Hello, readers! Thanks for the support I've gotten with this story so far! You guys are great! :) Sorry this took a little while to get up. I sat down an umpteenth amount of times to write this, and it just wouldn't come out. Finally, I got this. However, I must say that John's reaction took on a life of its own. Apparently he wasn't content with what I planned for him.

I only have one more planned chapter to write and post, but this story might just take on a life of its own.

Let me know what you guys think!

Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock"

Friends Don't Abandon Each Other

John rapidly blinked as he tried to take in the tall, slender form standing in front of him. He brought hand up to his face and rubbed it across his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Taking a couple deep breaths to calm his racing heart, he shut his eyes to the world around him.

"Delete the blog, John? You love that thing. I was actually quite depressed when I discovered you were failing to update it," a cool, even voice that he knew so well spoke.

This isn't real. Pull yourself together. This isn't real. John shook his head to dislodge the voice that he had so desperately wanted to hear. Hesitantly opening his eyes, he once again found himself gazing into a pair of ice blue eyes.

His eyes.

No.

A small crease furrowed the plain between the man's dark eyebrows. He slightly cocked his head as he looked at John and whispered, "John? John, are you alright?"

"Sh—," John tried to reply, but found he couldn't squeeze any sound past the lump in his throat. "Sher—," John turned away from the familiar form of the man across from him and brought a hand to his mouth, rubbing his jaw. Mustering up the last of his strength, he turned back to the dark, curled hair man and pointed a finger at him. "You're—you're dead," he accused.

"John," the man berated him. "I'm standing in front of you, am I not? Please, explain to me how—with this evidence present—you could deduce that I am dead?"

"No. Just no," John choked out. "You—fell. You fell. I watched you fall." He clutched his head between his hands and doubled over, crouching back on his heels.

"John?" his former friend's voice took on a soft tone.

"No," John insisted, burying his face in his hands, willing the tears to stop but his efforts were futile. Salty wetness burned trails down his scruff covered cheeks.

A long fingered hand wrapped around his shoulder. "John," his quiet voice urged, "I assure you that I'm very much alive." The twin of the long-fingered hand grasped his other shoulder and shook him gently. "John?" he pleaded.

No.

It's not—

It can't be—

I saw—

I saw him—

Jump.

He jumped.

Fury welled up in John as he shoved the hands of his former friend from his shoulders and tossed them back at him. "You jumped!" John scrambled to his feet and brushed the coat off with quick, angry movements. "You bloody jumped and left me, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly—you left all of us Sherlock! And you've been God knows where for almost two years and now you decide to come back?" John laughed darkly.

"Listen to me," his former friend began.

John held up his hands, stopping any excuse that the man could possible execute with his usual fluency and eloquence. "Stop. Just stop. I'm done. You come back here after all this and act as if nothing has happened? I thought you were dead, Sherlock. Dead. As in gone, never coming back, irrevocable out of my life with no chance of returning."

The slender man's eyes took on a steely glint. "I'm your friend John. I thought you would—,"

"What?" John demanded. "Understand you? Forgive you? No questions asked, right? Because that's what friends do. Well, guess what, Sherlock, friends don't abandon each other. And you did a pretty good job at doing that."

Unable to stand the tempest that raged within his heart and mind, the weary doctor stalked away from the grave and the man he had once believed to be his friend. As he pulled the coat tighter around his body, another thought struck him. He turned on his heel and faced the lone figure, cloaked in a dark knee-length coat with a worn, dark blue scarf expertly wrapped around his pale neck.

"And another thing," John called out over the wind that was beginning to pick up, driving the thunderclouds overhead closer together, "what's with the coat and scarf? They're not even yours are they?"

"I had to make it seem real, John," his voice weakly floated through the wind to him.

John ripped the coat off his limbs and flung it on the ground. "It was all lies, Sherlock! How can you expect there to still be a friendship between us when you did this! You know what else, Sherlock? You know why Mycroft didn't come get your things and why I did? Why I was the one who arranged everything? Why I was the one who stayed at your grave the longest to make sure your final resting place was suitable?"

"Why, John?"

