"Stop this."

Sherlock speaks from the doorway of the bedroom, sounding as resolute and demanding as ever. John pauses momentarily, his muscles quick to obey the command even if he is not, and then continues to fold and stuff clothes into his suitcase.

"I think the point of leaving is that I don't have to do everything that you say anymore," John says dryly, going for humor even in these final moments.

"Stay."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

"John—"

"No," John repeats and he sounds sad even to his own ears. "I've made my decision Sherlock. I can't anymore…I'm not sure we're friends. I'm not sure we ever were. Friends don't ruin each other's lives."

He does not look up to see the look on Sherlock's face but he knows it will be composed into its cool mask. He can't bear to look into that cool and detached expression when he knows that his own eyes are revealing far too much.

"Don't be an idiot John. Of course we're friends—"

"You don't have friends, remember? You got it right the first time round. You're actually incapable of caring about anyone who isn't dead on a slab with a bunch of inexplicable stab wounds," John snaps as he shuffles through drawers.

"I do…care," Sherlock says quietly and John can see him shuffling awkwardly in the doorway. "I care about—I care about you."

"If you cared about me….damn it Sherlock, telling someone…ruining my relationship with the woman I was about to marry is not what you would have done if you cared. Ruining my life, taking everything apart, taking joy in pointing out you were right all along is not the same as caring."

"I though you'd want to know," Sherlock says, looking bewildered. "I thought it would be kinder for you to know—"

"You thought telling me that Mary had cheated on me a year ago on my wedding day and in front of our friends and family was a kind thing to do? You thought breaking up my wedding was a favor?"

"But he said 'if anyone has any reason these two should not be wed in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace'," Sherlock says earnestly. "I thought that is the time they set aside to raise objections."

There is infinite silence as John shoves some jumpers into his suitcase.

"I do care," Sherlock repeats, sounding lost and confused.

He knows it has cost Sherlock a lot to say it but he is feeling particularly vicious at the moment. He needs to destroy Sherlock. "You can't. High functioning sociopath, right?"

Low blow.

He can practically feel Sherlock flinch without turning around. John folds his blue and white buttoned down shirt into a neat square.

Sherlock emits a humorless laugh. "Yes, I suppose I deserved that. No I don't waste my time in routine displays of human affection, which some might identify as a necessary component of 'normal' social interaction, but surely you have deduced from the evidence presented to you thus far that I am not completely devoid of affection, especially—"

"What are classic sociopathic symptoms again? I remember vaguely from uni but I'm a little rusty. Maybe you can help. I seem to remember…pathological lying, elevated sense of self-importance, manipulation and cunning," John lists off the symptoms as he stuffs books into a second suitcase.

He knows he is being cruel.

It makes him feel alive.

"John—"

"Right on the mark so far, no?" John snaps back. "Superficial charm is another one. You do that well. What next? Lack of remorse. Oh you've got plenty of that. Callousness. Well, we have hoards of grieving widows who can attest to your callousness at a crime scene."

"Yes thank you for your diagnosis. I have heard it all before believe it or not," Sherlock snaps.

John is no longer listening. Cannot hear that Sherlock is begging him to stop with his tone.

"Need for stimulation. Were Cleckly and Hare looking you up when they wrote their list of symptoms? 'Need' is putting it mildly though. 'Craving' or 'murderous desire' for stimulation is more accurate," John goes on viciously.

His heart is breaking in his chest. He is hurting Sherlock. He is burning the bridge. He is destroying their friendship.

Good. If he doesn't burn the bridge now, he will be tempted to cross back.

"Unreliable. Impulsive. Secretive. Paranoid," John lists off as he stuffs items into the case and zips up his bags. He finally turns to face Sherlock. He can't see Sherlock's face. The detective is leaning heavily against the doorframe, his blue robe hanging lopsided on his shoulder and head bowed at an angle so that his curls half hide the severe lines of his lips and brows from sight.

"That's all of it, isn't it?" John bites.

"You should have paid better attention in your psychology class. You missed an important one," Sherlock says softly.

"Oh?

"Incapacity for love," Sherlock says with a small laugh, head still bowed as if praying. He sounds blank.

Oh, God he can't do this. He thought he would feel better if he hurt Sherlock but he can't go on. He has to stop this. It's not Sherlock's fault that he has just lost the love of his life, it's not Sherlock's fault that Mary had cheated. Yes, it's humiliating that Sherlock had told everyone at the wedding, that he didn't care what pain he was causing, that he didn't understand that John might have preferred not to know.

But all of that didn't mean he deserved what John was doing to him now.

"Sherlock. Look. I didn't mean—"

"You're right. You saw through it perfectly. I can't experience normal emotions," Sherlock says, his voice sounds choked. "What did the report say? 'What seems to be warmth, joy, love and compassion is more feigned than experienced and serves an ulterior motive.'"

"I didn't mean what I said," John says.

