AN: I apologize on behalf of this chapter; it's unbeta'd and was written in Wordpad at 4 in the morning with The Cinematic Orchestra on repeat.
"You...what?"
The Doctor rubbed a hand down his sullen face, looking down at his feet in shame. "I didn't take you as one who would need repetition in order to understand something, Sherlock," he stated, an obvious attempt at humor that fell flat, especially considering what he had just told the detective. Your best friend has forgotten you and it's all my fault. "Of course, you are human, as much as you like to deny it."
"Don't try to change the subject, Doctor." Sherlock's eyes were icy and hard when the Doctor met them with his own, angry enough to intimidate even the thousand year old timelord. "What have you done to my John?"
My John. The phrase had rolled off of Sherlock's tongue so naturally, because it was so true. John had been Sherlock's, just as vice versa, Sherlock had been John's. The Doctor felt an even more overwhelming urge to release the mental breakdown that was inevitably happening soon.
"I've already told you, please don't make me repeat it, " the Doctor whispered pathetically, the far-too-common feeling of stinging behind his eyes returning.
"Doctor." Sherlock stepped closer to the Doctor, the dusty room settling around them. He had been lodging in Molly's brother's old flat somewhere in the middle of Sussex, continuing his destroying of Moriarty's crime ring. The Doctor felt as bad, possibly worse, for Sherlock, having to be out here continuing his work while John was out there, living, thinking Sherlock was dead, and there was nothing Sherlock could do about it. The Doctor had heard the speculations about their sexualities, of course he had, but even if they were gay, above all else, they were best friends. No romantic involvement or anything of the sort could ever change that.
"What. Have you done. To John?" Sherlock enunciated, his tone every bit as accusing as it was quiet, and the Doctor had to strain to hear him.
"H-He..." the Doctor gulped, shifting his feet under the intense gaze of the slightly taller man in front of him. "He was in a very bad state when I got there. He thought you were dead."
"So you erased me from his memory?" Sherlock could've been shouting every expletive he knew in every language he knew, and it still wouldn't have been as hateful and biting as the words he was spitting out now.
The Doctor didn't want to tell him, he really didn't. It was such a horrid thought, something that had crossed his mind far too often for his comfort, and the thought of anyone else doing it to themselves made him feel physically sick. "Sherlock..."
"What in God's name," Sherlock's voice was slowly raising in volume, "Could've possibly given you," the Doctor began to quiver back as the deep baritone gradually raised to a shout, "The incentive," Sherlock stepped forward, forcing the Doctor back a step, "To erase me from his bloody memory?" By the time Sherlock had finished the question, the Doctor's back was pressed against the wall covered in peeling wallpaper, Sherlock 's face inches from his own.
"You don't know what John was like," The Doctor retorted haltingly, trying to stand his ground. Where did Sherlock get off thinking he was in the right in the situation? The Doctor definitely wasn't either, but the point was that neither of them were. "You don't know how depressed he was, how desperately he begged me to let him forget." The Doctor noticed a twinge of hurt in Sherlock's eyes. "He..." The timelord almost admitted John's love for the detective, but caught himself. Not his secret. Right. He could feel those scrutinizing and observant eyes all over him as he spoke. "He was so alone, Sherlock. He missed you. Just the thought of you was unbearable. He would've..." The Doctor sighed and looked down at his shoes again, swallowing around the lump in his throat and murmuring just loud enought to be audible, "He wanted to kill himself."
The Doctor could feel Sherlock body's go tense in front of him, absolutely frozen. A pregnant silence fell upon them and time passed slowly as they stood, the Doctor staring at the floorboards beneath their feet and Sherlock standing rigid and unmoving. Seconds could have passed, minutes, hours, milleniums before one of them spoke, the Doctor couldn't tell.
"And he told you this himself?" Sherlock was the first to break the silence, speaking numbly and without emotion. The Doctor finally looked up and was alarmed by what his eyes met: a man seemingly unphased, eyes cool and indifferent. But it was Sherlock Holmes, the master of disguise. He should've expected it.
The Doctor simply nodded in response, leaning back against the wall with his head leaning forward.
There was another brief silence, before Sherlock seemed to slip back into his usual self, slipping elegantly away from the Doctor and across the room, grabbing his scarf. "You have the TARDIS, correct?"
"No, I came by cab. Of course I have the TARDIS! Wouldn't dare go anywhere without my old girl." The Doctor smiled, twining his hands behind his back. They still were nowhere near done with the subject of John, but he didn't mind the diversion at all.
"Would you mind just one more trip?" Sherlock queried with a smirk, standing at the door. "For old time's sake?"
He seemed uncharacteristically excited, especially after what he'd just been told, but the Doctor went along with it happily. "Let's go!" He clapped, scurrying out the door. "Geronimo!"
"Oh god, Doctor, promise me you won't ever say that again," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.
The Doctor halted, spinning around to face Sherlock. "What? 'Geronimo'? But it's my word, my...catchphrase of sorts."
Sherlock continued past the Doctor and down the street, into the alleyway where the TARDIS was hidden. "Refrain from using it in my presence, then."
"Ha!" The Doctor snapped to let Sherlock in, following past him and shutting the door behind them. "In your dreams, detective."