Two Years

John sat in his old chair, waiting for Sherlock to come out of the kitchen. He was there so that the two of them could finally talk. He'd just been exposed to the fact that Sherlock was still alive only a week earlier, and it still didn't quite feel like it was real. He felt that at any moment he would wake up, and Sherlock would be gone. He closed his eyes and pressed a fist to his mouth, listening to the sounds of his friend in the kitchen, taking in every detail to reassure himself that the consulting detective was there.

As soon as he heard the footsteps getting louder, he dropped his hand back to the arm of the chair and opened his eyes.

Sherlock collapsed in the chair opposite him, acting for all the world as though he'd only been gone a mere few days and not two whole years. Two years. Two years that he'd thought the man was dead by his own hand; two years of grieving and attempting to move on with what he thought was the answer to his problems. Mary. But now…now he wasn't so sure. And that killed him.

"So, John, what did you want to talk about? Make it quick; I have several experiments that are time sensitive and need to be closely monitored."

As he said this, he reached down and picked up his violin, closing his eyes and absently plucking notes out on the strings, causing John's tension to mount even higher. He still wasn't entirely sure how to start the conversation, but after a moment, he finally found the right words.

"Two years."

Sherlock didn't look over, so John repeated himself.

"Two years, Sherlock. Two years of thinking that I had watched my best…" His voice started to break, and he swallowed back the tears that once again threatened to fall, and then managed to continue. "…Two years of thinking that I had watched my best friend commit suicide…and not one fucking word."

At this, Sherlock lifted his head and stared straight at the doctor, and John knew it was because of the profanity. It was the only way that John knew how to grab the man's attention. He never used it because it was impractical, of course, but this was the exception.

"How could you do that to me?"

Sherlock let out a sigh.

"John, I've told you, it would have compromised an undercover investigation-"

John cut him off with, "Oh, yes, I understand that part, Sherlock. The bit I still don't get is the fact that you couldn't have found a way around Mycroft to even leave one bloody hint as to the fact that you were alive! It didn't have to be much," he added, standing up, no longer able to sit, needing to pace as he began to rant. "A note, a silent phone call, a message through one of your fucking homeless associates! Hell, even an insulting message from your brother would have been better than the hell you put me through!"

Sherlock was silent.

The doctor let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair, his pacing slowing. He was deciding whether or not he should tell him. He was deciding whether or not it was the time to show his trump card, but in the end, he felt he had no choice. Sherlock had left him with no other choice. Damn him. In a sudden moment of clarity, he realized that he had to, so he grabbed his sleeve and yanked it up, exposing the skin of his forearm, showing him what only Mary had seen. He had managed to keep it a secret from everyone else, even Mrs. Hudson. But it wasn't his fault, after all; it was all Sherlock's fault.

He stared at Sherlock for a moment, and then he pulled up the other sleeve as well, revealing all of it.

At this, the air in the room seemed vanish all at once, like a vacuum of silence had filled it, the tension thick and filled with too much emotion; anger, shame, relief, fear, confusion, hurt. All of them swirling in a confusing mess and clouding all of John's thoughts. He wondered if Sherlock could feel them, too, or if he was just as ignorant as ever about his emotions.

After a long, intense silence, however, Sherlock put down the violin and sat up in his chair, his eyes trained on the doctor's arms. John's right hand was clenched into a fist, and he now noticed that it was shaking.

Dammit.

He had been determined to not show any weakness as he did this, but it looked as though things had changed.

And then Sherlock said, in the softest voice he'd ever heard, "John...", and the detective started to rise, but he stopped him.

"No," he said, his anger finally making itself fully known. "Don't you dare, Sherlock. It's your fault any of this happened. It's your fault!" His voice rose, getting louder. "You…left me! You just thought that you could pretend to kill yourself, leave for two whole fucking years, and then waltz back into my life as though nothing happened?! I did this because of you!"

Sherlock said nothing…but then he stood up from his chair and walked to the center of the room, opposite John. He continued to stare at John's arms, and then haltingly pressed a finger to one of the longer scars, and at seeing John's discomfort he lifted it away and then softly said, "How long?" and John wasn't sure if he should answer or not, but gave in and replied with, "About six months. Right after…you know. After you…died." His words were clipped, biting, and for a brief moment he thought he could see something akin to pain in his friend's eyes.

Sherlock simply nodded, and then, in a confusing segue, he lifted his left hand to his shirt and began to unbutton it one-handed with that damn arrogant dexterity of his, pulling out the shirttails with his other hand.

