Fifteen minuets passed of Sherlock sitting quietly at the table, staring at the wall.
Another thirty of him pacing restlessly.
After an hour, the detective threw his hands in to the air with a frustrated shout.
"He should be back by now!"
Molly sighed, hanging her head and glaring at the forgotten plates of food sitting on the table.
Only hers had been touched.
"I'm sure he's fine Sherlock. He can take good care of himself."
Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket, glaring down at the near-empty contact list.
"I don't have John's number."
The woman glanced up from her seat, and smirked.
"Then don't call him. He needs to calm down on his own time."
Sherlock shook his head, his fingers running distractedly through his hair.
"What is he thinking though?"
Sherlock's pacing became for frantic, his mind racing with possibilities.
"Obviously he is angry. Mostly with me, probably with you and anyone else that knew that i was alive."
He pulled his phone from his pocket, worrying it with his fingers.
"Then again John has always been the forgiving type. He's have to be to have put up with me so long, so He'll probably rationalize your behavior and deflect that anger onto me."
He threw the phone into the air, catching it effortlessly before repeating the process.
"So why was he so upset when he heard that I had been living with you? The original hypothesis of his feeling jealous of my proximity to him without his knowledge doesn't exactly fit."
He caught the phone his eyes widening as he stared at Molly.
His gaze raked over her, and his , mouth formed into a knowing 'O'.
"What, Sherlock."
Molly shifted, uncomfortable with the piercing and all-seeing gaze.
Honestly, how did John get used to that?
"He was jealous. But not of my proximity to him. Not of the fact that I was staying with you."
The mortician's brow furrowed;she shook her head.
"I'm not sure I understand Sherlock, how was he jealous then? I mean it's not like we were sleeping together or anything. Not that I wouldn't mind and all but you and John-Sherlock?"
The detective snapped his coat from the floor in the living room, his coat in his hand as he dashed door the stairs.
"Sherlock! Where are you going?"
Molly shouted after him.
She was answered with the slamming of a door.
Sherlock tucked his hair quickly into the the hat he had stuffed into his coat pocket, his preferred disguise for openly wandering the streets of London.
John felt betrayed.
Cheated on.
Broken.
That was why he had fled.
John's go-to method for conflict avoidance was for him to leave and walk off his undesirable mood.
In the past, Sherlock had left it at that.
Hacking at his violin or shooting the wall until his little doctor returned.
Usually with a light buzz that loosened his lips enough for him to toss the detective a good natured "Fuck you" and head on to bed.
This was an issue, how ever taboo the topic was, that had to be discussed.
And time was of the essence.
Sherlock hurried down the street, his pace slowed by the ingrained need to blend in with the crowd.
He glanced across the street to see a figure slumped on a bus bench, his head in his hands.
Grey-blonde hair.
Fading black jacket.
worn blue jeans.
John.
Sherlock dashed through traffic- subtly be damned- as a bus pulled in front of the stop.
By the time that the detective made it across the street, John was no where to be seen.
A whispered "No." fell from the detective's lips as his eyes followed the path of the bus.
John had left.
Really left.
The detective could contain the choked sob from leaving his chest, or the single tear that fell from his eye.
Pedestrians in the street simply brushed past him, a pebble in the river of life.
He turned down the street, no more hurried to get to his blogger, only the weight of loneliness pressing him forward.
The feeling was akin to the one he felt all those years ago, in a cab with the very same blogger as he told him no.
That it was just the adrenaline.
Just the thrill of the chase.
It had been so much more than that, a month of heated moments and passionate encounters had convinced both men of that.
Had dispelled the loneliness from Sherlock's heart.
Then he had fallen, leaving his doctor alone, but maintaining the knowledge that his blogger was alive and well, had kept it at bay.
Now here he was, truly alone with no hope of being reunited with John.
His John.
"I will burn the heat out of you."
It left him hollow.
A shell of a man with his heart on a south bound bus.
Sherlock trudged on, his body moving of its own accord while his mind explored the John-wing of his mind palace.
He recounted every encounter with his blogger.
Reliving every touch.
Every word.
Each memory was a treasure artifact, well cared for while being well used.
He was blind to the sunset.
Deaf to the howling of the wind.
He did not notice the rain start, or the sleek black car pull up beside him.
He was oblivious to the firm pair of hands gripping his shoulders and man handling him into the back of the car.