Separation

The rain dribbled down the inclined shed and soon, developed into a wild downpour. The Minis and the Land Rovers sped across the street, towards the intersection that was marked by four-ways and a traffic signal. The fog-engulfed city was quite a sight to the visiting tourists but to the locals, it was the mundane, ordinary. In-between the blankets of pristine white, the street lamps dimmed and flickered, showing signs of giving out-an effect of the rain or perhaps, slumber, like the rest of the city. No lights illuminated the windows of the residential buildings, indicating long hours of peaceful drowse of the city dwellers.

The second hand of the meticulously ornate clock tower moved, lethargically almost, across the surface, marking the flow of time, from its center point.

It circled once.

Twice.

Thrice.

John followed the second hard as clearly as he could, squinting occasionally through the mist, standing quietly under the neon lights of the pub's signpost, below the shed's protection. His arms were firmly pressed to his form, trying to preserve the warmth within his jacket.

The second hand moved seven more times, gliding under the glass, in rotary fashion, moving past numbers that represented the many seconds which turned into minutes, minutes which turned into hours that John had spent outside the doors of the bar, lost in thoughts of Mary, which incited certain unwanted feelings inside of him.

Regret was probably one of them. Guilt, too.

But his mind flowed to that one thing that made his stomach clench and his palms sweaty. He felt the terrible remorse again as he remembered his wedding day.

No, he was no Sherlock. The man's name made his heart stir in ways he couldn't understand, yet his heart understood perfectly. He tried to move on and found himself not able to, despite feigning it. The more he tried to move farther away, the closer he got.

It was tormenting him, yet it was his only salvation.

He entered the pub that wet night after leaving home, having an intensely outraging argument with Mary, the woman whom he had exchanged vows with but couldn't quite write her name across his heart. Another name had already been written there.

He sat on one of the unoccupied barstools at the very far corner, distant from the drunk swaying presences, his hands rubbing his throbbing temples. He shut his eyes, tightly and let out a tired, exasperated sigh. He knew the dejection and the depression all too well. It was coming back.

He ordered a drink, but the glass sat idly, not a sip taken from. He tried to clear his mind and momentarily, it worked. But to his dismay, his mind drifted through several flashbacks, just like always ever since John had been wedded.

And it was always Sherlock he thought of. Why, John understood not, but it immensely soothed him. God, he wanted the man-he needed him. But it was too late, wasn't it?

He thought of the pool where they'd met Moriarty and the bomb that'd been strapped to him and days leading to Sherlock's artificial death. The ghost of his fingers, still held a sort of temperature within his palm when they were running through the streets of London, hand in hand, making their directionless escape. A sudden surge of adrenaline conquered him. He reminisced about the death, which had torn his soul to pieces. It should've known his desires right then; shouldn't have denied it and tried running from them. He knew better, yet-

He breathed heavily, clenching his fists. This was worse than Sherlock's fake death. He was alive, yet he wasn't with him. John could grieve, yet the tears didn't come.

Everything was over.

His meetings with Sherlock were sparse, weeks after weeks would go by without meeting him. John's insomnia was back. Mary complained about his mood often, but nobody noticed all the meals left untouched.

He couldn't bring himself to go back to 221B Baker Street anymore, after left. The place where all his old memories resided, felt desolate and empty, almost dead, just like his heart, whenever he passed by or back when he visited. Even his military trained demeanour wavered.

He inhaled sharply through his reddened nose, startled out of his thinking by a noise near one of the barstools.

"Mind moving, if 'yer not gonna order anything?"

John only heard half the sentence, but shifted off the barstool, leaving his drink. He looked through the crowd to a distant seating area, away from the flashing colors, which seemed like an inviting place to sulk.

But suddenly, the insides of his chest gave an electrifying jolt, transfixing him on the spot. A pair of blue-gray irises were starring back; unblinking, unwavering.

John could recognize those eyes anywhere.

But him? In a pub?

For John? Of course not.

He pushed his way through the drunk, irritated dancers towards the dark corner, awestruck. He began to wonder if it was an illusion, just like when he was seeing them after Sherlock's death.

The eyes followed him, not batting an eyelash.

John approached the very embodiment of the man in his dreams, his daily thoughts, nightmares, what not.

"Any business here?" Sherlock voiced, averting his gaze from John, and glanced at something to distract him, lips pursed tightly. His disposition hardened, trying to keep calm as John stood inspecting him. He sure hadn't expected John and it seemed he wasn't expecting Sherlock here either.

John noticed how Sherlock's complexion had become somewhat paler and how his eyes were bloodshot even though he'd turned his face. There were bruises too near his cheekbones. "You hurt yourself." He said, shocked at Sherlock's state.

"Yes. I obviously didn't know that." Sherlock answered, observing an overly-intimate couple farther away. It was a very clumsy mistake of him to leave scars displayed on his face, inviting unnecessary inquiries. Well, of course, no one would inquire. Except John.

Go away, John. Go to Mary. Leave me alone. He swallowed the words.

"Why did you hurt yourself, Sherlock?"

Sherlock felt a shiver as John pronounced his name. This is not good. "I asked you first." Sherlock snapped.

John thought Sherlock asking him about his motive behind coming here late at night had been a rhetorical question. "We fought." John said finally, trying to be nonchalant about the matter. "Mary and I."

Sherlock turned to him, brows furrowed slightly.

Couldn't he tell?

It was one of those moments when Sherlock would catch John in his gaze and he would find himself loosing equilibrium in the bottomless depths of blue and grey and he would look away, trying to snap out of the trance. But it was Sherlock who looked away this time, exhaling slowly as if he'd been holding his breath for too long. He stared down at his feet.

John tore his eyes off Sherlock, suddenly feeling unwanted. His heart pounded in his ears. The man who'd been on his mind and caged his heart in denial, all this time, was just in front of him. He wanted to scream in delight, almost. He wanted to grip Sherlock and bury his head into the vastness of his chest and warmth of his neck and maybe kiss him there, because Sherlock was taller.

"You're here for a case?" John asked, trying to ease the silence.

"It's a hobby of mine." Ever since-the end of an era. Sherlock laughed at his own joke. He looked at the couple again. Maybe he knew them.

John would've laughed, thinking of Sherlock visiting the bar just to 'get off' but John suddenly felt like he knew why, as if he'd heard the unspoken part of the Sherlock's response. The words hit him like stone, gutting him.

He started out with a slow chuckle, then the tears came out, like a bursting dam, making his lips tremble. His heart felt shredded to pieces like never before, not losing one ounce of its pain. His form shook as he covered his face with his palm, his very character crumbling within him. The tears were unceasing. Unmerciful.

"Well, I should be going then." Sherlock stood up. His lower lip gave a quiver of its own. He gazed down at the shorter man and saw tears dropping to his trousers as he clenched his face in his hands. He reached out to touch John's shoulders, but stopped. His eyes suddenly left glassy and blood rushed to his face.

He withdrew his hands and marched swiftly out of the double doors of the pub before he let a tear escape. He thought he heard something.

"Please don't leave." But Sherlock hadn't turned back.

John wept, uncontrollably. He felt the pounding in his ears as his heart clenched and unclenched, like in the nightmares John had; things that kept him awake.

But this was worse. And it was too late. Again.

John had no address, no phone number. Nothing.

Sherlock was gone.

They weren't meeting again, John thought.

He thought of his gun. Only his gun could free him.

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