Chapter Two: John- (Part One)

He was sitting in the drawing room of Hartswood Manor's so called "big house", the one that he and Mary had first been shown around by George Hayter only a fortnight before. Feels like a lifetime ago. Mary was sitting across from him, her feet tucked up on the well-worn red velour covered chair. John was sitting on the matching sofa, with his leg elevated. For some reason, that seemed to ease the pain, although why it should defied explanation, given that it was psychosomatic and he damned well knew it, too.

George picked them up from the station, drove them back to the Manor and made them feel welcome, settling them into the bedroom on the first floor of the big house. "I hope you don't mind. Diane believes that it is important to give everyone a bit of space. Sherlock's out at the moment- gone for a long walk up to Box Hill. But, he's agreed to let you hear his recordings, and he said specifically that he wants both of you to hear it at the same time. He's going to listen to yours when he gets back. Then Diane will drop by to see how you want to proceed, and do the same for Sherlock."

The two of them had just listened to the recording of Sherlock's description of his first meeting with John. Delivered in a dry monotone voice, it sounded like someone reading from a telephone book. Even so, John learned two new things from it- first, that Sherlock had been forced into finding a lodger by both Lestrade and Mycroft, and that their motivations had not been about "sharing the rent"*. He wished he'd known that earlier.

The second thing he'd learned is that Sherlock had already interviewed more than twenty people on the phone, before meeting six of them face-to-face- and rejected them all as "too tedious for words." He hadn't known that fact. It made him wonder why he'd passed muster. He'd always assumed when Sherlock shouted to Mrs Hudson that he would take the flat that it was just because Sherlock couldn't find anyone else mad enough to consider it.

The value of an eidetic memory for this exercise became obvious, as Sherlock recounted word for word their exchange in the lab.

Mary started giggling when Sherlock started talking about John's "brother". He shushed her, saying that he was glad Sherlock was willing to be honest enough to admit that he'd got the gender of his sibling wrong.

The recording resumed. "Now I am supposed to explain- no, express- my emotions about our first meeting. That's actually quite easy. I was relieved. Immensely. Getting a suitable flatmate meant I could move into Baker Street, and that was the condition imposed on me by Mycroft before I could resume my work with Lestrade. You were the first candidate I had met who was conceivable as a flatmate. You were not boring, not tedious, and quite interesting compared with the idiots I had already met and rejected. That initial deduction proved to be true over the course of your tenancy. In hindsight, I should have thanked Mike Stamford for making the connection and the introduction."

John found himself recalling his own version of their first meeting, the one he'd recorded and given to Diane Goodliffe. He hadn't followed instructions exactly, just hit the record button and started talking, mixing in what he felt with the facts. The idea of separating them? Well, it just didn't work; not for him. He'd always felt too self-conscious when therapists tried to get him to play these little games.

Back at their own flat, Mary had made him record his version yesterday. She kept prompting him to do it all afternoon, and he kept procrastinating. He wanted to see Sherlock. Yes, of course, he did. But, the idea of having to put into words what he thought about the first time he met him, and then when he re-appeared at the restaurant- well, it was a huge obstacle. And how on earth was he going to choose another "significant event" between him and Sherlock to talk about? The most obvious one- what happened at St Barts when Sherlock jumped- was like an open wound. He just couldn't choose that one.

Finally, Mary just forced him to sit on the sofa, gave him a cup of tea, told him to turn on his phone to record and just said, "Talk to me, John. Forget about the phone. Just tell me what happened the first time you met Sherlock. I want to know."

So, he had**. At the end of it, Mary eyes were alight and her smile was broad. "Yeah, Mike Stamford was right. He is just like that. And I'm not surprised you were hooked. I would be, too."

oOo

Now the two of them were sitting in Hartswood Manor about to listen to the second of Sherlock's recordings, and John kept wondering whether his second one would pass muster when Sherlock returned the favour. All the way down to Reigate, he'd been thinking and rethinking about his three recordings. He had no fears about the first one- their original first meeting. He felt comfortable about that one. As he knew the therapist must have planned it that way. In that situation, everyone- Sherlock included- had come through the first contact to form a positive relationship. He did wonder about what Mycroft's would say, but Diane had made it clear that someone else's recordings were strictly private, between that person and Sherlock.

He worried about making his recordings in a different order- he'd decided to do the reunion as his second entry. Would Sherlock be prepared to hear about John's reaction to his return? Should he have stuck to the proper order, and let his selection of the pool incident as the middle exercise lay the groundwork? Or was it right to get the apology out on the table first? He fretted as the train full of people going home for the Christmas holidays had climbed up the North Downs before dropping into Reigate. Despite being the one with the crutch, he'd insisted on putting Mary in the one empty seat in the carriage, and stood the whole way, squeezed in with the other shoppers, commuters and holiday travellers heading south. When he was stationary like this, his leg didn't bother him. But, Mary must have sensed his disquiet and kept patting his hand in reassurance. He had come to love her optimism, even if he didn't share it.

She insisted that they take a break for a cup of tea before listening to Sherlock's second recording. While he watched her prepare the tea in the modern kitchen that felt so incongruous in the otherwise Jacobean house, she kept the conversation going. "Are you still fretting about changing the order of your entries?"

He nodded.

She gave him a reassuring smile. "It's better to get it done- out on the table; we both know it's important."

As if that made it any easier.

By yesterday evening, he'd worked his courage up to the point of trying to record his second entry. He'd been so angry that night when Sherlock returned. John knew he had a temper, and it was as if Sherlock had hit every single hot button on purpose, just driving him right over the brink. He did that, the idiot. When they'd lived together, John had got used to it, found ways to build a little time-out into their routines. His "getting some air" became short-hand for "You're being a wanker right now and I can't deal with this any longer before I lose my temper."

