Lonely, loved, betrayed.

Fear over love.

Sherlock walked in to find John still sleeping. Oh, how beautiful he looked. Could men look beautiful? It didn't matter, because John sure as hell did. How he loved this boy. How he loved this boy more than life itself, and that bothered the hell out of him. No, not bothered. Scared. Sherlock Holmes was scared. Oh, all the emotions. New emotions that he couldn't remember feeling, emotions he didn't want to feel. He couldn't focus on anything. Well, anything that didn't involve John. This boy was making him feel. Making him turn week, as Mycroft would be saying.

"Sherlock?" Oh, how his heart melted every time that boy said his name.

"Yes John?"

"What's bothering you?"

"Nothing you need to worry about, love."

"If it's bothering the boy I love then-" and there's that funny little word. Love. 

"You- you love me?" his heart was racing so fast, he was surprised John hadn't noticed. It was like someone released a tornado in his heart. It felt beautiful but it hurt like hell. Seeing Johns face however, was worse. It was like this mixture of hope and fear and sadness all at the same time and it was all so confusing to Sherlock. 

"I- I mean, y-yeah. I-is that, um-"

"John, before you say another word, I need to say something. I need you to understand something. I am not an easy person to be around. I've got more enemies than I'll admit, and I've got a lot of people out there that want nothing more than to hurt me. But, I'm not an easy person to hurt. In order to hurt me-"

"They hurt the people you love." he nodded his head, as if he understood everything that Sherlock was trying to say. 

"Yes, exactly. So I need you to understand why I'm about to do what I'm about to do." 

"Sherlock, I don't like that look on your face. Please, before you say anything, think-"

"I HAVE THOUGHT! I HAVE DONE NOTHING BUT THINK AND THINK ABOUT WHO DID THIS TO YOU AND WHY! IT ALL LEAD BACK TO ME!" He could feel the hot tears in his eyes. "Shit." 

"What are you- what are you saying?" 

"I'm saying that I can't love you! We can't happen! I will only hurt you!" It was like he was breaking. It was like the whole world was crashing down on him. Where were these words coming from? Oh god, what was he doing to John? John. His eyes told Sherlock everything. The pain, the hurt, the betrayal. Every emotion that a human could feel, John was feeling at that moment. "John, say something!" 

"Get out.." he whispered.

"What?"

"Get. Out." Sherlock nodded his head and slowly left. He left John. His John. The only person that has loved him back. The only person in the world he would die for. Because he felt emotions. Once he got outside, he let himself cry. He let the tears fall. He ran into he forest and screamed. He screamed until he couldn't scream anymore. He cried more than he did when he realized Mycroft put Redbeard down. He broke. Something in him snapped. Then, he was quiet. He was quiet and calm. "How funny, these emotions. They are so strong, yet can be easily broken," 

He sat there until the sun came up. He sat there as it rained. This rain was different than any other rain. This rain seemed to be for him. At least, that's how it was until he heard kids yelling. "Damn it, what are they blubbering about now?!" He ran after the voices, soon discovering that it was Greg, Anderson and Molly. What were they saying? This stupid rain was too loud for him. As he got closer, and the voices became clearer, he wished the rain would get louder so he wouldn't hear what they were saying. "John?! John, where are you?!" the repeated over and over. 

"John? Is he not in bed?" Sherlock asked Molly. 

"N-no but h-he left t-this for you." She shivered in the cold rain as she pulled something out of her jacket. An envelope? Why would she be handing him an envelope when John was missing? "It's from J-John. He left i-it for you!" he quickly grabbed it, not wanting a single word to be ruined by the water, and ran into the first cabin he saw. Once he was sure no one was in the cabin, he opened it. 

My dearest Sherlock,

I know you were just trying to help. I know that it all makes sense in your brilliant mind. Which is why I'm sure it won't take you long to figure out what this is, or why I've done it. There's something you don't know about me. This camp, well, it was my last resort. This camp was a way for me to have something to live for. And boy, did I find it. I found more than I could ever have hoped to find. 

What we had, it was so perfect. More perfect than anything I could ever have hoped for. It was exciting and thrilling and one hell of a challenge. You were everything I could have ever wanted, everything and more. You made me want to be alive and in love. 

Please, make me a promise. Don't lose sight of anything you want. You want to become a consulting detective? You can do it. You want to solve murders? You can do it. And you should.Don't let this stop you. Don't let me get in your way.

So, this is it. I've decided that I didn't want to replace our memories with sour ones. With pain and agony. I have decided that I would rather die. And so I am. I have gone somewhere far away, please don't come looking for me. You owe me that, don't you think?

I love you. 

"What? No, no what is happening? What did I miss? There's something that I missed about him. He is not suicidal. Right? What am I missing. What is it?" he thought back to all the private times he had with John. He thought back to all the times he'd seen his body bare. There weren't a lot. But he knew there was something he'd missed in those lust filled moments. Something faint. Something.. old? Yes! Old! What was it? Marks? No, not quite. Scars. 

Shit. John was a cutter. John had suicidal thoughts. John was leaving him, and it was all his fault. 

JOHNS P.O.V. 

"I want to die. I don't want to feel this pain anymore." was all poor John could think as he wrote his letter to Sherlock. When he put it in the envelope, he got up and dressed, wincing as he pulled up his trousers. Everything still ached. Everything still hurt. So he ran to his cabin, knowing that everyone was eating dinner at the mess hall. He ran into his room and emptied his bag, finding his problem solver. His blade. 

The next thing he knew, he was far away form the camp. He didn't remember running, or when the sun came up, or even when it started to rain. All he knew was that he wanted to die here, in a field full of wild flowers and weeping willows. It was beautiful. So beautiful, he almost wished he could stay. Almost. 

He sat under the weeping willow and pulled out his blade. He pressed it against his wrist and gasped as it left dark red lines. There was no pain. There was no fear or regret. But. more importantly, there was no love. So he kept cutting. He kept pressing harder with each new cut, and watched as more and more blood feel down his arm. He knew that it would be easier and more effective to cut up and down, not side to side, but he wanted this to last. He wanted to watch every bead of blood fall from his wounds.

And then there was nothing. Not even darkness. 

And then there was Sherlock. Wait, what? Sherlock?

"John! John, you fool! What the hell! Wake up, you bloody idiot!"

"Oi! Don't call him that! You're that one that broke him!" a girl yelled. Who was it? 

"John! Please! Wake up! For me?" of curse he'd try to take this last attempt at bliss from him. "John? No, don't leave me. I- I love you!" 

"I knew it! I knew you were gay-" who was this bitch? 

"Sally! Shut the hell up and leave! Go get help!" Sally. Of course.

"John, I'm sorry. I- I didn't know that you-" oh god, he was crying. 

"Sh-Sherlock." John tried to say, though he didn't think Sherlock would hear him over these hysteric sobs. He opened his eyes and say him. His tall, beautiful boy, who meant the world to him. Who he loved, and who loved him back. The boy who broke his heart.

Then, everything faded.