Staggering back, John looked up at him, squinting in the sunlight; stunned. In disbelief, he opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came blinked. Swallowed. Still nothing; he was speechless, lost for words.
His hands shook, and as he looked down at them, he saw that the mug of tea lay smashed on the floor.
Nearly crashing into the chair as he took another step back, he grabbed onto it for support, staring at the presupposed illusion in his kitchen.
The air felt thin, felt empty. His head was heavy, his face... wet? He reached up to touch it, and realised, detached as he was, that he had been crying.
"Sh... Sherlock?" he whispered, barely audible, the insecurity of his situation clear from the sound of his voice.
John swallowed again, and watched, amazed, as the illusion reached for his still-shaking hands.
Sherlock's skin was cold against John's cold palms, but oh-so-real; too real.
Looking into Sherlock's eyes for the first time in far too long, John saw more than he had ever seen. They were the eyes of a cold, emotionless machine, turned human with pain and with guilt, and fear. Fear of the rightly deserved anger and rejection and a sense of self-hatred that would never go away.
His eyes were a colour of an indescribable hue; a colour of hurt, a colour of sorrow, a colour that asked, pleaded, begged of John to forgive him.
"Please," stammered John, looking down, unable to stare into Sherlock's eyes any longer. "Please be real."
Sherlock smiled with his eyes, and sighed, more at himself than at anyone or anything else.
"I am real. Very real. Well, real enough. And I'm..." He paused, for once unsure of himself, uncertain of what was to happen next.
"I... I don't know." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, a once familiar gesture that John had never known he would miss so much.
He looked at John, then looked away. "I owe you and I'm so sorry. I owe you so much... I owe you a thousand apologies. And..."
He trailed off, and found himself staring into John's eyes once again. John stared back, still in shock. "And what?"
"I... It doesn't matter anymore. It's just... I..." Sherlock stepped towards him, as if to embrace, and then stopped himself, realising what he had done. Instinctively, john threw his arms around Sherlock, pulling him close, never wanting to let go.
Surprised but please, Sherlock smiled, then realised that his arms were at his sides. Tentatively and (somewhat unsurprisingly, considering his lack of intimate inter-personal contact in the past few years) awkwardly, Sherlock put his arms around John, returning the gesture and pulling him closer still.
"I wish..." started Sherlock, putting his hand on John's head as his ex flatmate/blogger/sidekick/best friend/unspoken lover hugged his chest (unable to reach any higher)."What is it?" asked John, pulling away and looking up at Sherlock, the previously expected anger and resentment absent from his voice.
"I wish I hadn't had to... to... to do what I did." He paused, knowing what he had to say next but unsure of how to say it.
"Thank you," John replied, every ounce of the bitterness he had felt before gone.
"And John?" asked Sherlock, dreading the next few moments.
"Yes?"
"I think I love you." Sherlock said, avoiding eye contact.
John couldn't help it; he grinned. On the verge of laughing with catharsis, Sherlock grinned (awkwardly due to lack of practice) back.
"I know," John replied.