Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock Holmes or Watson or Mrs. Hudson or pretty much anything in this fic except the interpretation of course.

A/N: This is my first Sherlock Holmes fic so please let me know what you think about it. Enjoy.

Moving On

Many people had often told him how curious they were to understand the mind of the great Sherlock Holmes but he was sure that if they really knew what it was like in his head, the sanest of them would probably kill themselves.

Noticing every little detail that your eye passes over, every small smile, every 'meaningless' glance, every hidden action amplified a thousand-fold is…well, in short, it's maddening. Hard as it may be to believe, his mind had a low tolerance for mass amounts of information, it was why he avoided public places; too much to see, too much to hear. The observations and deductions would build up uncontrollably and his mind would be unable to process any of it as it tried to process all of it at once.

There were three possible fail-safe cures for him when he reached this point; only three that were able to calm his mind and help him to sort out the wheat from the chaff, so to speak.

Boxing was the first of these and was what Holmes had attempted three nights ago, planning his opponents' downfall and thinking through how to avoid getting hit was enough to sort out stray thoughts most of the time or he would get knocked about a bit which would shake him to his senses. However, after three fights, the last of which he'd nearly got beaten to a bloody pulp, he was no better and could not find the drive to continue on in this manner.

His hand absent-mindedly reached up to his right eye which was rather sore and swollen although less so than it had been the night before, while his mind went back to the well-placed and stupidly unanticipated left jab from his six foot opponent in the last fight. In truth that had been sloppy, even for him.

Playing the violin clutched in his other hand at this moment was another way to clear the noise, although playing is possibly the incorrect term. Not often did he actually squeeze out a whole tune, usually a series of notes that may be the beginning of a tune or merely a few well-placed notes. Either way it didn't matter what noise it made so long as it was made by his hands. It cleared his mind as he could hear it as he plucked, feel it as his fingers made the notes and smell the particular varnish which he kept in a small drawer by the fireplace in Watson's room. Holding the violin, playing it, focusing on its existence helped ground Holmes when he felt lost within his own thoughts. Idly his fingers strummed gently across the strings creating hardly any noise at all. He didn't have the heart to play right now.

That left him with self-isolation, particularly within his own room. Everything within those four walls was controlled by him and there was nothing to take him by surprise; there was nothing to learn, unless he performed an experiment of course but even that was well within his control. That room and its contents were reliable, never-changing, perfectly good for hiding from the world in; which is why he hated it so much when Mrs. Hudson got it in her head to 'tidy things up a bit' thus messing up his familiarity and making it much like every other room in the Empire. It was the engagement of this cure just under twenty-four hours ago that had probably twigged Watson as to Holmes' real feelings on the matter.

No doubt that when morning came he would be visited by the good doctor who would advise him to get out the room for a while, or possibly have a go for his making a fuss. Either way he wasn't going to be getting a lie-in.

The matter at hand was exactly what kept Sherlock Holmes stood by his window that overlooked Baker Street. It was dark as anything outside, as it often was at two O'clock in the morning, and he could hear the steady, if somewhat muffled, sound of Watson sleeping quite soundly in the other room. By rights he oughtn't to be up right now; early hours were not meant for being awake in. There was nothing to do but his mind was too busy to settle itself in mind of sleep.

But how could he be expected to sleep now, after Watson had revealed, not two days ago, that he was planning to move out and live, instead, with a young woman whom he had met? How did his companion not expect this to keep him up at night turning over and over in his head causing turmoil and mess and question upon question upon question?

"It won't be a while yet." Watson had unsuccessfully attempted to reassure him. "You shan't be getting rid of me that easily."

Of course Holmes had shrugged it off, made it seem as though he was indifferent to the whole situation as it would seem Watson expected him as he said nothing else of it. But in truth he had no notion how he would handle losing his best friend to some…some…harpy! Alright, so he hadn't actually met her yet but how could she be anything else? Women rarely were, although Watson would probably 'remind' Holmes that simply because he had fallen in love with an international embezzler, swindler and all round 'bad egg' it didn't mean all women were that way. Naturally, Holmes would oppose this challenge pointing out, often ineffectively, how he was not in love with Irene Adler, merely intrigued by her unabated self-assurance and elusive nature; at this point Watson would merely laugh and return to his paper with an annoyingly mocking grin.

