Three months on, and still John paced around Sarah's house. He hardly ever sat still anymore, and it was clear to Sarah that he was suffering far beyond comprehension. But when she asked him what was wrong, he would always reply "Nothing" and then carry on walking.

John sat, fidgeting, at the dinner table as Sarah brought in the plates. His face was tight and drawn, his lack of sleep apparent. As Sarah placed the plate down in front of him, he said "Thanks, Sarah." And then he was silent, and he poked his food twice with his fork before eating it.

Sarah watched him anxiously. "John." Her voice was worried, and John looked up, startled by her concern.

"What is it, Sarah?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers, but not quite seeing her face.

"John," she said seriously. "Please tell me what's wrong. I know it's about Sherlock."

John inhaled deeply and dropped his head. "I'm fine, Sarah."

"No, you're not. Three months, John, and you've hardly said a word. What happened between you?" she asked, placing a hand on his arm. John pulled his arm away, leaving his plate humming as he dropped his fork.

"It's nothing, Sarah."

"It's obviously something. Tell me what happened, John. Or I'll call Sherlock, damn it," she threatened.

John's expressions twisted. "You wouldn't dare," he said in a low voice.

"Wouldn't I?" she pressed. "Wouldn't I, John?"

He shuffled uncomfortably. "Alright. Fine," he snapped at last. "Don't call Sherlock. Just... Don't."

Sarah watched John as he leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling briefly, before he sat straight again. She waited patiently.

"Sherlock..." John began slowly. "Was... Acting a bit strange. He was... asking me stuff." His sentences were slow and carefully said, as though one mistake could cost him dearly. "We'd just started having dinner," he recounted. "And Sherlock was a bit quiet. He was always talking. To himself, to me... But he wasn't then. He was just... Quiet.

"And then, he started saying things like he was grateful that I was there, and that I was the only person who'd ever liked him, and who he'd liked. I didn't really get what he was on about. He got frustrated and sent his dinner to the floor."

John paused and closed his eyes with his brows knotted in effort to retrieve the willpower re-live his memories. Sarah sat, listening, without interrupting him.

"He said..." John cleared his throat as his voice cracked. "That he loved me."

"Oh, John," said Sarah, instinctively putting her hand over his to comfort him, but John pulled it away, unwanting of physical contact.

"I got mad, Sarah. I started shouting at him. I was awful to him, and he just stood there and took it." John winced. "He was so upset. He begged me to stay, but I couldn't. I flipped out. I didn't know what else to do."

"John, it's okay," Sarah said softly.

"It's not okay!" he yelled. "He was heartbroken, Sarah! He was absolutely devastated. I could see how much I was hurting him but I just carried on. He said "I don't want to be alone again, John." He said that, but I still left."

John buried his face in his hands. Ashamed and frustrated with himself, he pushed his chair back, and stood against the wall so Sarah couldn't see his pain-ridden eyes. His breaths were deep and juddering with emotion.

"He said he needed me, Sarah."

Sarah came over to John and leant on the wall next to him. "You need to go see him, John."

"I can't do that. It's over."

She pulled his shoulder so that he faced her. "No, John. It's not over. You miss him, and that's not going to change. He's your best friend, John. And you need him right now as much as he needs you."

"I can't," murmured John.

Sarah stepped back away from him, and her voice became commanding. "Think about it, John. Because I'm not going to be here for you all your life."

"Why not?" John asked.

"Because I'm dumping you. You are now my temporary housemate, and nothing more," she declared. "You need Sherlock, John. And I'm not that man. Until you realize that, we're not together, because I'm not dating a man who doesn't smile anymore."