Chapter 42

Sherlock wandered aimlessly for almost an hour. Then, rather by force of habit than by design, he found himself heading for St. Bart. It made sense. Some time in the lab, catching up on research that had lain dormant while he was confined to Baker Street, would help get his mind off the things he did not want to think about right now.

But try as he might, he could not keep his mind from wandering back to the morning's events. Waking up at the police station. John's rebuke as he picked him up. In front of everyone at the station. Sherlock didn't usually care what people thought of him, but that had been very humiliating. Surely John must have known. Even done it on purpose, as a kind of punishment for Sherlock's disobedience.

Disobedience... As if he were a child or pet, that needed to be told its place. When had they gone from being equal partners to this? When had John become his keeper rather than his lover? And why?

His thoughts kept going round in circles until they spiralled past Mycroft's betrayal to the confrontation that followed. John had been so cold and spiteful. Why couldn't he understand the strain Sherlock had been under with this case? The agonising frustration of being kept away from the places and people that held all the information, only being granted a slow and severely inadequate trickle of data when John found it convenient and didn't overlook everything important.

But still he had solved it. And even gone beyond the original case and broken the code hidden in those century old books. A code that no one before him had even found, let alone deciphered.
And then, at his moment of triumph, when he had been about to be given the ultimate prize, the information so vital, maybe even dangerous, that someone had gone to such lengths to hide it, that only he, Sherlock Holmes, had been able to retrieve it... At that moment: nothing. To have it snatched away. By Mycroft of all people. It was simply unbearable. And John had just stood there. Stood there and suggested they would go take a nap! That really did seem to be John's solution to everything. But in a way it fit. Hadn't his whole purpose through all this been to keep Sherlock as passive as possible? Locked away in the flat, preferably in bed.

But why? When had John changed from being his lover and friend to being his... jailor... well no, not that, but his doctor? It had been like being institutionalised in his own home.

He let out a loud groan of frustration, making Molly, who had just appeared at the door, turn around and flee in confusion.

...

After Mrs. Hudson had left him alone, John threw himself on his back on the sofa. It was no use trying to rest, tired as he was. The adrenalin of rage and annoyance kept coursing through his veins and their row was still replaying in his head. He took his laptop and opened his blog, but there was nothing he could put his mind on to write - after all he didn't feel like sharing his whole personal life with their readers, and he couldn't focus on the case right now. Probably Sherlock would only get angry about his writing anyway; he was always complaining about it as it was. Perhaps that was it. John just never was good enough. Sherlock seemed to think that he needed someone who equalled his intelligence, and John wasn't enough. Well, good luck to him if he tried to find someone who would.

With a sigh, he got up and decided to go out for a walk; anywhere where Sherlock wouldn't be. Somewhere pedestrian like the park seemed like a good idea. It was almost incredible that the great detective had ever gone there with him. And John could never be certain if that had been as a means to an end, or because Sherlock really had condescended to sentiment. He got up and shrugged on his jacket, hoping that getting fresh air would allow him some rest.

...

Sherlock had finally made up his mind. Things could not go on the way they had. He still loved John, but that apparently was not enough for them to be able to function together as a couple or whatever they had been. They would end up tearing each other to pieces.

Telling John he loved him had been the scariest thing he had ever done. Now he was facing the most difficult thing he would ever have to do: telling John that they could no longer be together. He could not stay with John and subject himself to his overprotection and need to control everything that Sherlock did. In the end it would drive him to resent or even hate John and he could not let that happen.

Rather end it now, while he could still find some joy in the memories of the time when things had been good between them. The time when it had all been about cuddling and touching and declaring their love for each other. He had been a fool not to realise that something like that could not last. The world around him was filled with evidence that love always ended. Why had he not realised that he and John were no exception to this rule?

He picked up his coat and walked out of the lab, feeling absolutely miserable. But there was nothing else to do. There was no use putting it off. He would return to Baker Street one final time, look John in the eyes and tell him it was over. From what John had said and done this morning, he doubted he would disagree.

