It's been a week.
John isn't sure what he expected. Sherlock had told him to go. Of course he wouldn't come running after him. Sherlock isn't the type, wouldn't be the one to come crawling back. And that's good, John reminds himself, because even if he did, John would say no. He'd tell him the same thing he told him the night of—that this isn't going to work, that he's tired of being second best, that he's no longer going to sit around and be Sherlock's side-piece to his marriage (work, always the work).
But one little text would've been nice. A little hint that John hadn't wasted his time.
(Of course it was wasted, Sherlock was never a relationship person.)
He did well, for a while.
(For a while. It was always bound to come to this.)
Just thought he cared a bit more is all.
(What, because he said he did? What did he know.)
John tries to eradicate the thoughts from his head, tries to shove them aside and tell them to bugger off, but they stick and they repeat. He didn't care, doesn't care. Couldn't care any less if he tried. Of course John would be the one to care too much. He's the one that leaves, that packs a bag and says its done and he's the one sitting around waiting for a call. That's not okay. That's not healthy. No, he has to finish this. Sherlock doesn't care, doesn't want to fight for it. Neither does he. It's for the best, it is.
He has to tell himself this daily. And today he believes it.
He's worked himself up that day. Sherlock doesn't care, didn't care, never did. He wasted John's time, let him think that making an exception was okay, that changing his entire belief system was fine. He flipped John's entire world on a whim and didn't even care to stick around to adapt to the righting of everything, the arsehole. For all John knows, he's just another experiment.
(Don't be ridiculous, not an experiment.)
Could've been.
(No, no. Not quite that important.)
Thanks, thanks for that.
(More like a piece of furniture. Useful when needed but easy to ignore.)
Oh God.
Oh God, that's exactly what John is. A piece of furniture. Another chair in the sitting room, stepped on sometimes, curled into on others, only when necessary, only when functional. It spurs this horrid, sickly feeling on harder. Until he's not breathing properly, until he's seeing red and green all mixed into one ugly palette before his eyes. When Harry returns from wherever she'd been—clinking bags in hand—he jumps up from the seat and practically tears across the small room for her. "Need your car." He states firmly.
"What? Why?" Harry asks, looking him over incredulously.
John takes a deep breath, swallows around yelling out all those thoughts in his head (doesn't care, didn't care, arm chair) and tilts his chin up. "I've still got stuff at Baker Street, obviously," He replies evenly, "I need to go fetch it."
"And if he's there? Have you talked to him?"
Harry being rational only seems to upset him more, so he just gives her a look. One that declares he could've give any less of a shit if Sherlock is there or if he's gone or if he's got someone else there, he's going now and that's that. She gets it, it seems, as she gives a quiet, muttered, "All right, no need to get your knickers twisted," and hands off her keys. John takes a deep breath and gives her a nod, a quiet thank you as he passes her and heads out the door.
John's not particularly a fan of driving Harry's '96 Astra. All the gauges are wonky and it smells—like beer and cat piss. And Harry seems to drag the rubbish from flat to car, as the back is littered with similar foils and plastic bags. It seems as though each aspect of Harry's life is matching, perfect symmetry from her home to her car to her older brother. John sighs as he flings open the driver side door and presses himself into the seat. He doesn't want to get philosophical about his sister's life. So he focuses on the car, on the smells and the bad dashboard and all the things wrong with it. It's horrid, but it's transport, and it's enough to hold his possessions for the twenty-or-so minute drive to and from.
Traffic, of course, is god awful. The drive takes something like thirty minutes instead of the typical fifteen, and that seems to merely add to an already boiling psyche. By the time he pulls up in front of the familiar flat, finds parking just on the other side of Speedy's, he's about ready to burst through the door and strangle Sherlock. If he's in, which in this case, John couldn't care less about.
But when he reaches the door, a tiny flurry of panic upsets his stomach. In the car, it seemed all right. John could see himself barging into the flat, could see Sherlock at the window sawing lazily against his violin. He wouldn't even say anything in that scenario, would just move right through and to their—Sherlock's room and grab his things. He'd rush up the stairs and grab up the rest of his belongings, all in one sweep because Heaven forbid he be made to take any more trips than necessary, and then he'd be off.
