So this is how the world ends, he thought peering heartbrokenly through the tiny window carefully not allowing himself to move or draw attention to himself.
It had been two months since Sherlock's death and John was only just beginning to sift through some of his things, if only to return the stuff that Sherlock had stolen from Scotland Yard and the hospital.
He had separated the purloined goods into two piles. One pile was for Lestrade. It mostly contained old evidence and a rather amusing pile of twenty seven stolen police badges. Some people collect stamps; Sherlock, apparently, collected stolen police badges. The second, significantly larger, pile was mostly equipment stolen from Molly's lab. As a doctor John knew exactly how expensive that stuff could be and was resolved to return it to Molly as soon as possible. The only problem with that plan was that John could not bring himself to return to St. Bart's. Too many memories of his best friend jumping to his death.
But John was nothing if not resourceful and as such had thought up a way around this little dilemma. He would simply bundle it all up and lug it off to Molly's flat. The sooner the better; he wanted to get this over with.
That was how John had found himself on the other side of London carrying a medium sized box full of hospital equipment and carefully stepping up the steps to Molly's front door. He had been just about to knock when a small movement in the window had caught his eye. All it took was a single glance through a rather dirty window to break his heart into pieces.
Sitting on the sofa in the living room was Molly sleeping entangled comfortably in the arms of an equally sleeping Sherlock Holmes.
The world stopped.
Breath Watson, he told himself, breath.
This was how the world ends.
As quietly as he could John backed away from the house. Making his way back to the main street so he could summon a taxi John refused to think upon what he had seen.
Avoiding CCTV cameras was second nature by now, he had been avoiding them for two months now. It seemed as if every time he accidently passed one he would be kidnapped by a very sympathetic Mycroft. John had hated it. Now he knew that the patronizing git had just been mocking the poor ignorant army doctor.
Okay, so maybe he was just a little bit bitter.
But, John thought while opening the door to 221 Baker Street, didn't he have the right to be? Here he was mourning the death of his best friend only to find out that said "friend" is not dead at all but happily shacking up with Molly Hooper.
Which meant that not only had John been betrayed by Mycroft, which admittedly was not all that surprising, but also by Molly whom he had also come to consider as a friend. And Sherlock. Sherlock who obviously didn't care about John at all. Sherlock who didn't care that John had so obviously fallen apart when he had died. Sherlock who… who had probably deduced that John had fallen in love with him, and been so repulsed by the idea he had faked his own death to escape it.
Sherlock must have figured it out and run. Right into the loving arms of the girl that had been obsessed with him for years.
His stomach heaved. Dropping the box of lab equipment onto the floor, uncaring that he could hear the distinct sound of glass breaking, John stumbled over to his chair and doubled over in pain. How could this happen? How could John know what the truth really was? How could John have so foolishly trusted so many people that seemed quite happy to see him in pain?
He had talked to Molly just the day before! He had cried in front of her and talked about how much he missed Sherlock. And she had been sweet and sympathetic. Of course she had been.
Who else knew? How many of John's friends had been in on this. How many people that John had trusted so stupidly, so blindly had been hiding this from him the whole time? And why had they done it. Suddenly feeling ridiculously paranoid he glanced wildly around the room. He knew that Mycroft had bugged the flat before, where they still there was John being watched right now as he broke down in his sitting room? He shuddered at the thought.
John couldn't stop the tears that came to his eyes. He didn't even try to stop the painful gasping sobs that tore their way from his throat.
This was how the world ends. John's world. Not, as he had always secretly believed, on the wrong end of a gun, or in a hospital bed from some strange incurable illness picked up from a patient, but at the cold uncaring hands of the sociopath John had so foolishly allowed himself to love. This was how John's world ended, alone, betrayed and heartbroken.
It didn't matter, he decided, not at all. It didn't matter when every time he closed his eyes he saw the man he was so desperately in love with snuggled up in Molly's arms. It didn't matter when he clearly had no true friends. It didn't matter when he couldn't stay here for one more day knowing now what he did. Not here in Baker Street, or London. In fact, he decided, maybe he should ditch England entirely. He wouldn't put it past Mycroft to track him down if he stayed. He absolutely couldn't stay.
But how does one hide from the British Government while still being able to live a proper life? John wasn't sure but he knew that he had to try. If Sherlock could disappear then so could John. He left his cell phone sitting on the coffee table; he wouldn't need it where he was going and it would seem that he had nobody to stay in touch with anyway.
With that decided John grabbed his wallet, his keys and his browning and walked resolutely out the door for what he knew would be the last time.