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One Last Hurrah

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Pale eyes remained fixed on the unmoving figure by the window. John had been staring out at Baker street for the past half hour while the cup of tea in his hands grew cold. Sherlock hardly required his deductive reasoning to figure out what was bothering his flatmate so.

 

No, not flatmate. Not anymore.

 

John had been staying over at 221B Baker St. for the past couple of months, ever since confronting Mary for her lies and her past. And while he slept and ate at 221B, he didn't consider the flat his home.

 

He did once. More than two years ago. And it's my fault that he won't again. 

 

It was in John's nature to forgive. No one knew this better than Sherlock. Mary would eventually be forgiven and John would return to his wife and unborn child in the suburbs. And Sherlock would end up being the friend and uncle that would visit the family on special occasions. Though John would always have a taste for danger, he was a responsible man. If a wife could keep him away from cases and danger for a month, Sherlock had little doubt that a baby could do so for much longer.

 

But for now, I get to keep him a little longer.

 

Sherlock knew that he'd have to let John go soon. Back to Mary, who could give him a family. Who could give him a normal home and children and even a bit of danger. She was everything a man like John Watson could have ever wanted. She gave him all that Sherlock could not. The detective was aware that he could keep John with him if he played his cards right, drawing attention now and again to his being shot by Mary. But John Watson deserved better. He deserved all that life could offer.

 

And there is so little that I can offer him.

 

So Sherlock would let him go because that was what people did for the person they cared about. For the first time in years he had gotten attached. He, Sherlock Holmes had gotten attached despite the hard learned lesson that caring was not an advantage. But what was done was done and now he was John Watson's best friend, someone he would do anything for.  But first, he would be selfish for just a few more months. He pushed away from his seat at the kitchen table and reached for his coat.

 

"Case, John. Coming?"

 

He shrugged the coat on and heard the expected footsteps following him down the 17 steps. If nothing else, at least he had this for the next few months.

 

One last hurrah for Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.