Harry's flat is much smaller than John thinks it'll be. A lot more dull, as well. No pictures on the walls, second-hand furniture, tatty and used far too much to be comfortable. The television has been left on in her absence, a footie match recorded from earlier silently playing out on the smaller-than-he-imagined screen. The carpets are dingy, brown and clotted in corners no one ever thinks to clean up. It's dreary, really. There are three empty wine bottles sitting upon the coffee table, and a glass sits beside one. A little puddle of burgundy sits at the bottom of it, the last drop she didn't bother with. Garbage—loads of garbage crumpled up in little balls, papers and crisp bags and take away foils. It smells, of mold and every floors cooking.

But it's a temporary flat, she'd said. Just for now, until she could gather up enough cash for something better. Always bouncing about, looking for something better. Harry hasn't been the same since she left Clara. No surprise there.

"You can set your things wherever." Harry tells him, offhandedly, as though her older brother often winds up in her flat. He doesn't. John avoids Harry's flats like the plague, prefers Mike Stamford's home to hers. But Mike had guests, couldn't have another, wife was already quite frazzled as it is. And it was urgent, couldn't stay. Needed out, quickly. John swallows and settles the one bag he's packed onto the floor beside his feet, pushes it absently toward the settee with his toes. Harry's in the kitchen, pulling another bottle (way off the wagon now) of wine and popping it open. "Fancy a drink?" she asks, kindly. "I've got beers as well, if you want one." She fusses with the top for a moment.

John doesn't reply, watches Harry attempt to pry the cork from the bottle. He sighs as he sticks out his hand, palm up, and gestures with his fingers. She hesitates as she places it within his hand, and it takes him no less than ten seconds to pry it open with a loud, satisfying pop. "I'll have one." he says after a moment.

Harry doesn't bother attempting to open the long-necked bottle of beer for him. She pulls it from the fridge and hands it to him just as is, passes by without another word of acknowledgment as she makes for the couch. He doesn't move immediately, rummages through an equally unkempt kitchen to find a bottle opener.

He's mostly emotionless, really. The anger has died down, has dissolved into a numb play by play of every word said and every action taken. The beer in his hand grows warm without ever touching his lips. Harry's bottle goes half empty before either realize they're in the room. "He was a twat." Harry comments into the silence, and it causes John to startle as his head snaps to meet hers. "That bloke—he was a twat. Still is, I imagine." she mutters, looking to the screen. It's supposed to be encouraging, John knows. That he's done the right thing, that she approves of his choice in leaving. It doesn't help. It makes him sort of sick, a roil in his stomach that threatens an upheaval all over the stained table before them. "Where's the toilet?" he replies instead, just in case.

She gives a nod in the general direction of 'the rest of the flat' but says no more. He exhales, rolls his eyes. Sets the beer upon the table and moves past her as best he can, attempting not to disrupt the habitat.

The bathroom is small. It's at least clean though, everything properly arranged and settled. Towels are hung up nice. Tub is white. Mirrors clean and the washbasin free of clutter. It's a relief from the sitting room. John wonders how long he can sit in the bathroom before Harry starts to become suspicious. He flings on the tap and leans heavily against the wall, arms bracketing the small mirror. He rests his chin against his chest and breathes deeply. No, this is for the best, he tells himself.

(Maybe it's not real.)

Of course it's real, it had to be done.

(Maybe it's not over.)

It has to be over. He can't—there's no way.

(It can't be over.)

It is. It is, just—just let it happen.

(But love—)

But nothing. He chose his path. And this was where it ended.

John's jaw clenches and he licks his lips. He doesn't look at his reflection, would rather not know how bad he must look for Harry to be so kind—in her own way. But he does and yes. Yes, there it is. He looks like Hell. He looks worse than Hell. He looks like he's just left the love of his life—and that's got to be worse than anything.

The water is running cool. He cups his hands beneath the stream and lets it pool in his palms, dips forward and splashes it against his face. It feels like—awakening, almost. Except that he doesn't feel tired, not physically. Emotionally, mentally, certainly. He wishes there was a way to do this to the mind—to force cold water over his emotions and wake them up, alert them. Refresh them. But then he'd be angry again, or upset, or—maybe it isn't a good idea.

