Sherlock finished his coffee and had dragged himself back to the flat. The door was unlocked and his heart skipped a beat. Maybe John was inside! He took the stairs two at a time and burst into the flat. He looked around wildly, with no sight of John.
"John?!" Sherlock called, running up to his room. "John?"
The door was closed so Sherlock knocked loudly. With no answer, Sherlock opened it and stepped inside. Item were clearly missing and wet spots on the floor indicated he was here not all too long ago. Sherlock sulked back into the kitchen and noticed John's phone was gone. Sherlock, heart pounding, glanced into the living room and saw the pad of paper on his chair. He took it and turned it over, noticing it was in John's handwriting.
Sherlock, I can't be with someone so inconsiderate! You are an uncaring bastard who can't seem to think of anyone but yourself! Do you know how much time I put into that bloody skull of you?! No one makes those things! I had to make it for you, than find someone to paint out names on it and make it all blend in! You get mad because of some stupid case and break the damn thing! Plus, not to mention, you freaking called me a bloody idiot! The hurt, Sherlock. That really hurt. I do nothing but try to be nice to you; love you, get you what you need, put up with your stupid experiments, help you when you do something stupid and hurt yourself. I chase you around London at two in the bloody morning and this is how you show me you love me? No, Sherlock. I'm not doing this anymore. It's over between us. I'm not putting up with your shit only to get hurt and told I'm an idiot. You meant so much to me, Sherlock. You meant everything to me, but it's obvious I mean nothing to you. I was all ready to talk to you about it, but the skull cleared up any doubts I had. You don't need me, you never did. So maybe I don't need you.