A/N: So, apparently me getting stuck at my house and slicing my foot open on a hidden piece of glass in my carpet equals me finding the need to write something on the spur of the moment. Luckily, one of my friends was online and challenged me to write a piece inspired by "All Things Must Past" by George Harrison. I read the lyrics and listened to the song – and this is the scene I came up with. Enjoy!

Not Always Going to Be This Grey

"I'm sorry, John."

Sarah twisted a strand of hair around her finger as she spoke. She did look sorry – regretfully so, but also entirely self-assured in her decision.

"Isn't there anything I could say or do?" he asked. He was standing with his back to the door. He hadn't even realized he had migrated in its direction; it was almost as if him standing in front of the door would get her to change her mind.

Sarah laughed and drummed her fingers on the table top. "No, not really."

John spread his hands. "Well, at least I tried." He chuckled, trying to add some humour to what was otherwise completely dour situation. It sounded false to his ears.

Sarah looked away, pressing her lips together. She seemed a little lost for words. Just like him.

"You know," he says, trying to fill the silence, "it's – um – been a while since, well…" What was he saying now? "… since someone's broken up with me."

Sarah was still tugging on her hair. "Please don't make me feel guilty—"

"I'm not!" Straight up defence. "I just… can't keep track of what I'm saying sometimes."

And wonderful. Her last impression of him is going to be one of a blabbering idiot.

She sighed. "It's not your fault, John. It's me."

John raised an eyebrow. "Yes, well, I suppose it was still of me to expect it to last," he said, trying to keep the bitterness out. He was failing rather miserably at that "Who would be interested in an ex-soldier these days, anyway? They all expect us to be haunted and preoccupied by memories—"

Sarah looked a little taken aback. "I didn't mean—"

"—so much so that we obviously won't ever pay them any attention because we're far too busy readjusting to civilian life—"

"I was interested," she said quietly. "And I never thought that."

He stopped; he had lost track of what he was saying. Again.

"What?" He knew exactly what she had said; he was just surprised.

"I was interested," Sarah repeated.

They exchanged looks.

It was rather awkward.

He could feel his ears turning bright red; he looked away. "Yes, well… You're leaving."

"Yes, I am." Her hands were at her hair again, and this time she was biting her lower lip. Maybe she didn't really want to go after all… "But I meant that if I was interested, then you'll meet someone else soon enough."

John looked at her. There was doubt all over his expression, it was almost tangible. "No, I won't."

"You don't know that," she replied. "I like you for a reason, John."

"You do?" He was taken aback by that. He paused, frowning. "'Like' – present tense?"

This time, she laughed. It was some kind of giggle, one he usually heard when she found something either ridiculous or funny or both. He hadn't heard it in a while – it was nice, but confusing.

"What?"

"You!" She clapped her hands together. "You're even beginning to sound like him!"

"Who?"

"Sherlock, obviously," she said.

"Oh." He wasn't sure if sounding like Sherlock was a good or bad thing. Maybe it depended on the situation.

If so, this definitely wasn't the right situation.

"All right," he said. He folded his arms. "So, why do you like me?"

"Because," she replied, moving around to the other side of the table, her fingers still lightly tapping on the surface. "You're nice. You're funny, and kind and… very, very brave. Probably the bravest man I've ever met." She smiled. "And I will always think that. I just can't do this right now."

John wasn't sure if he should thank her, or if he should say something unrelated, or just not talk at all. Maybe he shouldn't talk. That would at least save him from saying something stupid. Again.

"Well, I…"

Yeah, maybe he shouldn't talk.

Sarah looped a lock of hair behind one ear. "I can't spend every single night worrying whether you're going to turn up dead the next morning. I just… I can't, John. I can't do it anymore."

"I can stop," he said. "For you, I'd stop, if that would make you feel better."

She smiled again, this time shaking her head. "No, you won't. Don't say you will, because you can't. Not yet."

"Why?"

"He needs someone, John," Sarah said. "He needs you."

"Hardly. He has a skull he can talk at."

Lame joke. Very lame joke. His chuckle fades before it can even get started.

"Believe me, John," Sarah said. "Sherlock needs you more than I do."

"But would you still leave if I stopped helping him? I'm his flatmate, I don't have to be his colleague."

"Oh, yes, you do," Sarah said. "Don't try to lie to yourself; I know you better than that. The moment something cropped up, you'd be running right after him to the crime scene."

"I suppose."

"You love it," she said. "And I would never try to take that away from you. That's why I have to leave."

"There should be some other way, don't you think?"

Sarah chuckled, but her expression didn't look positive. She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Well," she said. "I better be going, I'm running late." Without waiting for a response, she grabbed her bag and slung it across her shoulder. She walked out of the room and down the stairs, making her way towards the door.

He followed her, passing her in the hallway, and opened the door for her.

"Oh, thank you—"

"No problem."

They stopped and looked at each other again.

"Well, good luck, then," John said.

"Yeah, you too." Sarah made to walk through the door, but she stopped half-way. "Just a small word of advice," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Kidnapping is not the best idea for a first date," she said, smiling.

He laughed. "Yeah, I'll try to keep that in mind the next time I happen to go on a date."

"Give yourself more credit," Sarah said. "And cheer up. You'll do fine."

She walked out the door and down the street. John stepped outside and let the door close behind him, watching her leave. This was probably the last time he'd ever see her, after all.

He was wrong.

Moments later, she was walking back down the road, trying her best not to run into people. She skidded to a halt right in front of him and threw her arms around his neck.

"Bye, then," she said, kissing him on the cheek.

"Yeah… bye."

She smiled one more time, then turned, head held high, and left for good this time.

John was sitting by himself in front of the telly when Sherlock arrived. Though there was a programme on, he wasn't watching it; it was more or less background noise, something to keep him distracted from his own thoughts. Same thing went for the book in his hand.

"Something up?" Sherlock asked, throwing his coat down on the chair and going into the kitchen.

"What? No, nothing at all."

Sherlock stuck his head around the corner. "Wrong," he said.

John set aside his book and picked up a newspaper. "Okay, fine, yes. Wrong."

"No, I meant there's something wrong. With you."

"With me?" John opened the newspaper and held it up.

"Yes." Sherlock frowned. "You're all pale and… upset. I hope this isn't about the violin again." He disappeared into the kitchen.

John rolled his eyes. "No, no, it's not about the violin."

"Oh good, because then I would have been wrong. You're usually dead tired when you complain about the violin."

John lowered the newspaper. "Oh, all right. Sarah broke up with me."

"Did she now?" Sherlock didn't sound remotely interested.

"Yeah. But I don't expect you to be interested in that, so never mind about it—"

"Never mind?" Sherlock reappeared, carrying an apple and a knife. "If you want me to, sure. I was just going to say sorry."

"Oh."

"And I am," he added, holding up the apple and then digging the knife into it. "Sorry, I mean. You like her. It's a shame."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." Sherlock didn't look at him; he was engrossed in peeling the apple.

"Uh… what are you doing?" John asked.

"What? Oh." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I'm seeing how long it takes, on average, to peel an apple."

John folded his hands. "And why are you doing that?"

Sherlock looked up. "Why do I ever do anything?"

John grinned. "All right, fill me in."

"Lestrade called me this morning," Sherlock began, talking very rapidly the way he did when he was excited. He turned the apple around in his hands as he spoke. "You had already gone out, so I didn't bother trying to reach you. They found the poor woman at a bakery in Westminster, covered in apple peels…"

fin