"Am I done here?" John pushed the case paperwork towards Greg, who sat behind his desk.

"You'd have been done in half the time if you hadn't kept checking your phone."

John knew Greg was correct. He had been distracted by Sherlock's silence, no response to any of the texts John had sent in the few hours since Sherlock left him behind in the alleyway.

"So I'm free to go, yeah?" John stood up from his chair.

"Any word from Sherlock yet?" Greg looked pointedly up at John.

John glanced at the phone in his hand. No new notifications. He shook his head.

Greg leaned back in his chair and propped his legs up on his desk. Tapping a pencil on his knee, Greg began with, "John, I'm not sure how to say this."

"That didn't stop Donovan earlier, and apparently you both think I'm an idiot, so really, don't hold back now." John put his hands on his hips, attempting to project more confidence than he felt.

"When you do see Sherlock, be careful with him."

John was itching to leave, but still had to ask, "What does that even mean?"

Greg swung his legs back off the desk and leaned forward on his elbows. "It's pretty obvious kissing Sherlock meant nothing to you, but are you sure that's true for him?"

"Of course." Once again, John envisioned Janine in Sherlock's arms. "I've seen him fake interest as part of investigations before."

Greg pursed his lips, betraying his hesitance about what he was going to say next. "John, in all honesty, I can say I've never seen Sherlock fake interest where you are concerned."

Those words echoed in John's thoughts as he flagged down a cab outside of New Scotland Yard. The implications were profoundly shocking, that Sherlock could be interested in more than friendship with John. He'd found himself biting back his usual I don't think he feels things that way because John had witnessed how much Sherlock could care. About him, about Mary, about their unborn child. Sherlock had the capacity to care so much.

A taxi stopped abruptly kerbside. "Destination?"

As John sat down in the cab, he knew he should return to the flat he shared with his wife. Things were strained there, to be sure, but there was a child on the way. John Watson was not a man who ran from his responsibilities. He had made a vow, one he intended to honor.

"Destination?" The cabbie's impatience cut through John's thoughts.

"Baker Street, 221B."

Never did find out the origin of the Moriarty video. Sherlock might be in danger. John convinced himself he was only concerned for Sherlock's safety, not the hurt expression on his face before he had turned and walked away from an active investigation, never looking back. That expression and Greg's parting words haunted John. Panic was gnawing at him, his mouth dry and stomach clenched by the time the car reached his flat.

Sherlock's flat, John reminded himself. After paying the cabbie, he opened the door with the key he had kept after Sherlock's long convalescence during the previous autumn. During his engagement, John had not accepted the key Sherlock offered, needing to delineate between his old and new homes, his old and new lives. Now he clung to the key, a reminder that Sherlock had given him his miracle yet again.

John tiptoed past Mrs. Hudson's closed door. It was still before midnight, but she must be asleep. That, or she had decided to shut out the sad violin music floating down from 221B.

John quietly ascended the stairs and stopped by the slightly ajar door. In the sitting room, Sherlock gently swayed with the movement of his bow while standing by the fire burning in the hearth. He had changed his clothes, now wearing an old t-shirt, pajama bottoms, and his camel-coloured dressing gown, the same one he was wearing when John asked him to be his best man. The memory of that day always filled John with fondness for his friend, but deep shame in himself. Shame, because Sherlock's funny, charming reaction to his question stemmed from the fact he had no idea what he meant to John. That John considered him his best friend, one of the most important people in his life. If I've managed to communicate my affection for him so poorly, is it possible I've misinterpreted his feelings for me?

The melody ended, and Sherlock lowered his violin. As he turned to place it in its stand, John said, "That was lovely."

Sherlock dropped his bow. As he bent over to pick it up, John apologized. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"I wasn't expecting you."

"Thought you'd want to know Shelton is in custody."

"Good. Thank you."

Sherlock had not looked at John once during this entire exchange. John took a deep breath. He did not want to have this conversation, but could see no alternative. He took off his jacket and settled down into what he will forever think of as his chair, and he indicated Sherlock should sit as well. He allowed himself a few moments to appreciate the warmth of the fire and the familiarity of sharing it with Sherlock before forcing himself to speak.

"So, why did you run off? That's not like you."

