Author's Note: I like retelling fairy tales, and this one kept rattling around in my brain, begging to be written. However, I couldn't figure a way to make this a full Little Mermaid story. The inspiration was just not there. I wrote an outline, and jumped around writing the scenes that were clear in my mind. But I still had gaping holes in the plot that my brain just didn't want to fill. So I took the story into a different direction, and this is the end result. Enjoy!

Read Between the Lines

John felt like something was terribly wrong, but he could not figure out what. He soon just passed it off as mere guilt for refusing to accompany Sherlock on yet another chase. The weather was unusually bad, and his psychosomatic limp was acting up, despite the fact that Sherlock was back and just as sharp as old times. But John could not forget his pain. Whether the pain was mental (like his limp), developmental (he figured at one point that he could be developing rheumatism), or emotional (three years' worth of feeling empty), John was not well. As such, he didn't have the spirit to chase after Sherlock like he normally would have. On the outside, he looked normal to everyone who knew him. On the inside, he was a mess.

Sherlock's death weighed very heavily on the blogger's heart, and to see him now just makes it worse. To see Sherlock act as though those three years hadn't even happened was a nail into the soldier's wounded heart. Sure, John showed him how angry he was at his friend's return by punching him straight in the face. But several cups of tea later, and thorough explanations given, John couldn't help but forgive the man. Yet he felt that's all it was. Sherlock does something, and John is the one who has to apologize, show remorse, show humility, and even forgive. Sherlock would never do any of those things.

This evening, John had stayed late at the clinic. He was finishing up his inventory when he received a text from Mycroft. That in itself couldn't be good. John felt his heart stop as he opened the message Sherlock is at St. Bart's hospital. He's unconscious from blood loss due to a bullet in the shoulder. He's stable, but you'd better get down here quick. – MH

John rushed as fast as he could to the hospital thinking, 'Not again! I can't lose him again!' During those years alone, John had come to terms with how much the Consulting Detective had meant to him, and it was well beyond the levels of mere friendship. It's true that he would do anything for the man, but he did not want to be treated like an obedient pet, which is how he currently felt around the genius. Someone to sniff out the blood, and praise his master. The thought made John cringe that that was all he was really good for. He wanted to come with Sherlock, but it was this fact that kept him from going. Now he regretted not being there if Sherlock getting shot had been the outcome.

Once he arrived at the hospital, he didn't even need to ask where Sherlock's room was if the string of cops and Mycroft's men were any indication. Also, he could hear Sherlock's voice coming loudly through the door. "This is all John's fault!" He heard. This stopped him from entering the room just as it also nearly stopped his heart to hear such a harsh accusation. He listened on as the man continued what was obviously the middle of a rant. "He's no friend. He's changed. The old John would not question the case, he would follow, so that he could write his silly little blog. But the John now is a useless doppelganger who could care less about the case. He should just get over his silly little funk and realize that it's pointless for him to work at a clinic when chasing the criminals is the key to 'life'! They don't even pay him that much, yet he insists on going. If he was there tonight, then this whole business could have been avoided. He's never around when I truly need him, and he gets so sentimental about everything else. Why can't he learn that sentiment is a weakness, and is liable to get you into trouble…" The ranting continued, but John refused to hear anymore. Useless. That's what Sherlock called him.

John was by no means weak. Yes, the past few years were hard on him, but he never went so far as to contemplate suicide. Now that was being weak. Thinking that pain is so bad that you just want to end it, well life is pain. Being a soldier taught him that. Pain helps us remember that we are alive. But to Sherlock… can he even feel? He says his body is transport. Just a shell designed to keep his brilliant mind working.

If John was useless, then John had just the word to describe Sherlock: Selfish. He always wanted to be right. He always wanted others to be impressed by him. He wanted to make those who make fun of him uncomfortable. He makes decisions for the two of them, and they're not always wise. He even calls John's job a joke because John is not running at his beck and call like he used to. That's what this whole rant was about… John's life is not about Sherlock anymore.

John opened the door and calmly walked in. The room fell quiet in an instant. Without saying a word, John crossed over to the bed and shined his pen light into Sherlock's eyes, testing their reaction. After looking around a bit, he backed away and looked at him. "You're on some heavy duty pain killers, but nothing that would induce hallucinations. So I can safely assume that you're lucid enough to be honest about what you said. Well Sherlock, you seemed to be just fine without my help for three whole years, so I don't see why this time would have been really different. You don't really need someone to help you, since you can figure everything out on your own, so I fail to see how any of this is my fault. Or should I assume that you only wanted me to be there to praise you for saving the day like some common hero worshiper, and that would have avoided you doing something stupid and getting yourself shot. Or you're mad because I wasn't there to 'take care' of the shooter before anyone was hurt."

