John wandered through the streets of London for some time trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened. Sherlock no longer loved him, no longer wanted to be married to him. The bitter realization cut him to the very core of his being, so he pressed on, determined to evade the overwhelming feelings of depression starting to surround him. He kept his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets as he dodged passersby on the pavement, avoiding eye contact with each and every one of them.

Sherlock didn’t want him anymore. It was as simple as that. Somewhere along the way, while John had been deluding himself into thinking their relationship could be and would be saved, Sherlock had had something completely different in mind. He had been plotting their very downfall, and just waiting for everything to fall into place. John could feel hot tears stinging the backs of his eyes, and his throat closed up making it impossible to swallow properly.

Don’t cry in public John. Don’t cry at all, in fact. He isn’t worth it.

Oh hell, John thought. Sherlock was worth much more than a few silly tears. He had been willing to spend the rest of his life with him. He had given Sherlock everything he had, but he didn’t want it. He didn’t want him. John could feel himself become colder and colder with each step he took that led him away from Baker Street.

After drowning himself in these cyclical thoughts for a while, John realized he should probably try and find a place to stay for the night. He knew he couldn’t go to Baker Street, but where else could he go? Perhaps he could call Ollie and ask to kip on his couch for a bit. He couldn’t really make things any worse with Sherlock by doing so. It wasn’t like there was even anything between them anymore to make worse. How could he stay with a man who no longer loved him, who fought him every chance he got, who had been so manipulative to make John think everything had been his own fault even though he had been willing to do anything, literally anything to fix it? The answer was simple: he couldn’t.

He supposed both parties had to want the relationship to work for it to work, and that was why he and Sherlock had been doomed.

With his shoulders slumped and his chin resting against his chest, John trudged along on the pavement. He absently hoped for the earth to open up and swallow him whole so he could escape the crippling emptiness he felt. Less than an hour without Sherlock and already John was a mess. He was fearful of the condition he might be in when the time came to sign the divorce papers.

“John?”

At the sound of his own name being called, John turned around searching for the owner of the voice. He saw Lestrade standing just outside of a small grocery store a few feet away. He tried to give the detective inspector a friendly smile, but it came out as more of a grimace, and Lestrade frowned.

‘Alright John?” he asked, coming closer. For a brief moment, John considered lying and saying everything was fine, but he knew Lestrade would be able to see right through it. He had always been a terrible liar, and the man was a bloody detective. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out that everything was very much not fine.

“Honestly,” he said, sighing, “No.”

“You wanna grab a couple of drinks and talk about it?”

“No offense, but I’d rather not. Right now I just need to find a place to spend the night.”

“Baker Street not an option for you?” John didn’t answer, but the look on his face must have been answer enough. “Hey I’ve got a spare room in my flat. It’s where my kids stay when they come over but they’re with their mother so it’s yours if you want it.”

“You’re a saint, Greg.” John reached up and gave him a pat on the shoulder. Though they had never been very close, Lestrade had proven time and time again that he was capable of being a good friend to John. He was kind, hard-working, and no doubt would have plenty of interesting stories to tell, given his line of work. It was a shame John would most likely never heart them. He didn’t imagine he would be seeing Lestrade much anymore, seeing as how the only times he saw him was when he was with Sherlock.

Just thinking Sherlock’s name made John’s heart ache. He shook those thoughts out of his mind and hurried to keep up with Lestrade, who was several paces ahead of him. They walked in amicable silence until Lestrade stopped in front of a tall brick building. John had been here once before, when he’d come to Lestrade’s flat warming party. He’d gone with Sherlock, before they had gotten together. He remembered seeing Ollie there, and he remembered how coldly Sherlock had treated him. He'd noticed then that Sherlock wasn’t very fond of Ollie, but he didn’t know why until much later. Thinking back, John wondered how oblivious he must have been to not see the obvious jealousy that had plagued Sherlock from the moment he saw John and Ollie sitting together.

God, John thought to himself. He couldn’t go a single minute without Sherlock invading his thoughts. It was terrible, it was painful, but John couldn’t stop himself. He still loved Sherlock with every fibre of his being. He had for a while now. It would take more than a few hours for that to go away, if it ever did. John knew it was a very real possibility that he would spend the rest of his days pining for Sherlock, his lost love.

Thankfully, once Lestrade showed him to the room he’d be sleeping in, he didn’t stay around much longer after that. He simply informed John that he could stay as long as he wanted, just to lock up in the next day when he left. No doubt Lestrade would have to be at Scotland Yard early the next morning.

He gave Lestrade a small smile and thanked him again before he left the room. He pretended not to see the curious and concerned look that Lestrade gave him before closing the door.

John paced in the small confines of the bedroom for several moments once he was left alone. He could hear Lestrade moving about in the kitchen, most likely putting away the groceries he had just purchased. He could hear his footsteps as he retreated to his own bedroom for the night.

John let out a sigh and planted himself on the edge of the twin bed. With his head in his hands, John finally allowed himself to feel every emotion he’d been keeping repressed since he walked out of Baker Street. His chest heaved with quiet sobs and his eyes stung with the tears he shed. When he’d first returned to London after being invalidated from the army, he’d spent many nights in this same position. The difference between then and now was that then he had been fighting against feeling of loneliness and emptiness, and now all he felt was pain. Pain at having lost the love of his life, pain at being rejected, the pain that came with heartbreak.

