Chapter Text
Mandy had actually cried when she'd broken up with him. They'd only being seeing each other a few weeks at most, and it wasn't like they'd actually seen each other all that much during that time; as she had tearfully reminded him earlier that evening. John really did feel bad about the way he'd treated her, and, for that matter, about the way he'd treated most of his recent ex-girlfriends. He ought to be ashamed of himself really. He used to know exactly how to treat a woman, had prided himself on listening to them, making them feel appreciated, being honest with them - what had happened to him?
It was all Sherlock's fault. The man had skewed his perspective on relationships, warped his ideas of what was acceptable and what was not, made him forget what was the right and normal way to act.
He wasn't supposed to hang up the phone mid-conversation, or forget about dates arranged the previous week, or dash out of the house in the middle of the night. But all of those complaints and more had been directed at him, and rightfully so, by quite a few women over the past year. And he was pretty sure that every one of those misdeeds had been Sherlock's fault. Not that that was much help to his cause. In fact, he'd given up trying to explain that - he didn't think he could stand to hear another word about how he spent too much time with Sherlock, did too much for Sherlock, cared more about Sherlock than them. So, he'd taken to just saying sorry, and apologising for being such a shitty boyfriend, which meant that his last few relationships had ended rather more swiftly than those where he'd still had the "Sherlock excuse" to hang his hat on.
He stared at the wall opposite his bed. Since when had he become such a bastard? How did he not even feel the slightest pang of regret that his most recent relationship had just ended? Mandy had been a really nice girl, maybe a little sensitive, but they could have had a good thing going on. And yet he just hadn't felt that.. that spark for her. He hadn't for Ellen before that. Or Catherine before her, or Erin or Erica or whatever her name was before her. Now that he thought about it, the last woman he'd actually felt something for was probably Sarah. And Sherlock had gone and messed that up too.
"John?" his hands clenched involuntarily and he squeezed his eyes shut as the familiar voice floated up the stairs. "John!" Louder this time. Forcing himself to relax his hands John let out a long sigh, and dropped his head, before pushing himself resignedly to his feet, and opening the door.
"JOHN!" Sherlock bellowed, before spinning round to find himself face to face with John, who was cringing from the noise.
"There you are. Where've you been?"
"In my room, as I'm sure you're aware."
"Well whatever were you doing in there."
"I was having some alone time." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.
"Oh, come on, not like that! I just.. needed some time to think."
"Well you can think in here!"
John would never, ever admit it, but he was actually a little afraid of thinking personal thoughts whilst in the same room as Sherlock. It wasn't like he thought the man was truly psychic or anything, but he had such an uncanny way of knowing what was going through other people's minds, that it was natural for John to feel far more comfortable when he was completely alone with his thoughts. Although right now he had a far more logical reason for avoiding the living room - a series of sporadic pops, punctuated by louder bangs, was emanating up the stairwell from the direction of the kitchen.
"I can't possibly think in this sort of environment!"
"Hmm?" Sherlock glanced around distractedly, as though trying to find the source of the problem. "What sort of environment?"
John just heaved a sigh and shook his head. "You forgot to stop the microwave again didn't you?"
"Oh, yes, of course. Clean that up while you make the tea."
Why he even placed so much stock in a man who frequently treated him like a personal slave was something John tried to avoid thinking about. Sighing, he started down the stairs towards the kitchen. After flapping around his room for a few moments and reappearing with a very old book, several feet of cable, and a paint bucket filled with something which was most certainly not paint (John didn’t ask), Sherlock reappeared in the living room.
"I thought you were going out with overemotional cat-lover tonight."
"Mandy. Her name's Mandy."
"Oh, whatever. It's not like I really need to remember, you'll have another one in a weeks time anyway."
Maybe he really was upset about the breakup, or maybe he had reached another of his periodic melting points with regards to Sherlock’s barbs, but he suddenly felt his stomach clench with hot anger. "Right. Well. Maybe I haven't been doing too well lately, but I can at least get a woman to hang around longer than you."
Sherlock's eyes snapped towards him. It wasn't often that John's retaliations were emotionally targeted.
"And for that matter, I don't even know why I've stayed around you as long as I have. God knows you act as though you're trying to drive me away. No, wait, that's not it - you're trying to drive everyone else away from me so that I'm stuck with you." John stopped short, breathing heavily. Sherlock was gazing at him with those impenetrable dark eyes of his, not giving away the slightest hint of the emotions behind them. If there even were any, John thought to himself, surprised by his own bitterness.
"And just why," he steepled his fingers under his chin, "would I do that."
"Oh, I don't know," John blustered. "Maybe so you have someone to gloat to when you spot some clue so impossibly small most people would've missed it with a microscope. Maybe because you enjoy having someone around to constantly belittle so you can boost your own ridiculously inflated ego. Or.. or maybe you're just goddamn lonely!"
Silence. Then, "I never asked you to stay, John."
John was taken aback. What the hell was that supposed to mean? He never knew what he was expecting with Sherlock, but something about this comment was just off. Was this Sherlock's roundabout way of telling John to just fuck off out of his house?
"Right. No. I guess you didn't." And with that he turned abruptly on his heel and started towards the stairs. It wasn't until he'd throw most of his clothes into a suitcase, rescued his laptop from beneath a teetering pile of files and crumb-encrusted plates in the living room, and was heading towards the outside door that Sherlock asked.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm leaving."
And he did.