A/N: Alright, this is it. The impromptu sequel! I just made one really long chapter because I didn't want to break it up heh oops. Sorry about the wait and all. I hope you like this... I'm a bit unsure about some bits but I really wanted to upload it so here it is! I'd love to hear what you think (don't praise, review) and since I don't have a beta/Brit-picker I would appreciate you pointing out any mistakes I've made. It would be a grand thing, really. I want to be better at this whole writing thing and I want opinions. I have tried to keep it as British as I can but there's only so much a foreigner can do, despite how obsessed they may be about England. It doesn't even have to do with the British-ness; if I've made any continuity errors, don't hesitate to tell. You should know I've re-proofread the first part of this couplet in an attempt to polish, and that I've also added lyrics. Just because I love music. Okay, this note is really long. Apologies. Enough of me; read on my friends and enjoy! x
Get out your guns, battle's begun,
are you a saint, or a sinner?
If loves a fight, than I shall die,
with my heart on a trigger.
Seeing him for the first time after those three years was like punch in the gut.
And yes, he was still thinking in metaphors.
Sherlock had not forgotten about John while he was away. Far from it, in fact. It had occurred to him that if things went wrong, if someone learnt of his little trick, it would endanger John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade all over again. So he took certain measures with his homeless network. They were his eyes and ears, updating him regularly on anything to do with anything. Anything to do with John, especially. It was only natural that he would want to look out for his closest associate. Using the same encrypted codes and innumerable secure phone network connections previously established, he kept up communications with the homeless. Naturally there were the standard codes for any given type of situation, and it was the most alarming that Amy of the network had texted to him, sending Sherlock's reasoning skills out the window and his blood pounding cacophonously in his ears. It hurt.
Bought something to help with sleepless nights. Might try something else first. 221. A
221.
221.
Red alert.
~o~
As he stared down at John from a one-storey building opposite him, deductions raced through his head:
Quality but worn jacket – his favourite – patched: takes care of clothes. / Affluent enough to buy a new jacket. Conclusion: sentiment. Inert.
Numerous sweatshirts and jeans: numerous wet patches. Beer. Conclusion: inebriated.
Shoes – leather – hardly worn – same pair worn to my funeral. / John is sentimental. Conclusion: (irrelevant)
Intermittent tremor evident in left hand.
Limping slightly…
He has a limp again.
Scratch the former assessment, this was worse than a mundane punch. Sherlock had suffered through a fair number of injuries while in his self-instigated exile, but none of what he had endured could compare to this: to this wretched lacerating in his chest, the way his blood remained undecided on whether it was hot or cold, this inconvenient vertigo …
It was no secret that it had been Sherlock, as well as his introduction back to the battlefield, that had cured John's limp. It had been that sprint after the taxi, the flight through London's backstreets and alleys, the simple thrill of the chase that had cured the good doctor's limp. At the time he'd said he was passing the time and proving a point, but there was more to it than that. In his own way, Sherlock had been returning the favour. John hadn't lashed out at him to hide any embarrassment or injured pride, hadn't scorned or told him to piss off on those first couple of brief meetings. And this had … pleased Sherlock. He had followed Sherlock to a crime scene of his own free will. He seemed interested in Sherlock for Sherlock. He had killed for him (though to be fair, that had come later). And that was really something. Something new. So Sherlock felt obligated to do this small thing for John; he saw a puzzle and the solution straight away, and hence carried out resolving it just like he always did. Only this time it had led to helping someone not belonging to law enforcement, and had little to do with uncovering a murderer. It was quite a breath of fresh air.
It's not like he actually expected John to take the flat out of gratitude, but that had also been a pleasant surprise.
And he most definitely hadn't expected John to stay so long.
Sherlock knew, objectively, that he wasn't an easy person to flat-share with; his experiments, moods, and behaviour could be quite trying for the subpar human race at the best of times. And yet despite it all, John stayed, and made him tea, and forced him to eat or sleep when he knew Sherlock's negligence of his transport had progressed to more precarious levels. No one had ever done this with Sherlock before, no one had bothered to put up with him and accepted him so readily. So utterly and with good grace, without hidden motives.
So why did John? Why did he put up with him? Why did he want to help? Not that Sherlock complained (too much). John was … something new, and Sherlock analysed him every chance he got, trying to solve the never-ending puzzle that was John Watson and his inexplicable insistence that he tag along with Sherlock.
