Here's a quick little one-shot for you! I thought it would be great if this conversation had happened in the show.
It had been more than three days since Sherlock had returned, and they were stil quarreling over the whole thing. It was quite inconvenient, if you asked Sherlock. But as John was quick to point out, nobody did.
"John, I'm clearly not dead, can we just move on from the ordeal already?" Sherlock was standing in front of the kitchen doorway, clearly sick of it.
"You were gone for two years, Sherlock. Two years. Am I supposed to move on from two years of thinking my best friend in the entire world killed himself right in front of me after 48 hours, Sherlock? Am I supposed to just let you pop in after all that, say, 'Oh, Sherlock, that's all right, we'll move back into the flat, keep solving cases, just like old times!'?" He glared at Sherlock, fists clenched tightly at his sides, spine straight.
"I'm your best friend?" Sherlock was stunned. John ignored him, continuing his rant.
"Damn it, Sherlock, I found someone!" he cried, tears springing to his eyes. "I thought you were dead and I moved on and I found someone!"
"Yes, but that's a good thing, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows furrowed, head tilted. He scanned John, coming up with nothing. Why on Earth was he so upset about this? Cane- he'd gotten bored. But Sherlock already knew that. That didn't have anything to do with it. Mary was good, wasn't she? Yes. Very. So why?
"Of course it is. It's a wonderful thing." John was getting agitated. He turned away, searching for the right words in the teapot on the table. "I just..." He sighed.
"You..." Sherlock's eyes lit up with recognition for a second, and his hands came to a steeple at his lips. "Ah. I see."
John looked up at him, a flash of panic in his eyes.
"You wanted me to be there when you inevitably met your future wife so that all three of us could be detectives. Together. Don't worry, John, you can still do that- Mary seems quite sharp." Sherlock smirked with pride.
John's face fell into his hand and he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with a great sigh.
"You," he said, "are the smartest man I've ever had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting, but sometimes, Sherlock, you are also the most dense."
"So not good, then."
"Not good."
"Well then, what?" Sherlock asked, his eyes piercing John's earnestly. "This isn't about me faking my death, it's something more than that, but I can't figure it out, John." When John didn't answer, he clutched at his hair, pursing his lips together in concentration. Mind palace, mind palace, mind palace. Cane, crying, hands around his neck, an expression of surprise, flashing into anger...
When he swam up from his thoughts, still clueless for the first time in a long time, John was gone, either to the grocery store or simply out for a walk. The fridge was stocked with more than gore today. It was a walk, then. Sherlock was sitting on the couch now, a blanket around his shoulders. Mrs. Hudson... no, dear Mrs. Hudson would have smothered him with it, wrapped it around his entire body. At least, it would feel like it. Military hands, perfect contact. John wasn't angry, then, just frustrated. Wait- exasperated, his hands had hardly creased it. Slightly amused, if the cup of tea in Sherlock's hands was anything to go by.
The most dense. Honestly? Had he not met the criminal classes that swarmed all the goddamned streets of London? Sherlock scoffed into the tea. He was not dense. John was just... different. It was harder to figure him out sometimes. Sometimes.
I had to switch around some canonisms as far as timeline for the sake of the conversation, but otherwise I hope it wasn't too OOC. Please review!