Title: Better That We Break
Pairing/Characters: Brief Sarah/John. Also, John/Sherlock friendship, or perhaps pre-slash.
Rating: PG
Word count: A little over 3100.
Summary: In which Sarah decides it's time to change her Relationship Status. Sherlock is happy with her decision, and John is resigned to it.
Warnings: Hmm...not many. Un-Beta'd and Un-Britpicked, but that's it. This one's very clean, if also a bit fluffy towards the end.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the positioning of the words. :)
Notes: I felt bad about making my last story so fluffy without even addressing Sarah, whom John may very well marry in Canon, if rumors are to be believed. So this is me, getting rid of the Female Love Interest in order to allow for more slashy-fluff. You can say that this particular story is set after The Great Game and before "Hydrophobia and Acrophobia".

After that terrible first date, Sarah made it perfectly clear that she would not be dragged into another case ever again. She liked hearing about the cases, but only after the fact, after the danger had already come and gone; she was smart enough to want to avoid the trouble that John could not resist. John agreed. Of course John agreed. It was…it was normal that Sarah did not want to deal with defying death on anything near a regular basis. He wouldn't ever dream of asking her or accidentally causing her to risk her life like that again.

They went on several more dates after that, so often that one could almost say that they were dating. It was nice. It'd been far too long since John had dated a nice, normal girl. Things in his life had just been so crazy for so long. There'd been no time for romance of any sort. Even now there seemed be to very little time; frequently he had to cancel their dates on Sherlock's account, and more often than not the dates they did have ended with a text from Sherlock asking for John's assistance or even just his presence. John knew by Sarah's tight smiles that this habit was a bit not good, but there honestly wasn't anything he could do about it. Besides, despite everything, she always said yes to the next date.

It wasn't until after the pool incident—after Sarah had heard that John and Sherlock both had nearly been blown up by a psychotic criminal mastermind—that she started to say no.

She always made excuses for herself, as if she was embarrassed about refusing—she had a family thing, or a friend's birthday, or else she needed to take her cat to the vet. It took several tries before she finally just looked him in the eyes and answered, "Can we talk about this tomorrow? We've both got the day off. Let's do lunch. And talk."

John didn't need to consult Sherlock to know what that meant, although that didn't stop Sherlock and never would. As the detective poured himself a cup of coffee the next morning, he told John in the most nonchalant voice he could muster, "You think Sarah is going to break it off with you."

John had been pulling on his jacket, but paused to glare briefly at his flat-mate. "Yes, actually, I do. I'm pretty damn sure of it, actually. She said we needed to talk."

Sherlock gave John a look, unreadable for its fleetingness. The detective turned swiftly back to his coffee. "Dull."

John couldn't help getting a little angry at that. It wasn't as though he hadn't expected Sherlock to say something to that effect, but that didn't mean that he appreciated the man's dismissive attitude. "Speaking as a man who's about to be broken up with, I'd like to say that I don't find this situation dull at all." He licked his lips to stall, trying to quell his temper. "Upsetting, perhaps, would be a better word. Disappointing, at the very damn least!"

Sherlock was unruffled. "Disappointing to you, perhaps," he quipped. "To me, this simply means that you'll have one less thing to distract you from helping me with my work."

John had to laugh at that, although the sound was bitter and unhappy. He approached his flat-mate and poured himself a cup just so he would have something to do with his hands other than throttling Sherlock. "We've been over this, Sherlock. The solar system revolves around the sun, not you."

John had just enough time to see the corners of Sherlock's full lips curl into a smile before the detective turned away to go sit at the beaker-covered table. "But wouldn't it be so much more convenient if it did?" he replied evenly. "Besides, don't try to tell me that you don't love our work."

'I won't tell you that,' thought John, despairingly. 'I promise I won't ever tell you that.'

"What if I told you that I loved Sarah, too?"

Sherlock scoffed suddenly and unabashedly into his mug. "Oh please! John, don't give me that. I know you're quick to loyalty, but we both know you're not that quick to love." He paused and suddenly all signs of amusement left his features. "Besides, you told me yourself that your primary intent was to get off with her."

John sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Okay, yes, I did say something like that. But did it ever occur to you that, perhaps, once the said getting off bit had been accomplished, that maybe—just maybe—I considered Sarah to be somebody that I might like to fall in love with? Maybe even settle down with and marry sometime in the distant future?"

Sherlock set his mug down on the table so hard that the rest of the glassware clattered and trembled in protest. "It did occur to me. And that is precisely why I'm not disappointed that she's breaking it off with you!"

If Mrs. Hudson had been listening to this row from the lower level of the flat—which of course she wasn't, don't be so silly!—the next sound she would have heard above her head would have been that of feet stomping their way through her kitchen and sitting room and then down her stairs, and then the sound of her door slamming. After that, it was poor Sherlock's shout of "Damn it!"

As expected, John was right about what Sarah wanted to talk about. Her reasons as to why she could no longer go out with him were all perfectly sound and justifiable, even if her entire half of the conversation sounded rather utterly rehearsed.

