Oh God... he'd said it. John had said the words out loud and somehow they just sounded even more ridiculous. He registered maybe the tiniest flicker of shock on Sherlock's face, but then it was gone. Why did he have to be so hard to read at the worst times?

From the moment Mycroft had come out with those words, there had been two thoughts in John's mind. Disbelief gradually changing to a sort of relief, along with a question: What on earth is Sherlock going to say?

It mattered to him what Sherlock thought about him and others. Sometimes that was a bad thing – Sherlock's versions of morality and views on the world were sometimes so frustrating – but still, there it was. As much as he was dooming himself by admitting it, John cared about this eccentric and brilliant man. Not just what he thought... but about him generally.

There was a few moments pause. Sherlock took a step away from him.

"They want you back. On the front line or...?"

"No, no. Teaching, teaching new cadets."

"I was about to say, you're hardly fit to serve on the front lines, are you?"

This bald statement caused a look of mixed shock and hurt on John's face, one that Sherlock didn't catch as he had turned away. Mainly so he wouldn't see that. He knew that had been a low blow, but he already knew what could be coming, and didn't know what to say to keep it from being so.

"Even if that's the case, I would be helping those that are fit to serve."

"And where would you be doing this, exactly?"

"Well... Mycroft showed me a letter from my former Commanding Officer, Major Conrad. It offered me the position, at a training barracks in... Edinburgh."

With his back to John, Sherlock closed his eyes. Edinburgh. Not as far as Afghanistan, but it was far enough. Even just down the street would have been far enough. John would not be working with him anymore. That tie was severed, and to Sherlock, it felt like all the ties of their friendship would unravel as a result. He heard John move closer to him and somehow, didn't want that.

"It's not forever, I know that. But... it's twice the pay I get currently, and... well, it would feel like i'm giving something back."

"Oh, I highly doubt that's all the reason." The tone of Sherlock's voice made John stop, tense. It was... cold.

"What do you mean by that?"

Sherlock turned to face him, and somehow there was something that unnerved John as their eyes met.

"Well, it can't be fun always being in my shadow, can it? Following behind me like a little pet." He used the word deliberately, and saw the twitch of reaction. John hated being referred to in that way, had hated Moriarty's use of it. "Constantly being outshone, outclassed. You want to be the one in the limelight for once, is that it?"

This accusation was so unfair that John couldn't find the words to answer for a moment. Alongside the anger was... he wasn't sure what this was for a moment. It was hurt... fear... he didn't want to be talked to this way, not by Sherlock, not by the man he...

"I have never thought that way Sherlock. I know you're better then me with the investigating and i've accepted that. But i've helped, you can't deny that."

"Oh, so I am to be grateful for the occasional bit of gun work and a loyal companion? I could do this without you."

"Then why have me around?" John's voice had raised now.

"Ugh... search me!"

Sherlock had thrown his arms up in apparent anger. He walked away, sat down before his laptop, booted it up. Any excuse not to look at John, not to betray his thoughts. Then, John's voice broke the silence. There was a tremble in there.

"You're making this decision a lot easier for me Sherlock, thank you. I'll ring Mycroft. Excuse me."

And before Sherlock could respond, John had left the room and closed the door. Effectively ending the discussion.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Mycroft was delighted by John's acceptance, and told him that a seat on a train to Edinburgh would be booked for a few days time. Rather then stay in the flat, John spent his last few days in London with Sarah.

The morning of his departure, he came back to collect his things. Sherlock was at his laptop again, and didn't raise his eyes from the screen for the half hour it took John to pack. Finally, on the threshold, John glanced back.

"Well... this is it then."

"It seems so."

"... Bye."

"Goodbye."

John waited another second, but when it was apparent that Sherlock was not going to say anything else, he shrugged and walked away. Sherlock heard him say goodbye to Mrs Hudson... the door open and close... and the sound of his taxi pulling away. He sat there for a long time, staring at nothing in particular.

In the taxi, John impatiently brushed away moisture from his eyes. What use was there in getting emotional? If Sherlock didn't care... then John wouldn't either. New commitments, new beginnings.

… If only his heart would listen to his head and stop hurting.