The violin was thrown roughly to the floor as he turned from the window.

It wasn't working!

None of them were working!

There were too many things in his head, a thousand voices all speaking at once, all trying to be realised at once but he couldn't make out what any of them were saying!

What were they trying to tell him?

Why didn't they just leave him alone!

He automatically raised his hands to his temple in an attempt to block them out but of course it didn't work. How could he block out what was already in his head?

There was no way to shut them up!

No way to give him some peace!

He took three long strides away from the window, stepping over the discarded violin and still clutching his temple in frustration. Then he ran a hand through his rather messy hair before leaning rather heavily on the back of a chair.

There were no other sounds, nothing to distract him from the growing gnawing feeling in his chest and the strain piercing at his eyes as he tried not to cry.

Why would Watson do that? Why would he just- just- just drop this on him?

You may think this reaction unusual but this was the way Holmes' mind worked. He made his living by his mind getting hooked on the trivial, making big realisations from the tiniest of actions and it wasn't exactly something he could turn off when he wasn't on a case. It was a part of who he was that he merely utilised to earn money in order to pay rent.

So when Watson told him the 'good news' Holmes' thoughts bypassed 'congratulations', went straight past what to do with the extra space and latched straight onto the lack of a best friend

Months away – Watson had said; but eventually that would turn into days; and then days would turn into hours and then his only friend, the only person who understood his methods and the way he thought would be gone.

He tried to get his mind to function properly and run scenarios of how he would manage with only himself for company, but it kept getting stuck and there was simply a black void where the solution ought to be. But that wasn't right. He could always figure out where things would end up; able to put two and two together and be one of the very few people in modern society to get four. He was Sherlock Holmes and coming to conclusions was what he did.

So why was he getting nothing!

SMASH!

Holmes looked down at his knuckles; they were white from where he'd been gripping the chair too tight, and it took him a minute or two to realise he'd thrown said chair at the far wall and the loud sound was from where the top half of the chair had splintered on contact.

Somebody will have heard that.

Sure enough barely a minute later the sound of Mrs. Hudson stomping up the stairs reached his ears and there was a rattle when she tried to open the door. Naturally it stayed shut as he had locked the door to prevent anyone interrupting his self-isolation and there wasn't a chance she was getting in here tonight.

There was a rather heavy knock on the door and he watched it shake on its hinges.

"Mr. Holmes!" it was quiet, almost hissed, no doubt to prevent from waking the doctor if he wasn't already. "It is half past two in the morning!"

Normally he would bite back with some spite-ridden retort, possibly calling her nanny, but he didn't have the energy tonight. Instead he just ruefully stared at the door waiting for another knock or for the sound of her retreating down the stairs. Instead he heard the sound of voices whispering outside. He must have woken Watson and he had come to sort the old lady out.

There was another knock as he heard Mrs. Hudson return from whence she came. This one was more firm, confident; typical of the doctor. It was followed by the rattle as Watson tried the door only to, of course, find it locked.

"Holmes." Came Watson's voice, mildly distorted as it came through the wood of the door. "Are you alright?"

Morosely, he took slow steps towards the door and rested his head on it.

How exactly was he supposed to respond?

How could he explain his troubles to his friend when he barely understood them himself?

"Holmes?"

He felt the whirls and knots of the wood cool against his face and breathed in the smell of the varnish that Mrs. Hudson used on all the doors. It was a particular brand sold by young Mr. Oswald down at the local market every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. His landlady favoured it as it brought out a wonderful sheen in the doors and was cost-effective, one pot lasting anything up to eight weeks.

"Sherlock."

"It's nothing." He gritted his teeth at the blatant untruth of that statement. "Merely a spot of bother getting to sleep, that's all."

There was a pause on the other side of the door. "Are you sure?"