Sherlock shrugged as he carefully arranged himself in his chair. "I knew you had it handled."

"Bollocks."

Sherlock picked at non-existent lint on his sleeve. "You know I've always valued your capabilities. Your help is..."

John interrupted. "Quit it. Why did you leave?"

Sherlock folded his hands over his knees and continued to avoid eye contact with John. "Do we really have to discuss this?"

"Yes, whatever this is."

Sherlock jumped out of his chair. "Oh, for God's sake, don't pretend you don't know."

"So far tonight, both Donovan and Lestrade have called me an idiot, so feel assured I truly do not know what is going on."

Sherlock stood behind his chair and leaned against it. He shook his head slowly. "You are not an idiot, John. There are just things you choose not to see."

"Tell me. Tell me what I'm not seeing."

John's request was met only with silence.

"Was it the kiss?"

Yet again silence was Sherlock's only response.

"Why did it bother you so much that I kissed you? It was for the case."

Finally Sherlock looked directly at John, anger in his gaze. "But that's exactly it. How could you do that to me? Let me taste you just the once while showing me how little it meant to you. "

John was grateful he was sitting down, for his whole world tilted at Sherlock's words. He'd always known their friendship ran stronger and deeper than he'd previously experienced. But Sherlock had shown no interest in him, in no man. And John had never asked Sherlock about his past, but had rather made assumptions based on observed behavior - possibly asexual, leaning towards women, if interested at all. But not in John, who struggled to speak. "I did not realize how it would affect you."

"And don't you get how that is just another twist of the knife? When was the last time I did not put your needs above my own? Years, John, years. But you still perceive me as the callous man I was when we met, and it hurts me. You hurt me." Clearly frustrated, Sherlock hit his chair hard enough for John to rise from his chair and extend one arm to gentle him.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock held up a hand, his chair forming a barrier between him and John. "Stop, John."

John stepped backwards and collapsed into his chair, giving Sherlock the space he clearly wanted. "Let's just put this behind us, okay?"

"Put it behind us? Do you think I can just delete it, like any sort of inconsequential fact so many people have rattling around in their heads? Do you think I can delete anything about you? Have you understood nothing I've said?"

All John understood was the anguish in Sherlock's voice and the utter certainty that he'd put it there. "I am so sorry. I honestly had no idea."

"And I never wanted you to know. Because what possible good would ever come of it?" Sherlock waved a hand in the air between them. "Yet here we are. "

"Look, Sherlock, you're still my best friend, and I am yours. This changes nothing for me."

"Shouldn't it? Do you truly care about me so little that you feel no impact? Shatter my world, while nothing changed in yours?"

John knew he felt off-kilter, numb, and, worst of all, completely unable to say anything to ease Sherlock's pain. He kept opening his mouth, but no words would come out. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the flames burning low in the fireplace.

"If you leave now, the Jubilee line should still be running."

Please don't make me leave before we fix this. "I'd prefer to be with you. Maybe grab a late dinner?"

"John, I would appreciate it if you would leave now."

"If you're absolutely sure."

"I'm sure."

"Okay." John clapped his hands on his knees as if to show he was getting up, but remained seated. "I already gave my statement to Greg, but I can meet you at the Yard in the morning when you give yours, yeah?"

"That won't be necessary."

"I don't mind." John smiled at Sherlock, but it was wasted because Sherlock would not even look at him.

After a moment, Sherlock took a deep breath. "John, I think it would be for the best if we did not see each other for awhile."

"No, Sherlock. I don't agree."

"Please, John, just leave me be."

It was the please that did it. It was obvious his presence was painful for Sherlock, and making Sherlock suffer was the last thing John had ever wanted to do.

"Alright." John stood up and put on his jacket slowly, hoping Sherlock would change his mind and ask him to stay. But by the time he'd reached the threshold, Sherlock had not called him back.

John paused in the doorway. "I'll, uh, text you, see how you're doing?"

Sherlock gripped the back of his chair, knuckles showing white. After a heavy sigh, he made eye contact with John and said, "Good-bye, John."

"Right." John nodded and closed the door behind him.

The sad music from Sherlock's violin followed John down the stairs and out onto Baker Street.