Sherlock strode across the living room stopping by the mantle. He reached out a hand and placed it atop the skull, stroking it absently. Looking up, Sherlock caught sight of John who was stood, his hands fisted at his sides and his face a mask. "Do go ahead with your rant, John. Tell me how I'm an idiot for endangering my life and my health. Tell me how I'm and addict. Do, please, get it out of your system so we can proceed to more important matters."
John locked eyes with the detective in the mirror and gave a sharp shake of the head. "What would be the point? You already know all of that anyway, yeah? And nothing I say will make a difference." He took a step forward, bringing his hand up and jabbing one finger in Sherlock's direction. "You were high when you first stepped onto the tarmac. I see that now. I'm a doctor, I should have seen it then. The thing is, Mycroft surely saw it. So, tell me this Sherlock…" John's voice rose in a shout. "Why didn't he ask for the bloody list then?!"
"I told you, he gave me six months." It was said quietly, barely more than a murmur. Sherlock shuddered. He could feel John's gaze on him, could almost hear the wheels turning inside the doctor's head.
John turned and walked away from the mantle, stopping by the desk. His fists tightened, released, tightened again, then he swept his arm across the desktop, knocking everything he hit onto the floor. "That bastard! You were never meant to come back."
"And the penny drops."
"He asked me to take care of you," John said quietly, "on the plane." With a shake of his head, the doctor laughed bitterly. "The next time I see him… Christ."
Sherlock's hand dropped from the skull as he turned, wearily, back to face John. "It's not his fault."
"You're defending your brother?"
The detective heaved a heavy sigh. "What would you have had him do, John? He's not the only influential person in the government. They would have had me put in prison. Imagine that, if you will. Where would they have put me? With the other murderers. Impossible. The embezzlers, the rapists? I would have ended up in solitary for the rest of my life. I would have gone mad. He convinced them to send me on that mission. He was only able to do it because they were convinced I would die. At least that way, there was a chance. At least that's how Mycroft saw it."
"A chance?" John wheeled around. "You said he only gave you six months."
Sherlock shrugged. "He thought he would be able to find a way to bring me back before then or to extract me and hide me away somewhere, give me a new life."
"So I ask, again…" The doctor could barely control himself. "Why didn't he ask for the list? He had to know, had to see what you had done. And it was an OD. Don't tell me that was an accident."
"It wasn't," Sherlock admitted, closing his eyes. "I've already lost two years of my life living in hell. I couldn't face six more months of it."
"But Mycroft would have got you out!" John was shouting again.
Sherlock shouted back, "But why! What would be the point?!"
Silence fell over the flat, heavy and complete. Finally, John broke it, his voice measured calm, "What would be the point?" He strode over and stood mere inches from the detective. "You would have. Been. Safe!" His voice dropped, "What were you thinking?"
With a bitter laugh, Sherlock turned away. He glanced briefly into the mirror to see Mary standing there. When had she come up? Their eyes met in understanding.
"It's my fault, John. He thought he had lost you," Mary supplied as she walked forward. She had her hands held out to here sides, displaying her empty hands. "See, Sherlock. No gun."
The detective gave her a small, sad smile. "No, no gun."
John strode towards his wife, turned and walked back towards Sherlock, hesitated and dropped into his chair. He carded his fingers through his hair. "I don't understand."
Mary met the detective's eyes in a challenge. "Tell him, Sherlock, or I will."