Harry is still seated on the sofa. Her legs are tucked up beneath her and her chin is rested upon a propped elbow. She glances up to John and her brows furrow delicately. His face is still wet. He doesn't say anything about it, flops back into his seat and goes back to a focused stare at the screen. Neither of them speak. Harry finishes her bottle with a ceremonious clinking of bottle neck to glass lip and sighs as she takes another sip. She opens her mouth to speak and he steels himself to whatever may be ready to come out, in case it's more words of encouragement or questions about details or anything. But she doesn't. She merely informs him, "You'll be sleeping here. I haven't got a li-lo."

"That's fine."

"This is one of the many reasons, you know."

John's brows crease in confusion and he turns to look at her once again. He tries to consider what other reasons he might be sleeping on her sofa, according to her, but nothing seems to come up. He opens his mouth to ask just as she goes on, "Men are shitheads." Harry states matter-of-factly. Oh, John looks away, back to the telly. "Men have always been shitheads," she goes on, taking another drink from her glass, "And they always will be."

"Right."

"You'd know. You are one after all."

"Helpful, Harry. Very helpful."

She's had a few more than he knows about. John begins wondering if the other three bottles are from earlier. His guess is starting to become yes. No wonder he drove—at least she was being responsible back. "I shouldn't even be saying that, really," she goes on as though he hasn't spoken. "It's the sort of blokes like you that end up making it harder for women like me to have a go at anyone."

Oh. "I don't know how you expect me to reply to that."

Harry sighs. "I don't." She turns her head and finally looks to him. She's a little more than gone and John can see it. He's hoping this will be her final word on whatever she's looking to say before she goes off to bed. He'd like to lay in the dark and spend a moment to think on his own. "I'm only—look," She sighs again, as though she's got the heaviest of weights sitting upon her chest. "He's not the only good-looking chap in the world, okay? He's just another man in a sea of men that you can choose from."

John shifts, a little uncomfortable. "I'm not actually—"

Harry pins him with a look. No, he's not actually. John had only ever fallen for one man, had never even considered any other men for such a relationship. Couldn't, really. Wasn't even possible. But he lets her pin him with that look of hers, the one that says she knows better. She doesn't, never could. Not in this case. "He's not the only one in the world, is all I'm saying." Harry finally finishes her thought, watches John carefully.

But all John can think of is his voice, informing him: " -The only one in the world. "

And that doesn't help matters.

"Listen, it's late. You've had a long day." Harry exhales, unfolding her legs and letting them flop to the floor. "I'll grab a blanket, a pillow, you know." She groans as she stands, setting her glass upon the table—another little puddle of blood red sitting at the bottom—and makes for the hallway. John barely registers the quiet shuffle of feet and the padding of blanket hitting cushion. "You'll be all right?" she asks.

He looks at her, blank faced. What sort of stupid question is that?

And her reply is silent and similar: what a stupid question indeed.

She doesn't speak another word as she turns back for her room. John listens in silence as she shuts the door, a quiet click of the simple mechanisms blocking her from him. And that's a relief, actually. Finally he's allowed in his own head space, no one chattering beside him, attempting to make him 'feel better' with words of encouragement. Good.

John goes about fairly routinely, shutting off the lights and putting himself together. Wash face, brush teeth, change into long-unworn pyjamas (used to sleeping nude, uncomfortable in clothing), settle "bed". The television leaves a faint glow in the darkness, a ghost of light left on for too long. The window lets in too much light—the moon shines bright and the street lamps cast a hazy yellow filter to the room. It's like a spotlight, focused upon John's face. Like someone standing just outside, investigating him.

Observing him.