John always felt the need to protect him, and had said so many times. Was that it then? Protecting his mates on the frontline just like in the war? Maybe John was re-living the past he missed so dearly through Sherlock and his antics?
Maybe it was just the fact that he was a good man and saw something in Sherlock worth it – worth protecting? Not that Sherlock needed protecting, but John didn't seem to realise that. Which was also something Sherlock had never complained about. John's company on cases had always added a little something.
There was more, though, of course there was, unbeknown to both of them. There always is with such things.
Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock. They clicked pretty much from the first moment. Unsurprisingly they hadn't discussed the fact even though it was somewhat ubiquitous. Always just … there. A little inkling, an almost-indiscernible harmony to the main melody of the true connection they had, the true two-sides-of-the-same-coin relationship that both knew they had deep down, but refused to acknowledge consciously, let alone say out loud.
Sherlock had hated university, much the same as he had hated school. Growing up, he had been an inquisitive, eager, pinball of energy. Living in a family manor in the countryside with his indifferent mother, protective big brother and countless staff, there had been much coddling and at the same time, not enough.
Sherlock had learned to entertain himself – reading in the library, playing with his chemistry set, exploring the estate. He was intelligent, perceptive – incredibly so. His family's money provided him with the stimulation he needed to keep learning. He learnt as much as he could from those shelves and shelves of books: biology, chemistry, physics, philosophy, even French, and all at a tender age. There was more learning to do, though, and not the textbook kind.
He learned not to seek affection. He learned not to ask about his father. He learned how to live in the shadow of his older brother, however caring he tended to be, albeit in an unconventional, overbearing manner.
He had looked up to Mycroft for a while, as young brothers are wont to do, but then Mycroft had gone off to university and left Sherlock alone and completely unprepared for what was to come.
Soon, Sherlock learned that no one appreciated his fascination with science: his experiments (studying the anatomy of butterflies first-hand) or his observations of other students (Hannah stole Ben's colour pencils because she hates him) and teachers too (Ms Albert's doesn't love her husband because she's having an affair). They thought he was weird, avoided him. And later, that aversion became disgust, evolving into hatred. He was a freak who needed to learn his place.
So Sherlock learned how to avoid his jeering, violent classmates. He learned how to make himself invisible. He learned that eventually he would run out of excuses to skip class, but it neither stopped him doing it nor did it stop him being excluded from school after school. Sherlock was treated the same everywhere, so he stopped hurting and asking himself why and instead hid himself away beneath a mask of hostility and impenetrable steel, which, eventually, provided some respite from his hateful peers.
He learned how to be alone, and that work was the only consolation in a world of chaos that refused to embrace and accept him for what he was. He was different; people didn't understand him, didn't want nor need him. So he would not want or need them.
Most of the time people fear things they don't understand, and it this fear that causes them to lash out. This was the very definition of Sherlock's life.
The work allowed him to focus on himself, his intellect, on gaining knowledge that made the stifling of his emotions easier. It allowed him to be above those who jeered at him – he was better than them. Sharper, smarter, collected. Devoid of emotion.
Because he had learned that emotions were a disadvantage. They made one weak, vulnerable, and defenceless. Susceptible to onslaught. They were a distraction from what was important: the work.
Sherlock learned to replace human interaction with cerebral stimulation, but with a brain like his, sometimes he would be at a loss of what to do. A mind that saw everything, that kept running like a self-powered rocket needed to be stimulated, or it got bored. So when the work was no longer enough, he turned to cigarettes, and when that wasn't enough, to cocaine. He experimented with his life, with the sensations the drugs induced so that he could escape his thought processes for once, so that he wasn't bored.
So that he wasn't drowning in repressed emotions, although Sherlock never considered this.
He shot up so that he could feel something for once. Because no matter how many times he would tell everyone he was doing it because he was bored of the world, some deep, long drowned-out part of him couldn't shake its craving for that simple kindness he was denied all his life. And it was worse that this small part of him didn't understand why he wanted them.