Even when she was a teenager, she said, she'd always known that she didn't want to date or marry anyone who would constantly be putting his life in danger—firemen, policemen, active soldiers, or even part-time assistants to consulting detectives. It wasn't worth it. She never wanted to have to answer the door to find out that her lover had been killed in action, knew she couldn't deal with it. She also knew that John himself wouldn't want to be with a girl who felt that way; he needed the life she didn't want, and he didn't need to ever feel guilty about it.

She paused once she got to that point in her little speech of an explanation. She looked a little meek at whatever it was that she'd been about to say, as if she'd just now realized that perhaps it wasn't the most appropriate thing to put out there.

Her expression fascinated John. "Well, go on. I promise I can take it." And what he meant by that was, 'I really wouldn't dream of blaming you for any of this, so please could you kindly take that sad look off your face?' but Sarah didn't seem to understand—or notice—the subtext. She averted her gaze to look out the window, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.

"John, it's just…well, I just feel that, if things ever got serious between us…I think things could only ever end badly. I don't want there to be—"

John cut her off with a lift of his hand. "Wait, wait, wait. Things could only end badly? How do you figure?"

Sarah laughed, because obviously he hadn't understood whatever underlying message she'd been trying to convey, either. "Are you really going to make me say it, John?"

The lines around John's mouth deepened. "I really don't understand, Sarah."

"I can tell." Another nervous, humorless laugh. "God, John, don't think I'm a bitch or anything for saying this, but I just don't feel like I could ever be your first priority." She looked him in the eye for a few seconds, trying to convey how little she liked being in this position. John just looked at her, his brow furrowing as her words hit their mark.

"So this is about me and Sherlock, then," he said quietly, evenly.

"Just a bit, yes," she answered, laughing shakily. "I'm not angry about anything you've done on his account—I promise I'm not—but I just feel like…like I've inserted myself where I don't belong…like you'd be happier if you didn't always have to excuse yourself." She let out a flutter of breath through her pursed lips. "I know you enjoy working with him…and well, being with him. You love his world, John. International smugglers, deranged homicidal maniacs—you love it all! And how could I ever expect you to choose dull, normal old me over all that? Over living the life that will make you the happiest?" 'With the person that will make you the happiest,' she didn't say.

John put his hands in his lap, licking his lips to stall again. "I was willing to try. Dull is nice. So is normal. Sherlock doesn't give dull or normal enough credit." He was just wasting time now, trying to see if a last-ditch effort to trick them both would work. It wouldn't, of course, but he had to try.

Sarah smiled thinly. "Sometimes, maybe, but not all the time, not for you." Her smile widened, then, became a little less sad and a little more genuine. "And besides all that stupid nonsense, it's simply unprofessional to date coworkers, especially ones that I hired myself."

John had to laugh at the deflection, and was glad not to really have to address her overall point. Small mercies. "Yes, well, I suppose that's true, isn't it? And I've really been trying to amass a somewhat respectable reputation down at the surgery. You're completely right about everything, Sarah." And he did mean everything, but he still wasn't sure if she was catching his nuances, or if she thought he was still joshing. For a brief moment he wished that Sherlock were there to act as translator, but he squashed the thought quickly. He couldn't think about Sherlock right now, or else he'd start to blame him. Despite their little row in the kitchen, John didn't want to be short-sighted about this situation, as was sometimes his habit.

He reached out to briefly touch Sarah's hand. "Thank you, Sarah. For, well, letting me down easy, I guess." His lips twitched into a crooked, ironic smile.

At least Sarah understood what that meant. She laughed uncomfortably and looked anywhere but at John. "Heh, I was worried that I was rambling a bit too much, or making you sound like the worst man in the world. That's not how I feel, you know. It's just not—"

"It's just not going to work. No, I understand. Don't worry about it. Besides"—and here his voice lowered—"I know I'm not the worst man in the world."

Sarah's eyes flickered around the restaurant, as if the real worst man in the world were possibly listening. For all they knew, he could have been. John had told Sarah all about his and Sherlock's encounter with Jim Moriarty and how all three men had narrowly managed to escape with their lives. Sarah knew enough about Moriarty to be unnerved at even the most casual allusion to him. When John thought about the consultant criminal, he was even more thoroughly convinced that it was probably best that Sarah remove herself from any connection with him. John had already shown his hand where Sherlock was concerned; he didn't need a huge list of people that could be used against him if Moriarty got them in his sights.

"They still haven't found him, then?" Sarah murmured, looking absolutely enthralled with the salad on her plate.

"We've seen neither hide nor hair of him since the pool, but we know for a fact that he isn't dead, at least. Sherlock thinks he's hiding out somewhere outside of London, biding his time until the Yard has to put his file aside and forget about him."

"But Sherlock won't forget." The implications behind this simple statement were obvious enough: if Sherlock couldn't forget, then neither could John. That's just how it worked.

"Yes, that's true. He's taking other cases, of course, but he won't really rest until we've caught the bastard." 'And Moriarty won't rest until he's completely destroyed Sherlock. Burned his heart out. God, I don't want that to happen. Sherlock's heart is—' "You're right, though, Sarah. I need to be able to…help Sherlock as much as possible. Thank you for…understanding that." 'I don't know if I would have understood on my own,' he didn't say.