The room was still silent as all eyes continued to stare at the doctor. "You claimed that I was never there when you truly needed me. Enlighten me Sherlock, when have you truly needed me? You said yourself that you don't have friends. And the select few friends you do have, you jumped off a building in order to protect them. Or did you? For all I know, you did it to serve your own purposes. You'd have an excuse to be able to tail Moriarty's band of thugs, and pick them off one by one in the shadows of the night. But you wouldn't have been able to do that if you allowed the snipers to shoot. And for three years, you've kept silent, and then all of a sudden you're back from the dead. You really expect things to go back to normal? It's not sentiment, it's logic. I had to move on with my life 'without' you Sherlock. Now that you're back you wonder why I don't follow you the way I used to. I'll tell you. You obviously don't 'need' my assistance. So I might as well use my time to help those who truly need me."

John turned to leave while he still held a strong stoic face, but inside, he was shouting at himself for being so rash. He took two steps before Sherlock called out to him, "John, wait!" John stopped, but didn't turn around. "I don't… I didn't…"

"You didn't mean what you said? Of course you did. You're very good at telling me exactly what I want to hear when it suits you. Perhaps you should just find some other lapdog to entertain your ego. I'm passed all that. Blame me all you want Sherlock. I just don't care anymore." With that, John left the room, ignoring the other people staring at him.

No doubt Sherlock figured out his veiled threat. He just couldn't take living with that man any more. Sherlock has no idea how much he has destroyed him. John felt torn saying those words, and they weren't completely true. Sherlock was very much a part of his world, but the man obviously will never understand what that means. He'd probably fake his own death again and again. John could not bear to think about how much more Sherlock will do to him for the sake of an experiment or the case.

As he walked, he thought about how Sherlock has manipulated him over and over again. In the Baskerville case, he needed John to forgive him so that he would drink the spike the coffee with the supposedly drugged sugar. Sherlock was a terrific actor, so how could John believe anything he says anymore when he was expressing any kind of emotion. The man was a machine.

As John reached Baker Street, his mind was made up. He entered the flat, and went straight to his room to pack his few belongings. In the past three years he'd earned enough to pay off his debt and have some left aside for savings. When you had no social life, and all you did was work, it comes as no surprise that he'd be able to support himself now.

It took him only three hours to pack up his belongings. He then called Sarah, who was now his best friend, "Hey Sarah, I've got a huge favor to ask. Could I stay at your place for a week? I'm moving out of Baker street. I'm calling a storage facility to hold my things for a month, while I search for a new place, but I just cannot stay here any longer."

"John. Of course you can stay here, but I think we will need to have a serious talk. What could have happened that you make this kind of spur of the moment decision?"

John thought for a moment, "This place is just not home anymore."

"Alright. I'll leave the door open for you. But you owe me a detailed explanation over a glass of wine later."

John smiled. "Of course. And breakfast in bed for the duration." They said their farewells, and John proceeded to call the storage company to pick up his things. He was glad he had Sarah in his life. They both knew there wasn't anything romantic about their relationship. He regarded her as the sister he never had, since Harry was more or less estranged from him. He wonders that maybe that's why he never went all the way with her. He respected her too much for that. Without her shoulder to cry on, and without her smiles, John doubts he would have been able to survive the last few years. And unlike everyone else, she knows everything.

Carting all the boxes by the door, he went over to break the news to Mrs. Hudson. He knocked on her door and waited for her to answer. "John dear. What's wrong?"

"Just what we've feared. I can't stay here with him."

Mrs. Hudson is the only other person who knew John's real attachments, and she was expecting something like this to happen since Sherlock came back from the dead. She looked at him with sympathy before pulling him into a hug. John returned it without knowing what else to say. Mrs. Hudson on the other hand, did. "It's alright dear. It's going to be alright. Although I feel for the state of my walls, and I better start worrying about the floors and ceilings now, I understand. Don't worry about the deposit dear. I'll take care of it. And just remember that this place will always be here, if you want to come back."

John held her tighter, and only let go when he heard the doorbell ring. The boxes were loaded onto the truck, and John hailed a taxi. Taking one last look around to make sure he didn't forget anything, John whispered goodbye to the building that had sheltered him through the best and the worst times of his life.

Getting into the taxi with two suitcases, he headed for Sarah's.

TBC