"Sherlock, what are you…?"

"John. Just…wait. Please?"

At hearing that uncommon word of his friend's vocabulary, he couldn't quite understand what was going on, but he did as the detective requested and waited. He didn't know why Sherlock was doing this, but he would humor him and wait for however long he asked. But why he was taking off his shirt, John didn't know.

Soon, the shirt was unbuttoned, and he shrugged it off, letting it drop carelessly to the floor.

He then stared at John. John could see a long, faint scar that started low on Sherlock's right hip and ran up to his left pectoral, but it was faded, just a pale pink line that pressed into his already pale skin, barely visible in the evening shadow of the room, and he wondered about it, but didn't have the chance to wonder long.

Sherlock turned around.

And John brought his fist up to his mouth, biting into it, trying to keep in the sound of shock that wanted to escape his throat. Across that lovely, pale skin that he'd seen countless times and marveled at because of its striking similarity to so many marble sculptures, were scars. And not just one layer of scars; no, there were scars on top of scars. Being a doctor, John recognized the different kinds of marks that marred that fair skin.

He stepped forward, cautiously, and then gently put his hand on his old friend's shoulder. Sherlock started at the sensation, but then stopped and stood perfectly still, letting John examine each one of the scars, who was taking silent mental notes as to how old each one of them was, and what they were caused by.

Three or four slashes just under his left shoulder blade, from a sharp curved knife; the curvature made him think scythe. His fingers dropped down, and his gut churned as he saw the knotted ropes of scar tissue all along his spine and upper back. They were old, at least fourteen months, but John could tell that they would never fully go away. From the shape and texture, he would say that they came from a knotted whip of some kind; the way they were raised, it made him think that the whip was made from nylon. He then brushed his fingertips across his lower back and felt Sherlock flinch as he pressed just a bit too firmly against what was obviously more recent burn scars, within the last four months it looked like. They seemed to be severe third degree burns that had never been properly treated. And still, he could see knife-like scars beneath and above the burns.

The doctor then saw that the scars continued even further down, beyond the line of his trousers, and John closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed, and then opened them again, still trying to take it all in. How could anyone do this to someone else?

After lingering for a moment longer than was strictly necessary, he dropped his hand, and Sherlock turned his head, catching his gaze.

"John…"

His voice was the lowest the John had ever heard it and sounded surprisingly filled with emotion.

"John," he repeated, licking his lips in an almost nervous fashion. "I did this for you…"

He didn't know what to say. He just stood there, waiting for what, he didn't know. He honestly didn't know how to respond to those words. All of his anger seemed to dissipate in that moment and he felt as though he had nothing to hold onto, as though he was simply drifting.

How was he supposed to react to those words? How was he supposed to respond to...everything that he'd just seen? That he'd gone through all of that while taking down Moriarty's established crime ring…and all for him.

God.

Sherlock turned back around, not bothering to pick up his shirt from the ground, uncharacteristically fidgeting in an uncomfortable way, his right hand reaching up and pressing into the scar on his chest, his long, musician fingers tracing it back and forth, almost as if he was trying to reassure himself.

"I…I'm sorry, John. Both of us are to blame, but of course I bear more of the guilt. You…you have every right to be furious with me, and I have every intention of trying to win your trust back. Even if it takes the rest of my life."

John just stared at him. After a moment, he leaned down and picked up Sherlock's shirt from the floor, handing it to him, and ignored the faint rush of feeling that he felt as their fingers casually brushed against each other in the handoff. He didn't know how to deal with a situation like this one. They had both just bared themselves to the other, emotionally and physically, so they were both feeling exposed and vulnerable, and John knew that any word in the wrong direction could spell disaster.

Finally, after Sherlock pulled the shirt back over his scarred shoulders, and John pulled his shirtsleeves back down, the doctor managed to reply with, "Well, I'm sorry, too."

At that, they both felt the tension in the room dissolve and, almost in unison, they let out sighs of relief.

Sherlock absently buttoned his shirt back up, leaving the top button undone and the tails untucked. His face was still naked with raw emotion, and John took advantage of the moment and impulsively reached out and pulled his friend into a hug. Of course, the doctor was not expecting the consulting detective to yield willingly, but he was pleasantly surprised when he felt Sherlock's arms tentatively return the gesture. Awkwardly, at first, but then he settled his hands firmly on John's shoulder blades, his elbows tucked against John's sides, and it took everything John Watson had to not let a tear fall at the unexpected reciprocation of his actions.

