John

Once they actually were super close, John swore that Sherlock was stalling; he kept on saying that he'd missed a stoplight and that John was reading the map wrong. He began to apologize when the procrastination became obvious.

"It's fine," John said. "I'm not in a hurry."

Sherlock smiled, pulling his lips out thin, trying to ease his way into warmth. It came out strained. "Okay," he said, suddenly, taking a right turn - a correct right turn, actually...

"Hey, uh, Sherlock," John thrummed his fingers on the dash.

"John?"

"When you drop me off, don't come in, or anything..."

"Why?"

"Because the sooner you're home, the sooner I can call you. Or send you a letter. Or something."

"But if I leave soon, John..." Sherlock trailed.

"I know, I just... I want you to rip it off. Like a band-aid."

Sherlock took a left. "Okay."

John sat up, and ran his fingers through his hair. "That's it?"

"Should I say more?" Sherlock was even more tight-lipped than ever, now, and his eyes were alight with frustration.

"I, uh, no... No, I don't think you need to," John murmured, his brow scrunching. "I just..."

"Okay, John," Sherlock said, sounding irritated.

Sherlock

"It just... makes more sense, you know. We have to say goodbye, anyway, and I don't think it'd ever really matter whether it was now, or then, or tomorrow. Mostly because we're going to talk as soon as I get home."

Sherlock was silent, taking left turns and paying attention to rearview mirrors - his eyes flickered to the road and then to the left hand mirror. John watched him as Sherlock bit down on the inside of his cheek. The only way he was doing this without stopping was by sheer force of will.

John touched Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey." He smiled, and lied. "Hey. This isn't goodbye."

Sherlock frowned. "Is this it?" They came across a large house that was colored beige and blue, with a tree in the front, and a Volvo in the driveway. They weren't nearly as rich as Sherlock was... not so many hardwood floors. Maybe more carpeting... and the windows were smaller. Was there a chandelier in the living room? Did that matter?

Sherlock stepped on the gas.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going around the block," Sherlock said tersely.

He then went around the block, for all the good it did, and they parked a few houses down from where John was going, so they could see the house from the car.

Sherlock couldn't look away from it.

John

He had to say goodbye, now. And he had no idea how to. No idea how to articulate a response that was even... worthy.

"Do you recall my phone number?"

"Yeah. I'll phone you. You phone me. 867-5309."

"Really, John?"

"I'll never forget your phone number. I'll call every day. Alright?"

Sherlock nodded at the window, watching the house like a cat.

"Hey," John said. "Hey. Sherlock. Rory isn't going to send me back."

Sherlock nodded.

"You have nothing to worry about," John continued. "You have nothing. Alright?"

He was still.

"Sherlock..." John ran his hand down his leg. "Alright?" With one motion, John took a finger, and tilted Sherlock to face him. "Hey. Sherlock."

Sherlock

Stupid blonde.

Stupid, beautiful blonde.

Thank God and all his apostles that Sherlock couldn't make his mouth work, which was the most annoying thing, but thank God anyway. Because if he even let his lips part, all this melodramatic garbage would spew out. There would be no end to it. It would string out infinitely, and then Sherlock would be locking the car doors and driving away. Because he couldn't do this. This was the hardest thing.

He'd thank John. More than he'd ever thanked him (Sherlock didn't remember thanking him at all), and he would thank John for saving him.

Not for just the drug parts, or the rough patches. He'd thank John for saving him every day since they'd met. He was utterly defenseless. And he decidedly wasn't okay with that; would never be okay with that, because if he couldn't save himself... if he couldn't be the hero of his own story, was he worth saving? Was he worth it?

Sherlock looked up at John. Into his darker than dark blue eyes.

You... you saved me, he tried to say, Not forever. Not even for a long time. Probably just a little while. But you saved me.

And I owe you everything. I was so alone... and I owe you it all. I'm yours, John. The me that's me right now is yours. Always.

John

"I want you to have this."

Sherlock handed him a backpack, weighed heavy with what seemed to be CDs. John nodded, and said, "Uh, thanks."

Sherlock nodded, and John stared. After a few minutes of intense gazing, John spoke softly.

"I haven't the foggiest what to say." He chuckled awkwardly. "Haven't a notion. So, I suppose... I shouldn't say goodbye at all." Sherlock had never looked so pale.

"But you have to go," Sherlock whispered.

"I'll go," John said. "I'm just not going to say goodbye. It isn't goodbye, Sherlock."

"That's stupid."

"Can't you cut me a minute of slack?" John huffed. At those words, he swore that Sherlock began to silently count down in his head.

"That's what people say - 'It's not goodbye,' I haven't heard such a ridiculous thing in my life - when they're afraid to face what they're feeling. I'm not going to see you tomorrow, John. Or the day after. It's quite possible I won't see you ever again-"

"Don't bloody say that."

"-and that, John. That deserves more than a prevarication. That deserves more than 'It's not goodbye.'"

"I'm not afraid."

"Not you," Sherlock said. His voice broke. "Me."

"You," John said, putting his arms around Sherlock and promising himself it wouldn't be the last time, "You are brave. The bravest, most human human I know."

Sherlock shook his head. "Just say goodbye."

Sherlock

You think holding someone hard will bring them closer to you. You think, that once you've filled up all the spaces, there'll be nothing left but them - you think that if you hold them hard enough you'll feel them after they pull away. Like you embossed them into your body.

Every time John pulled away from Sherlock, he felt the gasping loss.

When John finally got out of the station wagon, he did it because he couldn't handle touching Sherlock and then untouching him. The next time John ripped away, he'd lose skin.

Sherlock didn't follow. "I'm going, now."

"Alright," Sherlock said.

"It's going to be fine."

Sherlock smiled, and nodded.

"Because I love you," John reiterated.

"Is that why?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, and laughed.

"Course it is." John laughed likewise.

"Goodbye, John."

"Goodbye, Sherlock. Until, you know. Tonight. When I'm going to call you." John looked at the house. "What if they aren't home?"

"That would be rather anticlimactic."

"And bloody brilliant."

Sherlock leaned over to where John was standing, and put a hand on the door handle. "You idiot," he said, a leftover smile still on his face, and then he slammed the car door shut.

John began to walk, one step at a time - and just when he promised himself he wouldn't look back, just when he said he'd keep going, he turned.

He mouthed, "I love you," to the figure sitting at the steering wheel. Sherlock was staring right through him, and John realized, even if he had said the words out loud, it wouldn't matter. Sherlock wasn't listening anymore.

A/N: I'm so upset right now you don't even know like my heart and soul and spirit and GOD like I don't even ugh I can't I CAN'T JUST Gaheehehe NO why did I write this why do they have to fucking go and WHY didd RAINBOW WRITE THIS PLOT I WOULD NOT DO THIS IF I HAD A CHOICE (jk i would) but I'm sorry about hurting you and mpphhhh