That's not what he's feeling now. He stares at the brass plates, the same he'd seen day in and day out for what seemed like ages now, and dread creeps up into his chest. He doesn't want to see Sherlock. Not yet, he's not ready yet. If he sees Sherlock now, the chances of him attempting reconciliation are too high, and that's the opposite of what he's trying to do.
(Furniture. An arm chair. Remember that.)
Not even sure that's true.
(Of course it is. Only when convenient, only in-between cases, never the initiator otherwise.)
Sherlock's always been like that. Always one-tracked.
(And yet, when was the track ever—)
Right.
He sticks his key into the familiar latch and gives it a quick twist, shoves the door open as though it may be barricaded on the other side. But it isn't, of course. It's exactly the same. The stairwell sits before him, begs for an ascent that he may not enjoy. It's quiet though—no violin playing, no television on, no pacing or yelling or even muted conversation. Even Mrs. Hudson's gone out, it seems. He's actually a bit sorry for that. Would've liked to apologize and say thank you before he popped off for good.
No time for that now.
John approaches the first step cautiously, ears perked and on high alert. He wants to hear a sound, wants to hear any recognition that the flat at the end of these seventeen steps is occupied by none other than the madman currently residing there. But as he ascends, nothing comes back. Not even the tapping of a keyboard—everything is silent. It's daunting, this journey up. There's a pushing and pulling within his chest: one side is desperate for Sherlock to be in, desperate to look at him and see if he's been at all affected by John's lack of presence. The other side is praying to a God he doesn't believe in (please, please, please) that he's gone out, is on a case, won't be back for hours.
He exhales as he reaches the middle landing. The doors into the flat are closed. No one is in.
Good.
The rest of the steps he takes as normal, jogs up them and throws the door wide open. It looks just as he left it, not a speck out of place. Well, no. There's a mug, full-up, sitting upon his side table. John shakes his head quickly, jumbles his thoughts about as he reminds himself no, that is no longer your side table and that arm chair is no longer yours either. A pang of something all together uncomfortable pings about in his stomach as he exhales slowly. This isn't time for reminiscing, this is time for packing and leaving. Abandoning ship.
(Go on, then.)
He rounds on his heel and heads immediately upstairs. Not much of his stuff is left in the old bedroom, but his luggage is certainly there and he'll be needing that more than anything. He makes quick work of the little room—pulls out big bags and shoves all of his belongings into them with little regard. Trousers and trinkets and memories he should probably bin but can't be bothered to sort through. Pictures that hadn't been moved, papers and books. All of it gets thrown into whichever suitcase is nearest and zipped up in quite a hurry. He checks the time frequently—he vows to be there for an hour tops, any more than that runs risk that Sherlock would come barging in and that isn't something he wants to handle while packing up.
By the half hour mark, his ro—that room is devoid of his possessions. He's trailed the two large suitcases down into the sitting room and has two more to fill. But this is the part that causes his heart to hammer in his chest. Sherlock could be in the room, asleep. Could be laying there, having heard John upstairs, and is merely waiting. Many scenarios could be happening right at that moment, at the very second John stands there staring at the slightly cracked door.
But he's got stuff in there. It has to be done.
He takes slow, cautious steps down the hallway. Any sudden movement may cause—nothing. It may awaken a Sherlock he's not sure is there. It may cause an argument that could easily not happen. Many things that could but probably won't hang heavily, sit uncomfortably on his shoulders. He takes a deep breath as he reaches the door and shuts his eyes. Now or never, grab the stuff and go. He presses the pads of his fingers to the wood and gives it a firm push forward, expects Sherlock's voice to ring out at that moment.
But no, no such thing happens.
He's left standing in silence. John takes a deep, thankful breath and exhales gently. He steps in and opens his eyes and—and all of the anger that had come to seemingly pass beneath nerves wells up again.
