They missed the train.
They're in the rented Land Rover instead, and Sherlock is driving again, leaving John plenty of opportunity to stare out the window at the rain and replay the morning's conversation in his head.
"Oh, God. It was you. You locked me in that bloody lab."
"I had to. It was an experiment."
John knows. He knows how Sherlock thinks, he knows the work is paramount. In the end, he's not even surprised. Sure, he called Sherlock on it. Showed him he was angry about it. Rubbed his nose in the fact that he'd been wrong about the sugar.
And two minutes later he made a joke and everything was fine.
Me and the madman, he thinks. He feels the vines creeping around them, binding them more closely. John finds he doesn't mind.
The madman is looking at him more than is necessary, he thinks, repeatedly taking his eyes off the road to glance over at John.
John raises his eyebrows at Sherlock, who frowns and looks away.
When he looks over again, John finally says, "What?"
Sherlock purses his lips and turns away. "Why aren't you angry?"
"Do you want me to be angry?"
"I want to know why you are not."
"What should I be angry about?" he asks, turning to look out at the boggy moor.
John can feel Sherlock roll his eyes without looking at him. He doesn't need to look at him. He knows where this is going.
"I drugged you."
"Actually, you didn't."
"I meant to. I decided to conduct an experiment on you knowing full well the sort of terror that you might experience, having experienced it myself the night before."
"Mmm."
"I said . . . cruel things to you."
"Mmm hmm."
John is still facing the bloody window. Sherlock slams on the brakes, and now the car is coming to an abrupt halt on the side of the highway. He turns off the motor.
Now John is looking at him. "Sherlock-"
Sherlock looms over him suddenly. "Why aren't you angry with me?" he demands.
John turns squarely towards him. "I was angry with you. You apologized. It's over."
"I never actually apologized," Sherlock points out.
John gives him a little smile.
Sherlock ignores it. "I'm not sorry," he says, staring hard.
The windows are fogging up already, and John's eyes are dark. "I know," he says.
Sherlock's eyes are the color of rain.
"I'm not sorry," he repeats, steeling his gaze, while, impossibly, John's eyes soften.
"I know," John says.
Sherlock is glancing at John's lips and back up again, and despite everything, John is breathing, deep breaths, in and out. The vines are tightening. John finds he doesn't mind.
Sherlock's voice is thunder.
"How do you know?"
Sherlock's hands are like fire.
"I know," John says, and leans forward.