Wow, two chapters in one day? Well, I can pretty much guarantee that will never happen again! My mind just wouldn't let me sleep until this was done. So enjoy it while it lasts! ;)

Disclaimer: I own nothing to do with BBC Sherlock.

What Did I Do Wrong?

Chapter Two: Alone Protects You

oOOOo

Sherlock didn't sleep at all the night after the accident, nor the next. His mostly-silent vigil over John was broken only a few times, once by Mrs. Hudson visiting and another Lestrade, both of whom insisted Sherlock sleep and eat. He refused sleep, but did accept a small amount of food, some tasteless substance from the hospital canteen. It wouldn't do to have John scold him when he woke up.

John... There was a problem with that. Sherlock was determined to never let John be hurt on his account again, but how to convince John to accept? He was a man of action, of adventure. Living an easy life without cases would be a hard sell. Still, Sherlock had to find a way.

But he knew John would never leave him to live on his own. That was the understood, tacit nature of their bond; neither could live without the other, though most of the time they didn't know why is was. They didn't even really want it so. But they couldn't change it, for that was just how it was. No, John certainly wouldn't willingly leave. And Sherlock didn't want him to, but he saw no alternative. John had to be protected.

After a nearly twenty hour stretch of time during which he was relatively undisturbed, the consulting detective formed a plan. It pained him to consider it, but not as much as the pain he would feel if something unspeakable were to happen to John because of him. So he would go through with the plan, no matter that he was clearly a coward and didn't dare tell John the truth, no matter that this would ruin everything. The plan would get him to his goal, distasteful a goal as it was.

It's for his own good.

oOOOo

Two days, fourteen hours, and nineteen minutes since John was shot and nearly drowned, he woke. Sherlock was downstairs in the morgue, having at last dragged himself from John's room, needing space for a while. Molly was off work, so he just sat silently, thinking about the plan and wondering when he could put it into action.

His phone rang. He answered it automatically, not even bother to check the caller.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Mr. Holmes, this is Doctor Hayes. I wanted to inform you that your flatmate, John Watson, is awake. He's asked to see you. If you would like to come visit him-"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock cut him off and hung up.

He pocketed the phone and took a deep breath.

It's for his own good.

He headed up to John's floor and John's room, glancing through the gap between the drawn shades and the wall, trying to see John. But all he could see was his own coat and scarf draped over a chair. So he'd have to enter the room to catch a glimpse of the healing John, then. No easy way out of anything in this situation.

He grasped the doorknob, and, steeling himself, turned it.

John was laying in bed and looking so wonderfully alert - if still pale and weak. He managed to smile at Sherlock as the consulting detective entered the room, and oh how it made the detective's heart clench.

"Hey, Sherlock," John greeted, his voice slightly hoarse but at least it was there, at least he was talking. At one point, just a few hours ago, he had been sure he would never hear that voice again.

But Sherlock knew the moment had come. He had to do this. So he locked away his emotions deep in his mind.

He nodded curtly. "John."

John's smile faded somewhat at Sherlock's tone. "Is something wrong?"

And here it was. Deep breath.

"We can't do this anymore, John."

John made a half-laugh sound, a confused sort of smile on his face, though his brow was furrowed. He thought it was a joke; he didn't understand yet what was about to happen. "What?" he asked, and Sherlock would have given anything in that moment to be John, ignorant and calm, so blissfully unaware of what Sherlock was about to do.

"You're a liability, John," Sherlock said, forcing his face to show no emotion but seriousness. "I can't have this happening anymore."

"Have what happen?" John said, frowning.

"This foolishness," Sherlock snapped. "If I'm to have a partner, I need one more sensible. If I wanted you to make such idiotic useless decisions, I would ask you to do so. Or ask Anderson instead."

John looked like Sherlock had slapped him, which might actually be preferable in this case. "Why are you saying this?"

Keep it together, Holmes. This is for his own good. "Because you've been slowing me down," he replied fiercely, somehow finding it in him to glare. "I've been thinking it for ages. I could have caught Evans so much faster if I hadn't had to slow down to wait for you to catch up with me! And that's not the only time it's happened! Not only that, but you slow my mind down! I hate having to stop and explain things to your mundane, achingly slow mind."

And oh, all that was such a lie. During the pursuit of Evans, Sherlock had actually sped up when John had called to him, and the doctor had still caught up. And he honestly enjoyed seeing John's wonder when he explained a deduction; it made him feel good about his ability for the first time in his life. And John wasn't mundane nor slow, never that. But John's wounded expression told him that those falsities had affected him nevertheless.

"Sherlock," he began, eyes bright. "I don't understand. What are you saying?"

Could Sherlock actually do this? He was starting to doubt that he could. John's expression was like a stab in his carefully-shielded heart. But then he remembered the sight of John's cold, pale body on a gurney, the fact that he'd almost died twice in the ambulance, the five hour surgery, and he pushed away the stabbing feeling. He would not let that happen to John ever again.

"I'm saying you and I," he gestured vaguely between the two of them. "Are done. You can't come with me on cases anymore. All that is over."

"Sherlock," John said, his voice rising in volume and jumping an octave. "We both still live together, we can fix this-"

"No, we don't and no we can't," Sherlock shot back, and his eyes were fierce though his insides were melting. "I'm leaving."

"What? Sherlock, no please," John implored. "We can-"

"You can keep the flat, I know you like it," Sherlock continued as if John hadn't spoken. "But I have been dissatisfied with our partnership for months now, perhaps longer even, so I am ending it. If you need help paying the rent, I suggest you speak with my brother. My things will be gone before you return there."

"Sherlock, please," John whispered, blinking rapidly against what Sherlock was terrified were tears. "Stop. Don't do this..."

"I already have," he said, his voice steady and unsympathetic. "From this moment forward, consider our relationship terminated."

And he stood, gathering his coat and scarf and leaving. He took a second or two longer than he could have, waiting to see if John was going to say anything else. But the doctor stayed silent, and Sherlock didn't dare look at him, afraid of what he would see. So he turned and opened the door. He took one second to pause.

"Goodbye, John." His voice was cold, stiff, and the sound of jarred him so much that it nearly made him give it all up, admit the truth, beg John to find a better life than this, and not make Sherlock go through with this hideous facade.

But John didn't reply still. Somehow that gave Sherlock resolve. And before he could change his mind, he was gone, sweeping away down the corridors and rushing out of the hospital as fast as his feet could carry him, because he couldn't stand to be there any longer. He couldn't stand to think of John's broken voice and hurt expression any longer, but his cursed mind didn't seem to want him to escape that jarring image.

It's for his own good. If he's gone, he can't be hurt again.

It's for his own good.

Somehow Sherlock ended up back on the Millennium Bridge, back where it had all started to fall apart. It was pouring rain, he realized, vaguely surprised he hadn't noticed before. He pulled his coat closer about him and stopped halfway across the bridge. Due to the massive deluge, there was no one else around him. Even Londoners didn't want to walk around in this mess; they would be in cabs or on the Tube instead. Sherlock, however, was glad for the solitude, and even for the rain.

He leaned against the railing, trying to stop his shoulders from shaking. A single tear escaped his eye, quickly mixing with the rain on his face.

It's for his own good.

I'm sorry.

oOOOo

John watched Sherlock go, confusion, hurt, and pain coursing through him like stinging acid. If he could follow, he might end up punching that maniac. So maybe it was a good thing he couldn't follow.

Still, what had just happened? Why was Sherlock so angry at him?

John blinked, trying to steady his breathing, trying not to break down.

What did I do?

I tried to save your life, Sherlock, is that such a bad thing?

What did I do wrong?

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Review anyway?