Chapter 43

John woke up in the middle of the night, uncomfortably warm because of the alcohol. He groaned and turned on his other side, but soon it was clear that he would have to get up to go to the bathroom and to have a glass of water. He wondered if Sherlock was back in his own room, but obviously he wouldn't go to check. That would only end with John climbing into his bed, and he wasn't ready to forgive him that easily.

He went back to his room, and after some tossing and turning went back to sleep.

...

Ian stood next to the car, waiting, as Sherlock exited the train station. He smiled a little nervously as he held out his hand. "Welcome to Cardiff."

Sherlock shook his hand and nodded in reply, not really meeting Ian's eyes.

As he held the car door open for Sherlock, the young man said: "I was a bit surprised when you texted. We did not expect you to bring the book yourself."

Sherlock shrugged. "I wanted to see the books returned safely," he said. "And I was planning a trip anyway."

"Oh." Ian sat silently for a while as the car turned and headed out of the city. Then he glanced at Sherlock and asked: "So, you must be feeling better, if John let..."

"I want to thank you," Sherlock interrupted.

Ian looked a little stunned. "Thank me?"

"Yes, for all your help with the case and especially for... for saving John's life down in Blackpool."

"Oh yes," Ian nodded. "That. I was glad I could help."

There was another period of silence. Then Ian cleared his throat. "How is John?"

Sherlock bit his lip. "I suppose he's fine."

Ian frowned at him, but didn't say anything more, before the car was approaching Gryffydd Hall. "Uncle will be so pleased to have the book back."

Sherlock almost sighed in relief at the change of subject. "Yes, I expect he will. In fact I'm bringing him both books."

"Both books?"

"Yes," Sherlock smirked. "It turned out that the owner of the other copy was killed in a rather serious drug related incident at his home in Brazil, three years ago. He left no heirs, so there was no obvious owner of the book. As the ones who recovered it, the book could be said to belong to you and John, and since he has no interest in it, I thought it best to bring the book to you. I thought your uncle would know the best thing to do with it."

Gryffydd had been delighted to not only have his book back, but be given custody of the only other copy in existence as well. After thanking Sherlock profusely, he retreated to his study to examine the conditions of the two books in detail.

Ian offered to make Sherlock a cup of tea and showed him to the sitting room. While Ian was in the kitchen, Sherlock took out his phone and frowned at the screen. He did not expect John to text or call, but with each hour that went by, he grew more and more desperate as he obsessively checked his phone. Just in case.

When he heard Ian approach, he quickly returned the phone to his pocket. As the young man entered with the tea tray, Sherlock smiled at him. He barely bit back a chuckle as Ian blushed and put down the tray, on which the cups were rattling slightly. John certainly hadn't been wrong about this one.

It was strange really. He had only met Ian once before, and then talked to him on the phone a few times. And still it seemed he could make his heart skip just with a smile.

But John, whom he loved, and for whose sake he had gone to unbelievable lengths, trying to change his very nature, to make John happy and for him not to have to worry... With John, not even this had been enough. The way he had looked at him this morning. Sherlock quickly pushed the thought away and focused on answering the question Ian had just asked.

"No," he said. "I don't plan on returning to London tonight. There are no more trains before morning. I've booked a room in a hotel down town."

"Oh no," Ian protested quickly, blushing even more. "I mean, we have a guest room. It is only right you should stay here, after everything you have done for us... for uncle."

Sherlock nodded. He really would prefer to stay at Gryffydd Hall. The place was comfortable. Almost familiar, probably because of the descriptions and pictures he had received from John. "Thank you. That would be lovely."

As Ian showed him up to the room, he glanced at the suitcase and bag Sherlock was carrying. "Are you planning a trip after this?" he asked, tentatively.

"No," Sherlock answered flatly. "I'll be looking for a new place to live."

...

By the time John woke up again, it was well past morning. Clearly he had needed his rest. He groaned as he half opened his eyes and sunlight fell in, making his head ache. He had a bad taste in his mouth. Groaning, he went downstairs and got a glass of water, before he noticed that Sherlock's bedroom door was open. A quick look inside told John that the bed was neatly made. He frowned; it hadn't been like that the day before. So Sherlock had been back, but he was gone already? He went inside. The periodic table had been taken off the wall and everything else that had been Sherlock's was gone. John's stomach dropped. Ah. That meant Sherlock had seriously ended this. And rather cowardly too, just getting in without saying a word. So he really had had the feeling that their relationship couldn't be saved? Yes, the row had been pretty bad, but John still had had the feeling that it would only temporarily split them up. Though apparently that had been all it took.

After the first shock of Sherlock's departure had sunk in, John felt almost as angry as during the row. He made himself breakfast, clattering his cup and plate too hard against the counter. Fine. Fine, then that was it. He supposed he wouldn't see Sherlock again, and really, if he hadn't even wanted to give it a second chance, John didn't care.

He brought his food to the table, his hands trembling, and ate almost aggressively. As long as he was angry enough, he could keep down the pain.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson came in, looking a bit worried as soon as she saw his expression. "Is everything alright? Where is Sherlock?"

