Hello, so, just a heads up: I'm getting ready to wrap this story up. I'm thinking maybe 3, 4 chapters at most. Just so you know, there is a happy ending. :)

Also, because I don't know how many people actually read these author's notes, here's a game for those of you who do. I've made two references to two of my favourite fanfictions. First person to find one get this chapter dedicated to them. (Although I'm not sure how great a prize that is given the content of this chapter...)

Anyways, thanks everyone for your reads, votes, and comments! They are all very much appreciated xx

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The next morning when John opened his eyes he was pleasantly surprised to see Sherlock sitting up in bed beside him. His arms were folded across his chest and he was staring forward at nothing with a frown on his face, and it appeared he hadn't noticed John's waking.

"Um, morning," John managed to croak out while wiping at his eyes. Sherlock glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing for several seconds. John closed his eyes again and settled down into the covers, but opened his when he felt the jostling of the bed. Sherlock was standing beside it, hands on his hips, staring down at John with an indecipherable expression on his face.

"I'm going to make tea. Do you want some?"

"You're making tea?" John asked, a teasing smile on his lips. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and John immediately apologised. "Sorry, sorry. Um, yes, I would love some."

Sherlock left without another word, leaving John to sit alone in bed with nothing to keep him company but his thoughts. Obviously be hadn't been expecting for them to wake up cuddled together and that everything would be fixed, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt that their relationship was still obviously strained. Perhaps they could fix everything over tea. Tea always helped.

John sat and listened to the sounds of Sherlock in the kitchen for a while, and when he heard the kettle sing he dragged himself out of bed to join Sherlock at the table in the kitchen.

Sherlock had obtained a newspaper from somewhere in the flat and was holding it in front of him, pretending to read. Though it was subtle, John could tell when Sherlock's eyes flicked over to him while he set about making toast. Still, no one spoke.

By the time John sat down with his toast and the silence in the flat had grown to extremely awkward levels. Sherlock stole a piece of toast from John's plate, and John smiled, glad they Sherlock was at least making an attempt at normalcy.

They ate and drank in silence, never making eye contact, then Sherlock had a shower while John did the washing up. He was only slightly disappointed that there had been no conversation. No conversation meant no resolution and God knows John wanted that more than anything. At least there had been no fight, John tried to tell himself. He would take awkward mornings over arguments any day. He just hoped the awkwardness wouldn't last forever.

John showered after Sherlock, and when he came into the sitting room Sherlock was on the sofa with his laptop. The television was on and John settled down to watch it. He sat beside Sherlock, but not as close as he usually would have gotten to him. He kept his hands folded and in his lap, and his eyes remained on the television screen. He could hear Sherlock typing, but resisted the urge to ask him about it. He figured if they were to be doing any communicating that day, Sherlock might want to be the one to initiate it.

After an hour had passed and not a single word had been spoken John had grown restless. He continually shifted on the couch and drummed his fingers against his leg. He chewed his bottom lip and tried not to think about how loudly Sherlock was ignoring him.

"Oh for God's sake John just spit it out."

Sherlock's sudden outburst decimated the quiet of the flat and startled John. He started to turn towards Sherlock, but stopped himself. He didn't imagine that Sherlock's facial expression would be something he wanted to see, if his tone of voice was any indication.

"I don't... It's nothing."

"Obviously it isn't. Last night you said we could talk in the morning. It is now well into the afternoon and neither if us has yet to say anything about... well, you know." Sherlock waved a hand in the air. "You've grown increasingly agitated over the course of the day and I can only imagine that the longer this goes on the worse you'll get."

"While that might be true..." Very true, John caught himself thinking. "If you don't want to talk about it yet we don't have to."

"Yet."

"Hm?"

"If I don't want to talk about it, yet. What if I don't want to talk about it at all?" John but his tongue, knowing better than to indulge in his husband's petulance. If Sherlock was going to be difficult, then so be it.

"That's fine," he said, standing. "We don't have to if you don't want."

"Where are you going?"

"Bedroom."

"Now? It's only-"

"I don't care what time it is. I'm tired, and I'm going to bed." He didn't wait for a response from Sherlock, just turned and left the room. He quickly changed into his bedclothes and curled up beneath the covers, trying not to think about how concerned he was for the future of his relationship.

