Mia

John did not move out immediately. He remained in the flat as the days blurred by - causing me to conclude that he would do so for an indefinite amount of time - though was nothing more than a shadow. I felt the strongest sense of loss whenever I found myself staring at the closed door to his bedroom or even small, insignificant things like catching sight of his coat hung up in the hall or, as it was more often, slung over the banister Mrs Hudson was endlessly caught up with her friends or her sister and, in consequence, did not return to 221B a lot of the time. Which left Sherlock and I.
I was beginning to question how much longer I could remain in the flat myself. Now that John no longer wished to be around me or Sherlock and Sherlock found it hard himself to tolerate my presence, it seemed as if there was no longer any reason for me to stay. And yet I didn't want to leave. The thought of leaving it all behind terrified me. I had no idea what awaited me at my own flat. The man, the man that haunted every inch of my reality and every figment of my mind, knew where I lived. He would find me soon enough, I was sure of it. He had not struck me as a person who would be willing to give up so easily.
John had helped me; saved me. But I doubted whether he cared anymore. I was a burden. I had only come between him and Sherlock. And yet there was something that worried if I left, there was nothing to prevent them both from distancing themselves completely. I had to stay. I had to fix what I had broken.
I still thought about that night. I could still feel his arms around my waist; smell the scent of his skin. I dreamed about him most nights, when I did not dream of darkness. He had never let anybody close; John was the only exception, and I was not worthwhile to be the second. Knowing this, I felt my heart cave in whenever I looked at him. It wasn't even because I was in love with him and that he did not feel anything for him. It hurt, of course, but I had grown to care for him so much that I simply longed for him to be happy. No. It was because he was hurting and he wouldn't let me help him - I think that was the worst part of it all.
I had come to understand that Sherlock could and would never love me. I did not think he had a heart. He was cold at times but I did not believe he was truly cruel. He simply did not know how to love another human being. After all, he was not a human himself but something else entirely. He did not belong in this world. And I think that made him lonely. But loneliness was not something he quite knew how to cope with, let alone determine, and so he masked that insecurity with hostility and coldness. It was not Sherlock's fault that he did not possess a heart. And yet even when I attempted to tell myself this fact, it still made my own heart ache.
He had been avoiding me for days since the incident. He had almost let me in, but then the few foundations he had built crumbled and fell within moments and were replaced once again by debris and rubble and the broken remnants of a devastating destruction. Whenever we passed each other in the corridor or found ourselves in the same room, he would politely excuse himself and say nothing more. It seemed as if he wished to forget it completely...or perhaps just simply forget me. Either way, he reduced me to despair.

Sherlock

Gradually, as the days began to pass, things began to return to normal. Or rather, as normal as they could have been. John still refused to speak to me or even acknowledge my presence. We remained as distanced as we could possibly be remaining within the same four walls of a home that, recently, had come to feel more of a prison. I spent most of my time at the morgue, caught up in experiments and analytical forensic research, where she would not find me. Mrs Hudson fussed regularly, the little amount of time she was home, but that was to be expected. I shook her off with feeble excuses that I know she could see through but she too did not question me. Perhaps she and John had discussed the matter together. It was unlikely; I doubted whether John had even noticed at all.
Now I stood at the window, my violin long forgotten in my hands, watching the world beneath me; the endless streams of people that passed by and the lights from car headlights that flashed so brightly only to then dissolve completely into darkness. It all seemed a million miles away from where I stood. The world below me was so small and so insignificant and yet so beautiful. For a single moment I almost forgot that things were not right, but then the sound of the door handle turning plunged me back into reality. Its mere sound was like a bomb exploding amongst the dead silence of a long forgotten battlefield. I kept my back turned, fists clenched tightly, as I waited. Please let it be John, I pleaded. Please don't let it be her.
"Sherlock?"
And there it was - the voice that caused all the walls and foundations I had begun to build over the past few days to crumble down in an instant. The mere sound of it filled me with dread. I swallowed hard and turned around. She was wearing that nightdress again, the one that belonged to Mrs Hudson; white, patterned with flowers, ending somewhere above her knees. Her hair was messy, unkempt, as it always was.
"Hi." She said finally. One word. A single word that somehow managed to convey both concern and tenderness.
"Hi." I choked out. My voice sounded strange even to my own ears. I mentally cursed myself for not being able to compose myself properly.
"Any new developments?" She asked, casually, gesturing to the scribbled notes that currently littered every available inch of the coffee table. After staring at them for an hour and a half, I had finally given up and begun playing music in hope that it would help to clear my thoughts - it hadn't worked.
"Not as of yet." I mumbled.
She nodded and we were reduced to silence once again. She took a few steps closer, causing the breath to catch in my throat, and took a seat in the armchair I had been sitting in. No, my thoughts screamed desperately, don't sit down. You can't do this to me. Please. Please leave.
"Am I disturbing you?" She asked.
I wanted to tell her that she was but somehow I couldn't quite form the words. When I failed to reply, she got up from the chair and approached me. I turned from her sharply. I kept my gazed fixed on the broken streetlamp outside and watched it flicker.
"Is there something wrong?"
I said nothing, just shook my head, but it did nothing to convince her.
"You can tell me," She said. Her voice was soft but it still caused me to flinch. "Something's happened, hasn't it?"
"I'm just tired." I announced, finally having found my voice.
"But I thought Sherlock Holmes didn't sleep?" She smiled but I did not return it. I watched it fade from her lips wordlessly. "Please just talk to me. Mrs Hudson is worried about you..." She paused as I looked up at her, I was suddenly and foolishly filled with hope that she might utter John's name, but she did not. She noticed my evident disappointment and bit her lip. "I'm worried about you."
"There's nothing to worry about." I told her, bluntly, continuing to avoid her gaze. "Perhaps if you took the time you wasted pointlessly worrying about me and invested it in trying to find Jim Moriarty, we would progress considerably more in solving this case."
Undeterred, despite my bluntness, she took a step closer towards me. Before I could stop myself, I glanced at her. She was staring at me, the light from the fire reflected in her eyes. I swallowed.
"I know you're lying to me." She said, quietly. "I know that there's something wrong. You haven't spoken to me in days and you keep trying to avoid me...why won't you talk to me?"
Something inside me snapped, causing a deep rage to swell within me. Before I could stop myself, I faced her angrily.
"You want to know why I won't talk to you? Because I don't want or need to. Even if there was something wrong, you would be the last person I would ever attempt to confide in. Why would I ever want to tell you anything? You are nothing to me. Nothing."
Silence fell. Seconds passed. I waited for her face to crumple but it remained still - motionless. For a moment it felt as if the world had stopped, as if time had ceased and no longer existed. But then she closed her eyes, as if processing my words, and I realised that it couldn't be possible. When she opened her eyes again, there was no hurt or sadness or even anger; she just looked lost. I opened my mouth to say anything, anything at all to erase my cruel words, but she had already turned away from me and had begun to walk away. No sooner as I had uttered the hopeless apology "I'm sorry", the door had already closed quietly behind her shutting me out for good.