Between his highs, somewhere along the line, Sherlock's base need to show off his intellect and solve puzzles led him to police work and crime. He kept an eye and an ear out for the particularly interesting ones, and – upon finding the head detective's number – started texting in tips. Well perhaps texting in tips wasn't the best way of putting it – he more or less did the work for them. At first, these anonymous messages were taken as a prank, but soon enough they became more than just mere, constant, correct explanations for the crimes. The texts were traced to Sherlock's phone. The Met stormed his flat one day, with all the intent of arresting him on suspicion of terrorist involvement. It was all bullocks of course, but the police couldn't help but assume that the unofficial detective was some kind of criminal mastermind. They had no real way of tying him to the crimes because apart from the texts, they had no tangible evidence. Sherlock had shot down the team's dodgy claims in that quick-fire manner of his, and deduced the life of Lestrade, Donovan, and the policeman who had driven them there too. Then he'd insisted they consult with him seeing as they were so obviously out of their depth with even the simplest of crimes.
Initially the Yarders had been suspicious, and downright enraged at Sherlock's arrogance and humiliating, loud revealing of their lives. Was he seriously as good as he said he was? Sherlock had said that yes, actually, he was, and if they were so thick as to need some kind of reassurance, then he'd be happy to grace them with an appearance at the next crime scene.
So that's how it had all started. The Yarders were still wary of the looming, unnerving consultant but they soon learnt how to avoid him. Or try to, because he really was as good as he claimed. Lestrade decided to put up with his attitude so long as the man delivered the answers he needed.
There were times when the great detective had lapsed, for whatever reason – be it depletion of crimes, a descent into one of his black moods, or Lestrade's decision he really wasn't needed, or combination of all three – and he would go back to his beloved bottle. More than once Sherlock overdosed and ended up in hospital – he would have died had it not been for Mycroft's surveillance and Lestrade's cases.
One time Sherlock had eradicated all of the little cameras in his flat, and proceeded to shoot up. He knew perfectly well just how much was too much, and yet he did it anyway – just to see what it would be like. It was by complete chance that Lestrade had turned up at that very moment with a new case for him – and proceeded to call 999 and have Sherlock taken to the hospital. Lestrade had mulled over how such a brilliant mind could be so stupid, how someone with such a gift wanted to waste it on his own secret homemade Meth lab while he sat in the waiting room. That was how Lestrade and Mycroft met. Mycroft thanked the detective for his timing, and proceeded to ask (order, in that impassive, double entendre way of his) the detective to seriously consider consulting more with his little brother, and keeping an eye on him too. He'd always seemed to like puzzles, crime, all of that – they kept him occupied, sane, and most importantly, clean. And so it followed that the head detective, with the help of his oh-so-caring older brother, smacked some sense back into Sherlock.
Sherlock had spent his entire life avoiding, as well as never being offered, any form of true compassion. He'd never found his place with another human, never truly loved or cared for anyone, and no one had never truly loved or cared for him.
But that was before John.
John was different. Special. With John, he felt completely at ease. Happy even. With John by his side, whether it be running with him on a chase, or by a crime scene exclaiming 'Brilliant!', or handing him tea, or lecturing him about the foot in the freezer, or telling him to eat, or just laughing next to him in the hallway of 221, he felt wanted. At home. Maybe even needed. He never got that around anyone else.
He had died for John because John was anomalous. With that soft-looking dishwater hair, those blue eyes, and that vibrant smile; loyal, ridiculous, beautiful John was something precious. It was he that was to be protected.
John needed Sherlock to give him the danger he so desired. He admired his intellect, humoured his idiosyncrasy and enjoyed his company in his own way. And John was the only one who could ever really enjoy spending most of his time with Sherlock, who really cared for him, who actually praised him instead of alienating him. It was only natural that they should form a connection when Sherlock had fulfilled John's needs, and, Sherlock relented, vice versa.
He would never say it, but he would take John over the skull any day.
He cared about John. That was hardly a surprise. What was surprising, though, was that he didn't care that these emotions were a disadvantage.
Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.
If Sherlock had perceived one thing correctly, it had to be the fact that it had been Sherlock's warzone that had cured John's psychosomatic limp. But Sherlock had left, taking the warzone with him, and John had relapsed. John longed for the conflict, he felt lost without the purpose of helping others, of fighting at the front line. The hospital obviously hadn't been enough.
Is that what all this was about, then? Making brushes with death in an attempt to cure his limp again?