He hadn't realised how tightly he had curled himself until Sherlock came into the room about an hour later and climbed into bed with him, and he felt himself relax against his husband's chest.

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Over the course of the next week they tried twice more to resolve things, and both conversations had quickly turned into shouting matches that ended with one of them leaving the flat in an angry huff, and the other sulking on the couch.

John knew that they would never resolve anything at this rate, but he had no idea what to do. Every conversation he had with Sherlock now was overly-tense, like they were holding back everythign they really wanted to say. It was a superficial relationship, and John despised it. To make matters worse, the only times they weren't being excessively polite was spent bickering. John felt like he'd just played five sets in the championship round at Wimbledon after any interaction with Sherlock. It was so tiring.

After nearly a month of awkward mornings and silent dinners, of dancing around each other and pretending that everything was okay between them, John decided that he had had enough. He figured that if they couldn't work things out by themselves, maybe they could enlist the help of a professional. As much as John had hated therapy, he was willing to tough through anything to fix his marriage with Sherlock. He only wondered if Sherlock felt the same.

After about a week of deliberation John decided to bring it up over dinner. He'd made an Italian spread, knowing that eating Italian food always put Sherlock in a good mood. He had let it slip once that Italian food made him think if their first dinner together, and ever since then John had used it as a means to soften Sherlock before delivering any unfavourable news. He made spaghetti when he wanted to go to a medical convention in Sheffield, lasagna when he was invited to Ollie's birthday party, and now he had made some strange tortellini dish he found online.

The minute Sherlock walked into the kitchen and saw the plate John was making for him he scowled.

"What is it?"

"What do you mean?" John asked, though he knew he was being purposefully obtuse. Sherlock's face scrunched up and his glare intensified.

"Don't be an idiot John. You and I both know you only make Italian food when you have bad news."

"I don't really think going to a birthday party-"

"Just tell me what it is you have to say." Sherlock snapped. John sighed and tried not to let his husband's acidic tone bother him. Sherlock had been growing incredibly short-tempered the past few weeks, and now he treated John like he treated almost every other human: like he thought John was an idiot who wasn't worth his time. It seemed even the Italian food was failing to alleviate Sherlock's irritation.

"Alright," he said, squaring his shoulders. "I'll just come out and say it. I think we should go to marriage counselling."

There was a brief flicker of something that passed over Sherlock's face, but it disappeared so quickly John didn't have time to discern what emotion it was.

"That's nonsense," Sherlock said, turning away. "Why would you think that?"

"Well, he have been fighting quite a lot-"

"All couples fight."

"Not this much, and never over such silly little things like where to eat for dinner or who's going to make the bed, or..."

"Okay, okay, I get it," Sherlock said as he waved his hands in the air. "We fight a lot now. That means nothing." John sighed and leaned against the counter, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Sherlock, it's not just the fighting," John said with a resigned sigh. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared down at the floor. "I can't... I can't even remember the last time you told me you loved me." John didn't dare look up at Sherlock, for fear of whatever expression he might have seen on his face. He heard the sharp intake of breath from Sherlock and he braced himself for what would come next.

"You never give me a chance to!" Sherlock shouted, almost sounding like an upset child. "I can barely get a word out about anything without you jumping down my throat and chastising me!"

"Well maybe if you-"

"Stop trying to make this my fault!"

"I'm not!' John shouted back, finally looking up into Sherlock's eyes. His breathing was ragged and his pulse was elevated, and if the look on Sherlock's face was any indication he was in the same state. He shut his eyes and sucked in a breath, running a hand through his hair and trying to calm himself down.

"Look, I know I haven't been the best husband either, which is why I believe this could be good for us."

"I like to keep private things private, and I assumed you did too." Sherlock reached up with his own hand to run his fingers through his hair and sighed. "I fail to see how bringing someone else into this situation will help anything."

"Well we haven't really been doing that great a job of fixing anything by ourselves, have we?" Sherlock kept his mouth shut and instead chose to glare at John in response to his question. John fought to maintain eye contact but he found that he couldn't when Sherlock was looking at him like this. Any traces of love that might have lingered in his terse expression were nowhere to be found, and suddenly John felt his will to fight slipping away. Perhaps Sherlock no longer wanted this. What would John do then?

