Not only was John home by the time Sherlock arrived at 221B but he was seated in the living room, though his presence only registered at the farthest periphery of Sherlock's notice.
He was looking beyond John towards the glow of dying embers in the hearth, and the absolute numbness that had come to settle over him during his journey home was suddenly punctured as if by a stiletto. A vivid image accompanied by sense memory so real he could almost feel it – feel her – took possession of him, and for the first time since he'd moved in, his flat didn't feel like a refuge but like the scene of some terrible crime.
With an effort that showed on his face for a fraction of a second he pushed the image away and averted his eyes from the fireplace, then took a few steps forward, drawing the mantle of apathy and detachment around himself again.
John glanced over at the sound of his footsteps and then did a double take as he saw Sherlock's silent, looming figure. He straightened and from the body language Sherlock saw from the corner of his eyes he could tell that John was looking at him in question and concern.
As if from some distance he heard the creak of wood as John rose from his chair, heard him ask, "Sherlock, what's wrong? Where's Irene?"
He made the mistake of looking towards John and meeting his worried gaze, and with that eye contact came the sudden, reckless compulsion to tell him everything – though just as quickly a sensation like panic surged in its wake and he felt his defences refortify. No, he'd already been humiliated in front of Mycroft and although John would take a far different approach, his kindness would be just as destructive, if not more so. In his effort to be supportive and sympathetic John would point out everything that he considered a mitigating factor in Sherlock's inability to grasp what had been happening, oblivious to the fact that he was recounting the exact causes of Sherlock's humiliation.
Sherlock couldn't afford that, nor he could afford the look of loathsome pity he would see, and not only for Sherlock's professional failings, but for… other reasons as well—no. He already felt precipitously close to the edge of hell and John's good intentions might pave for him the rest of the way.
"Don't know," he said, sounding as dull and detached as he'd come to feel. "That rather depends on how kind my brother is feeling towards her."
"I'm sorry, what?"
Sherlock finally risked a look at John. "But whatever he decides, you won't be seeing her again."
"I'm sorry, what?" John repeated. "When I left you two looked… I don't know. But I was only gone for a few hours, what could've possibly happened between then and now?"
"Oh nothing much, John," bitterness beginning to carve its way into the numbness, "JustThe Woman leveraging my connection to Mycroft to derail a security project that's been in the works for months and then blackmail him for a significant portion of the national budget."
John looked stunned, but Sherlock found nothing gratifying in eliciting such a reaction from him as he normally would.
"Oh my God. Jesus. Sherlock, I'm—"
"If you're going to say you're sorry, don't. The threat's been contained, I took care of it."
"How—"
"I took care of it."
"Was it her passcode, did you finally crack it?"
That deep, piercing pain lanced through him again, and he couldn't help but pull in a low, hitched breath, though he was certain John hadn't heard him.
"Yes," he said, his voice not betraying that momentary lapse.
The corners of his mouth tightened further, and the pain corroded into sudden, visceral, and very confusing anger. "It only took as long as it did because I was giving her far more credit than she deserved. But in the end, she was just as ordinary and fallible as everyone else. Good night."
He pivoted sharply and left John gaping, though it was a long time before he managed to sleep, and it was not a good night at all.
When Sherlock entered the kitchen the following morning John dropped his paper and turned at the waist to regard Sherlock, one elbow up on the table.
It was obvious that he'd been waiting for his flatmate to come out; Sherlock wasn't the only one who had passed the night tossing the matter over and over in his mind.
"You all right?"
"Fine," Sherlock grunted, pouring himself hot water from the kettle.
"Okay… It's just that last night you didn't seem fine."
"Why wouldn't I be? I've finally concluded a months-long investigation as well as prevented a massive loss of wealth to the nation."
"Because…" But John trailed off, his nerve failing him under Sherlock's hard, penetrating look.
"Have you heard from your brother about what happened to Irene Adler?" he asked instead.
"Yes. He's decided to let her go. He said that rather than having the benefit of the majority of the British Government's resources, she'll have none at all."
John looked puzzled. "You seem pleased at that."
"Oh I am."
John gave a slight shake of his head, his confusion increasing. "I got the impression before that you wouldn't have wanted Mycroft to be so, er, kind."
"Kind?" Sherlock asked, his lips curling into a sneering smile. "No. You see in custody The Woman would've stood a chance."
It took a moment for John to catch his meaning, and then he stared at Sherlock with something akin to horror. Sherlock drank it in; he fed on accusations of cruelty and callousness in John's eyes like fire devouring kindling, and the sensation burned away all those weaker emotions he wasn't willing to name, or even acknowledge.
As for John, he hadn't asked about that night again.