A/N:

Thanks for the feedback! I am open to taking suggestions.

Also, thanks to Rebecca, my consulting fanfic writer :)

John sighed wearily as he placed his cup of tea back on to the table, which was cluttered with pictures of their latest case

"Maybe it was just suicide!" Sherlock shot John the most condescending look. He was angry, and frustrated with himself. Why hadn't he taken advantage of that night? He could have just told him then and there.

"No John, the wrists may indicate suicide, yes, but the briefcase indicates otherwise." John was lost.

"What about the briefcase exactly?" Sherlock scuffled through the photos distractedly as he spoke

"That one was easy. He wears a watch on his left hand; he left scuffmarks every time he put it down. But then why was the suicide note written by his right hand."

"Maybe it wasn't him writing it?" John said,

"That is the obvious answer and I am obviously not stupid" the insult was directly pointed at the doctor who was growing tired of Sherlock's remarks. After the last two weeks of being stuck with 'bored Sherlock' John's nerves were shot. He got up out if his seat to bring his cup and saucer to the kitchen to prevent himself from doing anything rash. Oblivious to John's feelings, Sherlock continued,

"The curved penmanship of the briefcase's contents matched the sloppy, right-handed writing of a left-handed man, so, why switch hands if he knew he was going to die anyway? Henceforth, not suicide. Now will you please leave, I need to think."

"You do know I live here right?" John said angrily "I can bloody stay wherever I like!"

Sherlock paused in thought, before clapping his hands together and smiling

"The floorboards were a splintering disaster! He was fairly clumsy since his shoes are two sizes bigger than his actual feet, maybe because the shoe store didn't have his size, more likely because he was self conscious of his small feet. Now, he trips on the loose floorboard as he runs up the stairs, catches himself with his stronger hand, splinters it very badly and can't write with it. That's why he had the glove on. If they had just let me touch the body this whole thing would have gone so much faster. Just a suicide. Case closed. Funny how you got that one right." John, near the end of his rope inhaled sharply, biting his tongue to keep from yelling.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, not at all!" John said, overplaying the sarcasm. "What in gods name could be wrong?"

"Excellent. Could you pass me my laptop? And a cup of tea would be superb, thank you" John let out a cry of exasperation

"Do you know what? You can find someone else to put up with you." Sherlock lifted his head up at looked at John with furrowed eyebrows

"So you are upset? I don't understand..."

"Sherlock, you constantly insult me, you don't even need me here and you act as though I am some sort of housekeeper! I am fed up with your bullshit!" John grabbed his bag and started to shove his minimal belongings into it

"What on earth are you doing?" Sherlock said

"Leaving" John shot back. He emerged from his room with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. He turned to go.

"Just one last thing, I want my cane back." Sherlock looked up at him.

"Alright then," Sherlock walked slowly into the kitchen, opened the cupboard and pulled out the doctor's old walking stick. His entire life before he met Sherlock was compressed into that one tiny object.

"Here, take it." John walked over to him and grabbed the cane's handle aggressively. The two men's faces were inches apart and Sherlock could feel John's hot breath on his cheek.

"Don't wait up" John whispered in his ear sending chills down his back. John ripped the cane out of Sherlock's hands, turned on his heel and walked out the door, not knowing that that would be the last time he would see 221b Baker St. for a long, long time.

…

The apartment was eerily silent. The leaking faucet dripping was the only sound that could be heard. Sherlock walked slowly over to the couch and sat down, putting his head in his hands. He had mucked it up. His best and only friend and he had mucked it up. Sherlock sighed. The house stayed quiet. He thought about running after John, but Sherlock didn't show weakness, to anyone. Why had he been so stupid? He had let the only thing that really mattered get away. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Sherlock dear, what's all the ruckus?" Mrs. Hudson's voice echoed up the stairs.

"Nothing big, Mrs. Hudson. John and I just had a little fight. He's gone out for a breath of air. He'll be back." Sherlock said, his voice sounding small and defeated in his ears.

"Alright. As long as everything is okay between you two." Then her apartment door closed with a soft thud. He'd be back, Sherlock thought to himself. He'd be back.

…

John was furious. Sherlock had been so annoying, so persistent, and so awful. The little things had been building up. That night he stood John up when they were supposed to be meeting for dinner to follow a suspect. Last week, when he had spilt coffee on John's favourite sweater to see if the stain would come off with vinegar… it didn't. He had also been bored and generally moody, which, unfortunately for John, meant he kept the insults flowing. John took deep breaths. He didn't really have anywhere to go. He decided he might as well just go back and face the embarrassment. Besides, it was getting dark and John had forgotten a jacket in his rush to leave. Suddenly, there were footsteps behind him. John turned to look, as a hooded man walked a couple paces behind him. John picked up the pace, so did the hooded man. John ducked into an alleyway, hoping that he would just move on, of course he didn't and as he stepped into the light of a street lamp, John recognized the man's face.

"Jim Moriarty" he whispered before he had a cloth put over his mouth and he drifted off into a deep dark sleep.