Except this was but more than a tiny brush. He wanted to die.
No, this is illogical. This isn't real. Sleep deprivation tends to lead to hallucinations so this must be… He can't do this. We are partners. He can't just do this. John would not –
He blocked off the stream of useless denials with a shudder. He would stop anyone from laying hands on his John before something both of them would regret happened.
~o~
After knowing him for eighteen months (which was more than ample to get to know someone), Sherlock didn't expect John to understand the intricacies of his methods. Of course not. But he had expected John to understand on some level. It was so unlike Sherlock to disregard his skills, his science, so unlike him to cry, for goodness' sake. John must have seen that, standing there those three years ago and seeing Sherlock on the top of St Bart's roof. He must have deduced the only possible explanation of the evidence: it was a set-up, blackmail, a play on Sherlock's newfound one-and-only weakness of emotions that had caused him to jump. How could John not see that he'd had no choice? That it had to be done?
How could he not see it was just a magic trick?
There had been but three choices, and Sherlock had seen them as plain as the evidence of a fresh murder before him.
Choice #1: Jump off the building, either die or survive to fake his own death. 0.45 chance of survival, absolute chance of saving Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and John.
Choice #2: Don't jump off the building. Call Lestrade, tell him to find Mrs Hudson, pick up John and take them somewhere, anywhere out of reach of the terrorists. Absolute chance of survival, for a while at least. Moriarty wants to hurt before he kills. Yet circumstances likely to reoccur, put them all in danger again.
Choice #3: Don't jump. Bluff. Do not call anyone. 0 chance of saving Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and John.
His choice was a given. The last was completely unacceptable of course. The choice of saving himself over three others was ludicrous; one life at the cost of three was unacceptable. But if he jumped, best case scenario: all four would survive. And if he did die, what did that matter? It was only right. Survival of the fittest and all that. And he had for once, not been at his best. Moriarty had won – so he would play along. He would jump, he would play the fake consulting detective. He would do the most obvious thing because caring was a disadvantage and he knew one when he saw it. He knew what he would do anyway.
He would save his friends.
There had been no other way. He had to risk it. The odds weren't in his favour, but when had Sherlock ever cared about the odds of his own survival? He cared about not being bored, the work, andJohn. John's death is an undesirable outcome. If Sherlock died along the way, at least it wouldn't be a boring way to go. He had smiled at that thought.
It was so easy, spectacularly easy in fact, to fake his death in such an extravagant manner. But John more than anyone should have known Sherlock was capable of pulling it off. He was the magician to John's assistant, John could help, he could watch and be astounded, and most of the time, learn how Sherlock worked his magic. This particular act had not been revealed to John yet, so of course there was bound to be…
Sherlock halted in his tracks. Oh, no.
John doubted him. The idiot!
But no, it was more than that.
John's about to get himself killed over nothing more than a boneless theory. There's no evidence to support your conclusion, John. Have you grown tired of me after all?
Did you even bother to dig up my grave? Or were you too busy settling into your new life without me, so eager to be rid of me to even consider that –
Sherlock's emotions sky-rocketed in their intensity, because obviously that hadn't worked. Settling into a new life minus Sherlock, that is. Because evidently he had done anything but 'settle', and not in a good adrenaline-fuelled existence kind of way. There were other ways to not be bored, for crying out loud! John could have called up Mycroft (Sherlock shuddered, but the point remained), insisted he give him high-profile cases. Likewise for Lestrade. He could have moved in with Harry and … Sherlock thought about himself moving in with Mycroft and struck that thought of the list … but there were so many ways for someone as simple-minded as John to stay interested in the world. Crap telly. Hospital. Pub. Anything. He'd found himself a job – he could have met someone, found a new damsel in distress to look after. There was no need to be rash, it had only been a matter of time before Sherlock returned with his deductions and intellect and inner compass for trouble. And he was better than he'd ever been, he could prove to John that he was still amazing, still extraordinary, still brilliant. John could have settled down for a while, found some nice girl and –
Stop. He heart was doing that thing again.
Where it was doing things an organ should not.
He became aware that the hollow in his chest was now occupied, and yet it still felt like an ugly wound that was refusing to heal. And when he thought about John moving in with someone else, someone notSherlock…
Oh.
It was like another slash in the already first-degree wound – burn. He meant burn.
