John had seen many things in his life. Bad things, abhorrent deeds, horrendous pain. He had smelt the scent of burning flesh as men were dying on the battle field, screaming in agony, burning alive, having limbs torn from their body by a bomb, being perforated by bullets or stabbed by a knife. John had seen things. Things that had haunted him ever since, every waking second of his life; and when he wasn't awake, they would find their way into his dreams. He never quite seemed to be rid of them, never once completely forgot them. John Watson had seen many things in his life. Bad things. But none of them ever touched him as intensely, shook him to the very core of his being the way the thing he was about to discover would.
xxxx
Sherlock didn't believe in foretelling the future. Logically, it's impossible; trickery and fraud, all of it. But at certain times there were moments for Sherlock Holmes, mostly during the chase of a criminal, when he just knew what was going to happen. Whether it was by some deduction made subconsciously, by a scent coincidentally picked up, by a little movement perceived from the corner of his sharp, analytical, calculating eyes, or derived from pure instinct he did not know; all he knew was that opening that particular door at that particular point in space and time would turn out not to be a good idea.
The moment the realization hit, though, the polished doorknob had already slipped out of his hand, beyond his control, exposing him to the hall outside.
xxxx
John jumped back from the door in exactly the right moment to escape its edge, which swung past only inches from his face, grazing the tips of his shoes and finally banging into the wall with a loud clash that echoed off the bleak concrete walls that made up the apartment building.
John's gaze fell on the silhouette in the doorway. The sudden light from inside the flat hurt his eyes after having stood in the dim hallway for so long. Since the light came from behind he couldn't make out the tall man's face but he didn't have to. John would have known this man from a mile away.
He knew every single one of his edgy features, the slightly lined forehead, the curved lips, the shock of black hair framing his face and those cheekbones that gave his face its unique and unconventionally beautiful shape. Peculiar, how John only just realized that now.
John couldn't believe it, it was impossible, Sherlock Holmes was dead- he had seen it with his own eyes. And yet, it was unmistakably him. Sherlock Holmes.
He wanted to scream at him, yell, tell him what a bloody bastard he was, then hug him and cry and laugh and never let him wander off again; but John had grown completely rigid, as if paralyzed by the sudden rush of emotion that had conquered him. There was a feeling he could not quite put a name to…something beyond relief and joy; something more powerful than his rage and fear.
John's face was absolutely expressionless, with only his eyes to betray the wave of emotion and the confusion inside him.
He could see Sherlock's mouth opening but no sound escaped.
There they stood, two best friends, a bare three feet from each other, yet it seemed like a world lay between; neither knowing what to say or do; the situation was so far beyond anything life had ever prepared either of them for.
"John." Sherlock had taken a step towards him; he was now no longer than an arm's length away. Now that he'd moved out of the doorway, John could make out Sherlock's face. It was completely still as always, with only the slight downward curl of his lips bearing witness to the agonizing pang of regret, guilt and longing inside him.
"John" he said again, in that deep grave voice of his.
John Watson started slowly shaking his head, looking at his toes. Without further ado, without having said a word, he turned on his heels and began descending the stairs at something that was almost a run. All he could think of was to get out, to escape this madness, all those emotions he had been trying to hold back for so long. Behind him he heard Sherlock calling his name again, alarmed this time but John never looked back, all he wanted was to get out.
xxxx
"JOHN" Sherlock yelled once more, rushing to the handrail, his coat flapping behind him, grasping the rail with both hands, only to see John Watson hurrying down the stairs and leaving the building.
In a blind wave of panic, he made to run after him but a gentle hand on his chest held him back.
"Let him go" Molly whispered.
Panting, Sherlock stared at her in disbelief, then an empty expression occupied his eyes at the shock of the scene that had just taken place right there in the dim and dusty hallway. That's what it felt like: a scene. As if he hadn't been part of it. After all, this couldn't possibly be reality. John would never just walk out on him. Not John. Not his John. He would be happy to know Sherlock wasn't dead. Or was he? Nothing made sense anymore.
There he was, Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world, absolutely clueless at what had just happened.
Molly must have brought him back into her flat because the next thing he knew, Sherlock was sitting on her sofa, looking at the world through a trance. Everything had a slightly milky quality to it. The way he saw things, he had just managed to scare off the only friend he'd ever had. His only, his best friend.
"He'll come back, you just startled him" was all Molly had to say in her clumsy attempt to comfort him. Sherlock just nodded absently before stretching out on the sofa and pulling the woolen blanket up to his chin.
When Molly got up the next morning, Sherlock was gone.