chapter fourteen: ultimatum

Sherlock paced the flat hurriedly, his focus on the floor right in front of his feet. Each step brought clarity to another thought. He stopped abruptly and threw himself down into his armchair, tangling his fingers into his curls in exasperation.

At that moment, John walked out of his bedroom and spared a glance towards the frustrated detective. He paused, wondering if he should ask what was puzzling Sherlock, but instead continued to head towards his desk.

Sherlock untwisted his fingers from his hair and placed them back into his lap. He looked towards John, and studied him. Bags under his eyes, lack of sleep. Duly noted with the unusually large cup of coffee. Unkempt hair from sleeping, not going out anytime soon. Tapping of his fingers, waiting for the computer to load. Silence. Anger.

"John." Sherlock spoke the name before he had time to realize he had decided to grab John's attention. The army doctor jerked his head over, his tapping fingers freezing. No reply, just a simple look.

Sherlock wasn't entirely certain the look gave him permission to speak, it was an indecisive one, so he spoke anyway. "John. Irene left town." Sherlock was unsure of what else to say, so he left it at that. Irene had departed soon after he had solved Ella Whitaker's case. "So, the experiment is officially concluded."

"We're the results conclusive enough for you?" John turned back to his computer screen, which had now loaded fully. He began typing, beginning to block Sherlock out.

"I learned one thing. I learned I shouldn't hurt my friend, especially when he's the only one I have."

John halted his typing, but did not turn back to Sherlock.

"The thing is, you have to understand the experiment was never designed to hurt you. That wasn't the point, it was-"

John pivoted to look at Sherlock. "I have to understand? Me? No, Sherlock. You have to understand. You have to understand what you did to me." John was standing now, fists clenched in rage. "Sherlock, I cared for you. I had a lot of feelings I kept bottled up, for your sake. And mine, I suppose. But I knew you couldn't reciprocate those feelings for me, I knew you never would. So when you finally came forth, when you kissed me? I thought I was the luckiest man alive. The sole man who Sherlock Holmes cared about more than himself." John shook his head and laughed. "But obviously, I was right the first time."

"John, I-" Sherlock fumbled for words, unsure how to bring the argument back into his hands.

"I didn't sleep for day, Sherlock. Days. Do you know how unimportant you make me feel? I'm your only friend, Sherlock. You think I would deserve a little more respect than that. Maybe some recognition I mattered more than a pawn in your stupid little games?" John turned his back on Sherlock and ran a single hand through his hair, sighing loudly.

"John," Sherlock began.

"What, Sherlock? What else do you have to say to me?"

"I'm sorry."

The words stopped John in his tracks. His hand fell to his side, and his face flickered through

a series of emotions. He wondered if he had really just heard Sherlock Holmes, the man who never apologized, say he was sorry.

"I am sorry I used you. Forgive me." Sherlock stated it cleanly, simply, but looked right into John's eyes as he said it.

"No, Sherlock. I won't forgive you. I'm looking for a new flat." John had been

harboring the secret the last couple days, but between the uncomfortable silence and the

constant reminder of Sherlock's disregard, he couldn't stand to be at 221B anymore. He was looking into a nice, small one he could afford on his own. It was just down a few blocks. Part of him didn't want to leave, but the other part knew he needed to get out.

Sherlock looked at John, open mouthed. "John, you can't do that. You're my flatmate."

"Yeah, and I was your best mate too. But look where that got me." John sat back down at his computer. "It's settled, Sherlock. I'm leaving."

Sherlock rose from his chair and walked over to John, he stood a foot or so away, unsure of how close to get. "John, look at me."

Reluctantly, John looked at Sherlock, irritation painting his face.

"I need you, John. You can't leave."

In Sherlock's eyes, John saw something he never saw. He had studied those eyes for ages, and never once had pure terror come across in them. Sherlock's body remained stoic, but the way he looked at John caused the army doctor to pause.

"You have a day. One day. You decide what's important. Your experiments, or me."

Sherlock read the leniency growing in John's eyes, and the terror dissipated from his. He nodded in response. "I understand."

John grunted, and Sherlock retreated into the kitchen. To John, the decision seemed obvious. One right or wrong solution. But to Sherlock, facets of knowledge were at stake. Millions of things he would never be able to explore in risk of hurting John. Thousands of ways he could apply his mind, wasted, gone. However, he had always had plenty of those. He had only ever had one friend.

Sherlock leaned his tall body against the refridgerator, and sighed inaudibly. When had he ever valued petty emotions over the truth of science? When had he ever seen this issue as anything other than black and white? But all of a sudden, everything was more complicated. It was no longer a matter of what was practical and what was mundane. It was a matter of heart and head.