Welcome to this one-shot, and the first Sherlock I've written (and Holmes knows not the last). Basic rundown:

Sherlock got bored and started murdering people. Now John's got some issues moving on.

Not much else to say, other than enjoy (and excuse my inability to write good emotions)! :D

~~AgentAva

Disclaimer: I own zilch. Nada. NOTHING. But the story, a'course :3

Lestrade stormed into the flat, a look of mixed horror and stolidity with a dash of betrayal set upon his brow. "I don't know why and I don't know how," he snarled wagging a finger at Sherlock. "But it was you."

Holmes looked up from playing his violin, a look of pure innocence in his ice blue eyes. "Now whatever could you mean by that, Detective?" his words were quick, simple. Taunting.

"I—I can prove it was you!" Lestrade exploded, making John jump in his armchair. He was hiding behind his laptop, watching all of this with a growing curiosity. DI Lestrade stepped further into the flat until his finger was just centimeters from the consulting detective's face. As he spoke, his voice shook with remorse, as if the detective didn't want to do this. But he did it anyways. "You killed all those people! Each murder was irretraceable, but we figured it out. It was you all along. You…you're sick. And you're under arrest."

John Watson's eyes widened, and he looked over at his flatmate, who was still sitting with his violin at his chin, the bow now sitting in his lap. He managed a smile that turned the corners of his mouth up just slightly. "Very good, detective. I never thought your insignificant intellect would manage to piece it together. But very well." He set down his violin carefully on the arm of his chair and rose to meet Lestrade. The detective moved swiftly out of the way to accommodate. As Sherlock looked up into the DI's eyes, there was a glint in his, and he flashed a knowing smile. "The game is up."

Cuffs were clenched onto the consulting detective's wrists, and he was led away.

The game was indeed up.

Gasping for air, the good doctor shot open his eyes and sat up in bed. It was well past midnight; the London moon was casting a direct light over John's eyes. Groaning inwardly, he stripped away the bedding and got dressed in the dark. As a final touch, John grabbed his cane and the scarf and left the flat.

The man walked along the familiar streets of London, the gutters flashing in gold from the lights above. Stuffing the scarf into his pocket, John relied on his cane once more to walk around. Now that Sherlock was gone, it seemed as if his limp had returned in his wake, burdening the doctor with pain. Finally, after what seemed like cold, endless minutes of hobbling along, he reached his destination.

Peering up at the fire escape, John clenched his cane between his teeth and began climbing up at a slow pace. The escape was rickety, the screws had come loose from the building, but he kept climbing, a determined look flickering in his pupils. Finally, Dr. Watson reached the roof of the building by climbing the final stretch of windows and pulling himself onto the loose gravel. He released the cane and let it fall onto the coating of pebbles on the roof. Dangling his legs off the side of the building, John looked out over the quiet streets.

This had been the place of the first chase. That night, following the cab and Sherlock's intellect across numerous rooftops, John's limp dissipated into the cold night and his love for the hunt was born. Over to his left, if the doctor bothered to look, was the edge where he had hesitated for that half second, only to follow his gut and jump the gap between the two buildings during that thrilling night.

Everything around London had been quieter since Sherlock was locked up. His flatmate couldn't bear to think about what the consulting detective had done. He had had enough dreams to remind him of it as it was.

But even as the doctor tried to shove the memory out of his train of thought, it latched on, like a leech.

It had been Sherlock. John felt stupid not realizing it before. There hadn't been an exciting case in the months after Moriarty was killed; the drugs, the cigarettes, the frequent bullet holes in the ceiling had proved that. In truth, there had simply been no serial crimes committed in the London area for months. Holmes was getting anxious, and it worried his flatmate.

Then, out of the blue, the perfect murder appears. A man, hung in an abandoned apartment building, with a symbol and ten bullet holes under his feet. Exactly 12 hours after, a woman was found across town, this time swaying in the wind over a junction, with another clue and nine bullet holes at her feet. This continued and every 12 hours another body was found, strewn across town, until there was but one bullet hole left. The placement of the bodies in the city was a clue. The symbols pointed towards a book in the library that led the detectives to the second body was a clue that led them to a place where they could find out where the third body was to be found and that was a clue, and the pattern continued until…

No.

John shook the thoughts away. He refused to believe Sherlock had done any of this; he was a sociopath, not a psychopath. He had said so himself. Dr. Watson pulled the scarf from his pocket and toyed with it for a while; running his fingers down the design until the feeling set itself into John's mind.