...

John speed walked through the park for a while - he was aiming for a stroll, but he just couldn't calm down. He didn't feel like going back to the flat, where everything constantly reminded him of Sherlock. Sitting down on a bench for a minute, he called Lestrade.

"Hey. Would you like to go for a drink tonight?" he asked immediately. He almost heard Greg frowning.

"John, are you alright?"

"Not really. Row with Sherlock. I just need to be out for a while. He'll hate it if I come home pissed, hours after he's finally come back, and that's just the right thing."

"Actually I can meet you now, if you need someone. It's my day off. Shall we meet at the usual pub?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Greg. You're a great friend."

They agreed to meet half an hour later, and John started the long walk towards the pub, feeling a little better now he knew he would have company and a drink.

...

The moment Sherlock stepped through the door, he realised that John was not home. He must have gone to the shop. Or out to get some air. Well, maybe that was for the best. Sherlock could get his things packed and have them ready when John came home. Then, when they had talked, he could leave immediately without any uncomfortableness. He went to his room and with only a little difficulty got his suitcase out from under the bed.

It was not easy packing with his arm still in the cast. At least that would soon be over. It was due to come off in less than a week. He wondered if things might have been different if he had not been so severely injured from Harris' attack. Would John still have been so controlling? Maybe, if Sherlock could have gone out on cases more often, it would not have developed into this. Was it all a case of cabin fever, culminating in the frustration of Mycroft's interference?

No. He could not allow himself to try and explain it this away. John had been trying to restrict him even before he got hurt. Constantly demanding he let him know where he was going and not do anything 'dangerous'. What had happened was inevitable. Perhaps it had happened sooner this way, and that was for the best. If things had carried on longer, this would have been even more painful. As it was, it was almost more than he could bear.

If John came through the door right now, could he stop himself? Would he rush to him and kiss him and touch him and beg him to somehow fix this? He closed his eyes, for a moment picturing John smiling up at him, stroking his hair and promising that everything would be okay. But it wouldn't be. It couldn't.

Sherlock sighed and continued packing.
...

"The thing is that I don't even really know where I want this to go," John sighed as he put down his pint. Actually it was far too early in the afternoon to start drinking, but Lestrade somehow looked like he could use it too, although he didn't seem to want to talk about it like John. He always was a good listener and a good friend, despite having his own problems, John had found out with time.

"Being with Sherlock has been absolutely great, he was great, but now I just don't know. I killed a man, Greg, even though it was an accident, but he just used it to hurt me, without thinking, and I snapped. I don't know if we can fix this, and yet, I don't believe he will even manage on his own. Probably he's just back tonight or tomorrow. And I don't know what I should do. I should never have taken things further with him."

...

Sherlock had been waiting for John to come home for almost two hours. He had packed most of his clothes, his laptop and the two copies of the Abscondita. Anything else he could come back for some other time. He had tried sitting down, but was too restless. For some time he had been looking down at the window, expecting to see John any minute, dreading the conversation they would have.

Now he was pacing the flat, vaguely registering the familiarity with which he moved through its space. He would probably miss this place too. It had become a real home to him. Still, it would be nothing compared to the loss of John.

He couldn't take it anymore. He knew that the longer he waited, the harder it would be. What if he cracked when he saw John? What if he couldn't do it, couldn't say goodbye? Then it would be back to the same old thing. The passion and tenderness would be there, but it would soon give way to the bickering, the accusations and the growing sense of claustrophobia. He couldn't risk it.

Quickly, before he could change his mind, Sherlock gathered up his bags and headed for the door. It was better if he was gone before John came home. Better for the both of them.

...

John went up the stairs a little unsteadily. The long hours in the pub had made the amount of alcohol he had consumed acceptable, but still it had its effect, and at least it would be enough to make him sleep for a while. It was still too early in the evening to expect Sherlock back, and he decided to go sleep in his own room to avoid him. The sheets needed changing after weeks of disuse, but for now he didn't care and just undressed and slumped down.