"I just ..." he sighed and shook his head. "I don't know what else to do. I want this to work." John looks back up at Sherlock and tried to keep his face as impassive as he can. "Don't you think this marriage needs saving?"

Sherlock's face went blank. And not just blank. It was the blank sort of look he got when he was hiding something. John knew this face all too well, and seeing it now made his heart drop below his stomach. He was afraid of what Sherlock was hiding. He knew all he had to do was push a little further and Sherlock would reveal whatever feeling or emotion it was he was trying to keep hidden. John debated for a moment whether he really wanted to find out.

"Don't you think this marriage is worth saving?" Sherlock's eyes widened, and the mask he was wearing did more than just slip. It fell completely off, and John saw everything. He saw guilt, he saw shame, he saw surprise. He looked as if he had been caught, and John's heart sank even further.

"You don't... do you?" Sherlock's jaw dropped, and it was all the confirmation John needed. His ears burned and his stomach twisted, and he backed away from Sherlock, his facial expression akin to one of horror. "I-"

"John."

"No, save it. It's fine, I get it now."

Everything was finally making sense. Their anniversary, the petty fights, all those insinuations that John didn't trust him. Sherlock wanted out, but he wasn't man enough to simply say it. So he'd planned an overly-complicated anniversary present that he knew would go wrong, just so he could blame John with ruining the day. It was the perfect gateway to a slew of arguments, all seemingly stemming from that one incident, ultimately leading up to their separation. Sherlock gets to get out of the marriage he no longer wants, without feeling like the bad guy because John certainly had had his hand in their downfall as well. It was exactly something Sherlock would do.

"I'll have you know I happen to be a fantastic actor."

John thought back to when he had heard Sherlock utter these words, after his extended stay in Greece shortly after their wedding. It was hard to believe that was over a year ago. It was funny how much some things could change, yet some things remain exactly the same. Sherlock was an amazing actor. He'd played the part of scorned lover perfectly, It was a performance worthy of an Oscar, or a BAFTA.

"I'm just ... I've got to-"

"John."

John ignored Sherlock and grabbed his jacket, hastily pulling it on as he raced down the stairs. He felt as if his entire world were crashing down around him and he knew that if he stayed in that flat for one minute longer, he would surely lose it and do something he would later come to regret.

He landed wrong at the bottom of the stairs and a fierce pain shot up his right leg, but he continued anyway, ignoring Sherlock's shouts behind him.

"John, wait!" There was a hand on his arm, and he shrugged it off as he opened the door. He took a step outside and heard Sherlock's voice again, and a hand was once again on his person, grasping his shoulder so hard it almost hurt. "John, please."

"Let me go, Sherlock." John turned to face Sherlock, forcing himself to meet Sherlock's eyes. They were wide and red-rimmed, and John couldn't bear to look any longer. He knew why Sherlock was upset: he'd been found out. John had seen right through his act, and he couldn't bear the thought of having been bested. Just looking at Sherlock now made John's stomach churn and his blood boil.

"How long?" he asked in a voice shaking with anger.

"What?"

"How long have you felt this way?"

"I..." Sherlock trailed off and simply stared at John, his eyes narrowing before he looked away with a sigh. His silence felt like the final nail being hammered into the coffin in which their relationship rested. John closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. When his eyes opened he saw Sherlock still standing in front of him, wringing his hands together and chewing on his bottom lip. "Don't go," he said quietly, his eyes locking with John's. Blue eyes held grey for several moments and both men nearly drowned in all the words being left unspoken, all the words that needed to be said or heard. For a moment John almost believed that Sherlock wanted him to say. He almost believed Sherlock still loved him. Then he remembered how great an actor he was and frowned. He refused to buy into Sherlock's lie this time.

"I don't think I can," he said, shaking his head.

"John, I-"

"Don't." Sherlock's face froze, and seconds later he was gone, and John was left standing on the pavement, staring at a closed door. He sighed, feeling all of whatever happiness that might have been left in him leave his body with the air he breathed out. He took a step backwards and looked up at the figure standing by the window.

Sherlock had one hand pressed against the glass, and was holding a square object in the other. John couldn't see his face, so he didn't know that Sherlock's eyes were brimming with tears as he watched his lover standing on the pavement staring up at the flat he would soon stop calling home. He also didn't see the way Sherlock's eyes widened when he noticed the slight hitch in John's step when he began to walk away.