/A/N: Yeah it's been a while since I've last written anything here I know. Please don't get used to this. I'm simply using writing as a way of getting some of my feelings out, it's not going to be a permanent return/
John was exhausted. As much as he loved having his own practice, it would be lying to say that it wasn't exhausting at times, both mentally and physically, dealing with his patients' problems on top of his own. He knew better than to stew over personal problems at work, but there were times he couldn't help himself, and it absolutely affected how he felt coming home at the end of the night. A small persistent migraine laid right between his eyes and he wasn't in the mood for chatter, much less anything else. Two ibuprofen, a glass of cold fruit juice, and a good night's rest was all he wanted.
Mary had been kind enough to drive him to his office and back, to and from their shared home on the other end of town, albeit something clearly hostile rest between them. She hadn't spoken to him in the past day or so, only answering him with vague gestures and a sharp scowl that hadn't left her face the entire time. In fact he could've sworn she slept with that same look. And when questioned about why she had seemed so off, she only answered with "I think you know." He couldn't handle the psychological warfare of such a question, obviously if he had known what the problem was he wouldn't have asked would he? It had triggered a ptsd response from his entire being and he left it at that. Pushing it any further would only destroy his mental health more.
And as for Sherlock? He hadn't left John with very much to work with in recent months, and John wasn't about to try reaching out to him again. He understood Sherlock had quite a handful of things to deal with himself, but the way he acted at times was appalling. He wasn't the only one who was dealing with major changes and life events, but he sure did act like it. Through the house fire, the illness and homelessness that had followed John for months, Sherlock had seemingly disappeared. John had beaten himself up numerous times for not being there for him when he needed it, but he had to remind himself that he was dealing with many things on his own as well, and that he needed to take care of himself first before catering to others anymore. His few friends understood that; Sherlock, however, did not, and would pounce on the chance to dig it up every time John wanted to bury it. There was no amnesty for John's shortcomings, and Sherlock made sure he knew.
John had since become quite bitter, and owned it now that he need not pretend he wasn't. The same eyes that used to look at Sherlock with admiration and adoration had since dulled, a passionate flame now smothered by a quiet resentment that John himself still wouldn't admit he had. He had promised Sherlock he would never abandon him, no matter how hard things had become. But the Watson that had made such a promise was no longer there, now replaced by one whose heart had been broken one too many times for comfort. He was better off without Sherlock, he knew this much. But it wasn't what he wanted. He loved the danger that came with the consulting detective's companionship. He would even go so far as to say he loved the detective himself.
As soon as he made it home, he excused himself to go take a hot shower. His grand solution was one of avoidance; the farther away he was from his problems, the less he had to worry about. Stepping into the master bath, he turned the water on and set the temperature and was quick to remove his shirts, his pants, undergarments, wrist watch, and… He couldn't do away with his rings. The two rings he had that had meant more to him than anything in the world; a matching engagement ring he had with Sherlock, and a silver promise ring Sherlock had engraved just for him. He stared at the rings on his fingers, torn between his feelings for Sherlock and the growing feelings of anger and resentment he harbored towards the man for leaving him when he needed him the most. He worked the rings off his fingers and took turns looking them over, pondering what they had meant to him, and deciding what he needed to do to start healing. With that thought in mind, he pulled the sink drawer out. Giving them one last solemn look, he dropped the rings in and shut the drawer, and stepped into the stream of hot water, hoping the natural dips his fingers had from years of wearing those rings would soon disappear.