Holmes turned his back to the door and swallowed his pride. "Positive. Just a few things on my mind." That was better. Not a lie, just not the whole truth.

There was a sigh from the other side of the door. "Well, there's no need to take it out on the furniture."

"Oh I beg to differ."

"Holmes-"

"Sometimes it can be relaxing to…"

"Holmes!"

"…release pent up aggression and better…"

"Aggression? What are you-?"

"…some inanimate object, e.g. an item of furniture…"

"I wish I hadn't said anything now."

"…than a living being such as myself or Gladstone."

"Holmes, you and I both know that you are physically incapable of causing yourself harm." Holmes rolled his eyes and mouthed along with what Watson said next, unbeknownst to the speaker. "You're too fond of yourself."

"You know, self-fondness is not something to be ashamed of."

"No. But it is something to be wary of, especially when you already have an ego the size of the planet."

A smile played across Holmes' lips and he was about 92% sure that Watson's lips were pulled back into a similar grin as they shared their small joke. It was funny because it was a joke only Watson knew him well enough to make and anyway, it was true. Almost instantly the smile was gone as his mind snapped back to how he was going to be alone in a few months time.

There was a small chuckle on the other side of the door. "Try to get some sleep, old boy."

The telltale sound of Watson, limping back to his room came from outside and Sherlock slumped against the door. Rather suddenly he felt very tired; if only Watson wouldn't argue so much, it was really quite frustrating sometimes. Then again he knew quite well that without their friendly banter life would be that little bit duller.

Carefully he picked up the chair that was splayed on the floor with its splintered back and placed it down back where it had originally been before sitting down on it. He really was tired now and his throat was quite dry.

Instinctively his hand reached out and he picked up the first liquid-containing vial it touched. He turned it sideways and read the label before opening it, which confused him as it was not something he was in the practice of doing. Either way, it was a good thing that he read the label this time as it said in his own familiar, loopy scrawl 'Hydrogen Chloride'.

Sensibly, he put the vial down on the desk again. In similar situations he hadn't checked the label and actually consumed unidentified liquids that had led to some very unpleasant experiences with days or weeks of illness and in one case a rather serious near death experience although he was fairly sure Watson had over-exaggerated somewhat in order to make Holmes read what he was drinking.

It must have worked.

He ran a hand through his hair as his brow furrowed. Now that was interesting. Watson's numerous lectures about something had actually worked and must have had some effect on his decision. Rather unusual but positively life-saving. Next thing you knew he was going to be remembering to take his revolver with him when he left the house, or ceasing his experiments on Gladstone. True, the latter was most likely more than a fair while away but the thought sent a shiver through Holmes.

The detective stifled a yawn. He really beginning to feel the onset of exhaustion. Now this was equally fascinating. It would seem he was mistaken in his earlier statement. There weren't three fail-safe cures to when his head wasn't settling down. Boxing, playing his violin and self-isolation were ones that usually worked but it would appear that there was a forth one, previously undiscovered. It would seem a good old argument with Doctor John Watson had its own way of helping things make sense.

But why? Why would debating with Watson, often at loud volumes, work where his first three constant fail-safes had…well…failed?

Watson had also changed Holmes' habit of drinking something without checking the label. How? It was simple really, so obvious that one might say it was too obvious and easily overlooked. The doctor understood the way the detective thought, the way he approached situations and how he dealt with them, how he reacted to people and just all the little 'quirks', as one young lady had once called them, that seemed to fascinate every client who ever came into contact with him.

Watson armed with this comprehension and the possibility of being the only man in the whole of London, possibly the whole of the British Empire, who didn't treat Holmes with unearned respect, was able to more than equal the detective's own intelligence and help him to see the obvious that he, as mentioned before, so often overlooked.

How curious that there was someone who understood him so well, possibly better than he understood himself. And his thoughts, although far from satiated, were quiet enough that he might be able to attempt some sleep. There would be no time for a lie-in tomorrow however as he'd immediately have to congratulate Watson on the 'happy' news.

And then he would set about stopping his friend from making the biggest mistake of his life.

After all, what are friends for?