He knew it was stupid to think so, but he couldn’t help but feeling he’d failed. He felt like he’d failed himself. He felt like he’d failed Sherlock. Perhaps if he had been a better husband, a better friend, a better partner... Maybe then Sherlock wouldn’t have lost interest.

Or perhaps this had been inevitable from the beginning. He was just an average bloke, and Sherlock was a genius. He shouldn’t have been settling down with the likes of him. Tall, dark, handsome, enigmatic, brilliant Sherlock Holmes married to the shorter than average, quick-tempered and trigger-happy former army doctor John Watson. It was far from a match made in heaven, though it sure had felt like it.

John continued to replay his last conversation with Sherlock. He tried to dissect every word and facial expression he’d seen, not quite sure what he was hoping to find but wanting to find it anyway.

He thought back to how rashly he had acted, how he’d let his emotions get the better of him. He hadn’t even given Sherlock a chance to speak, to explain himself. All he had done was play victim and berate the man.

There was a small glimmer of hope that this had somehow been a giant misunderstanding. He knew Sherlock was far from experienced when it came to relationships. Perhaps he had actually just been trying to be romantic and creative with his anniversary scavenger hunt. Perhaps he just really didn’t want to go to counselling. Perhaps he had thought they could have worked it out by themselves.

John climbed beneath the covers with his mind made up to go see Sherlock first thing in the morning and ask him to explain his side. No matter how painful a second rejection might be, John knew he would never be able to live with himself if he missed out on a possible reconciliation between them, however slim the chance of it may be.

It would be a long night for John, full of fitful tossing and turning and nowhere near enough sleep. In the morning when he woke up he felt even worse than when he had gone to bed, but he felt remarkably calm. He felt as if he were gearing up for battle as he finger-combed his hair standing in front of the mirror in Lestrade’s bathroom. He squared his shoulders and tightened his jaw, and with a quick nod he turned and left, locking the front door behind him as he did so.

He checked the pockets of his coat as he walked, and was glad to feel his keys inside the left pocket. His wallet, however, was nowhere to be found, which meant he would be walking back to Baker Street instead of taking a cab.

As he walked, John tried not to dwell on how he was already thinking of the flat as ‘Baker Street’. Up until yesterday he had considered that two-bedroom flat to be his home, and had always referred to it as such, at least in his mind.

It took him a while to find the flat, not being very accustomed to the part of London in which Greg lived. It took him a while to find a familiar street, and by the time he was standing at the front door of the flat he was a bit winded.

John unlocked the door with shaking hands and hurried up the stairs. He stepped into the kitchen and stood silently, listening for any sounds of life from anywhere in the flat. He heard nothing, which meant either Sherlock was sleeping or he wasn’t there. Maybe he had gone looking for John and had yet to return. John had to admit the thought of Sherlock spending an entire night focused only on finding him was quite appealing.

He crept over to the bedroom door and pressed his ear against it. Sherlock had a tendency to talk in his sleep when he was troubled, and if there was anything that could possibly trouble his mind it would be their failed marriage.

Failed marriage. The words stung though they had only been thought, not actually felt. John didn't dwell on them for long.

The bedroom was silent as well. Sherlock wasn’t there. John leaned against a counter in the kitchen and tried to think of what to do next. Should he wait here until Sherlock returns? Should he go out looking for him? Could he try and contact him? John didn’t remember where he’d left his phone. He knew he had left it somewhere here, perhaps in the sitting room.

John pushed himself off of the counter and almost started on his way into the next room, but something laying on the kitchen table caught his eye.

There was the usual clutter on the table, save for one spot near the centre that had been cleared. There was only a piece of paper resting there. John grabbed it and began to read:

John,

If you are reading this it must mean you have returned to collect your things. Take all the time you need to move. I won’t be getting in your way as I’ve gone on an extended holiday and won’t return for quite some time. I am truly sorry it has come to this, and I wish you the best of luck in all your future endeavors.

- Sherlock

John didn’t realize his hand was shaking until after he’d finished reading Sherlock’s note. He crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it onto the floor before covering his face. Here he was absolutely torn apart at the seams, heartbroken and desperate to reconcile with his husband, and Sherlock had gone on a bloody holiday! The day after they broke up! If John had ever doubted that Sherlock seriously no longer wanted him, that doubt was gone now.

It was really over. He and Sherlock were officially separated, and going to be divorced. John’s knees felt as if they would soon fail him, so he took a seat at the table. He glowered at the crumpled piece of paper on the floor. His breathing was heavy and ragged, and he could feel tears welling up again. He blinked them back with force, angry at himself for allowing them to form.

That bastard! How dare he make him feel like this? Like he was worthless, pathetic, weak. Sherlock had reduced him to an emotional mess of a man, and he hated him for it. He hated him for being so obviously unaffected. He hated him because he knew he still loved him.

He found his phone and wallet and left the flat. First things first, he needed to find a new place to live.

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Sorry for any mistakes you may find. I kind of rushed through the editing to get this posted. And sorry about the short chapter guys, but the next one will be longer to make up for it. And it'll be coming quite soon. Thanks for being so patient. xx