A/N Aaaaangst!

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Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XCII. All That I Have

"Don't leave," Sherlock implores suddenly, rising to his feet. His heart leaps forward in his chest as John turns around, his eyebrows drawn together and his mouth tilted down in confusion. The blonde man's hand rests on the last of the few dusty cardboard boxes he's managed to pull together, all of which are now filled with his worldly possessions. The rest of the flat is depressingly empty without them—even the Union Jack pillow, belonging to Sherlock though it had been in the first place, was tucked away into one of the boxes, leaving John's chair bare.

No, not John's chair—it's just Sherlock's chair, now; Sherlock's chair Sherlock's sofa, Sherlock's table, Sherlock's flat. John no longer has anything to do with it.

"You'll be fine," he insists. "Mrs. Hudson will help you manage the rent, remember? And it's not like you're going to get lonely, for God's sake. I think we'll both be happier for this—it'll work better for Mary and me, and it'll work better for you, too. Alright? Just… I can still help you out in the occasional case, if you'd like, still get down a blog post every now and then—we have too much of a following for me to abandon it."

Sherlock only steps forward, his eyes wide and intent. "John, please. This won't—whatever you say, I can promise that this will not be better for me. You can't leave. Not now. I… I depend on you too much, at this point."

"What are you talking about?"

"You, John, I—" He doesn't have words for the angry, desperate emotion heating his chest, so he just shakes his head, growling softly. "I can't manage without you now, do you understand that? You're—you're all that I have, at this point. For you to leave… I… wouldn't be able to make it very long."

"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffs. "You managed before me, and you'll manage after me." There's a long moment of silence, then John sighs. "Look, it's not exactly easy for me, either, mate. I'm going to miss this place. But we're still going to see each other, right? You don't need to act like I'm walking to my death." Ending on a slightly irritated note, he heaves a box into his arms and starts out the door of the room, headed for the stairs. "Help me bring these down, will you?"

It's useless, Sherlock decides, his gaze flickering to the ground in defeat. There's no way to explain why he's upset, how it has just as much to do with John getting married as moving out.

No way at all.