Sherlock felt cold. For three indescribably long years cold was his most constant companion. Being a self-diagnosed sociopath didn't help in luring the feeling of emptiness and hollowness he felt for this time. But now was the new beginning. First sparks of warm hope were blooming somewhere in the detective's gut at the sight of the familiar black door just a few feet away, but first… Sherlock lifted his gaze from the three years-worn numbers to the window. First - John

Two barely lit silhouettes were sitting on the windowsill on the second floor of a scraped building in a cheap district. A man and a woman both enclosed in each other, woman quietly talking. The only consulting detective in the world didn't need all his brainpower to recognize his best friend and his new spouse Mary. John's sunken shoulders and Mary's body being turned towards him were clearly showing the detective that the talk was one-sided, and the previous knowledge of his friend was screaming that John was feeling guilty.

The curiosity and a slight worry for John made Sherlock reach into his coat pocket and pick his phone. Hacking into Mycroft's bugs (Sherlock was a 100% sure that his brother would keep an eye on the doctor and was right) was quite easy and then, turning the sound on he engaged himself in the conversation he was not supposed to hear.

John, Please talk to me – slight welsh accent, must be from the coast – I know how much this means to you and I'm not angry.

Why? – disbelief

Because… because… - nervous, searching for words, - I know this… this life is not what you really want…

Mary…

No, let me finish. – long intake of breath – when we first met you were so.. broken and sad, but you tried to forget all that was before, you tried for both of us. But.. but.. John – she leaned into him – I knew you don't want the life I can offer you – her voice was getting quieter and sadder – And what happened tonight is just the final proof of that. No.. no.. let me. I.. I don't blame you. I just want you to choose.

I choose you.

Sure?

How can I not be after… after this.

John – they kissed – then I want you to promise me something.

Anything.

You will go to Ella tomorrow and.. and.. will you try to leave him behind?

Long silence

I will.

Sherlock felt the dread filling him.

He stumbled backwards almost tripping over his own feet. Leave him behind. That decision his.. his John had just made, left him so cold again. Sherlock was too late. He remembered the time when over the remains of the homeless network he discovered that John got married. He was so sure that at the first sight of him the woman would be abandoned and his doctor will come back to 221b. He was a fool.

Sherlock turned his back to the window where silhouettes of his friend and his wife embraced each other tightly and continued a quiet now meaningless talk and then quietly went to bed.

Sherlock was all alone again, after three years of hunting and running and thinking of only one thing – coming home to John. What should he do now? Go upstairs, loudly announce that he had heard everything and then make John choose.

No. He's not that cruel.

Sherlock sighed. It started to rain.

The decision was simple. He will go to Ella's office, install there a cam and just sit and watch John leaving him.

And then. Then there would not be Sherlock Holmes anymore, because there would not be John Watson waiting for him.