Great, his brain had lost its functionality as well.
How … queer.
Why would that particular train of thought trigger such an emotional response? And whatever was next, his whole body crashing on him?
He really needed to fix this. This … sensation was getting quite uncomfortable, and it would most certainly not do to have his brain rotting for no good discernible reason.
"Oi, you!" a voice with the intonation of one brought up on the streets rang out from the street below.
Sherlock heart skittered irrationally as he watched John stop for a second, then turn back and walk back the way he had come from, towards the scene of the rapist (obvious) where he was crowding the fourteen- or fifteen-year-old girl against the wall of the rundown building on the other side of the street.
Sherlock made a quick assessment. Six foot. Medium build. Stronger than he seems. Talks and looks like a street rat, yet remains in fit condition. Clothes – gloves, jacket, sweatshirt, jeans – well worn, yet in fair condition for someone slumming it on the streets. Conclusion: strong willed, determined, and a fighter – knows exactly who to hassle and how to hassle them to get what he wants… Bulge in left back pocket of jeans, left heel of shoe – knives… John!
"Leave her alone," John's voice rang out, calm and clear.
Oh God, his voice.
After all these years, that voice was like … coming home, unlike any other voice had made him feel.
Peculiar thought, that.
And yet Sherlock couldn't help but feel as if a huge weight had been lifted off his chest.
~o~
"You heard me."
There was something wrong. John didn't sound like John, he sounded…
Oh.
Oh.
He sounded exactly like Sherlock's heart had felt just before: hollow.
New data. Excellent. Seems our symbiotic relationship has a caused this … empty sensation in both of us as a result of separation.
This just kept getting stranger and stranger.
In the time Sherlock had been thinking, the rat had shaken off his initial bewilderment and replied. And if I don't? What're you gon' do? Throw a tantrum? Sherlock registered the words and felt mild irritation. Imbecile.
And then John punched him, quick as anything.
Sherlock was so shocked he froze for a second.
The girl made her escape as the scum reeled from John's attack.
He straightened up at the same time Sherlock raised his arm, holding a gun. The sorry excuse for a man jeered down at John momentarily, then reached behind himself for the knife –
And Sherlock fired without a second thought.
John was so shocked he staggered back, as blood splattered on his best clothes. Then he stared down at the body with … disappointment.
Sherlock's entire being faltered. Inevitable really, he thought dimly. Sherlock walked (lurched) forward and, using the window ledges as foot holds and the pipes as hand holds, he clambered his way down the building. When his feet hit the ground, John turned to look at him.
And visibly paled.
He was literally swaying on his feet.
An immeasurable amount of time seemed to pass, both of them walking incarnations of lost ghosts abruptly finding themselves no longer lost and not knowing what to do with themselves.
"John," the word came out slightly shaky and with masked anguish.
John just stared at him, not moving, not speaking. His expression was something Sherlock had never seen on a person's face before, and hopefully would never see again.
Sherlock exhaled a shuddering breath as his insides writhed and the world around him felt like it was squeezing the air from his lungs.
He made a note to analyse it later.
"Say something," an embarrassingly strangled demand, but which matched the cutting off of his supply of air. There was a huge roar of silence and Sherlock thought all his vital organs might just stop running for good this time. John would you just say something, anything, any reaction would suffice. I can't tolerate this. Please, John…
When he finally spoke his words were angry, but not his voice. His voice was tired.
"What do you want me to say, Sherlock? Tell me what to say. Tell me what you want to hear. Because this isn't about anyone but you, is it? Would you like me to ask you over for tea and biscuits so we can have a little chat? Catch up? This is great, isn't it. This is so completely you. Leaving your best fucking friend to believe you were dead. Well done you, really. I never thought – not once – you'd have it in you to do something like this. I had wished you weren't ... dead, but -"
John cut himself off with a ragged exhale and turned away, avoiding Sherlock's unrelenting, intent gaze. His hands had stopped shaking. Sherlock took that as a good sign.
When he spoke again, however, his voice gradually increased in volume and emotion.
