John sat on his bed and stared at the large rucksack that he had packed, almost entirely with clothes. His room held practically everything of value he owned and he wasn't going to take any of it with him. He looked round at the various jumpers, pictures and various objects he'd picked up over the seven months of living with his genius flatmate. He sighed again and stood, stretching slightly, before making his way down stairs.
Sherlock still wasn't back, John decided that he'd probably been picked up by Mycroft for some reason or other. It was usually the case. Still, the longer he could put off seeing the detective, the better. He had no idea how he was going to tell his flatmate the news. The chances were that he would know as soon as he looked at John. Probably because of how he was standing or what he was wearing or something like that. The kettle whistled shrilly, making the doctor jumped as he suddenly remembered he had switched it on. In a sort of dreamlike state, John moved into the kitchen, grabbed his favourite mug-the one that Sherlock had been banned from touching on pain of an agonising demise-and made himself what he hoped would be a calming cup of tea. It wouldn't be but that didn't stop him from hoping.
After finishing his scolding cup of tea, John sighed and picked up the letter which he had put neatly back into it's envelope. He still didn't have the faintest idea how he was going to give the news to Sherlock. The bubbling knot of emotions inside him threatened to overwhelm him and he quickly squashed them, put them in a small box and placed the large rock of duty on top to stop them from escaping again. His country needed him. Just as his mind set itself on the task in hand, a new voice whispered from the back of his mind. But Sherlock needs you too. The soldier faltered slightly, recalling everything that had he had been told about the consulting detective. Sherlock had managed just fine before John had arrived, knowing the genius, he'd probably just delete everything about John and carry on as if he never existed. A pang of some unknown emotion hit the doctor and his physically winced before rounding up the stray feeling and placing it with the rest. The clock behind him struck twelve and the doctor suddenly realised how tired he was. With a groan, he stood and made his way up to his room. Pocketing the letter in his jacket, he undressed and slipped between the sheets of his bed.