Prequel
This was certainly not how he had hoped things would turn out to be. It was not suprising. He had guessed that this could be one of the possible scenarios. But that was not a reason to like it at all. In fact, although he had self control, he had healed, he was feeling better, he had to restrain himself from shouting back.
"... idea what the bloody hell..."
Seven weeks ago he had returned to England. To London, actually. Had put an end to it. Not once and for all – things like these would always happen, over and over again. War had been, is, and always will be part of the human nature. With no natural enemies left they had to turn against each other. Maybe that was true justice.
His cheekbone hurt. He was sure that there would be bruising again, maybe even a wound. Still, he could not help himself but think that this might have been a good sign had it not been for the second blow to his lip. The metallic taste of blood was a welcoming, known one.
"... but that is just not important to you..."
While he was studying John's expression, full of anger, desperation, and hurt, he asked himself if they would ever sort this out again. When his friend had entered the small private room that looked like and reeked of hospital but was actually located in a manor one hour outside of London he had needed the better part of five seconds to readjust to the scenario. He sitting on the side of a small bed at the window looking like nothing had ever happened. For a moment he seemed to just not believe what he was seeing. Had turned, rubbed his eyes. Turned again.
He had not spoken.
Had not reacted.
Not even when John approached him with two, no three long strides and punched him. Twice.
"... Not caring is really easy for you..."
His tongue licked again over his bleeding and swollen lip, tasting the blood. It helped him remain clear. Remain focussed. And calm. Even though his best friend was ranting mere centimetres from his face. Some drips of saliva hit his face. But Sherlock did not care. Right. Not caring. Ice-cold hand clenching his heart. Pounding it hard against his ribs. He could still tell which ones had been broken. A most unwelcome tingling sensation crept its way up his spine, resting at the nape of his neck. His tongue seemed swollen and dry and the edge of his vision started blurring.
"... no news, nothing, not even a fucking apology..."
By now he was used to being shouted at. Used to pain and sometimes torture. His face remained blank except for the faintest expression of regret. It had been two years. Two long years. And all the time, everywhere, from England to the United States, to Canada, and Brazil, to Spain and Egypt and Afghanistan and Iraq and China and Korea and South Africa and Nigeria and France and Russia and United States and Russia and Austria and Italy and-
-licked his lips. Taste of blood. Sweet and metallic.
"... machine..."
Yes. The numbness. It might have been easier if he had just called John in after he had returned. Feeling this numbness would have been welcomed by him back then. After the dark and the cold. The nothingness that had seemed to swallowed him completely, stinging him with hundreds of sharp shards. Which, at that time, could be taken literally. He still could not run again. Still had not all the control over his body back. Struggled with walking sometimes. Writing. Playing the violin was exhausting and needed more practice. It had hurt. Breathing had hurt.
"... even listening?..."
The atmosphere should have been more fitting. The light was bright and nice, the sun shining outside, a warm room. White and friendly yellow walls. A painting by Van Gogh – the one with the sunflowers – decorating it. It should have been dark. With clouds and maybe a storm raging outside. Something to resemble the fact that he felt, although it was over and he was a free man again, that he had lost.
"... why even bother..."
Completely shattered. Just like the window. Devastated. A grand desert evolving inside of him. Every reference in his mind that clung to John screamed that he should just say something. Anything. Apologize. Yes, it was unfair but that was life. Tough and unfair and then, one day, death. There were not a lot of pleasant things in life. His grandfather had always told him that if he ever found something important to never let it go.
Something important. Or someone. And he had smiled and it had reached his eyes. Wrinkles. Oh, all those wrinkles. And the gaze to his grandmother. The smell of freshly baked cake and biscuits-
-licked his lips.
He did that a lot in the last few minutes. Had it been minutes? It did not really matter. He gulped, causing his adam's apple to jump up and down. Tried to clear his throat.
"...done."
And with a last glance, a disappointed glance, John was about to turn and leave. Leave the room and never return. For the first time in his life Sherlock experienced an emotional trauma. His hopes that had somehow started to fuel him along with adrenaline were drained.
He would be alone.
Again.
"John", he whispered, clearing his throat again, startled be the sound of his voice. Lonely and forgotten and defeated. His friend did not turn. But did not resume his way out of the open door, either.
"Have you any idea what the bloody hell this means to me? I saw you jumping, Sherlock, you. Were. Dead. Do you have the slightest idea what that meant to me? What that means? I was devastated because I thought I... but that is just not important to you. All you care about is the game. Yeah. Not caring is really easy for you. In the last two years nothing. And now no news, nothing, not even a fucking apology and I still don't know a single fucking shit about what was going on. You are a machine, Sherlock. Uncaring, emotionless machine. Are you even listening or is that not important enough for Mr. Holmes? God, why even bother giving some sort of reply? My tiny intellect could not compute your great explanation. We are done, Sherlock, done."
He repeated the whole rant very carefully and neutral. As if reading out a shopping-list. But his lips quivered and his hands had finally moved, holding himself like a child without a parent. And if John would have turned he had seen the hurt plastered over his face, screaming.
"I listened."
And with that John just resumed his walk. No. That was not what he wanted. Not what he wanted at all. There was the coldness and the loneliness and gravity itself weight him down. He could not move. Gulped again.
"I am sorry, John. So very, very sorry. Please."
Time froze. He was certain. Breathing stopped. Maybe even his heart stopped. But John did not. John was the only person, the only organism in the entirety of the universe who was able to move. And when he had turned around Sherlock wished that he hadn't. Even though his friend could see that this had not been easy, that he was hurt as well, that he knew and felt guilty, Sherlock could now see that John would go. Nonetheless. He would go. John was there, within reach, and Sherlock had never been good with other persons. But he understood that John knew. Knew how he must feel. That he was still angry, needed to be angry, and would continue to be angry. Maybe forever. And that was something that hurt both of them.
It was just not fair.
And even though he could have jumped up. Could have started to follow John. Grab him. Stop him. Saying him that he needed him. There. Maybe hug him. And tell him more about how sorry he was that he just wanted to be home again and pretend that nothing had ever changed that he had never been gone that John had never married that he would not be alone again-
-licked his lip.
And stayed.
John was entitled to deal with this as he wanted. And he had no right. Nothing. Just ragged breathes. Shivers. A heart monitor that beeped louder and louder, faster. Crushing him. The noise and pounding of his own heart. His mind reeling and screaming. Pressing his hands to his temples he tried to steady his breathing. He felt beaten. And utterly alone.