"But I don't understand why he won't let me explain," Sherlock complained, sounding a bit like a petulant child and not caring a bit.
Molly nodded sympathetically and hummed a bit before replying. "Well you hurt him quite a bit, Sherlock. He wasn't really the same after; he left us all and tried to forget everything that'd gone on at Baker Street. He did invite Greg and me to his wedding though. She was good for him, I think. Helped him quite a bit," she said, preparing another slide for Sherlock and sliding it over to him.
Happily she was over her infatuation with the detective, quite content with her new fiancée, even joyous when Sherlock had asked –only to be polite as John would have wanted him to- about their plans for the wedding.
Sherlock made a sound deep in his throat, something caught between jealousy and pain; jealousy, because someone else had been there to help John when he had not, and pain, because he had been the one to hurt John in the first place and now he was unable to fix it.
Molly only gave him a small smile, turning back to her own work while Sherlock tried to occupy himself. He'd never admit it, but he almost enjoyed talking to her like this, when he could just say things and she'd sympathetically tut a bit and even sometimes offer advice. He didn't understand how to behave in the face of emotional issues, and as John was at the heart of them, he could hardly expect the doctor to help as he once had.
A half hour passed in companionable silence before Sherlock got restless. He sprang up from his chair and glided towards the exit, tossing a half-hearted thank you over his shoulder as he went. When all these niceties had become part of his vocabulary he didn't know- well that was a lie. Hedid know, he could pinpoint the moment exactly. When John had first mentioned that occasionally Sherlock should try to be kinder to the few friends he had, Sherlock had scoffed, but secretly taken it to heart and made an effort. Not to keep his friends, but to make John happy. Not that he'd ever openly admit that.
At first Sherlock was unsure where he wanted to go, but he finally settled on stopping in at the Yard. Since his name had been cleared, he'd begun taking cases again. Lestrade had been extremely apologetic from the moment Sherlock had reappeared, but Sherlock hadn't minded the D.I.'s doubt. Anyone would have been fooled by Moriarty's lies, Sherlock himself had even doubted the truth a few times. It was a constant surprise to him that John had remained loyal, hadn't demonized the detective in spite of the pain he'd clearly caused.
Prick of guilt at that thought. He'd hurt his John; hurt him as deeply as the detective knew how. It was only in defense of his life, but John didn't know that yet. Because he still wouldn't allow the detective more than three words. Naturally, they were the three that Sherlock had struggled with the entirety of his absence, but they didn't seem half as important if John didn't truly hear them. And he wasn't hearing them, he wasn't listening yet. Sherlock had to find a way to make him listen.
So he burst into Lestrade's office, his coat billowing out behind him before he sprawled into one of the chairs. The detective inspector hardly glanced up from his paperwork. "Nothing new, Sherlock, I already told you I'd call if something came up," Lestrade said, marking something on the papers in front of him before putting the pen down and looking Sherlock in the eye. "Then again, you don't look like you're here for a case."
The younger man sighed. He hadn't intended to say anything to Lestrade about his disastrous attempts to talk to John, but since he was already here and Lestrade certainly knew John better than Molly… "John won't speak to me," he finally revealed. Lestrade nodded a bit, leaning back in his chair.
"Doesn't like to talk to me either," he replied. Sherlock shook his head at that.
"No, he won't even allow me to explain my absence. I found his flat, and I went to talk to him, but he wouldn't let me speak. I've gone each day since and the door gets shut in my face each time," Sherlock said, his voice sounding despondent even in his own ears. It was ridiculous, that John could reduce him to such uncertainty.
Lestrade gave a small smile. "Well, you do sort of deserve it, not letting on the whole time that you were all right. He stuck by you, even when the rest of us didn't. Never gave up, that one," he mused. Sherlock groaned, and left the Yard in a huff.
He knew this was exactly what he deserved, but he'd expected it after he'd had a chance to explain, to just let John know how sorry he was that there hadn't been another way, that he hadn't been clever enough to find a better solution. It was his only regret, the only thing he really felt guilt over.
Without really thinking about it he wound up outside John's new flat. The one he'd rented with Mary. Perhaps there was no room for Sherlock in this new life John had managed to carve out. Maybe John was right. He didn't belong here, in this domestic, content life of John's. If he really did love the doctor –and of course he did, Sherlock wouldn't say that if he didn't mean it with every ounce of his being- perhaps what Sherlock needed to do was