"Because he couldn't handle it! I don't care about whatever blasted feud the two of you have going on, but you're brothers and he was destroyed! He might not say anything, but he couldn't bring himself to do anything because he somehow blamed himself! He didn't want to ruin anything else for you. But we were different there! I did everything because I blamed myself! And now I see you standing there, as if nothing happened, and guess what Sherlock, I'm pissed! I lasted most of my life without you, I lasted these past couple years without you, I can last the rest of my life without you!"

"John," the lithe man began taking slow steps towards him, "you need to calm down. You're not thinking clearly at this moment."

A light rain began to patter on the ground and bounce of the two men's shoulders, nature's attempt to cool the fervent anger that was building between the two figures. However, her well-intended actions failed to aid.

"On the contrary, Sherlock," John retorted, "I've never thought more clearly than right now. Good-bye, Sherlock. And don't think, don't even think about coming back this time."

And with those last words, he turned and began the walk back to the flat, he's feet sloshing against the damp grass.

After a moment, he felt something heavy drape across his shoulders. He looked over to see his former friend placing his coat over his shoulders. Catching his eye, his thin lips rose up ever so slightly as he stated, "You'll get ill if you walk in this weather without a coat. I'd imagine as a doctor you would know that."

John stared at the tall man beside him. His dark curls were plastered to his high forehead; the stark color contrast making him appear that much paler. The doctor shrugged the coat off his shoulders and tossed it back to the man besides him. "I don't need your pity or your charity, Sherlock. It's your coat. Besides, if you don't wear, you'll get a bloody cold."

"Nonsense. Such a trifling thing wouldn't bother me."

John unwittingly let out a gruff laugh as he trudged through the wet street with Sherlock close behind.

"John, are you moving out?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because, Sherlock," John exclaimed exasperatedly, "I can't afford this place on my own. I found a small, cheap flat a few blocks down from the hospital. I'm moving in in two days."

Sherlock cocked his head, his brows scrunched in thought. "Why would you be paying on your own? I'm back. There's no reason for you to leave." With a few long strides, he reached his black, leather chair and collapsed onto it. He gestured lazily to the boxes stacked on the floor in various states of being packed, "You can put everything back to how it was." Letting out a sigh, he rested his head back on the cushion, shutting his eyes.

"Sherlock, I told you I'm moving out."

His former flat-mate's lips formed a thin line as he said, "No you're not. You said you were moving because you couldn't afford the flat on your own. You're no longer alone; therefore, you have no more reason to move out. In conclusion, you can unpack."

"If you think that I'm going to share this flat with you after everything you've put me through, you must have really cracked your head."

Ice blue eyes glared at him as a note of irritation crept into Sherlock's voice, "I'm afraid I don't understand why."

John let out a short laugh. "That's rich, Sherlock. You don't need to understand why; you just need to understand that I'm moving out. Have fun talking to your skull."

The emotionally drained man turned from the man who he had once shared so much with and headed to his room. He didn't turn as he heard footsteps behind him or his name being earnestly called. He stepped into his room and shut the door behind him, quickly locking it.

As John slumped onto his bed, a loud bang rattled the door.

"John. John open this door."

"Sherlock, go away. You're not changing my mind."

"John, I—"

A stifled scream rang through the flat before Sherlock could finish. John leapt to his feet and ran to the door. Unlocking it, he threw it open and ran into Sherlock's damp back. Letting a string of curses, he pushed around Sherlock to see Mrs. Hudson standing in front of him, one hand covering her agape mouth, her other clutching her heart. Her bright eyes were rimmed with tears.

John gave a weary sigh and took a step towards his landlady. "Mrs. Hudson," he began, but she pushed past him. He looked over his shoulder to see her stop in front of Sherlock. She stood there a moment before removing her hand from her mouth and slapping Sherlock's arm.

"Blast it, Sherlock, don't do that again. You almost gave me a heart attack."

Sherlock smirked down to his landlady and said, "Do forgive me, Mrs. Hudson."

The old lady let out another cry and wrapped her arms around Sherlock's waist. He in turn bent down and wrapped his arms around her thin frame.

"Oh God knows who much I missed you!" the landlady declared.

"And I, you," Sherlock replied evenly. He looked over her shoulder to John with fragile eyes.

John steeled himself and looked away. He might have to move out earlier than planned.