"Sherlock, there's this house. It's, err, on the outskirts of London. It's lovely; detached, three bedrooms, a nice garden..." he trailed off before clearing his throat. "Emily and I are going to take a look at it tomorrow. If we like it we're going to make an offer." John looked away, so as not to see the expression on Sherlock's face, knowing it would kill him just as much as he knew he was killing Sherlock. Sherlock didn't reply. He was sat on the sofa, staring out of the window, his face turned from John who walked into the kitchen to make some coffee. His eyes flickered towards John's armchair and the cardboard boxes full of his belongings that surrounded it. He felt a sudden pang of pain, something he wasn't used to. He took a deep breath, trying to force himself to control his emotions, but failing. A tear rolled down his cheek.
10 months ago Emily Beech had rang the doorbell of 221B Baker Street. She, like John, is a doctor and her soft, pretty face had of course caught John's attention the moment he laid his eyes upon her. Although this wasn't unusual, most pretty girls caught John's eye, but rarely did it lead to anything. She'd come to see us over a curious case at the hospital she worked at. The case, however, turned out to be much less curious than I had hoped; it was the receptionist, it's almost always the receptionist. Emily spent all of 27 minutes in the flat. Of course it took me less than 5 of those minutes to work out the case, but John seemed to have attracted Emily as much as he had her. Their flowery small talk was dull (that has never been John's strong point) so I moved back to my microscope, but the moment Emily left, John informed me, in a ridiculously smug tone, that they had exchanged numbers and were going for dinner the following night. I hadn't taken much notice. John had been on countless dates with countless women, the date rarely leading to what could constitute as a relationship. Not even I expected this one to be any different.
But it was. And it changed everything.
I'd noticed John hadn't been spending as much as he usually did. He was never extravagant with money, he's not a materialistic man, but I noticed. I had guessed what he was doing, but I hadn't expected it to be so soon. John had arrived home one day after 'running errands' with a slight twitch in the corner of his mouth, trying to hide a smile. I knew for sure what his 'errand' was then, and demanded he show me the ring, the outline of which I could see in his jacket pocket. It was nothing special. He tried to explain his feelings for her, but I didn't care for what he had to say. Three days later he proposed.
And now, 4 months after Emily said yes, John is leaving me. Of course they'll buy that house; it is perfect for a couple's first home. Especially one that's planning on starting a family soon after marriage (three bedrooms – of course they're planning to have children soon). After all those years together, just John and I, I never thought he'd leave so easily. Emily is no extraordinary woman. She's clever, but only doctor-clever, and is nothing special in any other aspect. But John says he loves her. I suppose I have to accept that. But I can't. John is the only friend I've ever had, and for a while it felt like our partnership was unbreakable. I had seen us solving cases until we were too old to do so. And now he's packing up all of his things, ready to move out of the city, as if I were just another unsuccessful date.
I, sighed, taking in my now empty bedroom for the last time. Closing the door with my foot, I returned to the living room, the last box in my arms. Sherlock was sat on the sofa, staring out the window. He had been doing that a lot lately. I put the box down on the floor and went and sat next to Sherlock on the sofa. I had no idea of what to say to him. What can you say to the man you've spent the most exciting years of your life with? Who you've seen more action with than in your time in Afghanistan? Who you cared about more than anyone else in the world? Until Emily. The moment I saw her I knew she was special. Sherlock never understood. Sherlock isn't the sort of person to understand that sort of love.
I turned to face him, even if he wouldn't look back. "Sherlock," I said calmly. "That's the last of my stuff. The van's outside waiting for the final boxes."
"You should go then. Don't keep Emily waiting." Sherlock didn't turn his face, he just continue to stare out of the window. I tentatively put my hand on Sherlock's arm. At the touch, Sherlock sighed, his head collapsed, his chin falling to his chest. He looked up at me, his eyes full of what I can only describe as longing. I was the only person in the world who actually knew him. I saw a damp line down the side of Sherlock's right cheek and I wanted to say something. Anything. Just to comfort him, to tell him this was killing me too, but no words came out of my mouth. We just stared at each other, letting our eyes do the talking; Sherlock's were full of devastation and desperation, mine just full of guilt. Something I'd felt far too much in the past few weeks. A sudden beep from outside made me jump; Emily would be wondering where I was. My hand dropped from Sherlock's arm, and I went to pick up the box that contained the few books in the flat I owned. I walked out of the door, forcing myself to just leave. Just before the stairs I turned around, to see Sherlock's gaze being focused back out of the window.
