Not Talking Now that You're Here
Summary: Post the return, pre-So3, Sherlock is not talking to John- not even in his Mind Palace. The reasons why may surprise you. A continuation of the "Talking" Series.
Chapter One: Brief Encounter
Sherlock stood on the pavement, watching the taxi carrying John and Mary drive away. For the moment, the light inside the cab was on, as John presumably gave directions to their destination. Sherlock dragged that bit of information out of the Mind Palace where he had stored it after reading Mycroft's file- south London, within walking distance of the surgery where he was working full time. His date was a nurse working there.
John didn't look at him as the taxi passed. He felt another dribble of blood slip down his upper lip, and raised the crumpled tissue again, trying to staunch the flow. As injuries went, a minor inconvenience compared with many he had endured while away.
Unbidden, a sultry voice said in his ear, "Somebody loves you. Why, if I had to punch that face, I'd avoid your nose and teeth, too."
As John had specifically targeted his nose with his head butt, Sherlock could only draw the obvious conclusion. That hurt more than any physical pain. Whatever confidence he'd put into his shoulders as he pulled the Belstaff back on and threw "What life?" back in his brother's face, that was now gone. The whole evening had been a disaster. His sudden premonition, felt as soon as he crossed the threshold of the restaurant, had come to ghastly fruition.
Everything he said tonight seemed to enrage John even more, and that was a surprise. He'd anticipated shock, but then delight at his 'resurrection'. After all, at the graveside, John's little speech seemed to imply that he had valued knowing him, and would miss him. He'd actually said "Please, don't be dead." So, why was John so angry when that plea was finally answered?
Sherlock knew that he was not a master when it came to figuring out the motivations of those who were closest to him. Oddly, his skills at deduction declined in direct proportion to the closeness of the person. A suspect? Simple- easy to figure them out in a moment. The criminal rarely knew Sherlock personally, and he rarely knew the criminal, except on paper or crime scene evidence. That made it easier- just let the facts speak for themselves. It appealed to his sense of the concrete. Facts didn't lie. The suspects might, but because he didn't know them, didn't care at all about them, it didn't matter. What they thought of him was equally irrelevant.
With clients and their cases, he could avoid the sticky glue of emotion that so fogged his thinking about someone with whom he lived, like John and even Mrs Hudson, or had a long history with, like his brother and Lestrade. He could always deduce the facts about them; that wasn't a problem. For example, just from his choice of restaurant, it was clear that not only was John dating again, but he was treating this new woman completely differently. But even then, it was only after approaching the table in the disguise of the waiter that Sherlock spotted the tell-tale bulge in John's jacket pocket- just the size of a jewellery box. He then realised that he was gate-crashing a marriage proposal. A bit not good. John had been tetchy at the best of times when he'd interfered with his routine dates. 'Timing!' had been something of a routine rant of his.
Deducing emotions was different. And other people's motivations regarding him in particular were almost impossible to fathom. So, he never voluntarily ventured into talking about emotions, just hoping that he wouldn't ruin things too much if he kept his mouth shut. Once he'd realised how much he valued John's being a part of his life, he had lived in dread that something he would do or say would cause the man to leave. Not that he'd ever admit something like that. Caring is not an advantage. Or, at least, talking about caring was certainly a problem. What would happen if declaring an emotion could be used against him? His brother's solution seemed simpler. Don't get involved. With Mycroft, Sherlock had raised that strategy to the point of an art form. Avoid him whenever possible, and never, ever admit to caring about what his brother thought, lest it be turned against Sherlock into some new way to control him.
So, as he stood next to the table, trying to get John's attention before the date returned from the loo, he'd been torn. Anxiety about what his friend's reaction would be gave him second thoughts. Should he just escape before John realised who he was? He had the chance when he walked off, muttering "Certainly endeavouring to, sir."
He could pass a bottle to another waiter and ask for it to be delivered to the table. On the other hand, as he pulled the best vintage champagne on the wine list out of its slot in the chiller, Sherlock reasoned that it might be better to carry through with it now than later, if his return could make a material difference to John's decision about the woman. And he had no idea whether it would, or not. He realised in that moment that he had no inkling what John was feeling or thinking. The man sitting at the table was a stranger to him. Sherlock could not deduce the probable reaction to his return. He'd stood by, as John read through the menu trying to decide on whether he could afford one of the mid- priced champagne or if his date- no, his intended fiancé- knew enough about champagne to judge him a cheapskate if he chose the house NV. He could deduce from John's clothing, his demeanour, his –oh my God it looks awful- moustache that things had changed, but he knew nothing of what had happened to John over the past two years. And without those facts, he suddenly felt horribly unsure.
But, what if he missed his chance? He'd waited two years to explain himself to John. Could he just walk away? If he did that, would he ever be brave enough? Standing there looking at the label of the champagne as other waiters moved around him without a glance, Sherlock decided that if he'd been willing to take the risk to save John's life in the first place, he rather owed it to himself to carry through with the reunion now.
With the advantage of hindsight now, he knew he'd made the wrong choice by going back to the table once John's date returned. Once John recognised him, whatever Sherlock said made things go from bad to worse. John had attacked him. Repeatedly. With each new venue they went to, things just deteriorated further. The one surprise was that the intended fiancé did not react in the way he expected, by trying to get John away from him. In fact, Mary had been the one to insist on moving to a new restaurant and getting John to calm down enough to re-start the conversation. But all it had done was hand him more rope with which to hang himself.
The first stop was when John had said he didn't care how, but only wanted to know why. Sherlock had tried to fall back to a comfort zone, wanting to get some recognition from John about how clever the ruse had been. But, in response to his mentioning the thirteen scenarios, this time there was no 'amazing' or 'fantastic' forthcoming. No acceptance at all, no appreciation, nothing but anger. Enough for John to rage at him at the top of his lungs and tell the whole world who he was and that he was back. Two years of keeping his identity a secret made Sherlock particularly anxious about that, and he'd had to raise his voice to get John to understand that.
In a final bid to get John past his anger, he'd tried to draw on what he had always understood as being the heart of John's attraction to their shared life- that he 'd missed the thrill of the chase, the adrenaline kick of the case work. And that had provoked the head-butt bloodying his nose.
He'd run out of words. John had simply walked out, saying to Mary that he was going to get them a cab, and to meet him on the pavement. In a bit of daze, Sherlock followed. To his surprise Mary had been…kind. She said that she would "talk him round." Clearly, whatever he said seemed only to enrage John, so he was going to have to rely on her as intermediary. That made him deduce her, quickly- he needed to know whether he could trust her. Sherlock then discovered that she was a liar, but knew somehow, instinctively, that it wasn't about her promise to get John to see things differently. He was still mulling that over when the taxi drew up and she got in the back. He was still thinking it through after the taxi had turned the corner and disappeared from view.
The bleeding appeared to have stopped now. In fact, the wounds on his back from Serbia were more painful; stifling his defensive reactions, allowing John to knock him to the floor of the first restaurant wasn't his most brilliant decision. Sherlock looked one way down the pavement. That way would take him towards Belgravia, where his brother would be sitting up waiting for him, wearing that smug I-told-you-so face of his. The other way led to New Scotland Yard, where he wondered if Lestrade might still be working. There was someone who didn't expect him to talk much. Forewarned by John's reception, Sherlock wondered if the DI might punch him. He put the tissue in his pocket and strode off in that direction.