They held it for a moment, and then John pulled back, and Sherlock followed his lead, doing the same. They both seemed unsure of what to do with their hands and arms, so John simply tucked his hands into his pockets and watched his ex-flatmate mirror his actions.

"John, I am a ridiculous man," Sherlock started, and John snorted.

"As if you'd ever admit it to anyone else but me," he retorted, and was pleased when he saw a faint smile cross his friend's lips.

"Yes, well, beside the point. The point is, I don't take people's feelings into account when I make my decisions and, honestly, don't understand most emotions besides those which I study in the criminal element, and even those tend to mystify me most of the time…but I digress." He paused, shifting on his feet. "When I made my decision to…fake my suicide, I need you to understand that you were the primary reason why I chose to. Your emotions were at the forefront of my thoughts; something that has never been prevalent in any of my decisions up until that point of my life."

He then turned and looked towards the fireplace, hands still firmly rooted in his pockets.

"Moriarty threatened you…and would have continued to use you as a threat, or simply killed you, because he knew me better than I had even expected…he knew what your death would do to me."

John didn't know what to say, or even if he should say anything, so he simply stayed quiet, and waited for Sherlock to continue, knowing that the man was far from finished saying what was on his mind. After a few moments, he continued, just as John suspected.

"My death, for you, and for everyone else for that matter, would have been grieved, yes, but moved past. I've made no significant emotional impact on anyone's life, of that I am certain, therefore I am pragmatic about how my passing would be dealt with." At hearing that, John wanted to correct him, but stayed silent. "However, your death would have affected so many more lives. Your sister, your parents, your friends, of which you have quite a few, I am certain, and, of course…me."

He pivoted on his heel and looked at the doctor.

"John, for the time that I have known you I have come to unhealthily rely on you to keep me…balanced. And I believe that Moriarty was aware of this and knew that your death would be all that it would take to truly undo me." Well, what the hell was John supposed to say to that? "I knew that you could move on from my death, if given enough time, which is why I did what I did."

John just shook his head.

"I know you're telling me this to try and make me feel better, Sherlock," he said, pulling his hands out from his pockets and gesturing, "But I think it's backfiring on you."

"Oh? In what way?"

He laughed, not a hint of humor in it, and said, his anger rising with every sentence, "In the way that you assume that you had no emotional impact on anyone, you idiot! Did you honestly think, when you decided to "end" your life, that it would have no impact on anyone? Did it ever occur to you that someone might actually care for you? Did it ever occur to you that I might not have gotten over your death? Do you have any idea how many times I came this close to ending it all? How many times I went up to that roof and stood just inches from where you stood, trying to wrap my mind around the reason why the most brilliant mind I had ever known had taken his own life?"

Sherlock hesitated before replying.

"Was it just…the cutting?"

John shook his head, shifting uncomfortably, knowing that it all had to come out at some point, so it might as well be now.

"I was addicted to pain killers for a while. Codeine. I took a nasty fall that day, too, Sherlock. Had to go to the hospital; they gave me medicine for the concussion and I refilled the script one too many times using my own pad. Could've lost my license. Bloody lucky I didn't." Sherlock just listened quietly, his hands folded behind his back, so John continued. "I held the bottle in my hands a couple of times, thinking how easy it would be to just end the pain, you know…but I didn't."

Tension filled the room once more, and John snuck a glance at Sherlock, trying to gauge his friend's reaction to his confession, unsure if he should go on, but at seeing no significant facial expressions, he continued.

"There were so many times…so many times, and it would have been so easy…but Mary stopped me. She came into my life and she made me realize that you wouldn't have wanted that."

Sherlock cringed at the mention of her name. John didn't know what to do with that, honestly. He wanted them to get along, but he had the feeling that it wouldn't be happening any time soon. In Sherlock's eyes, John could quickly surmise, she was the one who stole John away from him.

In a way, he was right.

Neither of them would ever say it out loud, but it seemed the two of them had finally come to a point where it didn't need to be said.

After a silence that stretched just a little too long, John let out a sigh and said, "You're not really the one to blame, Sherlock. They…they were my decisions, after all."