"Why shouldn't you?" Sherlock snaps at him, finally looking up. His eyes are wild and sharp, his face scrunched into an ugly expression. "I don't care. I can't care. I can feign it well enough though. You've seen me do it over and over. You've seen me fake tears or politeness for a case haven't you? You saw me do it on the rooftop of Bart's on the day—"

"Don't talk about that," John warns, raising his voice to match Sherlock.

"Why? So you can forget that you actually believed the tears and heartfelt confession?" Sherlock laughs, sounding manic. "So you can forget that you were taken in? You were never willing to see what everyone else saw plainly: a heartless sociopath. Well, now you see."

John doesn't know what to say to that so he takes both cases, one in each hand and heads out of the bedroom.

"Wait," Sherlock says before he can brush past him, resting a gentle hand on his elbow. "Go to Mary."

"What?" John blurts, genuinely surprised.

"I can see that you're going to Harry's."

John asks Sherlock how he knows with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock rolls his eyes affectionately. "Obvious John. You're taking the two small cases with you, they would both fit perfectly on the shelves of Harry's guest bedroom. You would have preferred to take the larger suitcase instead of taking two smaller ones. I saw you consider it briefly but that case wouldn't fit in the bedroom closet so you put it back under the bed."

John smiles.

"Go to Mary," Sherlock says. It looks like the words are killing him.

"Why?"

"Because she still loves you. She's always loved you. She never stopped loving you. What she did was…not out of desire. It was out of grief," Sherlock explains, looking down at his hands. "Go to her. Tell her that you love her. You will never have to doubt her again. She's never wanted anyone but you. She's been on the brink of telling you so many times now."

John doesn't ask Sherlock how he knows all of this. They linger together in the doorway.

"Out of grief?" John asks.

Sherlock looks uncomfortable. "She thought…she had mistakenly thought that you were in love with…that you didn't love her. She thought you were looking for a reason to leave her so she decided to sleep with…to cheat and then tell you about it, so you could leave her without feeling guilty. She was giving you a way out."

John's heart sinks. "What?!"

Sherlock beats on. "Naturally I knew what she had done immediately. I knew she had cheated on you the moment I saw her the next time she came over. I confronted her about it. She told me the truth. I corrected her mistake, reassured her that she was the one you really loved. She was devastated about what she had done. I told her to tell you everything and ask you to forgive her, warned her that you don't take well to being lied to," Sherlock says with a sad smile, leaning his head back against the doorframe. "I learned that one the hard way, I told her."

They are trapped in the doorframe. So close. Neither of them move.

"She no longer wanted to tell you. Not when she wanted to keep you," Sherlock said. "I told her that if she didn't tell you before the wedding, I would."

"You knew the whole time," John realizes. "You knew for a year and didn't say anything."

"It wasn't my secret to tell," Sherlock snaps. He looks furious. "Blame me for the rest of it, for everything. It is entirely my fault. But not this…I…don't blame me for keeping Mary's secret. Not when I had so much more to gain from divulging it."

What?

Not when I had so much more to gain from divulging it.

John's eyes widen.

"What do you mean?"

"What?"

"What do you mean you had much more to gain from divulging it?" John demands, dropping both suitcases to the floor. They land with a loud clatter.

Sherlock looks blank. "Only the obvious. I knew it would end our friendship if you found out that I had kept another secret from you. It would be much more beneficial for me to tell you."

No, no. That's not it. For a moment it had sounded like it would have been beneficial for Sherlock to tell him because he wanted to break them up, to tell John Mary's secret and break them up because he wanted…because he wanted…

"That's not what you meant," John pleads, one hand flying of its own accord to Sherlock's shoulder to tangle into the material of his silk dressing gown.

"What else would I mean?" Sherlock says icily.

"Sherlock, what did you mean when you said that you told her she was the one I really love? Why would you not say I told her that you love her? Why would you say she was the one I really loved as if she thought I loved someone else?"

Please. Please. Is there any hope? No. No. Perhaps. But. Please.

Sherlock shrugs coolly. Blank. "Did I make it sound that way? I was not aware. As you know the implications of romantic language are far beyond my areas of expertise. I only meant to say that I managed to successfully reassure her of your feelings for her."

"And how would you know what I feel?" John snaps.

Sherlock blinks wildly. "While I may be incapable of feeling love myself—"

What had he done? Had he actually convinced Sherlock that he didn't have a heart. Oh God. Had he ruined this? If he hadn't said that…hadn't called Sherlock a sociopath…

"—I am fully capable of recognizing its symptoms in others. When I came back from…uh, from my brief…hiatus, let us say, I noticed that you were much happier than before, your nightmares are almost gone, your limp completely gone, in moments I catch you smiling to yourself with sheer delight. The only variable that has changed is Mary. We can only draw the logical conclusion."

No. No. Sherlock. Please.

His fist tightens in the material of Sherlock's robe.

He wants to say: Genius. And you see no other reason why I would be ecstatic after you got back?

