A/N: Because I wanted to make my own version of what-was-left-unsaid during Reichenbach about why it bothers John so much as to why Sherlock was getting famous and more on why he hates that people think Sherlock is a fraud.

Post-Reichenbach/Return. Plenty of slash implications, so enjoy. ;P

It's been approximately four months since they have rejoined at 221b Baker street. All the questions have been answered and accepted between them. There's nothing left, really. There is forgiveness, understanding, routine. They overcame the biggest trial, it would seem.

It would seem.

But there is one question that Sherlock has yet to ask. He's answered all of John's, and John has answered the few Sherlock has posed, but there is one hanging in the air above and between them like an axe ready to fall, and it is perhaps the most important question to Sherlock, more so than the question, 'Did you miss me at all?' asked by John.

No, this goes beyond even that.

So Sherlock waits for the opportune moment to ask it.

The moment comes on a quiet, peaceful day. It is perhaps the easiest way to break this question to John: do so on a day where nothing else will disturb the response.

Sherlock bides his time with violin music, and then, finally, he pops it: "John, I still haven't fully worked out why my being famous and getting the press turned on me bothered you so much. It genuinely distressed you, more than it should have. Why? There's something you were going to explain at the time, I could tell, but you held back. Why hold back? What had you so worked up about the whole ordeal?"

John attempts to make a bad joke in poor taste. He cracks a sour grin, "Well, had I known you would commit suicide over it, I would have had plenty of reason to be distressed, wouldn't I have?"

"John."

"…Alright, alright," the other concedes with a sigh, looking down. "I'll answer it better." He rubs a hand through his recently cropped hair. "It didn't only bother me because I knew the press would turn when you first became famous."

"Yes, I know that. While that was cause for concern in retrospect, because it did lead to… what it led to, but there's more."

"Yes," John agrees quietly. He looks up at Sherlock, and something in his eyes catches in Sherlock's throat. "I don't like fame, Sherlock. Fame corrupts people. It inflates their egos until they are someone else, sometimes. And sometimes it turns a person into something other than human."

"How so?" Sherlock asks with sincere confusion.

"Take a famous artist, for example," John goes on, "Like Da Vinci. Da Vinci was a genius for his time, wasn't he? Paintings like the Mona Lisa are all well and good, but he made inventions, too. Hundreds of blueprints. And, over time, he became a sort of idealized man, something more than a painter or inventor. He was categorized, he was superficialized to become a sort of icon of his time period. He's not just a man anymore, not just a dreamer with a paintbrush like he was thought to be in his day. Now he's this grand idea of a genius, over-appreciated instead of under-appreciated, and not only is he not around to witness it, I'm sure he wouldn't like it, either. People would expect too much of him, were he still alive but just as famous. People would take any small, human thing he did and twist it.

"People already do so in the paparazzi, don't they? Especially Americans. They take their celebrities of film and telly and put them on pedestals the celebrities can't live up to, and when they do something like get married or have a baby or get drunk in public or so much as go to the supermarket, they're judged for it, aren't they? Even though these are normal things any person would do. They're made into something superficial and ideal, and not human at all."

Sherlock takes this in, processes it, and nods slowly. "Ah, I see. And you didn't want that to happen to me because people already think I'm inhuman because I don't follow courtesy or sentiment or social conduct very well."

"Yes, but not only that," John grinds out, almost frustrated. "It's because I do know you're human, and that's what bothered me about you becoming famous, becoming some sort of icon for detectives everywhere. No one else should be compared to you or expected to live up to you, and no one should try to be like you. You're the only one who can do or be any of what you are, and I hate copycats. And what's more, I didn't want you to become corrupted like other celebrities; your ego is big enough already, we don't want to blow it up bigger," he tries to joke again, smile faint, and it falls flat. He swallows, deadpanning, and adds, "And I didn't want them to make any small mistake you did and twist it, because that's exactly what happened."

"And that leads me to my other question, about you hating them thinking I am a fraud. You said it was because you knew me, but there's more than that, isn't there?" and Sherlock's eyes are hard and seeking, and John nods to give him what he's looking for.

"Yeah, there is." There is a pause as he glances down at his hands in his lap. "I still do have a bit of hero-worship for you, Sherlock, I'm not going to lie. I know all your faults, but I know all of your virtues, too. You still amaze me sometimes, even though I've come to expect it when you do happen to make a particularly good deduction or find a particularly clever way to expose a clue. And that's just it: I know what you're capable of, and I know that it's real, and it hurt me that no one else could see that, that no one else could believe in you like I did, could trust your abilities like I can. To me, it's second nature, now. I trust your judgments completely. And I couldn't wrap my mind around why it was so easy for everyone else to brush you off as a fake and not accept that there can truly be someone as unique and brilliant as you in existence."

When John looks up after speaking, Sherlock is shocked into silence. He stares at John for a long moment, unsure what to say. It's astonishing, really, he thinks to himself, that John is so loyal, so honest, so admiring. It takes Sherlock another moment to compose himself again and find words. "…Thank you for that, John. I think that is, quite possibly, the most charming thing anyone has or ever will say to me. I will never forget it."

"It wasn't mean to be charming," John murmurs, and ah, now he's blushing the tiniest bit with embarrassment. "I'm just being truthful, here."

"Nevertheless, I'm humbled and flattered," Sherlock says softly, smiling at his flatmate. "You're a wonder yourself, John. Not ordinary at all."

"Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment." And he's grinning broadly. He clears his throat. "Now, um. Are you hungry? I am. I'm going to get take-away."

"None for me, thanks," Sherlock returns lowly, his mind working on what was just discussed. There's another question forming in his mind, now, but he'd rather not voice it. It's a little too personal and emotional to ask.