A/N: I had been doing a "30 Days of Drabble" challenge when I wrote this. The theme of the day was "accusation". Post-Reichen reunion ensued.
Disclaimer: I totally do not own Sherlock or the characters, they belong to Sir A.C. Doyle and the modern adaptation to BBC.
His eyes are tight as he stares; un-tethered, unfettered hatred burning in their depths. Perhaps it is not quite hatred, but it is equally intense. They say that love and hate are the closest two emotions, after all.
"You bastard," he barely manages to choke out, fighting just to stay upright. His entire body has seemed to have forgotten how to work, and his knees begin to give out. I make a hesitant motion forward, as though I will catch him, but he flinches away from my hand. He stumbles backwards into the nearest chair and sits, holding his face in his hand. I bite my lip, barely concealed concern and anxiety are undoubtedly present on my face. This was not how our reunion was supposed to go at all.
"John…" I begin hesitantly, but he shakes his head and I close my mouth again. I can only watch as he attempts to pull himself together, wishing I could move closer but knowing that, in this moment, what he needs is space.
"You were dead, you bastard, you were dead…" he mutters into his hand.
I try to keep my voice steady and not betray myself, "I did what was necessary."
He looks up then, the same accusation in his eyes. Equal parts betrayal and anger and sadness. "What was necessary?" he echoes my words, his voice sounding empty.
I make a half-hearted shrugging gesture, my voice sounding very matter-of-fact when I say, "You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade; he was going to have you all killed unless I jumped. I managed to outwit him, but sacrifices had to be made or the charade would not have been convincing."
"Convincing?" he repeats, and stands again. "Sherlock, do you know what you put me through?" His voice wavers, but his words retain their strength. The next thing I know he has the front my coat in his fists, as though he were about to throw me into the wall. "You were dead, Sherlock. I thought you'd killed yourself. Everyone said you were a fraud! And I—" His voice broke and his sentence trailed off, his grip on my coat going slightly slack.
My lips pressed into a line with grim understanding. "You believed them."
His eyes rushed to meet mine, caught off guard by my statement. "No," he muttered, shoving me away from him. I watched him turn his back on me, looking at the ground. "I missed you, you bloody idiot."