It was Mycroft that finally told John. He had called, frantic after the third day that Sherlock was gone. It was Sherlock's brother that had to tell John that Sherlock had left him. He had come in person, and he watched as John sat down, taking deep breaths to keep from crying.
"Did he plan it?"
"I don't believe so." Mycroft did not sit down, "He just found someone interesting and… well, you know how he is."
John ran his fingers through his hair. "I do…" He composed himself and looked up at Mycroft. "I should have picked you, Mycroft. You wouldn't have done this to me."
Mycroft looked at him sadly. "No, I would never have left you."
John shook his head. "I just thought… that… Well, I thought wrong." He took a shaky breath. "I suppose that I should move out. It is Sherlock's flat-"
"If you don't want to move, you don't have to. I'll keep covering Sherlock's part of the rent. And if you'd like to move, you are welcome in my house," Mycroft interrupted. "Sherlock didn't deserve you."
John looked around the flat and kept himself from crying. "I'd like to stay, Mycroft… This is- was our home."
Mycroft just nodded. "My invitation is still open, if you change your mind."
Sherlock opened the door, walking into the flat. He was surprised at how clean it was; Mrs. Hudson must have dusted. He frowned when he saw that John's stuff was still here. He must have moved out in a hurry. Mycroft had said that John had moved out, and there was no reason to go back to 221B, but Sherlock had wanted to see it again before the last of his stuff was collected and he moved somewhere else. Sherlock gently touched John's armchair. He missed John. Mycroft refused to tell him where he was now, although Sherlock knew he could eventually pull it out of his brother. It would be harder than normal; Mycroft was protective of John, more-so now.
Sherlock sighed and walked into the kitchen, jumping with surprise when a bat swung out to hit him. He reached up and caught it- not enough force and too slow to be swung by a vampire, therefore a human, most likely male. But what was he doing in his flat? A burglary?
Sherlock pulled the bat out of the man's hands, throwing it to the side and grabbing the man's wrists, pushing him up against the wall and pinning him there. The man struggled against Sherlock, who twisted the man's right wrist until it broke, the man crying out in pain and- it was John. Sherlock's eyes widened in shock and he let go of John, taking a few steps back.
"John?"
John cradled his wrist, and looked up when he heard his name. "Who-" a pause, "Sherlock?" He reached out with his left arm, gently touching Sherlock's chest, checking to see if he was solid, real. His face flickered through several emotions – all of them negative – before settling into a hard, blank expression. "What are you doing here? Did you change your mind? Have you decided to live here instead? I'll go pack if you have."
Sherlock just stood there, watching John, John, trying hard not to fall apart in front of him. He reached forward and kissed John hard, holding his face in his hands. "I missed you," he muttered, tightening his hold when John tried to pull away. "I know you missed me. I know you love me."
John pushed against him with his good arm. "Let go. I don't want to see you…"
Sherlock shook his head, pinning John against the door again, kissing him. "You're mine. You don't get to decide." He felt John's heart speed up and he could feel that John was scared. Sherlock kissed down John's jaw. John shouldn't be scared. Sherlock moved to John's neck, kissing it softly and frowning when he came across a plaster. He pulled it off slowly, revealing obvious bite marks. Sherlock growled softly. Who would dare feed from his John? Who would John let feed off of- Mycroft. Bloody Mycroft.
Sherlock slid John's stripped jumper down his shoulders and bit hard into John's neck, relishing the soft whimper. Maybe John would remember who he belonged to now. Sherlock fed messily, the blood flowing over John's shoulders, staining his jumper. It dripped down Sherlock's chin as he licked it off of John's skin. Mine. Mine.
John finally just slumped against the wall and let Sherlock do what he wished, his eyes shut. Sherlock kept feeding off of John's delicious blood until he felt water hit his face. He looked up, seeing tears falling down John's cheeks. He didn't make a noise, didn't shake. Just cried, his eyes squeezed shut. Sherlock pulled away slowly, "John?"
John jerked away from Sherlock, taking steps away from the vampire as soon as he was released. "Yes, Sherlock?" He was still bleeding, soaking his jumper red. Sherlock frowned, watching John. John had aged; he looked exhausted and upset, wiping at his eyes.
"Why are you upset?"
John looked at him, a bit of surprise and anger in his eyes. "My husband, whom I'm forced to love for eternity, leaves me because he gets bored of me, shows up three years later unannounced, breaks my wrist and forces me to let him feed off of me, and you're asking me why I'm upset?" He took a deep breath, trying to calm down. John shook his head. "Look, I just want to go back to pretending you're dead, and pretending that I'm happy with Mycroft. I'll even move out and you can have the flat. I just want to forget that I ever made this mistake." Sherlock went to take his hand, to reassure him that they hadn't been a mistake, before realizing belatedly that John… John wasn't wearing their wedding ring. Sherlock dropped his arm.
Mistake. John honestly thought that they had been a mistake. That John should have chosen someone else. Not Sherlock. John thought that he should have chosen Mycroft. Mycroft, the smarter, older, better brother.
Sherlock frowned, but nodded. "Alright. You can move in with Mycroft, and I'll stay here."
Hurt flashed over John's face for a moment, before he hid it, walking past Sherlock and grabbing his phone, calling Mycroft.
It was another three years before Sherlock saw John again.