A/N: Has not been beta-ed or Brit-picked. Though I'm still getting used to posting here, please let me know if I've messed up and I'll try to correct it.

Time Frame: Unspecified

Pairings: Possible Sherlock/John if you read between the lines, but no more so than any of the official versions

Rating: T for language and angst

Disclaimer: The BBC has not asked me to come write for them (yet), nor have I been able to prove Doyle is my long-lost grandfather (yet), therefore I own nothing but the story.

I fold the last of my clothes neatly into my case and snap it shut with a faint but firm click. That's done then. I bite my lip to keep the tears at bay.

"I never thought it would end like this."

"Really, John?"

I jump at the sound. I should have known he'd be watching, even though he'd shut himself in his room the minute I'd walked in the flat.

"I suppose you were expecting it to end in happily-ever-after?" His voice is cold, hard, mocking. It's the voice reserved for other people. People he despises. Not me. Not until now.

"No, Sherlock. I didn't expect happily-ever-after." I push past him with the cases to the kitchen. "And do you know why?"

He watches me pack my kettle and favourite cup into a waiting box. He knows what this means, but his frown turns quickly into a sneer to cover it up.

"Because we don't live in a fairy tale. Obviously."

"No, Sherlock. That's not why."

I turn to face him. Meeting his eyes isn't the hardest thing I've ever done. And I know I'll have to do even more difficult things in the next few years. But it still takes most of what I have left to do it.

"It's because there is only one kind of ending, and it is never happy."

He blinks. I have surprised him. Good. Let him dwell on that long enough for me to get out of here.

"John…"

"Stop it, Sherlock. You've asked me to go—no, demanded I go—and that's what I'm doing."

Anger flashes across his face before he turns to flop into his chair. I get back to work picking out the few things I can truly call my own and depositing them into the boxes.

"You can't say this was entirely my idea, John."

"Really? How exactly was any part of you saying you never wanted to see my face again for the rest of your left not your idea?"

"You could have argued." The words are as small and broken as I feel. As I am. Which is why I have to do this.

"I did, Sherlock. I did. The first time. And the second and the third. The fourth time I left and came back, swearing to give you just one more chance. That chance turned into the fifth and sixth times."

Everything is packed and ready. I have nothing else to do. No reason to stay here. Except one, and he's the very reason I need to leave.

"I'm done arguing. And I'm not coming back."

I toss my keys onto the table. They hit the wood with the finality of a coffin being nailed shut. Sherlock keeps his eyes focused on them, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch ever so slightly. Most people wouldn't see it. Only I knew what it means. He still doesn't believe.

"Greg will be round in a couple of days to collect the boxes. If I've missed something just throw it in with the rest."

"Staying with Lestrade, then? Making him cart your stuff around needlessly seems a poor way to repay him."

Oh, God. Can I really do this?

"I've taken a job in Cardiff."

He looks up sharply. I give myself the moment to memorize his face. This face. When I've said something he truly didn't expect. When his mask slips just enough for me to see the man behind. The man I could love. The man I could hate. The man I admire. The man the world needs far too much to allow a distraction like me.

"Deduce that." Then I turn my back on the best thing in my life.

The weight of the cases increases exponentially with each step I take, as though Sherlock emits some inverse gravitational field that grows stronger with distance. This might actually be true. After all, he is universally admired, loved even, by people who have never even met him. Yet he pushes away those closest to him.

By the time I reach the street I'm too tired to be surprised or angry at the dark car waiting there. I don't have the strength to fight another battle. I doubt I even have the strength to raise my arm enough to hail a cab.

The driver takes my cases and I slide through the open door next to the elder Holmes. His eyes are not accusatory. And for once, they do not seem to hold all the answers.

"You are headed to the detective inspector's, I take it."

"For a while," I admit.

"I would be happy to assist you during this transition…"

"Just take care of Sherlock."

"Always."

I search his face, and see that he knows. Of course he knows. But what's more, he understands.

"Does it have to be this way, John?"

"You know it does."

He nods, and if Mycroft were capable of human emotions I might say he looked sad.

"Thank you."

"I think, Dr. Watson, you are the one who deserves our thanks."

I come home from a particularly long day at work to find the rest of my boxes. Only it isn't really home, it's Greg's flat, a temporary stop until I find something more permanent. Not a home, though. Only one place will ever feel like home again.

"Thanks for getting these," I say, grabbing a beer and moving unconsciously to help finish preparing the meal. I'm still not used to not having to do everything myself.

"When I agreed, I never really thought I'd have to do it. Last time you only stayed two nights."

"I think I've found a place. Be out of your hair soon. And thank you again for letting me stay here."

Despite Sherlock's frequent denouncements to the opposite, Greg is no idiot. He knows I'm trying to change the subject. I've been doing so the last five days. I'm not an idiot either. I can see he's not going to let it drop this time, and I steel myself for his words.

"What happened, John? I know it's not the usual. Not this time."

I have thought of a thousand ways to answer this, but only one seems right: the truth, or at least part of it.

"You know how Sherlock is. He leaves body parts in the fridge, forgets to eat and sleep, dashes off after criminals in the middle of the night expecting everyone to follow along or get out of his way."

"He's always been that way, mate. I won a bet at the Yard for being the only one who thought you'd stick with him more than a month. So what's different now?"

I sigh. "It's too much. He's too needy. I have a life of my own he doesn't even know exists and I realized I can't…"

"You can't sit around waiting for him?"

I nod, relieved. Good old Greg. Sherlock may not give him much credit as a detective, but he has looked at all the facts and come to the logical conclusion. The completely logical, completely wrong conclusion.

If I had been forced to finish that sentence, it would have been I can't be the man he needs me to be anymore.

A/N: So what do you think? Are you intrigued? Do you want more? (Yes, this is my shameless cry for comments!) Also, I like to work in movie quotes or references but had a hard time with this one, so I'll give you a hint. There is a line inspired by City of Angels. Can you find it?