A/N: Sorry this is a bit late... but between jet lag and losing (and later finding) my luggage, I'm a bit out of it. And thanks for all the lovely feedback for the last few chapters, it really means a lot! This chapter's just a bit angsty, forewarning you. Things will get worse before they get better, and all that.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the inestimable Moffat and the BBC and other people who aren't me. As always, a tip of the hat to ACD.
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Sherlock lay on his bed, three nicotine patches on his arm. He'd have put on four, but John had found, and consequently relocated, most of his stash and he had better things to do right now than try finding it. After Mrs. Hudson had sent him to his room he had brushed his teeth a good five times. He could still taste the nasty soap, but he could just be imagining things. Sherlock had taken a long shower too, but he still felt slimy inside. Dirty. Is this what guilt feels like?
What on earth was he going to do now? Mrs. Hudson had come up to tell him that John had called, saying he was spending the night at Harry's. Why Harry's? They're relationship is still strained at best... am I so repulsive that living with Harry seems like a good idea? Whatever John's reasons, it gave Sherlock several more hours to come up with a solution.
Two hours, three coffees, and four scrapped concertos later, he was no closer to an answer than he was back at the gym.
He tried talking it out with the skull, but that particular conversation lasted about thirty seconds before he tossed it frustratedly into John's chair. It wasn't a suitable replacement. At all.
Sherlock finally seriously considered the idea of John not coming back. Of him showing up in the morning, not saying a word, packing his jumpers and notebooks and battered laptop into his old army rucksack and second-hand suitcase and walking down those seventeen steps and not looking back.
He would never admit that the thought absolutely terrified him. That it shuddered through his very soul like a million sharp needles of pain. Sherlock could not let John go. But John was going to leave regardless, there was no other feasible possibility. He'd have come to terms with reality, despite how terrible it was. He only had himself to blame, after all.
Would it be better to just let him go? It was dangerous, staying with Sherlock. He winced, thinking about all the close calls. In the last few months, they had faced assassins and murderers from every corner of the globe. John had been held at gunpoint, kidnapped, poisoned, trapped at knifepoint, beaten, and strapped to bomb. Sherlock didn't think about that last one. He dreamt about it often enough. A few more seconds, and he would have pulled that trigger, sending them both, most likely, to their deaths. A split-second whim of Moriarty's, and he would have come home alone.
Just like tonight.