Sherlock was there. Standing in John's new flat, as if no time had passed and he was only mildly confused at the new surroundings. "New furniture, John? Really?" he commented in that familiar baritone, and the words hit John like a punch to the face. Worse, really, a blow he could return, but there was no way to hurt this man the same way he had been hurt.
He'd only just come in from the surgery, and when he'd turned expecting to see the empty flat that reminded him so painfully of Mary, he saw instead his detective, standing calmly in the living room, amongst all the relics of John's new life. At first John had assumed he had gone mad, that Mary's death had pushed him over the edge he'd been dancing on when they met, but then Sherlock had spoken, and there was no possible way he'd imagined that, his imagination wouldn't give Sherlock that cold tone he used when he was annoyed, no, his voice would be tender if John had really imagined him. So, definitely real.
John swallowed. "What. The. Bloody. Hell. Is going on," he ground out from a clenched jaw, trying to decide if he was furious or going to start shamefully crying. He was torn between sobbing out his relief that Sherlock was in fact living, and screaming out his rage that Sherlock had lied -lied about dying- and disappeared for three years only to reappear now that John was finally starting to move forward with his life.
The detective turned slowly to face John fully. His hair was longer now, his face even thinner, and his body no longer looked skinny, now it looked positively gaunt. He hasn't been eating, John thinks with concern before remembering he's angry. Sherlock sniffs imperiously. "I went home first, and found Mrs. Hudson there. She said you'd left without leaving a new address. I have your mail, incidentally. Then I had to call Lestrade. He didn't seem to know where you were either. Same with Molly. Finally, I had to call Mycroft," here his voice took on a familiar tone of disdain, "and he gave me your new location. Honestly, John, it's like you wanted to disappear." Sherlock gave a longsuffering sigh.
"I did," John said firmly in response. "I didn't want to be found, Sherlock. I thought you were dead." His voice broke embarrassingly on the last word. He closed his eyes, pinching his nose between two fingers in an attempt to banish the images of St. Bart's from the inside of his eyelids. It didn't work. He could still see it, the blood and the shouting and more than anything that image of Sherlock the moment he jumped, when it seemed almost like he was flying.
Sherlock looked surprised. There was a time when John lived for that look, endeavored to see it, but that time was gone. "I don't understand," Sherlock finally admitted, his brow furrowed. John exhaled, clenching his fist and trying to calm down.
"It took me a year and a half to move on. For the longest time I was an automaton, I just went to work and came home and that was it. I stayed in the flat when I wasn't at the surgery. I just kept reliving that night, the night before you left and I thought- I thought something had changed between us and I thought maybe it could somewhere. All I wanted was to go back to that night. To that possibility." Sherlock took a step towards him but John held up a warning hand and stepped back. The words were coming now, and there was no stopping them. "Why are you even here? Why did you bother coming back when I wasn't even important enough to know you were alive all this time?"
"John, if you'd just let me explain-" Sherlock began, but John cut him off.
"No. I know the answer, you just want someone to follow you around and praise you, like some sort of puppy dog. I'm done with that, Sherlock. I'm not some sort of toy you can just leave and then pick back up when it suits you. No. This- we can't do this. You don't get to just come back into my life after what you did. I'm- I'm finally all right. I'm happy," John spat the last word out.
Sherlock jerked back as if John had hit him, and that shouldn't make John as happy as it does because that's just not good. He'd left 221B for a reason, and stopped talking to Greg and Molly for the same reason. Everything reminded him too much of Sherlock, too much of the pain to be around every day. So he'd moved to a new part of town, a new surgery, and a new flat. He'd fallen in love, healed, gotten married and been happy for a time. And now his old flatmate was standing in his new flat looking for all the world as if John had punched him in the jaw.
Part of John wanted to step forward, to take the mad detective in his arms and kiss him like he had that night, so long ago. But John was stronger now, stronger than he was then. He didn't need Sherlock anymore. He'd found a way to survive without the madman, and Sherlock needed to know it.
"I used to think you were a hero, Sherlock, or at least as close as any of us could get to one. But you're just a cold, frozen man. You don't know how to have normal relationships; you can't understand them because on the inside you're nothing but ice. I'd like you to leave now." John didn't say it cruelly; his voice was flat and void of emotion. He was just stating facts.
Shockingly, the younger man seemed to listen, stepping towards the door. John opened it for him, ever polite even when the situation was as ridiculous as this. For a moment they stood facing each other and John realized that Sherlock was deducing him again, reading the past three years on John as easily as the doctor read his books. Seeing Mary, the sweet woman he had married, her influence on him, how he had changed and grown in the years they were apart. Observing how her death, so painful to John, had warped how he saw the world. Seeing how his own suicide had decimated the doctor. All of it written out for him.
"I love you," Sherlock said gently, trying for a smile. It came out mangled. John shook his head.
"No. You love the idea of me. I did love you once, though," he replied, and closed the door.