A/N: Um, so sometimes I get in a mood, and something angsty comes out of it (cough*give my best to redbeard*cough*). This is another one of those. This is not nearly as tragic, but it's still kind of downer. Enjoy! I'm sorry…

Ch 1: The End

This is how it ends.

It doesn't happen all at once, but slowly over time.

The times between calls get longer and longer. First a few weeks, then a few months, then only once or twice a year.

But still, whenever they were together, it was like the good old days again. Sherlock felt grounded and John felt lighter, and it was like no time had separated them at all.

Eventually, though, time just got away from them. It was not a conscious decision. It was always:

Tomorrow, I'll call Sherlock tomorrow.

Or

Text John. Tomorrow.

It would be on the To Do list, but it wouldn't get done. So it would be added to tomorrow's—and again and again—until one day it stayed on yesterday's list, and it was just forgotten.

And time elapsed and life was busy and it just became a dull ache—a nagging guilt—an obligation, that was easier to forget than to confront. Besides—

He could always just call me

If he weren't so busy with his bloody experiments

Or

If he weren't so busy with that bloody baby

So no one picked up the phone.

At a certain point, when you're separated by time and space, it becomes easier to remember the bad

Corpses in the fridge, never letting me sleep, using me, drugging me

Or

Always so angry, always so sensitive, never lets me have any fun

And somehow the good times are harder to hold onto.

Yes, there was a fight. More than one.

There were always a lot of fights, but when you have a friend who is as infuriating as Sherlock Holmes and someone else with a temper like John Watson—well, there were always going to be a lot of fights. That's just who they were and how they were when they were together.

Of course, in the old days—before the fall—they fought, as well. Sometimes a few punches were thrown—maybe someone said something they didn't mean, or maybe they just said something they didn't mean to say.

But in the end it was all okay.

Because when they were together—as soon as the first blush of anger faded—it was just them. John and Sherlock. And they couldn't help but forgive and forget and immediately run off and get into trouble again.

That's just how they were. They were best friends from the moment they met. It was the only way they knew how to be.

It's different though, when you no longer live together. When there's not a stairway separating you but a taxi or a tube ride. Maybe a bus exchange or two.

When you share the same tiny flat, your only choice is to work things out or stay angry, and it was always easier to let things go. But when you no longer occupy the same small living space, sometimes it's easier to hold onto the conflict and let the relationship slide instead.

Besides, it's different once you have a child. When you start building your life around the absence of the other person.

And this is how it began. Not enough time, fewer phone calls, a fight that never really got resolved.

Then there's an event—

Emma's seventh birthday party

Mary asks, "What about Sherlock? We should send him an invitation, right?"

And John says, "No, he wouldn't be interested. Not really his thing."

And Mary asks, "Shouldn't you call him at least?"

And John says, "Yeah, I've been meaning to. After the party."

And Mary shrugs and asks, "What about Mike Stamford?"

(Mike Stamford gets invited—he has two children, a girl and a boy, right around Emma's age. And Mike's one of those friends who just hangs around forever. It's easy with him. No fights, no guilt.)

And around that same time there's another event—

Sherlock's forty-fifth birthday party, the one Lestrade forces him to have.

Lestrade asks, "Should I invite John?"

And Sherlock says, "No, he's too busy."

And Lestrade asks, "Are you sure?"

And Sherlock just shrugs.

Inertia. Even the closest of friendships can be swallowed up by it.

A few years pass like this—no calls, no texts, no invitations.

But then, one day, they run into each other—at the market, maybe, or at a restaurant—and there's a moment of surprise—pleasant, but a surprise nonetheless, to see a once familiar face that has aged in every way since you last saw it.

(People become frozen in time when they go from being the center of your world to a specter from the past.)

And when they meet, it's awkward. They both wonder

Should we hug?

(They do, but it's uncomfortable.)

There's the

How are things?

And

I'm sorry—I've meant to call

And Sherlock makes a joke

(It's funny but hits a little too close to home, and John isn't used to Sherlock's humor anymore.)

And then one of them says

I better be going

And the other says

Yes of course me too

And then they both say

I'll call

(They won't)

And then they turn around and walk the other away.

Later that night, John will say to Mary

Guess who I ran into?

And John will explain, and Mary will say

That's nice

And then they'll both go to bed.

And back at Baker Street, Sherlock will say to the skull

(because Mrs. Hudson isn't there anymore)

Guess who I ran into today?

Of course, the skull won't say anything, and Sherlock will try not to remember the days when Mrs. Hudson would come bustling up the stairs to fuss over him at the end of a long day.

(Sherlock still hasn't learned how to make morning tea. He just goes without in her absence.)

And since there is no e to talk to, Sherlock will pick up his violin, and play like his heart is breaking.

But it isn't. The pain will dull, and he'll settle back into a life without John Watson, and he'll forget that there was a time when the world seemed unbearably empty without his best friend.

And John is so busy—with work, with Mary, with Emma (and soon there will be another one on the way) that he doesn't have to try to forget. It just happens. And he's happy with his life, the way it is now.

Maybe when things settle down—but they never do, not really. And it's often easier to forget than try to recapture something that was too ephemeral to tie down.

They'll run into each other again, of course. It will be much like the previous time, only worse—even more stilted, even more unpleasant.

In fact, it's so awkward that a few more years later—when they cross paths again—they'll both look the other way and keep on moving without a word.

Two ships passing in the night.

And this is how it ends.

A/N: Good news! This isn't actually the end. Or, it was at first, but then I decided I needed to give these two a happy (well, happier) ending. I should get the second part of this posted within the next couple days since it's already written.