The last time I saw John Watson, he told me that he was sick of every last thing and was going to walk around the world.
“Everything, Sherlock. I’m sick of my life, I’m sick of the clinic, I’m sick of criminals, I’m sick of people. I’m sick of all the other things I can’t remember that I’m sick of too, so don’t think that because I left I something out, I’m not sick of it. I am and I’m leaving.”
“I love you,” was all I could think to tell him.
He stood there next to me in the hospital foyer where he had just watched me being discharged. I had been hospitalized because John Watson’s wife shot me again, just before she was arrested.
It was becoming apparent that she really doesn’t like me.
John was sneaking me out of hospital, we supposed, without Mycroft’s knowledge but it is likely he hovered over us anyway like the dangerous all-seeing spider that he is. I thought now was a good time to tell John Watson that I loved him.
He looked at me with great tenderness and sadness.
“I can’t hear that right now, Sherlock.”
I attempted to remonstrate but he raised his strong square hand and turned his wincing face slightly to the left, as if he had just been offered poison. “I don’t want to hear that from you. I can’t hear it. I’m going to walk around the world. I hope you get better.”
And just like that he walked away, leaving me holding a discharge sheet and a bottle of codeine in one hand, my stitched abdominal cavity in the other.
He didn’t explicitly say he was sick of me too, but since he said “sick of everything”, and didn’t specifically eliminate me, I had to assume he was sick of me too. Which was intensely painful.
I took a taxi home.