It's day one. Night one, really. John is only human. He loves Sherlock. No, loved. Past tense. No, still loves. Still aches for him, still clings to something old as though it may be reborn and brought new again. But this is for the best, it is. Eventually, it won't feel so raw. Eventually, he'll be all right. Besides, Harry's right. There are other people in the world. Tons of them—the world is teeming with people John has never met. And maybe now, he can settle down. Maybe now, he can put the need for adrenaline and fighting behind him and find a nice person, marry, have kids and a house and a dog.

Sherlock Holmes is not the only one in the world.

(" I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world .")

Yes, okay. John can concede on that. Sherlock's voice comes to him from the dark as he yanks his blanket over his head, shuts his eyes tight. Sherlock is the only consulting detective in the world. He's the only one who can do as Sherlock does, the only one the Yard will come to in times of crisis, when they're out of their depth (" —which is always—"). Yes, the only consulting detective in the world. One of a kind.

(" —The only one in the world. ")

Sherlock Holmes. John fell in love with Sherlock Holmes not too soon after moving in with him. He's brilliant and arrogant and hilarious and a right shit, when he wants to be (which is always). John had gone against everything in him, every thought he'd ever had about what he wanted in a person when he did that. Sherlock Holmes, the ultimate exception.

(The only one in the world.)

Stop that.

(Maybe it doesn't have to be over.)

It does, stop attempting to spur this on.

(Maybe this isn't the end.)

It has to be. It has to be the end. There's no more room for this.

(Maybe it's an overreaction.)

Shut up and go to sleep.

"I'm done."

"You're done. What, you're leaving?"

"I can't do this anymore. I'm exhau—"

"You're actually leaving."

"I'm not—I can't. This is—"

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Get out."

"Excuse you?"

"Go on."

"Fine."

"Good. I work better alone."

"Then allow me to make this easier on you."

"Should've done it sooner."

Sherlock's eyes fly open and 221B remains just as silent as it had been prior. He swallows down—disappointment. Yes, that's what that is. A little (large) flutter (smashing) of disappointment has made home in his throat and he swallows again, tries to eviscerate it. Not so easy.

John hasn't returned.

He flips back his dressing gown sleeve and checks the watch upon his wrist—10:24. No, it's still early. Of course, John will have probably gone to the pub. He'll have called up Mike Stamford and decided to have a lager, cool his own head. He was being irrational, after all. Spouting off about how he was "done", how he'd "had enough", how he was "leaving." Sherlock scoffs and rolls his eyes. John's tendencies toward theatrics were daunting sometimes, irritating mostly. As though he couldn't merely hold a conversation. Or better yet, couldn't simply listen.

However, perhaps Sherlock is at fault as well. Maybe a little. There had been that thing—what had it been? Some sort of—holiday or something. Sherlock's brows furrow and he tries to recall whatever unimportant date it was, but he comes up blank. Not John's birthday, that's passed. Not his own, that too has passed. No pagan holidays to speak of, or religious ones for that matter. Then what? He shakes his head. It bothers him more than he may normally allowed. John is a bad influence.

None the less.

Sherlock busies himself in thought until eleven. He should be working on this case (triple homicide, thee different locations, exact same time, exact same scene at each—very specific, meticulous, interesting. ) but he's distracted. John's hostilities keep flying through his head at break neck speeds, as though they've got little better to do than bother him. It's fine. John will return soon, they'll have a discussion about the importance of date-keeping. They'll hug, and John will kiss him, and perhaps then he'll be less distracted.

He flips the kettle on. Tea will make everything better. Tea always makes everything better. It's the English way, after all. And he remembers how John takes his tea. That'll be an advantage for him, in this argument they'll surely have. John will say that he never remembers details, and Sherlock will counter with the tea. Perfectly steeped, just the right amount of milk, sugar stirred in completely. John will be unable to deny that Sherlock's memory of his preference is impeccable. John will have no argument to make against him then, obviously.

Warm and steaming, the mug gets settled upon the little side table beside John's chair. Yes, John's chair. He'll be back and sitting in it soon, smelling of lager and Stamford's pungent aftershave. He'll look weary and ready for bed, and he might even make the argument that he'd prefer it. But Sherlock would sit him down, and they would talk (or perhaps John would listen) and it'd be settled before bed.

