AN:So with Sherlock coming back next year my friend gave me this prompt - 'Sherlock comes back to London but John has already moved out to live with Mary Morstan. First try at this, so feedback would be welcome :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but i wld really really like to.

"What do you mean he's gone?!"

221b Baker Street was a war-zone. Chairs were upturned, books splayed out on the floor, some torn, and various items, after being thrown around, lay in a broken and crumpled mess all over the room. Glass lay shattered among the white sea of paper that covered the majority of the floor, glistening in the afternoon light. Occasionally the crumpled white sheets fluttered up feebly as the agitated figure strode past them, a black hurricane of rage and destruction that paced around the confines of the walls. Had the other occupant of the room been anyone else, they would have been scared of Sherlock right now, or at least worried. But as it was the one bearing witness to the destructive display was the Iceman, and such fits of temper, rare and terrible though they were, had never elicited any reaction from him. This was a fact that would never change, and so it was that Mycroft, sitting calmly on a sofa in the eye of the storm, simply sipped his tea and watched his little brother tear what was once his home into shreds.

"Gone, Sherlock." Mycroft repeated, finally deigning to reply. "As in he has a life now, and he's not coming back." And although he would never admit it, it hurt him to deliver the news to Sherlock.

"But he can't -'

"He waited two years for you Sherlock. Two years for what he believed to be a dead man. It was much more than what I would have expected, or what you should have expected. He has a life of his own now, his partner is... Mary Morstan, I believe.' Sherlock jerked back as if he had been struck.

"But I am John's partner, he has no right to -"

"He has every right to, Sherlock. You were his partner, you gave that up when you went on the quest to hunt down Moriarty's web, when you jumped of St Barts, when you forced him to watch his best friend commit suicide."

Mycroft sighed.

"You gave that up when you said goodbye." His tone was almost apologetic, because he hated doing this to Sherlock, and he didn't approve of Miss Morstan - not that there was anything wrong with her, of course, but simply because it mean that John left Sherlock. But Mycroft couldn't fault him. Because John did wait, hopeless and hopeful and utterly foolish and sentimental, and when Mary came into his life and patched up what she could of the broken doctor, it was no wonder that the man jumped at the chance to leave the painful past behind.

Sherlock's eyes blazed with anger, because he'd couldn't, wouldn't be hurt - after all he was a high-functioning sociopath, the freak, and nothing could possibly leave him feeling as if his heart had been torn out and turn air into liquid cement, leave him feeling abandoned aga-

"He wasn't supposed to go!" Because despite the logic and the defenses Sherlock had built up over his life he had hoped, desperately and irrationally, that when he came back to London John would be waiting for him. He'd hoped that when the spider's web had been torn down into pieces as the spider himself had once done to his life he'd be able to go back home again. And Sherlock believed in that hope, because that was what had kept him going in the darkest moments, what he had clung on to in order to pull through the pain when wounded, and fueled his determination when everything seemed lost. To find out that John had gone...

Mycroft's eyes darkened as he watched his brother's heart break into pieces in front of him while he himself looked on impassively, because he knew that there was nothing he could do. Even though he loathed to admit it, or even acknowledge it, but past experience had shown him that every time he tried to help his wayward little brother he'd hurt him instead, all his gestures only served to push him further away, even when they were meant to protect.

So Mycroft sat, and sipped his tea in silence while Sherlock's world crumbled and burnt.

.

.

.

.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king's horses and all the king's men

Couldn't put Humpty together again.

AN (again): Yes, I know that the poem is cliche, but i thought it fit...