A/N: Hello again. I don't know why I've had such trouble writing this chapter. It was really stressing me out. Thanks so much to those who have read, reviewed or added. Means a lot and has kept me going.
As he walked through the park in the balmy Saturday morning sunshine, John's mind turned to an argument they'd had a few weeks previously...
John had finally decided to hoover, having had Mrs Hudson pester him for far too long. Him. Not Sherlock. Irritation had begun to creep in and plant its roots in his belly.
John had started on the stairs, feeling perplexed at the trail of rice grains which flecked the staircase like a fairy tale trail. Why on earth there were grains of rice on the stairs, John had no idea. Sherlock would have a perfectly logical explanation, of course. In the kitchen the floor was grimy, and covered with a strange pale grey powder which John was uncertain of. He very much hoped it was nothing explosive, as he began to hoover it up. Stealing a glance through the large kitchen doors, he could see very little of his untidy flatmate apart from his feet, which were propped up on one of the sofa arms. Sherlock hadn't spoken to him in three days, and had moved very little from that spot.
The hoover continued to hum loudly, as John pushed it heavily around the kitchen floor. Suddenly, through the din of the hoover, he could hear the faint ringing of the land line phone. John glanced again at the sofa. The feet did not move. He clenched his jaw, and jabbed at the appliance's power button with more aggression than was necessary. Pacing to the ringing phone, he grabbed it from its holster.
"Yes? Hello?"
There was a moment's silence.
"Would you please stop that incessant noise, Doctor Watson."
John lowered the phone to his side and spun around angrily. Sherlock Holmes' eyes remained closed, but his thumb pressed against his mobile phone which was then dropped heavily to the floor.
"Much appreciated," he smiled to the ceiling. John's eyes flashed in annoyance.
"Do it yourself then!" He marched back into the kitchen and began to wind the cord up.
"I'm sure you're doing a satisfactory job, John," came the voice from the sofa.
"Is that your way of saying you appreciate it?" John called back. Sherlock didn't answer. "You know, I won't be around to do your housework forever." Sherlock didn't answer straight away.
"In which case," he eventually told John, "I'll pay a cleaner to do it. At least I wouldn't have to hear them moaning about it all the time!" He rolled over towards the back of the sofa.
Sherlock heard angry footsteps up the stairs and John slamming his bedroom door. He actually gave a smile as he looked up at the ceiling, listening to his friend rummaging around his bedroom. What came next, however, had made him sit up suddenly from the sofa, his dark eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and his hair unkempt from days of pointless lounging.
The sound of a suitcase bouncing angrily on each step, echoed down the staircase. If Sherlock had been anxious, he made sure he didn't show it when John stormed into the room and grabbed his laptop. Sherlock adopted his original position, sprawled over the sofa, with a nonchalant expression masking his face.
"See you around," John snapped as he headed for the door.
"John, really! Not this again. This is the third time you've done this. I'm not going to fall for this ridiculous bluff," Sherlock said pointedly.
"It's not a bluff!"
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Yes!"
"Fine!" snapped Sherlock, rising quickly from the sofa and marching to John in the doorway. "Open your suitcase."
John scowled at his flatmate before pulling at the zip. The noise filled the silence between the two men, and John wrenched open the suitcase.
Sherlock's jaw nearly hit the floor. He'd been wrong. Wrong for the first time in a long while. Wrong about John.
"There are clothes in here," he stated pointlessly, bewilderment evident on his face.
"Yes."
"You're leaving?"
"Yes."
"Why?" Sherlock asked, blinking in confusion. John lowered his shoulders slightly, feeling his defences begin to weaken, but he knew he couldn't cave.
"Because, Sherlock, I'm fed up of cleaning up after you and your obvious lack of gratitude. I'm fed up of being nagged at by Mrs Hudson about your mess, because we can't possibly expect clever little Sherlock to waste his precious time doing things that we mere mortals are capable of. If you want to explode eyeballs in the microwave, then you clean the fucking microwave! If you want to throw rice everywhere for no reason–"
"There was a reason!"
" –then you clear it up afterwards. If you want to go traipsing around London in the middle of the night then you take your bloody key with you! I'm fed up with you!" John crossed his arms over his chest to signal he had finished. He took a moment to study his friend's face and was both proud and sorry to realise he'd upset him. Mainly, he was impressed with himself.
"Are you done?" Sherlock scoffed at John. He nodded. "Good," and before John could realise what was happening, Sherlock was grabbing a handful of clothes and throwing them out of the suitcase.
"Oh look, more mess. Poor little John."
