"You're being ridiculous, John," Sherlock said as John collected a few items off the bookshelf and crammed them into the bag hanging off his shoulder. "You can just put those books back right now because you're taking this quite too far."
John ignored him, pulling a picture frame off the mantle and accidentally moving the skull that sat next to it a few inches. He walked into the kitchen with an air of purpose radiating off him. Sherlock let out a groan and pushed himself off the couch to follow Dr. Watson.
"You've proved your point," Sherlock informed him as John picked up the blue striped mug out of the cabinet Sherlock had purchased for him on one of the consulting detective's rare whims and stared at it. "You can stop the charade."
John glanced back at Sherlock and dropped the mug, allowing it to crash on the floor. Sherlock flinched, but not because a piece of the ceramic cut him - rather because John had never done anything like this before with that blank, uncaring expression on his face.
John brushed past him, grabbed his wallet and keys before opening the door and making his way down the stairs to the front door. Sherlock followed and stared at the luggage sitting down at the bottom. He didn't remember John dragging them down though there had been at least an hour when he listened to John move around in his former bedroom, thinking that John was just taking his frustration out on some furniture.
"John, come back upstairs," Sherlock told the doctor. "Come back up and we'll discuss this."
"There's nothing left to discuss," John returned in a hard tone. "You were quite clear on the matter and I've no intention of or interest staying here or frankly anywhere you might be."
"John, you knew from day one what I was."
"I knew that it was a lie," John interjected forcefully. "I let you continue to think that despite every action to the contrary. And now I'm paying that price."
John collected his luggage and walked outside, waving an arm for a taxi.
"Stop this, John," Sherlock ordered. "Stop it this instance. You're going back inside and we will have a conversation about your emotional overreaction."
"Overreaction!" John shot back. "I'm overreacting? You honestly have no idea what the problem is, do you?"
"I deleted it," Sherlock responded with a shake of his head.
"You deleted it," John repeated. "Of course. Well, that certainly helps the matter."
He turned back to the traffic and watched as a taxi pulled up in front of him. The driver opened the trunk from the inside and John threw his luggage in. He slammed the lid and focused back on Sherlock with a determined expression.
"Do not contact me. Do not look for me. Do not harass my sister or my friends in hopes of finding me. Do not use Mycroft as your personal surveillance to see what I'm up to. If you can delete why I'm upset then you can delete me from your life. I do hope though that you catch Moriarty and you don't manage to kill yourself in the process."
"You are going to stop, John Watson," Sherlock returned, angrily. "You are going to get your luggage and return to the flat. I will not let you do this."
"Let me? You have no control over my life, Sherlock. I allowed you one too many times to steer me in whatever direction you saw fit, but that's not happening any more. I have my own life to live and from this day on it will be without you. There's nothing you can do."
"I can destroy you," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.
"Oh, yes, please threaten me. That's a brilliant way to get me back into the flat. Why would I want have a life with a dangerous psychopath when I don't even like the apparent sociopath he was before?"
"I'm not a psychopath."
"Then stop acting like one," John said. He took in a breath. "Let Mrs. Hudson know that I'll send her my key."
The doctor turned to get into the cab, but was stopped by a hand on his arm. He glanced back at Sherlock, who looked to be in agony.
"Please, John. Please, stop. Come back to the flat. I'll be better. Just don't leave."
"I'm sorry," John responded. "Good-bye, Sherlock." He shrugged off Sherlock's hand then slid into the backseat and closed the door before the consulting detective could hear the address John was sending the taxi to.
Sherlock watched his heart disappear down the road before stumbling back into the Baker Street building, making his way up the stairs and sitting down on the couch. He steepled his fingers in front of him and closed his eyes. A few moments later he reopened them to instantly frown at the skull on the mantle.
"I told Mrs. Hudson to stop touching that," Sherlock muttered, rising to readjust its position. He turned to go back to the couch, but something in his peripheral vision caught his eye and he looked into the kitchen. "And who broke the bloody mug?"