But the door doesn't move, not fast enough for Sherlock.

Oh, of course he's dragging it out. He wants Sherlock to suffer a bit, or he thinks Sherlock will suffer if he stays out later than usual (he's right). Sherlock rolls his shoulders in agitation and stands in a single fluid motion. He whips up his violin and make for the window.

Baker Street is normal. Little foot traffic, miles of cars parked bumper-to-bumper along the curbs. Cabs making their way to and fro. The shops have closed—yes, hours ago, of course. Sherlock huffs as he scans the streets, waits for the familiar John-shaped figure to emerge from the corner. Something like regret tugs at him as he watches—should've been around when he was leaving. Shouldn't have locked self in room. He shakes his head and opens the curtains properly, settles his violin against his shoulder and tucks his chin against the rest. He hesitates before dropping the bow to the strings, fingers poised against the board.

The problem here is not what was said, but what wasn't. John had refused to tell Sherlock of what he'd done wrong, what had caused the uproar. Went on about "Go on and figure it out, make a deduction." Oh, that always rubbed Sherlock the wrong way. And John knew that. The exact reason he even said such things was to irritate Sherlock. To coerce him into argument. That was childish , egging on heated discussions.

Sherlock had attempted to make a deduction. Not out loud, not this time. He watched John's face and he listened (or tried, really) and not much came about. Ideas, yes. They always did. Several popping up rapid fire, none of them connecting with enough of the evidence.

And then after all that, John was weary. Aged at least five years in the time of the argument, or so it seemed. Deeper lines, swollen bags beneath the eyes, downward frown. Exhaustion. And then:

( "I'm done.")

That two-worded sentence buzzes about Sherlock's head as he plays absently. First clean notes. Then dissonant notes. Then some sort of amalgamation of the two. Composing—not writing it down, no need. Just random draws of the bow against the string, fingers dancing over the fingerboard in whichever way feels comfortable.

( "I'm done." )

Are you, John? What are you done with?

(" I can't do this anymore." )

What is it that you can't do?

( "This is—I can't—" )

Sherlock swallows, finishes off whatever little note lays trembling against his bow. He pauses, eyes roaming quickly over the panes of glass before him. He'd replied to each statement. Had asked questions—no, made inquisitive statements. You're leaving? Yes, he was walking out. He seemed upset. Walking out and getting air was the norm for John. But Sherlock stood there, brows furrowed and face contorted in shock. Yes, John was leaving. He was making for his room. He was heading up the stairs and Sherlock was watching.

He drops the bow to his side, and the violin follows after. Sherlock turns back toward the sitting room, expecting John to be seated in his chair, tucked into his cup of tea. He'd be sheepish, admit he'd been there for hours, had been listening, didn't want to disturb.

But no. No, what Sherlock gets is John's chair in the exact same state it had been. The tea has gone cold. The flat is still empty, sans himself. But really, he can't count himself a presence. No, that's not right. John should've been back by now. He should've been sitting in that chair there, watching perhaps, waiting. Sherlock settles his violin into his chair and flips back the sleeve of his dressing gown once again.

His face steels as he notes the time—2:27.

His heart hammers, bangs against his ribs and twists and contorts unnaturally. His jaw clenches and he draws his eyes back to the door. Nothing has changed. No one has come in, no one has come out. The flat is filled with silence that weighs more than himself, weighs more than the combination of John and him combined. Could possibly weigh more than the entirety of the flat itself. It sits on his ears and rings inside his head and jumbles already-too-jumbled thoughts. His face falls and he stares at the door, wills it to open, wills John to come through looking exhausted and perhaps a bit inebriated. His fists clench and he licks his lips and his brain screams nothing more than open, open, open, openopenopen.

It doesn't.

Sherlock's unsure of how long he stares at the door. He's unsure of how long he spends begging John to come through it. It doesn't happen either way, so measuring the time seems useless. He blinks, comes from something like a daze and looks back to the chair once again. Still empty. Still cold. Still nothing. That's—not typical behaviour.