All of his possessions are strewn about. Every jumper, ever pair of trousers, every bloody sock and pair of shorts he's got. Chucked against the lamp and heaved all over the floor, ripped from hangers and even pulled from the dirty laundry. It's everywhere, literally. He's almost certain some of it's hidden. He feels the tell-tale boiling of his blood and the muscles in his face begin to twitch in suppressed anger. His fingers clench and release, over and over until he gets the wherewithal to move. He knew Sherlock could be absolutely childish, knew he had the ability to go above and beyond the call of immaturity, but tearing all of John's possessions from their places was just idiotic. Why, what had he done to them? Did he simply decide that John's things were of no relevance, that he needed all the bloody space he'd given up back right then?
He doesn't bother to look. He simply goes about the room, picking up his strewn jumpers and underpants and the rest of it. He flings it into his bag, fury creeping more and more into each shove and push. Oh, it's so typical. Here he thinks maybe Sherlock could handle something like an adult, that he may be able to keep this entire matter civil. John laughs a dark, sardonic laugh at the thought of coming in to find him now. Laughs more at the idea of attempting to reconcile. It's laughable, it really is. Of course, of course Sherlock would play these little games. He's surprised his other things weren't in complete disarray.
John plucks his things from the dresser top and the bedside table aggressively, drops them into his bag while muttering to himself. He thinks of all the things he really should take, because really he bought them and there was no reason for Sherlock to keep it, but it seems like too much work and he really can't be bothered to care. Nope, couldn't give a toss if he had one to spare. He does a quick sweep of the room, to ensure no sock or shoe or bit of spare paper is left behind. And then he heads to the bathroom without a second glance and swipes all of his incidentals there as well.
It is just under the hour mark when he finishes. He takes only the one thing from the kitchen—his mug, the alumni mug from his army days—and bins that into whichever of the bags has room. Anything else doesn't matter, can be thrown away or strewn about at Sherlock's leisure. He's got the important things, the things he cares about, possessions that were his long before they'd ever considered making purchases that became 'theirs'.
A final glance around the room, that sitting room. It's all still very familiar, very home. And despite the aggravation that is pumping steadily in his veins, a sick little feeling drops into the pit of his stomach. Baker Street had been home for—well, a long while now, it seems. With its skulls and its too-many-bookshelves and piles of newspapers. John shakes his head, another re-jumbling of thoughts, and pulls his ring of keys from his pocket. Eventually, it'll go away, the home sickness. Eventually, he'll stop considering Baker Street home, will stop telling cabbies to drop him there, will remember his own eventual address easier than it. Eventually, he'll move on because it's what he does. He moves on.
But for now, when he starts sliding the familiar little silver key from his ring, it hurts as though he may be severing a limb. And when it finally does pop off, it may as well be the sound of a final ligament tearing away. He takes a deep breath as he puts his key ring, sans the most important key, back into his pocket and strides toward Sherlock's chair. Yes, that can continue to be Sherlock's chair. The one across from it, however, will no longer be his.
He settles the little key into the centre of the seat and lifts his hands as though surrendering. In a way, he is. Surrendering any partial ownership of 221B Baker Street back to the original owner. And then he takes a giant step back. He tilts his chin up defiantly and turns on his heel, back toward the four stuffed bags that holds everything he owns. He throws one around his shoulders, the other across his back. Then he hitches the two larger by the handles and begins his adventure down, the very last time he'll be making his way down those seventeen steps.
The very last time he'll be shutting that door behind him.
The very last time, he suspects, he'll be seeing those shiny, brass door placards, declaring the address 221B.
Sherlock recognizes that scent.
It wafts in the air, hangs like a cloud slowly descending over him. Yes, that scent, he recognizes it immediately, and makes no hesitation as to what it is. It's the exact scent he's been burying his face in for the past week, the one he once had constantly amalgamated in his clothes, in his sheets.
John.
He doesn't move about the flat any quicker. John's aftershave lingers and he breathes it slowly, as though any loud inhalation will cause it to flicker away. John is in the flat, somewhere. His eyes dash over each room he could be in—kitchen is empty, bedroom door is cracked open, bathroom as well, upstairs is quiet. Was he heard? Was John caught? Sherlock's jaw clenches and he grasps his hands behind his back, straightens his spine. His chin tilts upward haughtily. If he is to present himself to John, it will not be in the raving lunatic fashion his insides are insisting upon. He will, as is his usual state, be of sound mind and complete control. He will walk into whichever room John is in and be the face of stoicism, of yes-you-were-missed-no-I-didn't-go-mental.