"You couldn't even take a minute to ring up or tell someone that you were alive. Probably said it out loud and assumed we would hear, hmm? That's just how it works for you, am I right? You go swanning off on your own because alone protects you, because you're Sherlock bloody Holmes and you don't need anyone. You probably faked your death for the hell of it. Playing Moriarty's little game. It was just another adventure to you, like going off on your own for days except this time it was three fucking years but that's ok, time is irrelevant right? Did you have a nice trip? Maybe we should have tea and biscuits so you can tell me all about it and then I'll say you're brilliant and everything will be fine. That's all I am to you innit? Just some idiot basking in the holy light of the one and only consulting detective!"
"Sarcasm doesn't become you, John," Sherlock said quietly.
"Don't you dare give me that bullshit!" John screamed wretchedly, his voice breaking. Sherlock flinched and looked away like he had been physically struck.
"You were dead. I took your pulse and you were dead. You have no right to do the whole I'm-above-it-all-sentiment-is-redundant routine with me right now. You really are an arrogant, self-centred show-off twat who doesn't give a damn about anyone."
Sherlock said nothing. He had expected something like this. A small voice in the back of his head whispered that this: the hurt and anger and broken emanating from John's form, and the burning in his own chest from their relationship going up in flames, was worse than the hollow from before.
"You utter bastard. This is – this is so beyond not okay that there aren't even any words for it. All it would have taken was one text, one little text or call to let me know you were alive. Do you have any idea what I – Sod it. I want to punch you. God knows you deserve it. You really don't have any empathy at all, do you? You know nothing about human emotions. Just– fuck you, Sherlock. Seriously, fuck you."
John looked like he was halfway between balling his eyes out and seriously beating someone to a pulp. Sherlock hoped for the latter, and that he would be the pulp; he wanted to feel anything but the ache of ugly wreckage raging around in his stomach cavity and the pining in his heart.
He probably deserved it. He knew that, but he still wished for – something that wasn't this.
John did neither. He pushed past Sherlock, heading back towards his flat in Tower Hamlets. He paused for a second to look back and Sherlock had never felt more lost, and more than just lost for words. John's eyes were so full of betrayal and hurt and empty that it served to incinerate the ashes of Sherlock's heart. Sherlock couldn't help thinking absently that Moriarty had won in the end after all: his heart really had been burnt out of him.
Wretchedly, Sherlock thought that he had solved his last puzzle: John was his heart. John had been burned to a crisp in Sherlock's vicinity and Sherlock had done nothing to stop it. John was in pain so Sherlock was in pain and Sherlock did not have the finest clue what to say or do to fix it.
Then John turned away and left him standing there in mortification, in turmoil, just as everyone else in his life had always done. Except this time was different – because the person walking away from him was someone he had risked his life to save, and would happily do so again. Someone who genuinely cared about him (and hopefully still did). Someone he wanted by his side at crime scenes, someone he wanted to be there to make him tea, someone he wanted as his partner at stake-outs, someone he wanted to patch up his wounds and talk to him and laugh with him and just be with him. Preferably indefinitely. Everything was better with John there. Even the boredom wasn't so bad with John puttering about and sighing, rolling his eyes at Sherlock.
So he had to try.
Because all the evidence pointed to John needing him too.
~o~
After much persuasion his mind whirred back into life. It spun around and around, looking at facts and emotions for once, collecting all the relevant information and displaying it on a tack board in his mind like the evidence gathered for the sake of finding who the culprit was so Sherlock could put all the evidence together and place them down like those of a –
Sherlock halted in his tracks when he came to the right conclusion.
He doesn't know.
It made sense. John thought he had jumped off that building for fun, to see if he would survive it. He probably thought that Sherlock was experimenting or –
"You don't want to know?"
John stopped at Sherlock's quiet question. All of three seconds had elapsed, so he hadn't made it far. Not limping as much as before, Sherlock noted.
"Know what?" he was yet to face Sherlock.
"Why I had to do it."
"Had to?"
"Yes."
"What- as in you had no choice?"
"Yes, John," he couldn't help the impatience that crept into his voice.
John's expression was wary when he turned around, but he said, "Okay. I'm listening."
As he explained, Sherlock walked alongside John. They weren't really heading anywhere in particular. No dashing about, no heading to the next crime scene, no tracking down a witness or suspect. Both of them were still reeling from the feeling of having the other by their side again, still wary that this might end up being a hallucination or a dream. It was like old times, except it wasn't – they felt the change enveloping them. Things would be different between them now. Still, each kept their distance while Sherlock explained, and John listened.
