Chapter 3

Sally allowed John to take her coat (score one for good, old-fashioned chivalry), and obeyed when he indicated with a gesture that she should take the armchair closest to the fireplace. He knelt for a moment to stir up the embers and add a bit more wood, and Sally took the opportunity to study the unfamiliar flat with keen interest.

John had once mentioned that the reason he'd ended up living with Freak in the first place was because he couldn't afford a decent place in London on his meager army pension. So when Lestrade had told her that John was no longer living on Baker Street, Sally had rather expected to find him in a tiny, ill-situated bedsit in a dodgy part of town.

But this place was nice—very nice, actually. Hardwood floors, plush leather chairs and sofa, bright and cheerful prints on the walls, books and movies in the built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace. All very neat, clean, and cozy. But there was something off about the flat…the décor or the ambiance or something…it just didn't feel like John, somehow.

Straightening up just as the kettle began to whistle, John glanced over and caught Sally's furtive appraisal of the room. His lips quirked upwards in amusement.

"Place belongs to a friend who's been deployed. I'm looking after it for her for a little while," he explained, moving into the kitchen to silence the shrill scream of the boiling kettle. He busied himself with the tea things for a few moments, and didn't speak again until he'd placed a steaming mug between her frozen hands. "Chamomile." Her favorite, as it happened. "With just a touch of honey. It'll be good for your throat on a night like this."

"Thank you." She breathed in the fragrant steam appreciatively.

Coincidence? Or had he known somehow? Had Freak 'deduced' that it was her favorite, at some point, and told his flat mate? But then why would he have noted such a detail, and about someone he didn't even like? She couldn't quite wrap her head around it. So she shifted it aside to join the jumbled confusion that was everything she'd ever known or suspected about Sherlock Holmes. It was starting to get rather crowded in that section of her brain.

While Sally grappled with the implications of tea selection, John settled into another squashy armchair and blew lightly on the surface of his own tea. His was dark, she noticed, some sort of black or oolong blend, earthy and spicy and faintly citrusy. So he had chosen chamomile for her specifically. Before she'd decided whether or not that was significant, John set his mug aside and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Why did you come?" he asked. Although his voice was still soft, it was gentle now, kind—what she privately thought of as his doctor voice.

Sally opened her mouth, and then shut it again. She was still a little disconcerted by John's effortless shift from the subtly dangerous, cold-hearted soldier to the warm and solicitous neighbor offering up tea and biscuits. Shouldn't he be screaming at her, calling her horrible things, making a scene? Pouring down righteous fury on her deserving head? Telling her that her words and actions had pushed an overwrought, fragile psyche past its limits; literally driven a desperate man over the edge? It's what she'd have done had their situations been reversed.

But she'd forgotten who John had been living with for nearly two years. He shook his head slightly as he read the emotions flickering across her face.

"I'm not going to scream at you, Sally," he said, simply. "Did you really think I would?"

"After everything I've said to you, I rather expected it," she confessed.

"Yet you came here anyway," he said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "And they say I'm the one who needs a therapist."

"You have every right to. Yell at me, I mean," she said. John looked away from her for a moment, clearly struggling to master some strong emotion. He let out a slow, heavy sigh before he met her eyes again.

"I was angry with you, at first. I wanted to blame you for his death," he admitted softly. "I wanted to believe that you, by voicing your suspicion, set in motion a chain of events that overwhelmed him. Left him with no choice, in his mind, but to take his own life. Except...that's not quite true, is it?"

"Isn't it?" she whispered.

"What happened…what Sherlock chose to do…it wasn't your fault. How can I hold you responsible for his actions? You said some things that stung, yes, but ultimately you were just doing your job. At most, you've stained his reputation. But you didn't push him off the building."

"Not literally, maybe. But I did say some really horrible things to him. And to you, right after he…" she paused, cleared her throat. "It was wrong. I was wrong." John frowned a little, and started to open his mouth, but Sally shook her head impatiently. "No, let me get this out. Please."

"Go on, then." He gave a little nod of encouragement, and Sally took a deep breath.

"I'm sorry for all the nasty things I said to you, John. Having at you like that was unprofessional and uncalled for. I didn't even really mean the things I said, but—you looked so wretched, and I dunno why, but seeing you looking like that made me so angry, and so…" she cut herself off. No, no excuses, she reminded herself. She was silent for a moment, trying to beat back the self-loathing that threatened to overwhelm her.

"And so?" John prompted gently. Carefully, Sally set her tea down and leaned forward, unconsciously mirroring John's position across from her.

"I came out here because I wanted to apologize to you in person. Not just for the things I said that day, but for all of it. I don't expect you to forgive me or anything like that. I just wanted to tell you that I really am sorry." There. She'd owed him that much at least.