"Stop it!" John shouted, grabbing back at the clothes which were strewn on the floor, and wrestling Sherlock as he tightened his grip on a pair of old jeans.
"No, you stop it," he bellowed back at him. "Having clothes in this suitcase doesn't make this any less of a bluff than the other times you've pulled this, quite frankly, petty stunt. If you wanted to leave John Watson, you'd have gone already."
"I'm leaving now!" John hissed insistently.
"No you're not," Sherlock answered snidely. "Because although you think you're unappreciated, which I may point out is not true, if you leave now you will never again find anyone who truly appreciates you as much as I do. Or, in fact, could bear to live with you! Quite frankly, John, you're a nightmare to live with."
John surprised himself with a laugh.
"You cannot be serious,"
"Quite serious."
John ran his hands over his face as he laughed at his ridiculous friend.
"Now who's bluffing?" he pointed out and Sherlock laughed, heartily. John laughed with him, and realised that being able to laugh with his best friend was worth the housework. Wasn't it?
As they picked the clothes up and shoved them back into the suitcase, Sherlock muttered something under his breath, and John frowned quizzically, asking him to repeat it.
"I'll buy the milk from now on," he muttered. "And I'll clean the microwave. Occasionally," he added. John smiled at him, knowing of course that it was just empty words. Sherlock had no intentions of buying milk. John wondered whether or not he'd missed his chance to escape, to run away from a life of decapitated heads in the fridge, and midnight violin lessons and countless phone calls while he was at work.
But of course John knew he couldn't live any other way. He couldn't function without Sherlock Holmes.
The sound of his crutch clicking in time with his own footsteps brought John out of the memory. He resented that walking stick, but felt strangely comforted by the feel of it in his hand, and so had decided to take it with him on his walk to the park. Up ahead he saw a woman, sat alone on a bench. She was tucking her strawberry blonde hair behind one ear as she looked up the pathway. A small smile reached her lips as she saw him nearer her.
"Hi," he greeted her quietly.
"Hi."
John sat down heavily next to Sarah Sawyer. The pair sat in silence for several minutes. John began to wish he'd asked her to a cafe, so he'd have something to do with his hands. He placed them on his walking stick, once again feeling comfort from having brought it with him.
"How are you?" he ventured, breaking the silence. She gave a scoff and turned to regard him.
John's body still showed the signs of trauma. He'd recently had the stitches removed from his above his eyebrow and the minor scrapes had healed into scabs. His ribs were still tender, and his right knee was heavily bruised from when he'd landed on it during the blast.
"You were in an explosion," she stated pointedly.
"Um...yes."
"And you're asking me how I am? You should have been dead, John."
"I know," he said quietly. He braved a glance up at her and saw tears shining in her eyes. He wanted to kick himself, hard, for being an arse. But he felt nothing. No guilt. Nothing.
"Did you get my letter?" he asked. She laughed again, bitterly.
"If by letter you mean your notice of resignation, then yes, I did."
She was pissed off. And rightfully so. The last time he'd spoken to her had been the evening of the explosion. She had been expecting him at her flat, and he never showed up. He'd been too busy with a bomb strapped to his chest. Men could be so selfish sometimes.
"I'm sorry," he said lamely.
"Sorry? John, I haven't heard from you in three weeks! You disappeared that night off the face of the Earth and I was worried sick. I had to find out you were still alive by watching the news the next morning. Do you have any idea how that made me feel?"
"I'm sorry," he mumbled again.
"I thought you were dead," she sniffled, rubbing fiercely at her face. John couldn't look at her. He didn't want to admit that he'd caused those tears. Instead he gave a deep breath.
"Well...I'm here now."
"Yeah, you are."
Silence fell between the pair. John watched the people that passed through the park. He found himself trying to deduce who they were, where they were going or who they were running from.
Serial adulterer. Unknowingly pregnant. Cliff Richard fan.
John was amused by his own nonsense. For that was what it was. He couldn't tell a thing about them. How could he possibly know? They were strangers, travelling through a park, from A to B. And he was staying still.
"I'm sorry about Sherlock," Sarah's voice came quietly. He snapped from his reverie. "If you want to talk–"
"I don't."
"John, please."
"No, Sarah. All I've had in my head for the past 3 weeks, for the past 8 months in fact, is Sherlock this, and Sherlock that. Can I please just sit for one moment, and not have to think about him!" He regretted his heated tone, and wished his cheeks didn't feel so hot.
"It's probably for the best," she replied. John frowned. Instead of feeling please with her agreement he felt suddenly irked.
"What do you mean?"
Sarah blew a strand of hair from her face before explaining.
