A/N: Not my first fanfic in general, but first for the fandom. The characters are not, of course, mine.
Sherlock opened his eyes to a blinding fluorescent light. Hospital, he realised with a grimace.
"That's that, then."
"Wh-what?" he wasn't surprised to hear John's voice, but that wasn't quite the welcome-to-the-land-of-the-living he'd expected.
"I'm out. I have to go pack. I shouldn't have stayed, but Mycroft is out of the country and I've always thought waking up alone was a bit sad. And I wanted to see for myself that you were all right. Um, goodbye, then, and good luck." The click of metal and the sound of rubber wheels turning.
If only he could sit up, maybe he could see John's face and find out what the hell he was on about. He couldn't help the hiss of pain that escaped his lips with the movement.
"Sherlock! You shouldn't be moving!" The detective could see John's hand- steady- and didn't miss the barely-controlled hysteria present in his voice. The doctor quickly wheeled himself to the bed, cursing under his breath when part of his chair ran into the metal.
"Not psychosomatic, now." he smiled wryly.
"John-"
Without looking at Sherlock, John started talking and fiddling the sheets on the bed, "You need to remain reclining. I know you'll chafe at this, but you do need to take it easy, yeah? Mrs Hudson will help you out, I'm sure."
"John-"
"But, I- I just- I'm going to go now." John was still deftly avoiding his gaze, though he finally stilled his fingers. "Mycroft should be here shortly. He was in a meeting with some heads of state, or summat, and had to get out without causing a war and-"
"John!" Finally, the doctor met his stare. "What's going on? What are you talking about?"
Swallowing hard, he began. "I'm moving out. Effective immediately. Well, as soon as I can get back ho- to the flat. I should be able to find a place to stay while I heal up. Lestrade, maybe. Not Sarah, I guess. That one's over. Likely a hotel. Regardless, I'll be out of your life as soon as possible. In fact, I'm going to walk- wheel, I suppose, technically- away now, if you don't mind, because I've quite lost my bravado by this point and this is tantamount to taking out my kidney with a grapefruit knife. So, as I said, goodbye and good luck." True to his word, he had begun to back up by the end of his speech.
Sherlock felt like he'd been shot. "What have I done? What now?"
John froze.
"Was it the heads in the fridge? Or not doing the shopping? Or the clutter? Or the- God, John, what is it?"
"You? Sherlock, oh God-"
"I'll leave the heads at Bart's, I'll get the milk and beans, I'll hoover, I'll-"
"No! No, no, no. It's nothing you've done."
"Then why, John?" Sherlock had feared this since the end of the first case, but when John hadn't left after The Blind Banker, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd finally found someone to trust. Look at you go, Sherlock.
John's voice broke into his thoughts. "It's not you. Not at all. I owe you everything, really. That's why I'm leaving. This case, the fifth pip- I'm a liability. Moriarty's clever. Near as clever as you, to be honest. I'll only slow you down. And, well, nobody can afford that."
Sherlock tried to think about hunting down the mastermind without John. He'd done it before. Well, not the mastermind part, but he'd solved cases without the doctor. But even his graphic and rather boundless imagination couldn't conceive of the notion.
"Sherlock?"
"You- you said you- that you wouldn't- that- no. John. You don't slow me down. And, really, I'm not equipped to have this conversation right now. Sociopath, remember? But I guess I've got to. You're, um, you're good. And I think I need that. I know I need that- I can easily be a bit not so. And you're better than the skull to talk to. So please don't go."
John looked shocked. "But, he's done it before. And you heard the threat. I don't want you to have an barriers in this. What if he gets a hold of me again? You have to give this your all and we know- he knows- you won't if I'm in danger."
"But how would I know you were safe? I'd be distracted wondering if you were all right. He'd find you and use you anyway." Sherlock shuddered a bit at that statement.
"I- Christ, Sherlock, I don't know what to do. I don't want to leave. You, of all people, should know that. But I refuse to be your- your handicap."
The self-loathing in that last word was a physical blow to Sherlock. "John, don't. Come here." the doctor complied, wheeling himself to Sherlock's bedside. "You can't leave. Promise me you won't. I meant it when I said I'd be lost without my blogger."
After a slight hesitation, John nodded curtly, clearly not trusting his words.
"And John? Don't ever- I mean ever- call yourself my 'handicap'."