It poured outside and the night became chillier the longer the rain was present. The night was filled with tearing glass, weeping windows, and rivulets of water streaming everywhere. John stood outside near his stop, watching the droplets chase each other and race down the pane and how she pensively watches the bigger drops eat the smaller ones and they run towards the sill of the vehicles that lined the dark street just outside of Sherlock's apartment complex.

He stood there, body drenched from the pouring rain that went from lazy afternoon storms to a fierce summer tempest in less than the moment that John was leaving at. His suitcase hung heavy with his belongings. And in the midst of the storm he sighed, breath causing slight white ghosts to materialize in the cold air.

It was one hour later than the time that Mycroft said that he would arrive and Watson would have returned back to the serenity of the inside if it wasn't for the fact that he was already drenched and that going back inside would be pointless. That and the fact that Sherlock would be staring him down.

Finally, as if the universe had felt sorry for him, the rain slowly died down until it was just sprinkling.

He rubbed his ring finger. He still hadn't gotten used to the circular piece of metal hugging his flesh. The thought of him wearing the ring longer than a day made him feel apprehensive. However, he still smiled whenever he looked at it. He couldn't help it. All he could think about was the first time he saw it.

Mycroft was on one knee basically demanding him to say yes in the most charming way. The room lit up with cheers of drunken people and with the fiery look in Sherlock's eyes. Not fiery with anger or with jealousy. Just fiery from the blank stare that followed the two around the room that day. He hadn't congratulated them. He hadn't said anything against them. He just stared.

Sherlock had seen the wedding ring. Watson knew he did. He just didn't know what Sherlock had thought of it. It hurt Watson. Sherlock didn't even care had he? He didn't care that he was the cause of Watson's leaving.

"You know, he got the wrong ring size." Watson heard an all too familiar voice say.

"Holmes." Watson sighed loudly, heart beating faster as dread crept into his soul. He was going to have to answer the taller man sooner or later. Why had he even come out of the apartment anyway?

Sherlock continued. "That's why you keep tugging that digit. You suspect that it is because you are unused to the feeling. Truth is, the tightness is irritating your skin."

The next few minutes was filled with Sherlock's endless ramblings about stuff he couldn't care to listen to at a time like this. Whenever Watson didn't reply, he would continue. His head started to hurt.

"Holmes…"

"Oh!" Sherlock gasped in fake astonishment. "By jove, he can talk!"

After another long moment of deadly silence Watson started to speculate, 'where was that arse of a detective that he was all too used to hiding in this current conversation?'

"Watson for God's sake. If you're going to take it up the arse by my older brother you might as well give me dignity of a response!"

There he was.

"Holmes, I'm not going to—." Watson was cut off instantly. This didn't surprise him. He was always being cut off by the man who thought whatever it was he had to say was superior. What did surprise Watson, however, was the statement that Holmes said next. No, rather the nature and tone of the quick statement he said next.

"I love you," Sherlock said quickly and quietly.

They were words that Watson had been dying to hear from the start. He would have been happy but the words seemed more like a way for the taller man to get his way, not because he truly meant it. "S'Too late for that Sherlock." Watson choked out the sentence through his nearly futile attempts at smothering tears.

"It doesn't have to be."

"Hell, what do you want from me Sherlock?" Watson asked as if Sherlock was some type of pest. The weight of the suitcases was starting to get to him but he found the strength to persevere through it. Maybe it was because of his anger.

"You know what I want? I want to be loved…" he said bluntly. "I just want to be loved." Sherlock was breathing hard. This shocked Wilson. He had never known that this could happen.

When Sherlock sensed that Watson had nothing to say in reply, he got frustrated and screamed, "I deserve to be loved as well don't I!?" Sherlock was now panicking it seemed; for once he didn't know the answer to something nor could he fix the situation in his favor. One thing that Watson commended the detective on though, was the fact that he no longer wore the apathetic facial expression that had previously curtailed his humanity so effortlessly. For the time being anyway. Watson saw something in his eyes. It was emotion.

Regardless it was apparent that Watson had made up his mind long before Holmes found such strength to admit the feelings Watson was once hungry to hear. And how much strength it caused him in deed. It was evident that Sherlock was in pain…but not because of the obvious rejection coming, but because of the fact that his feelings were out in the open, vulnerable to anyone who witnessed it. And that's why Watson could no longer be with Sherlock Holmes. The detective was incapable of opening up his emotions—even for Watson, the man that once put up with his distant behavior.

People often wondered why Watson had broken it off with such a handsome well known detective; those people only saw the outer casing. They didn't experience what John had experienced. He pondered what the possible outcome would be like if he had accepted what Holmes had said. He would forgive him for the umpteenth time and move back in, probably making love to him once more. He would talk to Holmes face to face without avoiding his gaze and smile at the man's cynical and uncaring comments. He would call off the wedding between him and Mycroft and explain to him how much Sherlock had change—but he knew that that was a suggestion not worthy of reconsideration.

"Not by me." Watson felt heat rising behind his eyes, throat becoming sore from stifling back his tears.

Once he was about to let them out, he heard a car engine from down the street. It was Mycroft, finally showing up and hour and a half late.

"John!" The older Sherlock called out from inside the car, quickly turning it off and running outside the accompany him, "I'm sorry I—."

"Spare me. I don't care why you're late." Watson interrupted almost immediately. "Let's just get out of here."

Mycroft looked confused at the shorter man. He noticed Sherlock standing behind him a little bit after.

"Sherlock." He stated, not directly addressing the man though he called his name.

"Mycroft." Sherlock had said in bitterness.

Finally, the elder Holmes puts the whole situation before him together as he loaded Watson's things.

Watson stepped into the car to feel the most warmth he had the whole entire day and was momentarily joined by Mycroft. Before driving away, Watson snuck a last look at Sherlock one last time and saw something that nearly made him jump out of the car before he stopped with the sad realization nagging in his head.

Those couldn't have been tears for God's sake! Watson knew all too well that the man was incapable of feeling anything, let alone regret. He had learned that the hard way. He didn't need to take a second look to settle his decision.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't cry.

It must have been the rain.

Sherlock had an umbrella however.