He takes a deep breath and presses his lips into a thin line. Perhaps John was more upset than he'd reasoned. Perhaps Stamford was talking him up into a larger frenzy than he'd been in. Perhaps he was simply taking more time to settle, to cool, to gather his thoughts for a proper argument. Yes, John could be quite logical about his temper. He could rationalise that—depending upon the amount of emotional fluxes he was still encountering—he'd need the evening to settle. He was at Stamford's for the evening, sleeping on the lilo until tomorrow. Or, rather, later that day. Of course.

Sherlock nods to himself. Yes, it'll be fine. Everything will look better in the morning.

He carries this thought with him as he meanders toward his room. Or their room. Not fully, not completely. A few of John's things were moved there. A slow process, amalgamating the two. But John had shifted clothing. Sherlock had made room in his drawers. Pants and trousers and shirts and jumpers had found place amongst Sherlock's belongings, the jar of coins John had kept to saving was now sitting upon Sherlock's dresser. And it's encouraging, sharing space. Sherlock finds he doesn't mind it nearly as much as he should have.

It'll all look better in the morning, he reminds himself.

He slips from his dressing gown and hangs it beside his others. He unbuttons and unzips and unlatches and unties, until he's down to nothing. The bedclothes are still thrown back from the morning before. The bed rarely gets made—too much work for little purpose. Sherlock releases a quiet sigh as he slides himself beneath the sheets, beneath the blanket. His head rests against the pillow and he shuts out the light.

But no, he can't sleep.

There's a case and there's John, and they're both fighting for purchase in his head. He'd almost forgotten about the case, being distracted by this argument , this silly little whatever-this-is keeping him from the work. And normally he wouldn't even be in bed, ready to spend the next three days awake to figure out this curious case of threes. For once, however, he needed the sleep. Needed to settle his head and allow this whole thing to blow over. Fix the root of the problem, go back to the larger situation at hand. It makes sense, somewhere in that boggled head of his.

But he can't sleep.

He's used to John now. Has become acquainted with wrapping his limbs around him. Sleeping doesn't come as easily if his nose isn't buried somewhere in John's skin—his scent lulls him, warm and clean and safe. As though a scent could embody safety. It does though, in such a case. Wraps around Sherlock like a security blanket, tucked in around the edges and curves of his body, cocooned in protection.

These sheets, they share too much. They put Sherlock and John together, and now it's no longer just one scent or the other, it's both. A mixture of the two, which on any other night would make no difference at all. But that night, when Sherlock is desperate for the next morning to simply get there , so that he may finally get back to the way things are supposed to be, it doesn't work. They smell too much of himself, not enough of John. Even the pillow is all wrong, doesn't hold John's shampoo strong enough to settle him.

In the dark, Sherlock stands and pads his way to the dresser. John's drawers are neatly organized, all the jumpers he takes to wearing regularly folded up and settled neatly inside. He heaves a heavy sigh as he takes out a bundle of three and makes his way back to the bed. He's not desperate, of course not. He just needs to sleep. He doesn't already miss John's body, his warmth. He's grown accustom to certain routines and has no patience for breaking it.

Besides, John will return in the morning. No need to break habit for an evening.

He takes John's pillow and wraps it up in one of the jumpers. The other two he places beneath his head. It's a moment of weakness, he can recognize this. And he feels weaker and weaker the tighter he clings to that pillow, the harder he breathes against it. But it's John, in some form or another, and that's enough for the time being. Even if he will be back in the morning.

(He won't be back.)

Of course he will. Don't be absurd.

(He's done. Chased off.)

No, he was done with the argument—he left just after. Obvious.

(Use your head, look at the evidence.)

There is no evidence as of yet.

(He's gone.)

He'll return. He always returns.

And when Sherlock awakes that morning, the flat is still empty. No coffee being made, no body beside him. Those jumpers no longer smell of John, just an unwashed version of himself. He untangles himself from all three and tosses them to the floor.

And he wonders if maybe, just maybe, he regrets having the correct assumption for once.