"You've been through a lot, John. And however much you pretend that it wasn't a big deal, it was. It really was. Maybe now this is all over you can move away from all of that and just...be normal."
He blinked at her. She really didn't get it at all. He couldn't blame her, but he was cross that it hadn't occurred to her that he didn't want to be normal 'Doctor 9 to 5'.
"Look, don't be cross. What I'm trying to say is that I like you...a lot. And maybe we can seriously think about making a go of things."
"Now Sherlock's out of the picture?"
"I didn't say that," she snapped back defensively.
"No, but that's what you meant."
"Of course not! The man's dead, John."
"Don't!"
John threw his hands over his eyes and squeezed them shut tight. He thought of his little bedsit, after being brought home from Afghanistan. The little bed, and dodgy paint job and close walls that made him feel like he was a battered pair of loafers in a shoebox. He thought back to his therapy sessions, how Ella had smiled at him with mock interest when he'd told her he'd met someone that didn't make him feel useless anymore. And he recalled that moment in the lab at Barts, when Mike Stamford was bumbling about having left his phone in his coat pocket, and how he'd decided in a random act of kindness, to lend this stranger his phone because what harm could it do?
Sarah was talking to him, rambling in a vain attempt to turn the conversation around. He swallowed hard and opened his eyes, blinking at the sudden light.
"I can't do this Sarah, I'm sorry."
Her mouth hung open, mid-word and she blinked at him. He really was sorry. Sat beside him was a beautiful, intelligent, funny woman who liked him. A lot, apparently. But John knew that if she hadn't understood the relationship between him and Sherlock, then she didn't understand him at all. He wasn't relieved to be free from that life, just as he hadn't been relieved to leave the army. He missed that life, he missed Sherlock. He wanted everything back the way things were before that pale, trembling hand pulled the trigger and exploded John's life into a thousand pieces.
"I'm sorry," he repeated again. "I don't want to hurt you but I have to be honest. I'm not the man you want me to be. And I don't think I ever will be. No amount of explosions is going to change that. Maybe things would have been different if I'd never met Sherlock. But I did. I did meet him, and I wouldn't have changed that for anything. And if it ever came down to a choice between you or Sherlock then I would choose him...Every time."
Sarah recoiled, as if he'd physically struck her. Although his words seemed harsh even to his own ears, John immediately felt lighter within his stomach, as if he'd finally been hit with the realisation.
Pursing her lips together, Sarah rose abruptly from the bench. Her face was set, and she found the courage to meet his eyes as she spoke to him.
"I'm sorry for what happened to you." She began to walk away and then paused. "I hope you get over him one day, I really do. You're a good man, John."
He watched her walk away quickly until she was no longer in view. He was a good man. John knew it. He thought of Lestrade's words,
Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one.
John realised the irony, with a stabbing pain of grief to his heart that he, himself, was a good man, and he had been waiting for Sherlock Holmes to make him into a great man.
He would keep waiting.
John never saw Sarah Sawyer again.
John had sat on the bench, alone, for several hours watching people move along in their daily business. When the wind picked up, sending a chill through him, he eventually made his way home, picking up a newspaper along the way.
That evening, John opened the newspaper to the housing section, and pored over the To Let notices. He felt incredibly torn. He knew he couldn't afford to keep living by himself in a two bedroom flat in Central London without a job. He also knew he could never bring himself to advertise for someone to share the flat with him. As long as he lived here he'd always be reminded of the nicotine patches, and bad coffee at 3am, the skull on the mantelpiece, the nasty arguments, the eyes in the microwave, the tuneless violin, and the boyish giggling for long periods of time simply because it was easier than to accept that they were in serious trouble. Without 221b, there would be no memory of Sherlock Holmes. This very thought filled John with both optimism and dread.
However, when Mrs Hudson came into the kitchen later that evening and caught him with the property page open, she broke down into hysterical sobs which made John feel like a terrible, terrible person. She babbled incoherently through her tears, and John stroked her hand affectionately until she calmed down.
"Don't...leave me...on my...own," she stammered with hitched breath. John winced and bit his lip. Of course he couldn't leave Baker Street. What had he been thinking?
"I'm sorry," he muttered lamely, yet again that day. "I guess I'm just having a bad day."
Mrs Hudson nodded in understanding and threw her arms around him. He kissed her on the top of her head.
"I'm not going to leave you," he said into her shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere."
Of course he wasn't. He was reliable, faithful John Watson. And once again, nothing would ever happen to him.
He was stuck.
As he made his way upstairs to bed that night, he saw the newspaper had been shoved in the rubbish bin. He sighed in frustration as he turned out the light.