Small beams of light filtered through the gap between the beige curtains of John's room, alerting the man to the fact it was now officially the morning. Not that this mattered, as John's new sleeping plan meant that he hardly slept. He sighed, rubbing his face with his hand. He felt so exhausted. Not just the ordinary 'I-haven't-slept-in-a-while' exhaustion. Pure tiredness that made his bones ache and his mind fog over was taking over him, infiltrating his very core.

He couldn't do this anymore.

Walking into the living room, he placed a hand on the doorframe between this room and his own, surveying the scene. All was still, except for the small rise and fall of his flatmate's chest as he breathed. Sherlock's hands were clasped in that way that made him look incredibly intelligent, but his face reminded John of a marble bust he had seen when one of his previous dates (Olivia? Olive? Honour?) had dragged him to an art gallery. White and unmoving. Almost dead.

Not that it mattered.

The illusion was broken when one eye cracked open, turning slightly to observe John.

'You don't want to go,' Sherlock stated in his matter-of-fact way that had been a grind on John's nerves every time it was directed at him. Resuming his previous position, Sherlock left John to seethe at his tone of voice.

'It doesn't matter,' John said, his voice coming out a lot more harsh that he had intended, 'I need to be somewhere different...Away from you.'

'You don't have to,' suggested Sherlock, standing up and stretching to his full height as he walked over to John, 'You need me. I need you. We work together John. Stay here.'

John's lips thinned as the barely used gentle voice washed over him. He shook his head from side to side, willing his friend to see reason.

'I can't, don't you see? Can your massive brain not understand? Because that would be a first.'

A quivering bottom lip was the last thing that John needed to accompany his orignally sarcastic comment, and yet there it was, making him look like a small, spoilt child.

'John,' was the firm response, 'You're my friend. My only friend. Stay here, wait for me.'

John continued to shake his head, a little more violently now, as he tried to come up with more reasons to leave while preventing the tears that threatened to fall from appearing.

'If I wait for you, I'll never be free,' John whispered, his voice becoming a little higher at the end, 'If I wait for you, not only will I have lost you, but I will have lost everyone else I care about too.'

'John, listen to reason. I'll be back. I'll change, for you, and we can be together, it's what you-'

'NO SHERLOCK,' shouted the shorter of the pair, shoving his friend out of the way, only for his hands to pass straight through him.

He stood speechless for about 3 minutes, staring at his hands in disbelief. Sherlock stood there patiently, waiting for his dearest friend to put two and two together. The silence dragged and John still didn't know what to do. Leaning in, Sherlock pressed his lips against the shell of John's ear, only to pull away. Not that John could feel anything.

'Wait for me,' whispered Sherlock, before fading into nothing. John was still, watching as his friend disintegrated before his very eyes. When he was sure the figure created by his mind had completely disappeared, he sunk to his knees. He tried so hard to hold it in, to prevent what was essentially inevitable. But as he took a deep breath, the sadness and frustration became too much and what should have been a quiet inhale and exhale escalated into a sob of anguish.

Holding himself, John wept for everything. The loss of his control, the loss of his sanity and the loss of one of the greatest men he'd ever met. His mind had been taken by someone who had ceased to exist months ago. John had not felt this angry in a long time.

'You tit Sherlock, why did you throw yourself off of that building,' he muttered to himself, noting that talking to yourself was another sign of madness.

After a few more minutes of attempting to calm down and finally feeling that he had cried enough, John pulled himself to his feet. He still felt hollow, a shadow of the man that Sherlock had made him become and yet the emptiness just made him feel heavy, not light.

He surveyed the room a second time and, after not finding anymore dead detectives, took a minute to consider what the figment of his imagination had said, after all, if he created the illusion, there had to be some truth of what it said in how John was feeling. Did he really want to go? No, he didn't. But what would happen if he stayed here? Him and his mind could hardly play fake detectives on their own. It wasn't natural. It was insane.

He had already decided: he needed to break free of Sherlock's grasp, alive or not.

Retrieving his bag from his room, John opened the door out of their old apartment and closed it behind him, not looking back to see what his imagination could conjure from the shadows. The sound of his footsteps echoed throughout 221B, shortly followed by a thump as his duffle bag was dragged down the stairs behind him.

Despite the fact that it couldn't even be seven in the morning yet, John did not care in the slightest that he could stir Mrs Hudson: he'd be out of the door by the time she realized he was gone anyway.

Stepping out into the faint light of a new day, John steeled his face against the harshness of reality. He had no where to live, no job, hardly any funds to keep him healthy (although his health was something he had been tending to throw to the wind lately). He was now just a man, leaving behind his demons in search of something new to live for, and this thought fueled his exhausted body as he stuck out his arm to call a taxi.

In the window of Speedy's cafe, a man clad in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a hood over his grey, cat-like eyes watched as John forced a smile at the cab driver and climbed in, his shoulders slumping as he collapsed against the seat.

Stirring several lumps of sugar into his cup of coffee and hot water, the man observed the world outside. Small people with small lives, all waiting for the ultimate moment when everything ended. For the man, he already knew what that felt like. To know that everything around you was going to crumble and that everyone you cared about was going to suffer. And yet, he had decided to live, not die.

'But then again,' he thought bitterly to himself, 'Not everyone can be Sherlock Holmes.'

A/N: I've got some really exciting stuff planned to write this Summer. Sorry it took so long to get this up: hope all of you enjoyed it, despite the fact it is one of the most angst-filled things I've ever written! Do you want me to continue this or do you think it's ok as a one-shot? I'd love to hear from you! Thanks for reading, and any feedback is appriciated!