*just a heads up - I've used the UK slang for Cigarette in here (fag). I'm using the word explicitly for this intent and no other*

I do not own anything except for the mistakes. All rights go to Moffattiss and the BBC

Chapter 1

Sherlock flips the thick card in his hands as he stands in the middle of his sitting room. He stares down at the heavy crème card stock; beautiful roses adorn two corners with fine, gold filigree lettering. It's a save-the-date card—Molly's. She's finally moved on and found someone else.

Isn't that what he wanted for her? Expected from her, even? To find someone who made her truly happy? Someone who would treat her better than he ever could? He wonders if he should dare marking it on his calendar—or worse yet, even accepting the impending invitation to go to her nuptials. The probability that his appearance would cause some sort of problem is extremely high. And it's more than likely he would allow his heartbreak to get the better of him and do something he would later regret. He scans over the information on the card one last time, before giving up and dropping it on his desk and moving to look out the window of 221b.

No, he decides, it's best if he doesn't go.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, but he comes back to reality with the sound of incessant chirping from his phone.

Just got Molly's save-the-date card. You alright?

If you need to talk about it, I can come over later after my shift.

JW

He rubs at his temple and begins to slowly pace his living room, phone still cupped in his palm. Should he invite John over? Would it actually help? Perhaps. At least if he was here, it may distract him for a while. He brings his phone up and sends a text back.

Need a distraction. Come over when convenient.

SH

Suddenly, his flat felt like it was constricting, the walls closing in on him. The pressure is immeasurable; He needs out. Flinging his blue dressing gown across his settee, he switches it for his suit coat and thumps down the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm going out for a bit. Be back later," Sherlock calls out in the direction of her flat, not really caring if she's heard or not.

She pokes her head out of the door. "Alright, dear. I'll see you later." From the pained expression flashing across her features, he knows she's also gotten the news.

Sherlock shrugs on his Belstaff, trying to avoid her pitiful gaze. "I'll be fine, Mrs. Hudson. I appreciate your concern," he throws over his shoulder, attempting to calm her fears as he opens the door. "By the way, John's going to be stopping by. Let him know I'll be back soon and to wait for me."

"Sherlock..." she says, her voice drifting off with unsaid worry as she steps out into the hallway. He ignores it, and before she says anything more, he's out on the sidewalk, the door closing and blocking her from view.

Once outside, a heavy sigh finds its way out of his lips as he closes his eyes for a moment. The fresh air was helping some. He breathes in a lungful, steeling his resolve, and turns to make his way to the nearest off-licence. No nicotine patch will do. He craves the real thing; feeling the smoke fill his lungs as he inhales, soothing his nerves, relaxing him, distracting him from the pain and the thoughts of her. It seems the safer choice; he knows that his brother would instantly know if he attempted to buy drugs again, so he opts for cigarettes instead.

Sherlock steps over the threshold of Oddbins, and walks up to the counter. "Pack of Marlboro Gold—king size please."

"Of course," the teller says and turns to retrieve the pack.

Sherlock hands him a fiver and taking the change, he steps out onto the street. Striding toward Regents Park, he pulls out a cigarette, and lets it dangle from his lips as he walks. Slipping his hand into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a sleek metal lighter and holds it up, letting the flame lick at the end until it begins to smoulder. The nicotine floods his bloodstream with his first drag and whilst the smoke curls its way around his head, he feels himself unwind just a bit.

He notes the CCTV cameras watching him from up on high, their lenses trained on him as he makes his way back up the street. Mycroft must surely have deduced by now that something has occurred, and if he's right, his older brother would be arriving not long after John. Sherlock rolls his eyes at that and continues on until he can cross the road and head into the park, wanting nothing more than a small slice of solitude away from friends or family, where he can process the bittersweet development on his own.

~JW~

"Mrs. Hudson!" John shouts as he enters 221B, urgently wanting to have a run down on Sherlock's state of mind.

The woman instantly appears, opening her door and scurrying toward him. "Oh, John... Sherlock's gone out. Says he'll be back soon and that you should wait, but I am worried. He shouldn't be alone right now."

John nods. "Did he say anything about where he was going? Anything at all?"

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head and wrings her hands, eyes filled with concern for their friend.

He rubs at his brow, other hand on his hip, trying to place himself in Sherlock's shoes and deduce where he could have possibly gone. A cold fear sits heavy in his gut, like a lead weight. He hopes that Sherlock won't try to go for more drastic means in order to cope with the news.

Without warning, the front door swings open and as John turns, expecting Sherlock, he finds Mycroft in his place.

The man looks down his nose at them in his impeccable pinstriped suit. "He's gone into Regent's Park, and he's taken a pack of cigarettes with him, if you must know. I presume this won't be the end of it either." Mycroft looks directly at John now, his blue eyes piercing. "Find him, John. You know what happened the last time..."

"Right," John affirms, and moves past the elder Holmes brother without another word. His feet slap on the pavement as he weaves in and out between groups of tourists and business people leaving work for the day, fighting his way toward the park. Even though Mycroft had narrowed it down, it was still a vast space, and Sherlock could be anywhere by now; finding him would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. He quickly checks for cars before dashing across the street and into the park, trying to keep a sharp eye out for the tall, dark-haired silhouette of his best friend.

He searches for a good, long while; jogging up and down paths, his head pivoting this way and that, eyes scanning every possible person and bench in his general vicinity. He tried texting and calling, but with no luck—the arsehole wasn't responding.

Typical.

Just as he's passing through Queen Mary's Rose Gardens, his friends baritone voice rings out over his shoulders. "Really John? It's been over a half hour. You must be slowing down in your old age. Haven't you learned anything that I've tried to teach you?"

John's jaw clenches and his hands ball into fists as he turns around to see his friend looking at his watch and pulling a fag from his lips.

"No. No, you don't get to do this." John walks up to him and pushes a finger into Sherlock's chest, unbidden rage alight behind his eyes. "Not this time, Sherlock."

He steps closer, his anger dwindling when Sherlock remains uncharacteristically silent, and continues, his voice lowering a fraction. "I know how much you must be hurting right now, I really do, but that doesn't mean you can take it out on me." John huffs, his hands now sitting at his hips as he shakes his head for a moment. "Now, is there anything you've got to tell me or do I have to search you?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes and takes another puff of his fag. "For Christ's sake, John. Do you really think I'd still be in the park if I had gotten a hold of something?"

John begins to pace in front of him, irritated. "I don't know. Would you? I'm honestly not sure if I can believe anything you say right now." John crosses his arms, his lips spreading into a thin line before he gives a double take at his watch and swears. "Look, we've got to go. I'm sorry Sherlock, but I can't stay and help you —I've spent all the free time I had, looking for your sorry hide. Rosie is at the sitter's and I'm late enough as it is. Come on," he urges, unfolding his arms and grabbing Sherlock's bicep, turning him about face. "I'm dropping you off with your brother and Mrs. Hudson before I go. But I promise, I'll be back tomorrow. We can talk about it then." Knowing that Sherlock will follow, John marches off in the direction of 221B.