Sarah nodded. "Right. Well. Hmm, then that's that, then."

"I guess so. Hmm."

A few somewhat awkward minutes later, John paid for both their meals before making a transparent excuse for getting the hell out of there.

When John came home, the kitchen had been cleaned and completely restocked with food, and the crisper was missing the assortment of severed ears that had been taking residence there that morning. John stood in the doorway of the refrigerator, staring vacantly in dumb surprise, for at least two minutes. He didn't come to his senses until an unexpected hand reached out from behind him and shut the refrigerator door. John started and turned to see Sherlock looming behind him, asking questions with his pale eyes. John was sure he found his answers in milliseconds.

Ignoring that, John said, "How the hell do you move so quietly?" at the same time that Sherlock muttered, "You were letting out the cold. You know Mrs. Hudson hates that." Then they both stared at each other for a few long moments, each refusing to show it if they were in any way abashed at the awkwardness between them.

Finally, just to have something to do with his hands and mouth, John jerked a thumb at the refrigerator behind him: "Mrs. Hudson threw out your ears."

Sherlock gave that quick, quirky smile of his and seemed to come out of whatever stupor he'd been in. "An understandable conclusion, but an erroneous one. I took them back to Molly. Id' finished with them." He eyed John for a moment, and then crossed his arms over his chest. "John, you're at military rest. Relax."

John started again and shook out his limbs for a second. "Damn it. Sorry. Um." His eyes flickered around the room. "Did you do the shopping too, then?"

Sherlock's nose wrinkled instinctively, but his intent eyes never left John's. "Yes, I did."

"W…Why? That's my job."

Sherlock finally tore his gaze away, turning to walk somewhat briskly into the sitting room, as if he didn't want John anywhere near him when he answered. John followed anyway. "You were busy." And John could tell—somehow he just could—that Sherlock was simultaneously attempting to apologize for their row and console John for the loss of his semi-girlfriend. The realization stopped John in his tracks. This caused Sherlock to stop as well, and to turn and stare at his friend again.

"That was kind of you," John told him, although what he meant for Sherlock to hear was, 'You silly git, you're not a sociopath.'

Unlike Sarah, Sherlock understood. He always understood. He nodded noncommittally, but it was obvious to John that Sherlock was pleased to know that John was pleased. The detective usually didn't care to please anyone, except perhaps himself. John had the decency to feel somewhat honored.

Without warning, Sherlock disappeared for a minute into his bedroom, only to return with his violin in tow. At John's apprehensive expression, Sherlock smirked and cocked his head to one side. "Don't worry. I only abuse my poor friend here for Mycroft's benefit. I'm actually quite good." He played a few sweet notes for corroboration, and then motioned for John to sit down in his usual chair. "Any requests from the audience?"

John shuffled his feet, smiling. "I'm, er, not really overly familiar with instrumental…stuff. I—"

Sherlock scoffed, but this time it was a familiar, not unkind sound. "Don't fret. I know what you'll like."

"Of course you will." Suddenly feeling exhausted, John settled back into his chair, watching as Sherlock readied himself to play, putting himself in a pose so disciplined and perfect that it belonged on the cover of a music catalogue, not in the middle of a messy sitting room—

And then Sherlock began to play, almost instantly mesmerizing John and erasing whatever thoughts that had been occupying his mind a moment before. The detective's angular body suddenly became liquid, all motion. The music that escaped the instrument was practically indescribable, although at the same time it spoke with more clarity and emotion than Sherlock ever could have allowed himself to in a situation like this. It spoke of bittersweet, somewhat marred or shameful happiness, and it immediately apologized for any sweet note with a long and dismal one. It said, very coherently, 'I'm sorry that something has happened to make you unhappy. I'm sorry that I'm happy. But I'd very much like you to be happy with me. We can figure something out, can't we?'

And by the way he closed his eyes and settled even more comfortably into his chair, John replied, 'Yes, I think we can. Don't worry, everything's fine. Let's just neither one of us run off for a bit, see if that helps any. I think it might.'

The next time John opened his eyes, Sherlock was gone. He'd left a note stuck to the microwave of all places, saying that it was time for him to put the results of the ear experiment into practice. John didn't quite know what that was supposed to mean, and that was good. He was better off not understanding everything his flat-mate did or said. Despite their ability to sometimes speak very clearly through glances and hints at meanings, it was good to know that they would still always baffle each other now and then. And besides that, it was good to know that, no matter what had been revealed earlier this afternoon, their dynamic hadn't been too irreparably damaged. In maybe an hour or so, Sherlock would surely come bursting back into the flat with a wild look—maybe he would need John's mobile, or perhaps he would drag John bodily to a pub and force him to pretend to flirt with the sister of a drug-dealer while Sherlock listened for information—and all would be forgiven and forgotten. And while he didn't want to think of the idea of a continued healthy relationship with Sherlock as a consolation prize for losing Sarah, John was nonetheless consoled. If he belonged in Sherlock's world, as Sarah suggested, then damn it, he was going to enjoy every bit of it.