The tear-stained paper was filled with the chicken scratch that was John's writing. He wiped his eyes occasionally, sniffing slighty, as he finished the note that he had started so long ago. He was careful to be quiet, knowing that if Sherlock woke up and saw him in this state, he would be forced to stop, and to sleep. He wrote the last line of the note, and gasped, putting his hand over his mouth to stifle a sob that was about to escape his lips. He folded the note carefully, never intending to give it to Sherlock. He wouldn't care anyway; why should he? He was always more important than John, always mattered more. John stood up from where he sat, and put the folded note in his pocket, and headed down quietly to his room. He tip-toed past Sherlock's room, hoping that the floorboards wouldn't creak, and that he could safely get by. His opened the door to his room, and began to get his things together. He made his bed, carefully folding the sheets under the pillows, making sure everything was perfect. However, he left one thing that he had hoped Sherlock would keep; his dog-tags. He could only hope though. He would never know what Sherlock would do with them. He settled the dog-tags against his pillow before creeping over to his bathroom.
John had been especially depressed for months now. It didn't matter that Sherlock was back, he still couldn't really believe it, on some level. He was waiting for him to walk away. The depression was so far burned into him that he only vaguely remembered life before it, life where he didn't hurt, didn't hate himself. Every breath was an effort, and he couldn't do it anymore. He could rattle off all the medical basis for depression- knew them by heart. Just as well as all the treatments he had tried. But the funny thing was, understanding it didn't make it hurt any less.
In the bathroom, John gathered the few things he needed; his razor and a few drugs he had found after Sherlock had jumped. He stuffed them into a bag, adding a change of clothes, though he didn't expect to need them. He knew he wouldn't need them.
He looked back at his room one last time, staring at everything closely, taking everything in, every last detail and fault that he could see. The way the floor dipped slightly near the edge of his bed, the way the wind blew against the walls outside, and made a whistle sound throughout the room, and the crack near the door from where John had punched it after Sherlock jumped.
He turned his back to the room, and left, closing the door quietly behind him. He slung the bag over his shoulder, his right shoulder, and shuffled back down the hallway, stopping slightly in front of Sherlock's door.
"I'm sorry Sherlock. It's not your fault, I promise. Goodbye." He
continued down the hallway, grabbing his gun from his desk drawer, then headed down the stairwell, counting as he went down, the stairs creaking slightly under his weight.
"13, 14, 15, 16, 17..." he finished counting as he finished on the
landing. He opened the door, and was greeted by a brisk wind that chilled him to his bones. He closed the door, and looked back at 221B Baker Street for the last time. He turned away, sobs beginning to be revealed throughout him, shaking his body. He rushed away from the flat, away from Sherlock, away from the past that hurt far too much.
Sherlock knew John was awake. He wasn't exactly careful when it came to sneaking around the flat. Sherlock knew all the nooks and crannies, and where he needed to be extra careful, whereas John only thought to tiptoe.
He laid in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, hearing John muffling about around the flat. He'd get up to investigate when John had settled down. He heard occasional sniffles from John as he puttered about, and could only assume; allergies was all he could deduce from sniffling. He couldn't see John to observe. He heard the footsteps begin to move down the hallway and he softened his breath, hoping John would believe that he was sleeping. The footsteps stopped in front of his door before continuing down the hallway towards John's room. Sherlock swiftly got out of bed, being careful at where he placed his feet. He pulled on a pair of socks that laid in a pile in a corner, and walked over to his door. He leaned against the wall, making sure his shadow couldn't be seen under the door. He held his breath as John began to walk back down the hallway, and heard him begin to whisper.
"I'm so...not your faul...bye." Sherlock could only catch bits and pieces of
what John has said, but it was enough to put together. Why was John sorry? What had he done where he felt the need to apologize? His thougths were interupted when he heard the steps creaking, and the front door of the flat open and close.
Sherlock flew out of his room, being quick to examine the flat. Everything seemed to be in place; living with Sherlock had made John quite keen of himself. Sherlock looked at the desk, and saw that some of the paper had been moved, along with a couple of the pens. The lamp on the surface was still warm; John had been writing something. He pulled out the drawers of the desk, and found that John's gun was gone.
"John..." Sherlock sighed stiffly as he rushed down the hallway, and into
John's room. He found everything neat and tidy, his bed made and perfect. John's dog-tags laid on the pillow. Sherlock picked up the tags, where they were slightly warm and sweaty. John had been holding them quite recently, and he must have been nervous and clammy. He walked into his bathroom, and found that his razor was missing from the shower. Along with the razor, Sherlock also found that some of John's pills were gone.
"John!" Sherlock yelled throughout the flat, knowing that nobody could
hear. He rounded up his coat and scarf, pulling them on quietly as he ran out the flat, hoping to be able to catch up to John before he did anything drastic.