Another pause. He listens once again to the flat and there is no indication that anyone is in. But John's aftershave is strong, it's practically clinging to the walls of his nostrils. He has to be about.
So Sherlock steps forward, finally. He walks in the lightest of feet, very nearly a tip toe, toward the bedroom. He must be there, must be seated upon the bed in waiting. There's no way he's not, cannot possibly be anywhere else in the flat. Upstairs movement would've been heard. John would've shut the bathroom door were he inside. Not in the sitting room, not in the kitchen—it's the only place of logic, aside from Mrs. Hudson's, but she's at her sisters for the weekend. Won't return until the evening.
No, bedroom. He must be.
Sherlock stares upon the door as though willing it to open on its own, to allow him the dramatic entrance he desires. Because really, it is he who has an affinity for the theatrics, not John. Sherlock who will choose a large, billowing coat for effect where John would prefer the standard hip-length, all practicality. And here, in this scenario, John would choose practicality. He would want to discuss this, to reason out and explain why he had left, why he had returned, and what it all meant. And Sherlock wanted that, despite his feeling toward sentiment.
(John has made forced all this sentimentality into everything.)
John has done nothing wrong.
(Reason the case took so long is because of John.)
That's true. This whole John business has taken its toll, has forced a case that should've been solved days ago to just come to head in that very morning (Stupid, obvious, of course it was identical triplets, how could he be so daft to something so simple.) But perhaps, had John been by his side and not crowding his head with nonsense, it would've been much simpler. John would've had ideas—stupid ones—that would've jogged his own head. John had become integral to the entire process.
So this is it. The reconciliation. Good. Finally.
Sherlock pushes the door and his mouth opens as though he is about to speak, but it shuts immediately. There is no John in the room (though his scent lingers here.) No, there is absolutely no John in the room. Every stitch of used-up clothing has been moved (taken?) Every little knick-knack gone missing (the coin jar as well.) He strides across the room and tips over the dirty laundry, shoves through his own clothing and finds that not a single thing of John's remains. Each drawer, each hanger, each space in the room where John once sat has been removed.
In the bathroom, he realizes, it's the same. The shampoos, the soaps, the sponge. The toothpaste and toothbrush. That ridiculous Union Jack towel he insisted was just the right size for him. Gone, nothing, only his own over-priced personal hygiene purchases left behind.
He practically flies up the stairs, bangs right into John's room and it's the same scene. Nothing left. Sherlock checks, thoroughly. Goes through every single drawer in the little oak dresser, flings open the wardrobe and looks into every single nook-and-cranny. Underneath the bed is nothing more than dust and spaces where something might have been. The bedside table's tiny drawer no longer holds his book, or the emergency pack of cigarettes, or anything.
There's nothing left. Literally. Every piece of John in the flat has seemingly vanished into thin air, and it isn't until Sherlock waddles stiff-legged back into the sitting room does he realize, does he put two-and-two together. Oh, of course. He pads toward the kitchen, the one place John may still be, and no—not even there. Even his mug, the one silly little alumni mug that John brought with him... even that's gone.
His feet shuffle him towards his arm chair. John's scent lingers in the flat because he was there, of course. How silly of Sherlock to not recognize that. Should've been obvious, what with the scent never growing any stronger. With the complete and utter silence in the flat. Of course, how stupid of him, how ridiculously hopeful.
(How very sentimental.)
Sherlock's jaw clenches as he approaches his chair. A glimmer of silver upon the seat confirms the entirety of his thought process—a key, just the one. A key to the flat. John's key to the flat, relinquished back to the property. The scent of John is practically gone now, back to the state of things as they once were. He picks up the key and holds it between his fingers, examines it carefully. John's aftershave was obvious when he stepped through the door. It was as though he was in the flat, he could've just stepped into the restroom for a moment, could've simply gone out for a split second, could've—
It hits Sherlock just then.
Could've been in the flat no less than five minutes before he'd entered.
He had just missed him. John had been here only moments ago, had stood in the very spot he was standing. His heat signature might have stilled registered, had Sherlock access to such equipment. He had been in the flat, and he had gathered his things himself. John had been in this very room and left his key, and had no intention of coming back. No letter of resignation. No messages of farewell. Just Sherlock, coming back to a flat devoid of him, and a key to bid his adieu.