But, that night, in the shock of Sherlock's sudden reappearance, there was nowhere to run -and he'd already been keyed up all day, in nervous anxiety about what Mary would say to his proposal. What happened if she said no? He'd been scared of the consequences of that- of being abandoned, rejected again just as he finally got up the courage to commit to someone, to lay himself open and vulnerable. He was so on edge that when he'd finally realised that the annoying waiter with the fake French accent was actually an annoying git that he knew very well- it was just too much. A red haze had descended.

She handed him the tea. "If it's bothering you so much, just listen to it again. If you don't like it, then pull it. Sherlock isn't back yet; I'm sure Diane would let you change it." She pulled out her phone, swiped it a few times and then set it down on the countertop next to the teapot.

"This is about the first time we saw each other after you returned from the dead."

John couldn't help but hear the emphasis he had put on the last phrase, and worried. He hated listening his own recorded voice, but he forced himself to listen.

"I'm taking things out of order because you need to know something. And, sorry, I know that I'm not following the blasted describe and express routine, but that's just not working for me."

There was the sound of him drawing breath. "I need to say I'm sorry – for how I reacted that night. I was so angry, and I lost my temper. You deserve an explanation. Whatever it might have seemed to you at the time, I really was glad to know you were alive. I just couldn't get past the thought that you'd lied to me. All I could think of was that I'd been made a fool of- and in front of Mary, just as I was about to propose to her."

There was a half stifled laugh. "I always said you had atrocious timing…"

"You see, Sherlock, for the previous six months, I'd been telling her about you- how smart you were, how brilliant things had been together, and how much I missed you. Then you waltz in and tell me that it was all an elaborate hoax and I was just a hapless stooge in your great game against Moriarty. It made me feel… so small, so useless. I was embarrassed. And all that emotion I'd spent grieving for you just flipped over into anger that you'd made me look so stupid."

"Yeah, I know. I was thinking all about me. Sorry about that. Now that I've had time to properly think about it, I realise that you were right- I am an idiot." The recording caught him chuckling ruefully. "But then you always said I was, so this is me agreeing with you."

"I'm not going to re-hash the facts of what happened that might- I know your memory is better than any damn video recording. What you don't know is what I felt. So, I'm telling you now. At the time, I was angry. And relieved, too. But, at such a…I don't know what to call it except a primitive level. Deep down, instinctive, not rational at all… I was livid at you for leaving me behind. Of being shut out, of you thinking of me as being…I suppose the word is unworthy of being told what you were doing and why you were doing it. And realising that hurt."

John took a deep breath, looking down at his tea, still startled by that revelation.

"Yeah, me- Mister Teflon. Jeez, Sherlock, over the years you've insulted nearly everything about me- from the speed of my typing to my mundane taste in television, and I never gave a damn, because I thought we connected better than that. All that huff and puff of yours was just…I don't know, maybe 'smokescreen' is the best way to describe it. You would shout at me, and I figured it was therapeutic for you. I'd shout back at you for leaving bloody fingers in the microwave again, and let off steam. We didn't need to talk; it just worked. We worked. Or so I thought, until you jumped off a bloody roof and didn't leave a forwarding address."

Mary had shot him a stern look at that comment, and his voice on the recording sounded a little amused. "Mary's reminding me to be nice. Okay, so here it is. I meant what I said- I forgive you. I understand now why you did it. Still don't give a damn how, though. Kind of irrelevant, and rehearsing that bit is just going to make me feel stupid for not being able to see it as the magic trick it was. So, I hope to God your version of this recording isn't going to be you crowing about the thirteen scenarios."

There was a brief pause. "So, basically, this is me asking you to forgive me, for being a plonker. I'm still angry. Only now it's not about being left behind. I'm angry at myself, that I may have ballsed this up so badly that you're not going to let me back in now that you're back. And I'm not talking about cases, damn you. You think that I'm some sort of adrenaline junkie who only hangs around you because I like to chase criminals. You said as much that night."

"I'm going to say this just once, and then we're done with it, alright? You know what I think about touchy-feely stuff." There was an intake of breath. "I value you. All six feet of daft, irritating genius, every brilliant bloody bit of you, even the things that drive me and everyone else wild with annoyance. It's not the party tricks you use to impress other people, it's not about the Mind Palace. It's the whole package. You don't have to be or do anything heroic, damn you, for me to care. You were the most important person in my life."

"So, that's what's pissing me off now. You pushing me away, somehow thinking this distance is something I want? You're wrong. You once said to me that you always get something wrong; well, this is it. You're wrong.I would not be better off if you'd never come back. That's just so wrong it's laughable. So, stop punishing me for being an idiot and let's try to get this sorted. Please."

John reached over and switched the phone off. Then he sat back on the kitchen stool and looked out the window. The light was starting to fade. He wondered whether Sherlock was on his way back now to the Manor from his strategic retreat up Box Hill. God knows what he will make of all this.

"John." Mary's voice was soft, gentle. "Don't you dare have second thoughts and erase it. If that recording doesn't do the trick, he's the bigger idiot."

A faint smile appeared on John's lips, but his eyes were still sad.

She continued, "And if he doesn't forgive you, I'll talk him around, I promise."

Author's Note: * Got My Eye on You, Chapter 26 explains just why Lestrade and Mycroft conspired to make Sherlock take a flatmate for Baker Street.

**The recording of John's initial reaction to his first meeting with Sherlock is already amongst my stories. Check out Ex Files, Chapter 16 Expect