"Goodbye, Sherlock."
Mrs Hudson climbed the stairs, the day's post in her hand, and placed it on the table where John used to sit and type away. "Oh, Sherlock. You should really open some of these letters. When was the last time you took a case? It must have been weeks ago!" She walked around the flat, putting things back in their places, making sure there was food in the fridge. Sherlock was stood at the window, his violin and bow in his hands, but his arms at his side, not even attempting to play something. "Sherlock, come and eat something," pleaded Mrs Hudson.
"No. I'm not hungry. Now would you please leave me, Mrs Hudson."
"No." Mrs Hudson took a stance against Sherlock's notorious stubbornness. "Not until I've seen you eat." Sherlock turn around, his brow furrowed in frustration. He sat down at the table and began to eat the soup Mrs Hudson had prepared for him. "Sherlock, you need to sort yourself out. John emails you nearly every day, but you never reply to him! You need to accept that he's getting married next month," she began to lecture; Sherlock phased it out, having heard it almost every day since John left.
It had been 9 weeks since John had moved to the edge of the city with his fiancée. John realised that he had caused Sherlock pain, but he had to live his own life. He couldn't remain a 'bachelor' forever, solving crimes with a man who had invented his job title. He'd always wanted to settle down and have a family, and Emily was who he wanted to do that with. So many previous relationships had been ruined by his relationship with Sherlock. It was hard to explain what John and Sherlock shared; they were certainly more than friends. John cared for and loved Sherlock more than anyone, and he believed that Sherlock shared some level of that same love. But there were no romantic feelings, despite the tabloid rumours. John wasn't sure if Sherlock could even feel that kind of love. Leaving Sherlock and his way of life at Baker Street was the toughest decision he'd had to make, but he had to make it. Although Emily could see that John and Sherlock shared a special friendship and respected that, she had pushed John to move away. She found a nice house just outside the city and convinced John it would be perfect for them. She didn't mind sharing John whilst they were just dating, but she wasn't going to share her husband. Especially not with a man who got his kicks from murders.
Sherlock knew how long it had been, but the days and weeks had blurred into a miserable existence. He'd only slept in his bed a handful of times, spending his days and nights in a gormless state of emptiness. He had taken a case the day after John left; just another murder case Lestrade was too ignorant to figure out. Sherlock had proceeded to make his deductions of the case, and began to ask John's opinion before remembering that John would no longer assist him in his cases. At that point Sherlock told Lestrade who the murderer was and stormed out of Scotland Yard and back to Baker Street before tearing the flat apart for find his emergency cigarettes. From that point on Sherlock became a shell of the man he had been with John.
Sherlock looked up from his half eaten and now cold soup. Mrs Hudson had gone. He didn't know how long he'd been sat there on his own, but it had begun to get dark. He stood up and walked over to John's arm chair, and sat across from it, remembering the conversations and arguments he had shared with John in those two seats. He lit a cigarette.
A matter of minutes later the doorbell rang sharply. Out of morbid curiosity he stood up and looked out of the window to see who wanted his attention. But it had started raining heavily at some point whilst Sherlock was still sat at the table and it was getting even darker, so vision outside was poor. He waited for Mrs Hudson to answer it. A minute later she hadn't. Maybe she'd gone out. The doorbell rang again, the visitor holding it for longer this time. Sherlock grunted, stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill, and plodded down the stairs, preparing to send whoever it was away. The latch was already off the door; Mrs Hudson had gone out. Sherlock opened the door and for the first time in over two months he felt his heart pound in his chest. Standing in the torrential rain was John and a large suitcase.
John's eyes lit up when he saw Sherlock on the other side of the door. Neither of them said anything for a moment. They just stood on either side of the door, drinking in each other's presence, both of them realising how much they meant to each other.
"John!" Sherlock breathed, stepping out into the rain and taking his only friend into his arms. John embraced him tightly, muttering "Sorry" over and over. It was hard to tell whether Sherlock was crying or if it was just the pouring rain on his face. They released each other and Sherlock took another look at John, who looked like a drowned hedgehog. He bounced back into 221B, and John heaved his suitcase into the hallway.
"Leave that there, John, you can bring it up later," Sherlock said imperatively. He leapt up the stairs, taking two at a time, John a few steps behind him. He stood beside the pile of letters that had been waiting for this moment. He turned and grinned at John. "We've got a lot of work to do!"