Something wells up inside of Sherlock as he stares toward the panes of window glass. He swallows and feels it creeping up in his limbs, starting at a roiling in his stomach and cracking at each vertebrae in his spine. No, not hurt. It's in there, somewhere possibly, an urge to vomit up everything that may be in his stomach (bile, mostly, at this time of day.) No, this is much, much stronger, much more potent. It fills him up and quakes his bones and before he even understands what he is doing, that little silver key is being hurtled at the mirror above the mantle piece as hard as his muscles will allow him to.
No, this is pure, unadulterated rage.
Sherlock doesn't handle rage well. It blinds him, takes over a usually very-well controlled head and turns it raw and primal, forces it to claw and bite and tear at every logical thought he has. So he chucks the key into the mirror, and the glass cracks around the impact, and oh that feels good. There's no way he's stopping now, muscles bunched and coiled and ready to move. He swipes his arm across the mantle—the skull clatters to the floor, cracks at the jaw. The bat and bug display go with it, and the glass breaks. He pulls the knife (that knife, that's been there since the day he moved in) and flings it across the room, into the kitchen. And everything, everything has to go in the worst way possible.
Books come off the shelf in large sweeps of his long arms. Countless files of photographs and paperwork, all of it is flung into the air, thrown across the room. Oh, and look—the riding crop. Well, there goes the lamp, and the newspapers, and the skull hanging from the wall. There goes another shelf of books, and a bit of the wallpaper. This was once their home, and John had ways that things needed to be kept, and now it was not his home any more Sherlock would make sure of that. He would make sure that nothing was left unturned, nothing kept in the same place that John-bloody-Watson wanted it.
And so, there goes the coffee table in a quick, furious burst of an upheaval. There go the cushions from the sofa, flung across the room to wherever. There goes the pebbled glass panes of the kitchen's sliding doors, busted through one-by-one with the heavy end of his crop. A vicious snap of his wrist causes the top end of his own glass equipment to break, to fling shards across the kitchen floor. The sound of glass breaking is soothing, like the tinkle of wind chimes or the patter of rain. Sherlock smashes the plates from every cupboard, mugs that were in constant use, glasses that rarely were. He tugs out drawers and empties them to the floor. Somewhere in his head, he knows this is all stupid. This is a ridiculous over reaction to being left by his lover, but the forefront of his head seems to bite its metaphoric head off, and it retreats.
He just wants damage. He wants destruction. He wants the outside to resemble what his insides might look like had they a visual representation. This is the visual representation. A world heaved and turned on its head, an exception made and made again. Little promises broken, little murmurs shattered like the most fragile of glass. Sherlock had successfully tamped down emotional connections for a very, very long time. And then John Watson came about and messed the whole system up. He'd have to start from scratch, would have to build up all those walls again because Sherlock did what Sherlock never does, and that was fall in love.
John's chair is the last of the chaos. He tears out the cushion and chucks the side table into the kitchen. He pushes the whole thing over, tips it on it's side, attempts to kick it away and only hurts himself. Oh yes, that's the metaphor, isn't it? Of course it is. No, this isn't John's fault. This is his own fault. He was the one who allowed the intrusion, who took a pick axe to his own carefully constructed fortress and began creating the pile of rubble he now possessed. And oh, yes. Sherlock recalls, he was the one who told John to leave. (Get out, go on, I work better alone, should've done this sooner.)
Sherlock flops into his own chair and slowly, slowly pulls his legs up to his chest. He wraps his arms around his shins and takes a deep breath. His eyes survey the room—the glass, the wallpaper, the lamps, the coffee table. The pounding anger in his head is still there, throbbing away quite impressively. But no, he's doesn't want to answer, can't be bothered.
(Should've looked at the evidence.)
None of it was concrete.
(Said it himself.)
Could've meant anything.
("I'm done.")
Could've meant the argument.
("You're leaving?")
Should've known.
(Ignoring evidence is dangerous work.)
Denial is a sickly sort of emotion.
(No one's fault but—)
Yes, yes. Very aware, thank you.