"Sherlock," he says instead. He chokes on the words. Then he chokes on tears. "Sherlock please. If what you said…if what you said about divulging Mary's secret, if there is anything more to the story, if there is anything you want to tell me, please say it now."

Both hands on Sherlock's shoulders now. Sherlock looks so sad, so frightened. How does he stop it? How does he fix this?

He is probably reading the whole thing wrong. Sherlock can't want him. Giving himself hope where there is none. Dangerous.

"There isn't anything," Sherlock chokes out. He looks near tears.

"Sherlock," he breathes again, begging. "You need to speak now or forever hold your peace because if I leave, if I walk out that door I will go to Mary and forgive her and marry her and never come back. I will never set foot through that door again. I warn you."

They are only inches apart. Trapped in their doorframe and between John's suitcases on the floor.

Sherlock is falling. John pins him up against the doorframe to keep him from sliding to the ground.

"I told you. There isn't anything," Sherlock sobs. "Leave now. Get out. Mary."

"I just want to know if…if…" It fades away.

Sherlock laughs bitterly and squirms against John's hold on his shoulder, thrashing, trying to get free. John holds him there. Sherlock pushes back.

"You wanted to know if what? You wanted to know that a heartless sociopath once briefly imagined himself in love with you? Is that what you wanted…to know that no one is immune to your inexplicable pull? All right, it's true then, it's true. I admit it. I imagined myself madly in love with you. I even imagined what it would be like if you loved me too. Go on laugh. I thought I was….I imagined that I could have...it's absurd. Like a fairytale: one day a man who doesn't have a heart imagines that he feels love. Isn't it disastrously humorous John?"

Sherlock has stopped fighting. He is slumped against the wall.

His face against Sherlock's shoulder. "I don't feel like laughing."

"Well I suppose it's not everyone's sense of humor," Sherlock says kindly, deflated, one hand wrapping itself around John in a friendly half-hug. He pats John on the back reassuringly. "You needn't worry about hurting me. All of my illusions have left me. I stand before you today, firmly and purely a creature of reason. Go on now. Leave."

"Sherlock. You idiot," he breathes against Sherlock's skin. He let's his head rest on fully on Sherlock's shoulder now. "I'm yours."

"No."

"If you had only said a word. If you'd said anything earlier…I would have told you that I've always been yours," he confesses, kissing Sherlock's shoulder.

"Stop it."

"You only need to say what you want. I'll stay if you want me still. It's your choice," John says against Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm yours."

"I don't want you."

"You love me." I see it now.

"I never loved you, my love."

"And I love you too," John says.

"No. It's too late."

"You bastard. Just ask me to stay. Just tell me what you want."

"I want you to go to Mary. I want you to marry the woman you love and be happy. That's what I want."

He steps back to look into Sherlock's face.

"You mean it. You want me to go."

"Yes," Sherlock breathes. "I do. I want to pretend for a few minutes that I'm better than I am, that I am good enough to let you and Mary be happy, that I'm human."

"Of course you are human, you lunatic. Can't you see? I never meant any of—"

"I want you to leave John. Please go."

The look on Sherlock's face says it all. There is no room for negotiation. He has lost

God. Sherlock is beautiful.

No. No. No.

Make this stop.

It's too late.

If he hadn't called Sherlock a sociopath, if he had remained the only person in the world to believe in Sherlock, to not call him a freak, a heartless machine, a sociopath….

It's too late.

He leaves the doorframe. Gathers both cases from the floor.

"Goodbye Sherlock," he says, making for the door.

"John."

He turns around. Hopeful.

Sherlock is leaning, wrecked against their doorframe.

"Yes? Yes?" A little too eagerly. Calm down Watson. At ease.

"I know you said you won't ever come back but…" he trails off, struggling with the words. "But if in a few months, a few years even, you find yourself willing to come over for a tea or a murder, know that you and Mary are always welcome."

John and Mary.

It used to be John and Sherlock.

"Thank you," he says softly. I love you. I wish you believed me. I wish I'd known. I wish I could fix it now.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says. "I thought you should know before the wedding. I was mistaken. I can see now that many things are best left unsaid. I'm sorry."

John closes the door behind him.

Later he tells Mary that he knows why she did it. Sherlock has told him everything.

I love you. I love you. It's always been you. Why would you ever doubt that Mary?

The way you looked after he came back, the way you walked, your smile…was I not supposed to think….

He was my friend. Nothing else.

John. Will you ever forgive me? I know it's over…I know, it's not forgivable but…

I love you Mary.

Then as he takes Mary in his arms and lays her out on the bed so that her curls fan across the white sheets….

He can hear heartbeats that don't belong to Mary.

And then words that might haunt him forever:

I admit it. I imagined myself madly in love with you.

I imagined myself madly in love with you.

I even imagined what it would be like if you loved me too.

Go on…

LAUGH.

Isn't it disastrously humorous John?

He reaches over Mary's breasts to turn off the bedside lamp.

A/N: Please read and review? I would love love some feedback. Epilogue to be up soon.