register what was happening, he felt a hand firmly grasp his and begin to pull. He walked along after Sherlock, struggling to keep up with the fast pace of his long legs, and fought the urge to look over his shoulder as they left.

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