He limped his way up the stairs, the argument still ringing in his mind even as he sank down onto his bed. He had been in a low mood for days, nightmares at all hours had left him exhausted, and the weather was making his leg ache. Those were the least of his worries, however. Had he really said all that? Anger and hurt turned to shame as he put his head in his hands.

Even before Holmes' return the year before, they had never had an argument such as this, and Watson knew it was completely his fault. Holmes was acting no differently than he always had when between cases, but lack of sleep and worry about Holmes as he practically glued himself to his chemistry set had resulted in Watson completely losing his temper, shouting back things one should never say to a friend, much less to his only close friend. The friendships he had enjoyed with Lestrade and a few others had never compared to the one he shared with Holmes, and he had just destroyed it. Over ten years of friendship: utterly destroyed in ten minutes. The writer in him tried for a brief chuckle at the symmetry, but it never reached his expression.

If only he had just kept his mouth shut! Holmes rarely ate anyway, no matter if they were on a case or not. He shouldn't care whether his flatmate missed another meal…except, he did. He was a doctor, first and foremost, and he knew it was not healthy to skip too many meals. He also recognized that Holmes was fighting off a Black Mood, and he wanted to help. When Holmes had shot down supper at Simpson's—and anything else except continuing to fill the room with noxious fumes from his chemistry set—Watson had had to try—and look where it had left him.

He couldn't change the past, he told himself, no matter how much he wished to, so now it only remained to decide where he was going to go. Their argument had ended with Holmes, without ever looking up from his chemistry table, snapping at him to get out and leave him alone. His dearest friend wanted nothing to do with him.

It was Reichenbach all over again, only several times worse. Holmes' death had been hard enough, but knowing that he had misjudged their friendship so badly, that Holmes would want him gone just because of an argument, topped even that. He found himself floundering, sinking into the haze to which he had fallen after Mary died.

He was alone again.

During a conversation shortly after Holmes' return, he had thought—but it would do no good to dwell on that now. Holmes had always been good at acting. Perhaps that entire conversation had been simply that—an act. It certainly didn't mesh with the vitriol he had been yelling—they had been yelling at each other—a moment before.

There was nothing for it, Watson decided. He would not stay where he was not wanted, would not inflict his presence on the only person he cared about. He needed to pack a bag before Holmes realized he had gone upstairs instead of down.

He limped back down the stairs a few minutes later, a small valise with essentials in hand and most of his bedroom's belongings packed and ready to return or send for at a later date.

He paused on the landing, considering a last word with Holmes, a farewell to the friendship they had shared for fifteen years, but thought better of it. Holmes had made his stance painfully obvious, and such an act would likely result only in another argument—and more pain, for him at least. He continued slowly down the stairs.

Lost in his thoughts of where he was going to go, he nearly ran into Mrs. Hudson as she rounded the corner to climb the stairs.

"Oh, my apologies." His voice sounded flat even to himself, and he wondered at that. He used to be able to affect any emotion he wanted—or at least hide what he was really feeling. It had been necessary, in the wake of Mary's death, to appear to be returning to normal. Had he really forgotten how to hide his thoughts in less than a year?

"Doctor?" So many questions lay in that one word, and he flushed. Of course, she had heard everything. How could she not, with the way he had been shouting?

"I'm sorry you heard that, Mrs. Hudson, and I apologize for the shouting," was all he was able to voice. The anger of the argument had drained long ago, leaving only emptiness in its wake.

"Doctor, he wouldn't want you to leave," she insisted on seeing the valise in his hand.

The emptiness gave way to a brief flicker of grief, and when he finally voiced a response, she barely recognized his voice, so despondent was it. "He made his view quite clear, Mrs. Hudson. I'll send for the rest of my things when I've found a place."

He hurried past with a quiet farewell, not answering when she asked where he was going. He didn't know, himself. Trying to hide his own grief and shame, he completely missed the worry and anger written on her face.

Pausing only to leave a note of apology on Holmes' hat, the front door of 221B Baker Street shut behind him with a soft click. He felt another piece of himself shatter at its heartbreaking finality.

It took everything in him not to look back.

Walking slowly down the street, he wondered where he could go. The few friends he had made at the Yard were by no means close enough to ask a bed for the night, except for Lestrade. He and Lestrade had become close friends in the years Holmes had been gone, and Lestrade had given him a place to stay once before, when his keys had fallen out of his pocket to leave him at the mercy of a January snowstorm. He had nearly turned for the Inspector's house before remembering Lestrade was in Brighton with his family for another week.

Hopkins, then? Or Gregson? No, Hopkins was on that assignment up north, and Watson couldn't countenance going to Gregson. They had never been the best of friends, and the last case had contained more snide remarks than mystery.

He ended up in a cheap hotel, foregoing the meal for which he had no appetite to sit in his room and consider his options. Having left his checkbook in the sitting room, he needed to make his funds last. The money he had on hand would only last him three nights, if he skipped meals—not that that would be difficult. Caught in his precursor to a Black Mood, Watson doubted Holmes had even noticed his lack of appetite since the nightmares had spiked a few days before.

The first thing to do in the morning, he decided, would be to start going to the various hospitals and clinics around town, hoping one of them would have need of him. Considering all the medical schools had just released a fresh round of graduates the week before, though, he had little hope of landing a paying job. He was just grateful the weather was warm. It would be over a month, perhaps two, before he would have to worry about the colder weather.

He frowned. He had hated sleeping in a tent in Afghanistan, but there was a secluded corner of Regent's Park that he had noted once as being safe enough, if the need ever arose. He shoved the thought out of his mind and rolled over on the lumpy mattress. He would cross that bridge when—if—he came to it.

If nothing else, he mused, he could go back to the small town in Scotland where he had grown up. He had no family remaining, had actually left the town hoping to never return, but the Watson name was well known there. Surely, he could find something, and that sounded better than rattling about London without a job, perhaps even better than rattling around London with a job.

He would give London five days. Lestrade would be back by then, and he would stop on his way to the train station to say goodbye. He certainly had no other reason to stay in a town full of memories. Goodness knows the only reason he had still been in London when Holmes returned was because he had yet to find a buyer for his practice after Mary died. What was the point in staying in a city where every street corner held more painful memories than grime?

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