This was a sensation that the man had never handled before, one that mined deeper than a fissure of trust or an invasion of privacy—something more than his dignity behind dropped, or even being shot in the shoulder, for all that meant. It was different. All the admiration he complied through the immense period he devoted with the other truly constructed up a bond he'd never experienced before. The relationship was ignited by inquisitiveness towards the mind of the detective, driven in by the desire to not let go of the standalone fascinating thing that sparked in his life. Of course, being strained to move into a flat with his shit pension also provoked the movement, but it was that that also shoved him deeper. Akin to the military, the man was undermined by the 'smarter,' and just when he was about to walk away, he was needed. Called, if you may. Just as the man was willing to drop all sense of curiosity for the sake of his own self-respect, Sherlock needed him.

What he never grasped until it was too late was that he too that needed the investigator. Well, at least then. Through escapades, they learnt more about one another, not knowing one quite like the other even existed. The brilliant brain and the wholesome heart mended impeccably together to crack the crimes and conundrums of, not only the city, but their own drive for action to add zest into such a dull life. After all, who enjoyed being bored?

Just as things were at their peak, the detective did not permit him in on the entire riddle; everyone knows: you can't complete a puzzle unless you have every piece. And to think the doctor was all too eager to stay, to pledge to the offbeat life of following a Holmes… it was plenty enough to make him quite literally ill. There was naught in the world he would have bargained with to trade his lifestyle—it was as if discovering the perfect suit that flattered him utterly while feeling as if pajamas. To a tremendous dismay, he nevertheless kept things from him, strategically the detective may have alleged, but little did he identify it would extinguish the whole kit and caboodle. Sometimes, the doctor dreamt that if he had told him all the things on his mind—in a not-so-literal sense; that would lead him mad for an era of lectures—things would still be the same. No, better.

Sherlock was beginning to laugh; John was beginning to let loose. It almost didn't matter to him if he was being used for investigations, or sporadically demoralized in instances that the snide bastard never really intended to be painful—'I merely speak the truth,' he'd say. 'Sometimes that hurts, but I'm not the doctor here,' then he'd trail it with a flicker of a sly smile before resuming back to business; it physically wounded to reflect upon it now—he gained the true properties of companionship in a way that most would not understand. Yet, Sherlock took his own case too far in his hands, and dropped it.

John had never been happier, before that point.

Never.

Two months trailed by that he endeavored to hold on, his efforts trickling and recuperating by the weights and anxieties of his contemplations and the real world. Sometimes it would be hard to keep up, sometimes he would forget him—indirectly, as if it could ever wholly emit from his mind; for fuck's sake, that would almost be an elixir for the man, a temptation if possible. Not for any reason other than the agony it instigated for him to live each day in the footsteps of being essentially alone from the signified person he reckoned. Sherlock did not have to be unaided on the frustration of his own case—the one he took upon his own desire—the one he pushed too far. Alas, he did. Now, Watson was left without assurance how to feel.

Four months followed that. The man allowed himself to escape the flat more, encountering new friends even outside of the typical turf he habitually constrained himself too. Although there were many times to initiate what he would define as a serious relationship—a step he felt may be obligatory to move past the past—it was within the closing moments before a mutually affirmed promise that he shied away. There was a note that rang in his head, an aide-mémoire that such a controlled life would never permit him to such an adrenaline-educing one he experienced before, the one he ached and longer for. A lover, girlfriend, spouse, or family even was not of true interest to the man; sure, it was nice, and a domestic settlement could be a sort of interest in the future, but as of now, he just wanted his life back. His friend back.

He stopped counting the months that dribbled by, the time appearing to be much rapider in the long-run, yet slower day-by-day. He was literally forced by the world to move on. There would be spells of which his cognizance would mislead him, perceiving glimpses of Sherlock in crowded areas, little notes or misdialed texts that would be received, or even strange objects being placed around like skulls that would only trigger remembrance of the odd décor and 'necessities' the seemingly hellish flatmate acquired.

There could not be a coincidence, not one. His friend—he yearned to sound it out to him so desperately, recalling how the man stated he would never retain one—was gone. There was a word that was blacklisted from his mind intentionally, one that spoke of permanent absence; one that could never be a detail to pronounce the detective. Lost, evacuated, or disappeared even, but never that. No… Sherlock was all too stubborn for that.

Handing his closing paycheck to the shaky woman dressed in her typical purple ensemble she wore at least twice a week, John conveyed a smile of remorse, his lips pressing in a firm line that just hardly perked at the seams. Ms. Hudson insisted that he would not have to compensate for his departure, though the man could not conjure up the notion abandoning the sweet, ever-tolerating elder with nothing; for emergencies, he even allotted her his up-to-date number he finally established the time to retrieve after his last teasing text message from an unrecognizable number. His firm hold on the frigid doorknob was inevitably his last, hearing the horn of the taxi he scheduled summoning for him outside in the winter weather. With a twist of the handle and a yank of his frugal luggage he chose to bear—deliberately eluding from keeping as many nostalgia-inducing items as he was able—he bid his closing, absolute farewell to his irretrievable home.

"Have a terrific life, Ms. Hudson." he commanded gently, his battle-scarred, yet remarkably smooth voice showing true frankness towards the aspiration for the lady as he relieved a subtle pain with the stability of his cane that he had set aside to open the door.

There wasn't much else to be said.

…or so the final text message had read.

Sherlock was not the first time Watson was willing to commit to an idea he delimited so much faith towards so genuinely and effusively, but he would bet the dimmed blue scarf that he nuzzled closer to his face as the vehicle drove off into the future… that it would be the last.

Did you try to live on your own?
When all you got to keep is strong,
When you burned down the house and home,
Move along, move along, like I know you do.
Did you stand too close to the fire?
And even when your hope is gone,
When it's time to live and let die,
Move along, move along, just to make it through.
And you can't get another try, something inside this heart has died,
You're in ruins.

BBC Sherlock characters are BBC Sherlock characters. Fascinating, am I right?

Airatio.