"Gone," John said grimly. "Took his possessions and bolted."

Mrs. Hudson pressed a hand against her mouth. "Surely he wouldn't really leave, dear."

"He has. Don't make it worse by saying that he wouldn't." Clenching his fists so his nails pressed painfully into his palms, he managed not to take out his anger on Mrs. Hudson. She put a hand on his shoulder.

"He didn't even say anything. He must have been here while I was sleeping, or perhaps already when I was out yesterday."

"I haven't seen him, dear," Mrs. Hudson answered the unasked question. "I was with Mrs. Turner yesterday afternoon..."

John turned his eyes down. So Sherlock had made his decision that quickly. Maybe it hadn't even been the row. He could have wanted to get away from John for ages, as far as he knew. He had to bite his lip, hard.

"I'll give you a moment," Mrs. Hudson said gently, before leaving the flat.

John let out a shuddering breath and swallowed away the tears of frustration.

In the morning, Ian was very quiet as he served breakfast to Sherlock and his uncle. When he had poured the tea, he sat down, studiously avoiding to look at Sherlock.

This puzzled Sherlock for a moment. Last night, Ian had not been able to keep his eyes off him, at least when he thought Sherlock wasn't looking. Then he realised. Ian knew now, that John and Sherlock were no longer together. Everything had changed. Sherlock was no longer so unobtainable in his eyes, and for some reason it made him nervous.

He almost chuckled at the thought.

Professor Gryffydd had been reading, but now he looked up at Sherlock. "Ian tells me that you do not have any immediate plans."

Sherlock nodded.

"I may have a suggestion then."

Gryffydd had decided to send the extra copy of the book to a small museum in Warwick, since the books were originally printed there. He wanted to write down the myth, history and mystery of the books, and needed Sherlock's help in filling in the newest information. It turned out that he had already been contacted by Mycroft and instructed not to include details of how the code worked or what and where it had pointed to. Still there was a lot to tell, and he had offered Sherlock a significant fee for his assistance.

So Sherlock had agreed to stay on for a week, to help with the work. He could use the money when it was time to get a place of his own, and the stay at Gryffydd Hall would help him put some distance both geographically and temporally between himself and life at Baker Street. He tried very hard not to think about the fact that less than a week ago, John had been staying in the very guest room where he now slept.

Ian seemed to be constantly in the vicinity and whenever Professor Gryffydd requested a break, he'd be there with a cup of tea, eager to chat. Sherlock found that he did not mind the constant chatter. Ian did not seem to expect a response, so he could just tune out and let his mind relax. In fact, he suspected that the constant noise helped him keep his mind off other things.

When the week had passed, Sherlock found that he had grown so comfortable at Gryffydd Hall, that he did not hesitate to accept when he was asked to stay another week, since the work on the history of the books had proven more expansive than originally assumed.

...

John didn't send a text. Once he had calmed down a little, he considered it – to ask why Sherlock had taken such a drastic measure in something that still could have been saved, or to scold him some more, he didn't know. But it was no use anyway. This was Sherlock's decision, and if he hadn't wanted to talk about it, John knew him well enough to know that it was no use trying it anyway.

He didn't really manage to enjoy the rest that Sherlock's absence brought along. Yeah, it was good to have a fridge without body parts and a kitchen table that wasn't covered in experiment set-ups, but there was no chance of being pulled along to a case either. He knew he should find something to keep himself busy. He didn't want to apply at St. Bart's, since the chance was too big that he would run into Sherlock, on one of his many visits to the labs. Apart from that, getting a job sounded like a great idea, as it would give him something to put his mind to and he would earn some money as he went.

In the end, he found a vacancy in Charing Cross Hospital. It was a little further away than Bart's of course, being more than half an hour away with public transport, but at least it was on the other side of the city than where Sherlock would usually be, and the job sounded good although it was temporary.

Just like earlier with Sarah, his CV was impressive enough to get him the job and he could start the next Monday. Quite possibly it helped that his boss was a female doctor of about his age, Mary. She was pretty, but rather stern-looking, and always sounded short, as making conversation asked too much of her time while she hurried from place to place in the hospital.

The days on which he worked passed quickly and put his mind off things. In the evenings, he was too tired to stay awake for long, so it went well. He dreaded his days off, though. If there was no-one he could meet, he'd just sit alone in the flat, and of course he missed Sherlock. In the first days, he had resented to admit it to himself, but he couldn't tell himself that he didn't mind that the other wasn't lying with his head in his lap while he was reading, and that they didn't start clawing at each other in a dull moment. He was back to where he had been before he met him, only in a nicer flat, but probably he couldn't even keep paying the rent for more than a few months without Sherlock's share.

A few months. He still had difficulty believing that it was really over. Perhaps their romantic relationship was wasted, but wouldn't there even be a time when they were ready to take up their friendship again and work together? Live together? Or would things be too weird and awkward? Surely Sherlock, who never cared about social conventions, wouldn't let a passing awkward moment stand in the way of what he wanted - so that was what it all came down to in the end. And if Sherlock felt anything like he did, he had no idea what he actually wanted, and just took things like they were at the moment: lonely.