John studied her face in silence, noting the genuine pain and regret in her eyes. After a moment, he sat back a bit and cleared his throat.

"Apology accepted," he said softly. "I said some pretty nasty things myself, if I recall correctly. So I'm sorry, too." And he offered her a small, crooked smile, while his blue eyes twinkled. Sally's breath hitched in her chest. God, the man was charming when he wanted to be.

"Thank you," she said, not knowing what else to say. "Although...I don't think you really have anything to apologize for."

"No, I do. I shouldn't have retaliated when you had that outburst, back at the Yard. I ought to have guessed that seeing me would set you off like that." Sally paused with her tea mug halfway to her lips.

"How do you mean?" She tilted her head slightly to one side, looking rather like a curious bird.

"I must have looked quite pathetic, to rouse up all those protective instincts in you," he said. "It was actually very sweet of you, Sally, to get so riled up on my behalf. You wouldn't have done if you didn't care." He chuckled at the expression on her face. "You said that seeing me look so pitiful made you angry, yes?"

"Well…yes," she admitted slowly.

"Right. You got so angry because you thought Sherlock didn't deserve that—didn't deserve inspiring that kind of sadness in another person. He'd betrayed and lied to everyone, and then he'd gone and killed himself rather than face justice like a man. He'd taken the coward's way out and left the rest of us to clean up the mess, literally and figuratively. How could anyone still harbor loyalty and affection for a person who had done all that? He wasn't worthy of my friendship, and therefore his death wasn't worth my sadness, in your estimation. And yet there I sat, grieving away. Mourning the loss of my best friend as though he hadn't tricked me right along with everyone else. That made you angry, on top of all your other conflicting feelings about what had just happened, and of course I was a rather convenient target to vent your frustrations upon." Sally just gaped at him.

"John, that's…how did you even know-?" He smiled again, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Oh, well now. Just because Sherlock was the smartest person in whatever room he walked into doesn't make the rest of us idiots," John huffed, feigning exasperation. "I am a doctor, you know. Read medicine at King's College; completed all the required coursework and everything. Including fundamental psychology." Serious tone notwithstanding, John was enjoying this. It was those smiling eyes of his that gave him away.

"Psychology," Sally repeated, a bit stupidly.

"Yes. I may not be as observant as Sherlock, but it doesn't mean I don't notice anything. I'm rather good at reading people, actually." He looked her over. "For example, I know that you are a passionate woman who feels things very deeply; that you try your damnedest to conceal your feelings because you are afraid of appearing weak. Especially important to you, that bit, given that law enforcement is still a predominantly male field, and sometimes the women in your profession have a difficult time being taken as seriously as the men. I also know that you have a rather considerable temper, which you struggle to keep under control as it's gotten you into a spot of trouble in the past. Most likely with a chauvinistic coworker, or possibly a superior officer, who looked down on you or treated you as some kind of glorified office assistant rather than as an equal with considerable talent of your own. Or, worse, made an extremely inappropriate pass at you."

Sally just blinked at him in shock.

"Did someone tell you about-?"

"No, not a bit of it. I can observe and draw conclusions too, you see. Normally I don't do it aloud, of course, as that's rather rude. But it doesn't mean I haven't noticed." He calmly sipped his tea while Sally gaped like a fish.

"John," she murmured finally. "Maybe you should look into being a therapist yourself. I didn't even know I felt all that about Fre—about…him." She lowered her eyes, suddenly ashamed. "But you're right. I didn't think he deserved a friend like you. God," she breathed. "You're absolutely right."

For several moments, the only sound was the crackling of the fire.

"I won't argue with you about Sherlock, Sally," John finally said, his voice heavy with suppressed emotion. "I know you still believe that rooftop confession was genuine; that he was a fraud. But he was my best friend. I knew him…and I will never believe that our friendship was founded on lies. Sherlock was set up. We were all set up. And now he's gone." His voice broke, and he had to take a deep breath before he could continue. "That's all I'll say about it."

"I don't want to argue with you either, John. To be honest, I'm not even sure what I believe, anymore," she admitted quietly, speaking to the mug of tepid tea cradled in her hands.

John could have said several things: A little late for that now, isn't it? Or: Fat lot of good your existential crisis does us now, since he's dead. Or: So you planted the seed of doubt that stripped away all of his credibility, and lost him all of his professional and personal support, and ruined his reputation, and in short backed him up against the wall until he felt the only way out was to take a header off a nice tall building? And now you aren't even bloody sure what you believe?

But John had never acted according to her expectations. Without missing a beat, he offered her two simple words.

"I am."

A.N. Thanks again for all the reviews, story/author favorites and follows! I am much obliged.

xoxo Janie