Why? Why had Sherlock done it? The doctor reminded himself of what Sergeant Sally had said—something about how one day he was going to commit the murders himself. John didn't think she was ever going to be right. But the unlikely outcome turned out as the final outcome—she was.

Sherlock was being held in the prison with the rest of the serial killers he had convicted; now he was one of them. And for the last six months, his face had been branded into John's mind. He thought that maybe he might run into Sherlock at the pub, just stopping in for a quick drink (odd enough), or in the flat, demanding for John to make him some tea. But despite his false hopes, the doctor knew that he wasn't going to see Mr. Holmes any time soon.

It was well past 3 AM when John checked his phone for the time. For a moment, John almost expected a text to come through, with something ridiculous like,

"Need more hydrated acid. Get milk. SH"

Or something along the lines of that. To be truthful, John didn't even know what "hydrated acid" was, but he was pretty sure he just made it up to remind himself of his flatmate. And to be more truthful, he missed Sherlock and all his idiotic charisma, his questionable actions and severed heads (Mrs. Hudson had instructed John to take them out immediately after Sherlock was arrested with tears in her eyes). John missed his best friend.

After all this time of waiting for the consulting detective to come back to the flat, hoping that it was all a joke, John knew he was only kidding himself. The sociopath's bored manner had pushed him to the point of entertaining himself with murders. The doctor still didn't believe in his heart that it had been Sherlock, but the facts proved otherwise. It was all Sherlock's doing.

And it tore John to pieces.

Every night for the last six months, after hours of tossing and turning, John would finally get up and take long walks along the empty alleys and streets of London. Every night, he would somehow end up in the same place, sitting on the roof of the first chase he had ever been in with Sherlock. He would sit and watch the skies until the sun rose, and pretend that he was still pursuing those suspects through the city, scaling buildings and rooftops alike. Sometimes, if the night was particularly troubling, John would find himself talking to no one in particular on the rooftop, and addressing them as "Sherlock." And every night, he would bring the consulting detective's scarf with him, in hopes of discarding it on the roof and never returning to it. To leave behind Mr. Holmes and starting fresh. Again.

Hoping to finally leave the scarf behind, John took it from his lap and tossed it over the side of the rooftop. He watched it ride along the soft currents of the wind and finally land at the end of its descent in the shadows of the building. This time he really was going to leave the scarf there on the sidewalk, he was determined to just leave it where it lay.

The sun was starting to come up like a plant after winter, bringing back the hope of new life. That was what John really wanted, wasn't it? He wanted a life free of Sherlock, free of his burdens, free of his ghosts and worries. Dr. Watson wanted to claim the liberty he felt he rightly deserved. Whether the universe agreed with the good doctor…well, that was another matter entirely.

Watson wished for an instant that his best friend was not in fact a serial killer. That he was still at the flat, not eating, and discussing things in low voices with his skull. He wished that nothing had changed, that everything could still be as it was. He wished that he could move on, when obviously everyone else had. Or had they?

John thought of the rest of the people he knew that had been a small blip on Sherlock's radar. Sometimes he would pass Lestrade on the street, and the men would nod sadly at each other. There were those monthly dinners with Mycroft he was forced to attend, and the remaining "sane" Holmes would inquire about how John was dealing. There were those rare times the ex-soldier would bump into Anderson, and in return the idiot would sneer in return. That was the best hello John would ever get from the bastard.

In the six months of Sherlock's absence, John had not come to see him in the prison once. There was too much to be said to the socio/psychopath and not enough time, nor enough words. John wanted to tell Sherlock how much pain, how much suffering he had caused everyone. He wanted to hurt him; he wanted to show Sherlock exactly how aggravating the last six months had been for the doctor. But in the end, John knew exactly what Sherlock would say with that sort-of smile of his.

"Missed me have you, John?"

John was done with the rooftop. He was done with the scarf, he was done with Sherlock. He had made his decision; he was going to move on. He was going to move out of the flat that carried all those memories, and he was going to find another place to start over. John was really going to do it this time. Before he left, he looked down at the scarf lying on the sidewalk, discarded like yesterday's paper. His heart sank. No. John had to stay strong. If not for himself, for Sherlock. He had to move on, to forget about his flatmate. It was for the best, he assured himself.

But even as he climbed down the fire escape, John knew that he was going to go back and collect the scarf anyways.

What did you think? Review and tell me!

Oh, and SELF-ENDORSEMENT TIME. If you really liked this, check out my other story based on Legend of Korra, called "Between the Earth and Sky."

Unashamed endorsing author is unashamed.

Thank you my lovelies!