"smoke never rises without fire" ~sequel to BURN~

Sherlock Holmes has sworn to secrecy and to be unattached . He lets his mind wander into his palace, where he wasn't delusional against reality. Sherlock solves the crimes. Finds the poison. He is cold, hard. Sherlock Holmes is not supposed to care for anyone. Sherlock Holmes does not fall in love. Sherlock Holmes does not fall. Especially not for other people. But in one way, that was what made it worse.

John's never seen a kid like him. He has this beautiful, crazy grace - withheld behind a smug smile and wisecracks that make John frustrated in so many different kinds of ways. And his eyes; crystal clear, decisive, cleaning through the unimportant things to find the valuables in life. He may or may not have a thing for smoking and James Bond, his favorite ice cream is mint with a chocolate swirl, and he is absolutely addicted to Pop Rocks and toffee. He enjoys pretty boys and warehouses, where he can hoard and think and be alone. Also, bumper cars, and John Watson. But Sherlock Holmes's thing, his niche, his calling in life... is to steal. Books. Wallets. Phones. Cars. Everything you've ever wanted, he's had. Everything you've ever wished for, he's stolen. Everything you are, everything you told yourself that you weren't, he owns, and he plays you like an out-of-tune violin. Does that mean that John's going to let him steal his heart? Not a shot in hell.

[Sherlock x Female OC] The thing is, there is an empty, gaping hole at the base of John's throat where his overwhelming guilt and periodic bouts of torturous grief used to be. It would be so easy to... to be angry and punch a hole through the wall, through the foam of his pillow -- drive his fist through Sherlock's heart. But he remembers; in the most tragic and inopportune of fashion, remembers how angry he had been when Sherlock had jumped, how furious he had been at his funeral, and how it hadn't stopped him from breaking down at his grave nonetheless. The thing about his anger is this: it does nothing but leave him behind in the end, a bundle of nerves and frailty in his bones and an unsteady sway to his gait. It does nothing at all, but reduce marginally the constant, suffocating oppressiveness of his days bleeding into one another with a burst of adrenaline. The thing about his anger is this: it doesn't give him back Sherlock. So he gets a new flatmate- a woman named Holland. They were great friends at school and in fear he would be lonely again after Sherlock died he started to meet up with her, and soon, she moved in with him. They're just friends, though. No one could have a bond with John like Sherlock did. Sherlock was his best friend. But then Sherlock returns, and John is more furious than ever at him. Also, Sherlock and Holland seem to bond quite well, which is something Sherlock finds too complicated to explain itself.