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Stalking through the dark London streets, a wide scowl stretched across his face, Sherlock fumed. He hadn't planned the discussion to turn so... hostile. It had been going so well, before she showed up- all long legs and disgustingly cheap perfume, more alcohol than fragrance, ruining the homey aroma of baked bread and spices that saturated the restaurant. Her short skirt seemed to be a beacon for John's gaze. Really, could he not see the way her eyes darted around the room? She was checking on companions approaching similar men: late thirties, not alone, with kind faces and worn clothes. They were aiming for a free meal or drink, honing in on the men least likely to refuse them. Surely John should have been glad to know.

Instead, he had berated Sherlock for a good ten minutes in the alley.

"Sherlock, she was harmless! All she wanted was a drink, surely last night didn't change things enough that I'm not allowed to be kind to strangers! That was absolutely uncalled for, and I don't believe you're being truthful here."

"John, her and her friends were conning men just like you out of other gifts in there. They kept shooting each other subtle signals; all four of them would have made their way by before we left, each with more pathetic a story and shorter skirt, fleecing you for as much as they could. I was saving you the strain on your funds. I thought you'd be grateful."

John smirked, crossing his arms across his chest as he appraised the detective.

"You were jealous."

"I most certainly was not."

"You were! The great Sherlock Holmes, threatened by college girls. That's rich."

"John, I was not-"

"Look, Sherlock."

John drew close, standing as tall as he could, his blue eyes locked on Sherlock's. One strong finger dug into his chest as the doctor spoke.

"I care about you, more than I should. You're my whole world now, you and the clinic. I work, I come home, you need me, I work more. Hell, Sherlock, I love you. But you? You do not own me. Until you can tell me what exactly it is I mean to you, we're not an item, we're not a couple, we're flatmates and friends. I'm not going to shag you, I'm not going to kiss you, I won't so much as touch you until you can look me in the eyes and give me an answer. I thought that after last night, after tonight, maybe you were ready. You're not. Who knows if you ever will be? Not me. But I can't take this. I can't take the rude deductions, the venomous sarcasm, the daggers in your eyes, when you can't even be bothered to say so much as "yes" to me. Do you understand, Sherlock?"

John smelled of curry and naan bread, of crystal water and his cheap deodorant, of desperation and boiling anger and profound sadness, and over every other scent the cheap perfume lingered, teasing Sherlock. I had him, I had him, he thought of me, bent over the counter, giggling, while you watched-

Sherlock gulped and nodded, refusing to look away. John backed down and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Right, then. I'll hail us a cab."

The moment he reached the street Sherlock turned, desperate to get away. He couldn't be near John, not now, not when he smelled of that insufferable woman. He had been so close, so very near to saying it.

"So what do you think, Sherlock? About... us. This. Whatever it is we're doing. I need to know, especially if you plan on, uh, continuing."

_ "John, I..."_

_ _And there she came, sliding up to their table with a blush, her clothes tight and her smile radiant. John couldn't see it, though. He couldn't smell the last man she'd conned (maybe half an hour before, in an alley, on her knees), the small track marks on her inner arm (very good at hiding them; makeup, perhaps?), the signals she shot with her facial expressions. John only saw the good; Sherlock only saw the bad. It was one of the many fundamental differences between them.

John had texted him six times in the three hours since his impromptu departure. He seemed worried. Good, let him worry. Tonight he wanted to lose himself in London, to the new sights and scents awaiting his analysis. There was a reason he loved living in the heart of the city- nothing remained the same. Every night brought new visitors, new animals, new foods, new music, new clubs. It was an overwhelming experience, and one that would serve well to clear his head.

It even began to work, until Sherlock caught the traces of something new on the tails of the wind. It was dark, a musky scent laced with warm citrus and smoky fire, unlike anything his delicate senses had ever encountered. He began to increase his pace, chasing the fading fragrance through the twisting streets and empty alleys. Finally the aroma grew stronger, giving him something tangible to follow, and he broke into a full run.

Finally he came to a halt at the entrance to a dimly lit alley. Crouched beneath an overhead lamp was a young man, mid twenties, spinning dice on a flat piece of cardboard. As Sherlock drew closer the scent grew stronger- yes, it was coming from the man. He was silent as he moved, breathing softly through his nostrils, careful not to alert the other of his presence.

The man was facing away from the street, completely oblivious to the evening traffic as he practiced his craft. Sherlock could read his life story even from a distance- poor, but not homeless, from an abusive family with a history of alcoholism. He himself neither drank nor did drugs, but he did have an addiction: chance. He loved to play against it, to wield it as a weapon. It gave him a rush. Here, as he played with his plastic dice, his pockets were loaded with two hundred to three hundred pounds, most of which he'd spend on food and bills before the week was out. He lived day to day, but it excited him in a way nothing else ever could.

Sherlock could sympathize.

With steady hands Sherlock removed his scarf and pulled it taught between his fists. He crouched, breathing in the exotic fragrance of the man, letting it record itself in his mind. His arms rose. The world stopped as he brought the soft cloth to the man's windpipe and began to twist, leaning in close and pressing his nose against the hot skin of his neck. Beneath him the man thrashed and clawed at his neck, fighting to breathe, but Sherlock would not allow him. His movements slowed and finally stilled as his body suffocated. Sherlock removed his scarf and tore the man's shirt open, hovering above his cooling skin. He inhaled deeply, careful to keep his hands and hair clear of the body. Just like with John the night before, the intoxicating scent emanating from his flesh began to fade, evaporating into memory even as Sherlock fought to trap it. When it had finally disappeared he stood and, with one final disdainful look at the body, he left.

As soon as he was far enough away from the alley to feel safe he checked his phone.

You wanna tell my why you pulled a disappearing act?

-JW

_ _If you're going to be out late, will you at least bring back some milk?

-JW

_ _Sherlock, I'm sorry. Please, come home.

-JW

_ _I miss you.

-JW

Sherlock, where are you?

-JW

Just... be safe, okay? Christ, be safe.

-JW_ _

Sherlock smiled as he ran his thumb over the screen. He had a vague idea of the experiments he'd need to do in order to find the missing key now, and that was more than he'd had this morning. Row and all, it'd been a rather pleasant day. John was waiting for him, worried sick from the sound of it, and Sherlock knew exactly what they both needed.

Home in 15. Tonight is my turn.

-SH