They had reached the end of a street – it was blocked off by a fence just like the one they had climbed over together, handcuffed, the night before Sherlock left. John hadn't uttered a word throughout, and neither had his expression changed nor had he looked at Sherlock, so Sherlock had taken to staring straight ahead as he gestured widely and emphasised the validity of his actions. When Sherlock came to the end of his account, at the dead end of their route, he turned to gauge John's thoughts.
Sherlock's nerves were drawn out like the strings of a violin, but he was a master of hiding his feelings and he felt right now was exactly the moment to do so.
But it didn't make him less apprehensive, didn't make the moment any less strained.
"So basically you jumped off a building, completed Moriarty's sick story, and risked your own life to stop snipers from blowing my, Mrs Hudson's and Lestrade's brains out?" John finally locked gazes with Sherlock.
Sherlock tried to swallow, "No other solution occurred to me."
"And then you went gallivanting off to take down Moriarty's minions."
"Necessary to ensure your safety."
"And you couldn't tell me all this earlier because…?"
Sherlock let out a shuddering breath, "As much as I disliked our lack of contact, it would have imperilled you to know. Not to mention my plans would have been jeopardized If you, as my closest associate, didn't appear … distraught by my departure. That's why I had to say what I did before I jumped. You had to believe the lie. If you had not, no doubt the opposition would have put two and two together and caught wind of my survival, then attempt to draw me out by threatening you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade as they had before. Although I hoped that you had somehow realised it was all a trick, I knew it would have been best for all if you thought it was real. I … would have brought you with me, but faking the death of two people, when those two people are known to be close associates, would have looked more suspicious than just one."
John searched Sherlock's face for any signs of manipulation or lies (well, immediate ones anyway) but found nothing – only honesty and open vulnerability were underlying his words. John knew now when Sherlock was having him on, and right now there was no deception in his words.
"So to summarise; you lied to get rid of me, buggered off to meet a psychopath on your own, told me the most outrageous lie ever told in the history of lies, and almost died when you fell three storeys. And surviving that, you decided to go on a bloody suicide mission and didn't tell another soul that you – wait, don't tell me."
Sherlock fidgeted under John's hard glare.
"Mycroft. He knew, didn't he. He helped," it wasn't so much a question as a threat.
Sherlock scoffed and looked mildly offended, "I most certainly did not request my brother's assistance. His obnoxious presence and foolish actions would only hinder my mission, not to mention that bulbous head would require inflation to hold the expansion of his ego at being the only person aware of my secret. I did not wish to subject anyone to witness that."
John's expression didn't change, but something akin to amusement flashed in his eyes as he tilted his head in acknowledgement. Something in Sherlock's stomach warmed slightly at the sight.
"Alright then. So you did all of that – which was completely idiotic, I might add – to … protect us?"
Sherlock resisted the urge to correct him. As much as he didn't want to see Mrs Hudson and Lestrade's hurt, if he was being perfectly honest…
You, he wanted to say. I did it for you, John.
Swallowing was still difficult. He looked away from the solid gaze, nodding his affirmation.
Coming to a decision, John nodded slowly.
"Okay," John said.
Sherlock had to take a moment to process that. He blinked at him, "What?"
"Okay," John pressed.
They held gazes as Sherlock waited for John to elaborate. When he realised none was forthcoming, he snapped.
"'Okay'?" Sherlock said scathingly, his control slipping a bit, "What do you mean, 'okay'?"
"I mean okay – I understand why you did it. I don't have to like it, or forgive you for that matter, and I can see you're not going to apologise for it. But okay, yes, I accept why you did what you did," John crossed his arms, the very definition of calm.
Sherlock's mind – and heart – stuttered. Yet again he found himself trying to wrap his head around how very unpredictable, how very wonderful John was. John Watson, once again into the breach.
"Logically, my premises for my actions are correct, but I do recognize that most people would find said actions unforgivable, regardless of the premises," Sherlock said carefully.
"Well I'm not most people, am I?" John ventured, and he tilted his head, indicating that they should walk back the way they had come.
Sherlock smiled his first genuine smile in three years at John's retreating back, following at his own pace, digging his hands deep into his coat pockets.
"No, you're not."
FIN