What was the world coming to? He brushed a few stray crumbs from the newspaper and held the toast aloft with one hand, turning the page in a swift arc and letting the paper settle once more. My god, what was the world coming to? He looked up briefly to see Sherlock staring out of the window, ignoring the scrambled eggs John had made with a resigned huff.

"I could always unscramble them for you," he said, trying to get the daft git's attention. He wished he hadn't when Sherlock glanced at him with a blank expression. Well that was a bit not good.

"Sherlock, are you feeling alright?"

"Why do you ask?"

John set down his toast and reached over to feel Sherlock's forehead. A normal temperature if a little greasy from sleep. The intimacy of having it on his fingers felt strange. He never usually saw patients at the surgery straight from their beds and the feel of it cast his mind back a few years. It was odd to think that Sherlock was like normal people with occasionally greasy skin and matted hair. He was usually good at masking an absence of sleep but shadows circles under his eyes seemed to be growing deeper of late.

"You just seem a bit, em," he searched for the least offensive word and then thought damn that Sherlock didn't do offended. "Well, a bit vacant."

"Oh."

"Mycroft on your case?"

"Mycroft?"

John surveyed him over the tea he raised to his lips.

"Your brother, Mycroft, yes."

"No."

"Right then. Well this may surprise you to know but I am not, in fact, a mind reader. So if there is something bothering you, would you care to share it with me?"

"I am fine."

"Fine?"

"Umm."

In his experience, the word fine meant anything but. Deciding not to push the matter he decided to change the subject.

"Any interesting cases?"

"No," Sherlock replied evenly, returning his gaze to the window. This version of Sherlock was more than a little alarming. Perhaps after all he really had knackered himself, likely dead on his feet.

"Maybe you should go back to bed."

"I'm thinking of retiring."

"The sleep will do you good."

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment.

"From consultancy. I'm thinking of retiring."

John set down the tea mug.

"What?"

"Mycroft made me a generous offer once. The hope is that it still stands. I am sure he would be more than happy to assist in the purchase of the flat should you wish. I know an army pension is hardly sufficient means for a mortgage. Or perhaps another flatmate would make it within reach."

"Sherlock," he said. "Just- what do you- what are you," he spluttered, fingers clenching hard to the mug handle. "You have got to be," he raised his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He must be in the middle of a nightmare. Across the small table Sherlock only looked at him with cold distance.

"You're serious. You're really fucking serious. I hope you're joking. You better be fucking joking Sherlock."

He really thought for a moment he might throw something.

"Let's hear it then, this offer that's caught your fancy."

"A minor role overseas."

"Right. Right, yeah. Of course. Are you really not having me on here?"

"No, John."

"So you're just going to leave."

"I will arrange some things in London and then ultimately, yes."

John sat back, straight against the chair, trying to find some purchase on reality.

"This is Moriarty, isn't it," he heard himself say. The almost imperceptible twitch in Sherlock's cheek told him he was right.

"If this is some attempt to be noble Sherlock, I'm not having it, do you hear? Whatever it is, whatever this psycopath is having you do, we can get through it together. Just tell me the plan."

Sherlock shook his head.

"It isn't a game, John. I intend to leave for my own reasons."

"I don't believe you."

"I'm honoured you have such faith in me."

"Stop it, Sherlock, you stop this right now."

He felt a blinding white anger descending into the space between them. His knuckles clenched tightly as his nerves were, Sherlock a picture of calm as he stood from the table, sweeping in an elegant arc towards his bedroom.

"Is it Irene?"

He stopped, head tilted to glance over his shoulder.

"The Woman. How could it be John, she's dead."

John felt the air taken from his lungs.

"No. No," he stammered. "Mycroft got her in that thingy, witness protection business." He found it incredibly difficult to be angry at this version of Sherlock. This one seemed so lost, haunted by a demon dog. "Look, Sherlock. I know you must be feeling angry and confused but you don't need to leap off into the sunset."

He made little show of any reaction before entering his room and closing the door.