"I'm sorry."
It was the only text he had gotten from Harry since it happened. It was also the first time she had spoken to him in a little under a year.
The text startled John; he almost thought it was Sherlock at first. But of course it wasn't.
"I'm sorry."
Sorry. She was sorry. Of course she was talking about Sherlock, but he could sense a graver meaning to the message.
John stared at his phone for a moment, then put it back in his coat pocket. He gazed at the empty chair across from him.
Suddenly a particular memory had crossed his mind, one he had not thought of for a while. It was a conversation he and Sherlock had once – about sibling lamentations. It was a night like no other, where they had let all inhibitions fall. Emotionally deconstructed their walls to their hearts.
John wished more than anything he could transport back into that night and ask Sherlock for advice.
So he tried to do just that.
John took a deep breath and closed his eyes, seeing what he could find in his own mind palace.
Maybe, just maybe, Sherlock would be there.
The day transitioned into night and there was no choice but to find some candles.
It was fine with the first couple of hours. The rain had been pounding extensively on the windows, so it was no surprise when the lights began to flicker and black out. Eventually, they had to light the candles they could find.
"Gives it sort of a Victorian feel, doesn't it?" John smirked while trying to lighten the mood. He sat down across from Sherlock, who had his knees pressed up to his chest with his feet at the edge of the seat. John could sense that his waiflike friend was ruminating.
"Mmm," Sherlock mumbled. He remained curled in his chair.
John sighed and shifted forward in his. "Sherlock, it'll just be a passing phase. The weather isn't supposed to be all that horrible the next couple of days. Even if the power is out for that long, we aren't going to be affected by a strong heat. And if we feel that the wind gets to such an annoying point tonight, we can go downstairs with Mrs. Hudson."
"John, as nice as the maternal comforting is, need I remind you that I am a grown man?" said Sherlock, slightly miffed by his flatmate's babying. "This black out is not going to be alleviated anytime soon. It'll last at least five days. Oh, and later on in the week it is supposed to increase in temperature."
"Oh come on, Sherlock, you aren't God. You can't predict when the bloody power comes back on."
"Nonsense. Did you see the work they were doing at the power lines? This storm only exacerbates what they were trying to correct. I am certain we will have to wait five days." He remained motionless, his eyes fixed forward.
John noticed Sherlock eyeing the freezer. "Do…"
"No," Sherlock answered, seemingly able to pick up on the question at hand. "I was, however, about to acquire an ewe's stomach."
"Making haggis are we?"
"No," Sherlock said, disgusted. "Haggis is appalling. No, I am going to be doing something much more savory with it and compare it to a human stomach. I want to measure effects-"
"That's alright, Sherlock," John cut him off. "I really don't need a biology lecture."
Sherlock remained silent, curled in his ball, his arms resting on his knees. His normally stoic face was displaying a slight element of distress, which was relatively unsettling to John. Not only because the characteristic was not readily featured on his face frequently, but also because John knew the guilt behind it in this specific occasion.
"Sherlock, you know I'm not mad at you-"
"I know."
"You still look worried."
"It was unfair of me to intrude."
"It was unfair of you to listen in on my conversation. And then walk in. And then say how you knew it all along."
Sherlock buried his face slightly into his arms. "Yes it was," he said quietly.
John eyed his companion in remission. He appreciated the fact that Sherlock was truly feeling bad about the situation. Not about his rudeness, but about how John was feeling. He recognized the gravity and weight that John was carrying.
"I just thought-" John started. Instead of finishing his sentence, he let out a small stream of air.
"You thought she was better."
John looked away from Sherlock's face and into the candle flame on the desk behind Sherlock's chair. Staring into the glowing, radiating energy. "Yeah. I really did."
"I did tell you at Christmas."
"Sherlock. We've been over this."
"I just wanted to say it nicer this time."
"Well, I guess that is nicer than 'She's been lying to you ever since Thanksgiving about giving up the booze.'"
"And I said it with less colloquialisms, too."
John bit his lip. He was using everything, everything in his being to keep from punching him.
"Sorry. Rude again."
"Yes… yes that was," is what John could manage through a strained voice. He looked back at Sherlock. He didn't want to explode at him again. He didn't want to throw his mobile against the wall, yell at Sherlock to get out, to slam the door in his face.
John had just been standing there, staring at the door, a sort of numbness trickling down from the top of his head. He was so encumbered by his rage, his feelings of betrayal. And he shut out the one person that actually kept to his promises he made to John. He opened the door after a few minutes, and found that Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot either.
After the argument, Sherlock apologized. It was the only time John actually remembered Sherlock ever apologizing to him. Since then, though, the air between them had eased a bit. By dinner, they had seemed to let the icy moment behind them. It was as if it was a simple fight between brothers.
If only it could be that.
"I just didn't think she'd have to go into rehab," John said, finally letting the words come out.
"That's not true," Sherlock said. "You expected it. You just wanted to be surprised. You wanted to hear her say how she was managing a happy life of having a job and finally finding someone after Clara. You didn't want the inevitable disturbance that is reality. People follow their trends of self-destruction, but you wanted her to be the exception."
"She just- she- I just don't know why she'd lie to me. After all of this time." He cradled his head by a trembling hand.
"Siblings. Their infuriating nature is troubling beyond comprehension at times."
"Yeah. At least Mycroft never disappointed you like this."
That startled Sherlock. He sprung from his fetal position and sat right on the edge of his chair. His sudden change of movement made John snap and sit up straight, surprised that Sherlock Holmes's face was a mere five inches away from his.
"John. You haven't the slightest clue on how Mycroft has hurt me. How the disappointment I see in him affects every conversation I hold with him."
At this John couldn't help but chuckle slightly at his friend's intensity. "Sherlock – you and Mycroft may be icy towards each other, but at least you talk. And all you do is just make fun of him. How could he ever hurt you? What, did he say your cheekbones were too pointy?"
Sherlock sat back in his chair and lowered his head. John could tell that something quite extraordinary was about to happen. He could feel it. And it did.
Sherlock Holmes opened up.
"John. I've never talked to anyone about this so-"
"Don't worry, it's me," John murmured.
Sherlock looked up at John, a deep sadness in his eyes, something John had never seen before. It made John's hair stand up on end. The wall of deduction, science, and coldness was melting down right as John was looking at the man in front of him.
"It wasn't always the cigarettes."
A cold, prickly sensation went through John. He felt sickened by his insensitivity and ignorance. "Oh god, I'm so sorry, I'm so stupid, I can't believe that passed my mind-"
"John. I wanted to be my brother." Sherlock cut him off and leaned in again. "But I never was able to be him. And when I finally stepped out of my revering nature and perceived him how he actually is," Sherlock paused, staring into his companion's worried eyes. "It destroyed my world."