He was surprised when Sherlock shook his head and said, "No, John, I am the one to blame." He looked up at him at that point and the doctor was shocked by the naked honesty in his friend's eyes. "I assumed that not telling you about faking my suicide was a selfless act; one of the most selfless acts that I would ever commit…but, I know now that it was nothing if not selfish. I thought I was making things easier by cutting the cord instead of letting you cling onto hope that I might be alive. You see, John, I never thought I would make it out alive…"

At hearing that, John Watson found himself at a loss for words the second time that night.

Sherlock continued.

"I knew when I chose my course, to take down Moriarty's criminal network, that it was a path that would most likely lead me to my inevitable demise. And, in taking the actions that I took, I was resolute in also making sure that no one else suffered from them, hence I made the decision that I felt would best allow my friends to move on…"

John still stood there silent.

For a long while the only sound was the sound of their breathing, until finally John said...

"Yeah, well, as usual, Sherlock…you're an idiot."

A faint smile appeared on Sherlock's lips and a look that John had never seen crossed Sherlock's face. He was smiling, yes, but it was painful. It was a look of…guilt. He held his arms close to his body, as though prepared to fend off another physical attack from his friend, but when he replied with the words, "So…you're not mad anymore?", John wanted to punch him and hug him all at the same time, but he did neither of those.

He laughed.

It was honestly the only reaction that he could think of to that question. Sherlock would always be Sherlock, no matter how hard he tried. Even after that horrendous emotional rollercoaster that they had just gone through in the past fifteen minutes, he still thought of it as a question of being upset.

John finally calmed down, took a step closer to his friend and grabbed him in a large hug, his arms around his shoulders.

The doctor pulled back, and with a hand still on each of Sherlock's shoulders, he said, "Oh, I'm still fucking pissed at you, Sherlock, but I'm willing to overlook it for now."

Obviously confused, the detective said, "And what are your reasons for overlooking it?"

John just shook his head.

"Because, Sherlock…two years." Still looking confused, John dropped his hands and explained. "If you were anyone else, and I mean anyone else, it would have taken you a lifetime to do what you managed to do in two years. And I would've been beyond pissed at them for coming back after a lifetime and pulling such a dick move. But…you're you, Sherlock."

He paused and then continued, seeing his friend's brow furrowing.

"With anyone else, even if they had managed to do it in two years, if they came back they would have never been able to do what you do because they would have been so wracked with guilt over lying to me about their death that they would have been going out of their way to try and absolve themselves, but with you…it's so much simpler. You don't want absolution; you knew that lying to me and keeping me in the dark was the only way that it could work. In the end, you don't really need, or even want forgiveness. You just want your friend back."

Sherlock just shook his head and said, "Yes, that's what I just said. How was I in any way unclear about that?"

John laughed again, shaking his head in disbelief and exasperation while still smiling, and then looked straight at him and opened his arms.

"Well, then. You've got him."

Sherlock hesitated a moment, but then put his hands behind his back and walked towards the kitchen in his usual manner and said, "Well…good. Now that we have the reunion properly out of the way, may I return to my research?"

John nodded.

"Yeah, Sherlock. You can."

He smiled to himself as he watched the consulting detective sit down at the dining table and place a slide under one of microscopes, gazing at it intently, showing no signs of their heated emotional encounter only moments before. He shook his head and walked to the door, grabbing his coat from the coatrack.

Just as he was about to leave, he heard Sherlock say, "Fourteen months."

The army doctor turned in the doorway, coat still in his hand.

"What was that, Sherlock?"

He looked up from the slide that he was analyzing and repeated himself, "Fourteen months, John. It didn't take me two years to dissolve the network, it took me fourteen months. Please be accurate in your statements."

"No, Sherlock," he retaliated, not missing a beat. "Two years."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John cut him off. "It was two years until I saw you, again…not fourteen months. You idiot." And with that parting blow, the doctor turned and left, neither of them noticing the smirk on each other's faces as Sherlock watched him leave.

Alright, thought Sherlock, looking back through the microscope. Two years.

THE END

A.N. - Credit and thanks to the random Tumblr post that I came across on a Sherlock/John Pinterest page that said, "Imagine John being so angry and frustrated with Sherlock that he snaps and pulls up his sleeves to reveal all the scars he has from self-harmed while Sherlock was gone and screaming "I DID THIS BECAUSE OF YOU!" And Sherlock going completely silent with hurt in his eyes as he looks at the scars until he starts unbuttoning his shirt and takes it off to reveal numerous scars and torture marks from two years spent dismantling Moriarty's network and being tortured by the Serbians and quietly says, "I did this FOR you."