Three times, since I met him, I've come home to find Sherlock packing. One was the ex-pat in Russian, sorry, Belarus. Two was that time he disappeared and came back with a case full of sand and bloodied clothes (don't ask, God knows I didn't). So this is three and I know better than to panic this time.

Not that I panicked the other two times, you understand. No, I'm not really the panicking type. Even if it had crossed my mind that maybe he'd be taking off, never to be seen or heard from again, that he wasn't even going to tell me and that he would never have explained his reasons or anything like that, I wouldn't have panicked, exactly. I'm a calm, sensible person. I dealt with it in a calm, sensible fashion.

He becomes aware of me lingering in the doorway and flinches, "Don't stab me."

"I've told you before, that was a misunderstanding. I thought you were a burglar."

"A burglar called Sherlock you were most adamant shouldn't leave."

"...Until the police got here. You never let me finish."

"I was defending myself."

There's no point in continuing this argument. He's exaggerating. I feel like I should tell you that, straight out, he is wildly exaggerating all details of the aforementioned event. If I keep letting him, he'll keep embellishing, so I let it lie. He goes on, meanwhile, packing.

You know, for one who has a sock index, it's very much a matter of opening the case and throwing things into it. If I didn't know better, I'd say he didn't care. But we're not on a case, so there's no way he's that excited about anything right now.

"Where are you off to, then?" I try eventually. He looks like he might answer me, except that the phone rings. It's lying on the bed next to him, but he lifts it and throws it to me. "Not your secretary, Sherlock."

"You should answer it."

"Any particular reason or are you just above spoken communication now?"

"It's for you. Hurry up or they'll start thinking you're a loon, you'll put them off." So many questions come out of that I don't know where to start. While I flounder, without even looking, he snaps his fingers, "Quickly, John."

I answer. It's not that I just do as he tells me, it's just he has this way of sounding like he's talking sense. And I trust, I honestly do, that somewhere in his own head, this is all perfectly logical.

"Hello?"

"Hi, um, I was just calling to enquire about the room?"

Everything goes quiet, muffled, far away. I choke, but I manage to say, "I think you've got the wrong number." Then hang up.

"He was perfect," Sherlock balks, as if I've offended him. "I wrote that card so that only the perfect candidate would ever call."

"You put up a card."

"It's cheaper than an ad in the paper."

"About a room for rent, though." He stops. Looks me over as though trying to understand my reaction. And he's ashamed of himself, but frankly, it serves him right. I'm not sorry for him. "Sherlock?"

"I've... I've found it, John."

"I beg your pardon."

"The answer, I mean. And if you care at all, you won't keep me from pursuing it."

I still don't quite... Alright, no, I just don't understand, full stop, not a bit of it, no idea, sorry. It seems awfully serious, though. I'm almost loath to ask, "The answer to what?"

Sherlock throws up his arms, wheels away from the case towards the window, paces up and down like a man driven almost to madness. Groaning, the words bursting through his teeth, "The boredom, John. It can all be over. There's a way of life that admits no boredom, no, not a second of it, not one single moment can ever be dull, and my chance is here. It's mine for the taking, and I intend to grab it with both hands. This must be what it is, why it is. Why I've always been so bloody bored, all my life. This is it. I was meant for it."

This is probably the most emotional investment I've ever witnessed from him. I'm not quite sure what to say, so I wait. The case, open and overflowing on the bed, is a handy reminder that he's leaving and I'm angry. In the face of his glittering, child's excitement, I might have wavered slightly, but I'm angry. I'm really, really bloody angry.

I only get angrier when, by way of explanation, he fishes a colourful flyer from beneath the case and hands it to me. It's all red and yellow, it's got tape on the corners, and it's crumpled where he tore it down from wherever it was taped. It's been handled and crushed, all very recent, and smoothed out again by loving, tender hands.

It is, dear and constant reader, a flyer for a circus which is currently passing through.

I know what I think he's saying, what I believe his explanation may be? But if it turns out to be what I'm thinking then I'm going to go and get that knife and this time I will stab him and there will be no remorse and his feeble idea of self-defence will be laughable in the face of my wrath because, "Sherlock, are you saying you're running away with the circus?"

He nods. Fast and earnest, like a born-again Christian on the doorstep.

Someday I'll look back on this and laugh. Someday.

I force my hands to flatten out from fists and join them as though praying. Which in a way, I am, but the hand of the divine is not likely to reach down and help me, not when I'm in so much of a rage. "Sherlock, tell me what it is about the circus that makes you think it's so perfect for you."

"It's absolutely logical," he says, and he's thought about this, you can tell, "It's a combination of the basics of the milieu, the balance between the freakish and the talented, and the constant travel."

"And the company of the barely literate... stage hands or whatever-"

"Rousties."

"Beg pardon?"

"Rousties. Roustabouts. That's what they're called. And don't go on, because I've decided that doesn't annoy me. They must all have some wonderful stories to tell."

"All the same stories. Night after night."

"It's really rather cruel of you, John, trying to take this from me..."

"It must be difficult for them, actually. Same routine, into town, get everything out of the lorries, set it all up, take it all down again, next town, day in, day out..."

"I know what you're doing, you know."

"Stench of the animals, the baying, useless crowds staring every night, there for a cheap laugh, a barely there thrill... "

"I'm flattered, John, honestly I am, but it won't work."

"And I can only guess at how you intend to join in, Sherlock, and I have to say, I don't think you've thought this through. Command performances? Members of the slavering, braindead audience? Bit beneath you, isn't it?" He slams the case shut, shoots a look at me so vile I'm surprised I don't instantly turn to stone. It's a talent he shares with Mycroft. I could tell him so, but I'd only make him more determined to walk out. He slides past me in the doorway. I let him go. I don't turn around. I let him get as far as the stairs before I call after, "And everybody thinking it's just a trick. Just a cold read, a parlour game. Thinking you're just a basic magician like the rest..."

His footsteps stop. Then, very softly, not wanting me to hear, retreat. Coming slowly back into the flat. I feel my heart rate start to slow down again.

I turn my head, though I don't dare look at him directly.

"You know, most people get over running away with the circus at about... eight, nine?"

He reaches past me to put the case back in the bedroom, "Really?"

"Yeah. What were you doing at eight or nine? Soil sample analyses."

"Mycroft told you?"

"Never mind."