Chapter Three: John (Part Two)

"I'm taking liberties, changing the order of the exercises." The baritone on the recording sounded a little hesitant to John's practiced ear.

"But, they say it's better to know the final destination before the beginning of the journey. So, I will cover what happened at the restaurant when I first saw John again, seven weeks ago. If that causes any issues, just fast forward this to where the digital counter reads twenty four minutes and seven seconds, and you will reach my choice of an instance that John and I shared between our first meeting and the…um, reunion." He seemed to have hesitated before settling on that word.

"For that exercise, I've chosen our first meeting with James Moriarty, because it was, well…the beginning of the end. You choose the order in which you listen."

There was a pause, and Mary looked across the room at John. "I'd say that's quite a coincidence that you both swapped the order, and you both chose the same event as your second entry."

John puffed his cheeks out and looked up at the ornate Jacobean plaster work on the ceiling. "Not really. It was kind of turning point, for both of us."

After a pause, presumably to let John fast forward if he had wanted to, Sherlock's recording resumed. There was a slightly self-conscious clearing of throat. "So, when I returned to the UK at the end of October, Mycroft told me that you were no longer living at Baker Street. I had asked him to keep an eye on you while I was away. I was worried that if my cover was blown one of Moriarty's contingency plans would kick into effect, and you would be targeted. I had incentivised my brother to keep watch while I was away, telling him that it might be the easiest way of detecting that something had gone wrong on my mission- and it was one bit of surveillance that wouldn't get him into trouble for interfering."

This was a business voice of Sherlock- factual and to the point. "The file he passed me at the Diogenes Club had your location identified for that night- the Westmark restaurant. I decided that there was no time like the present to bring you up to speed. I didn't want my return to become public knowledge, but neither could I guarantee that someone might not recognise me. I wasn't about to skulk about London in disguise. So, that meant I needed to tell you as soon as possible, and it was best done 'in the flesh', so to speak, lest you believe that someone was trying an elaborate hoax."

Mary nodded. "Sensible."

John shot her a warning look.

"Well, it was. Really, John, you wouldn't have wanted to read about it in the newspapers, would you?"

He focused on the recording.

"I decided to make it a public venue rather than your flat, because I thought it might…" There was the slightest of hesitations, but noticeable to both John and Mary, "…introduce some restraint in your reaction. Your natural reluctance to 'cause a scene' in a public place would make things…um, easier…for both of us. While you were still in a state of shock, I planned to tell you to keep the fact that I was back quiet for a while longer."

Mary sniggered. "I'd always wondered about that."

"I arrived at the restaurant, but as soon as I saw you sitting alone at the table, I could see that you were in a state of nervous anxiety, and that made me change my plans. I appropriated a few props so I could approach without alerting you to who I was. I needed to gain more data to see what was making you so anxious. Given your state of unease, an oblique approach seemed wise, giving you time to recognise me."

Mary started smirking.

"Unfortunately, you proved less than observant, John, and didn't realise who it was who handed you the wine list, despite my discrete attempts to draw your attention to my identity."

She giggled. "Oh lord, I wish I had seen that."

He glared at her. "Shut up. I'm listening." It was said without venom, and then he added, with a bit of irony. "At last, I'm going to actually listen to what he says, instead of losing my temper."

"I won't repeat the exchange of words. I certainly won't forget them. It was a mistake to go for the short version of 'Not dead', as my choice of words made you extremely angry. In my defence, I meant what I said; I was concerned that the shock might damage your heath. Your date, whom I now know as Mary Morstan, asked me whether I had any idea what I had done to you. She was angry and protective of you, which should have given you a clue about her eventual answer to the question you had intended to ask her. Really, John, even you could have deduced her acceptance. Why you had worked yourself up into such a state, I don't know."

John saw Mary biting her lip to stop the laugh, and just growled "Don't."

"I didn't answer her because I didn't know. I had no idea what I had done to you. How could I? I'd been away for two years. I could see however, that you were becoming more distressed. Well, angry more than distressed. It was at that stage that I realised I had better apologise before you lost your temper. I'm not sure you actually heard me, because you went on to ask me how I could let you grieve for two years. I was trying to understand that exaggeration, as the initial shock of my death would have faded quite quickly. The file told me that you had clearly moved on within a matter of months, leaving Baker Street, getting a new job and were now about to become engaged. Perhaps it was part of the reason why you found it so hard to recognise me, despite my rather obvious clues- out of sight is out of mind. I tried to defuse the situation, but to no avail. As it turned out, I shouldn't have been concerned about the shock, as you quite quickly demonstrated your robust health by knocking me to the floor with your hands around my throat."

John breathed out, and then in again. Then he reached over and paused the recording, looking down at the floor.

"John? Are you alright?"

When he could look up again, he just said. "He thought I had forgotten, that I'd gotten over it quickly." Then he remembered their first night, and Rachel. He muttered, "But that was ages ago, why would she still care? A bit not good, Sherlock." He shook his head.

"What?" Mary looked concerned. "Who's she?"

He smiled at her; "nothing…it's just something he once said; a case, he didn't understand that someone would still be distressed sixteen years after her daughter was stillborn."

"So, you're saying he didn't understand that you would be so upset by his suicide?"

"Apparently not." That shocked him. How had he let Sherlock think that? No matter what social deficits the man might have, he had thought that Sherlock knew how much he cared about him.

Mary pushed the button to play, and Sherlock's voice continued. "Understandably, the restaurant ejected the three of us, but only after I gave them my credit card to pay for the damage, and your bill. Out on the pavement, you refused to look at me, but Mary insisted on the three of us walking down the road to the Italian trattoria, which had a table available. "

There was an audible intake of breath on the recording. "Where round two of the fight commenced. I tried to explain more about how my death had been faked, but you weren't interested in the details. In fact, all you wanted to know was how many other people were involved in the rooftop escape. I began to sense that telling you who knew just re-fuelled your anger. As I discovered when you came across the table and punched me, splitting my lip."

"We were ejected from that restaurant, too. You attempted to hail a taxi to leave with Mary, but were unsuccessful in getting one to stop. That seemed to be a sore point with you, for some reason, as you turned and shouted at me that one thing you'd missed during my absence was my ability to get a cab driver to pay attention to you." There was a pause. "I was attempting to staunch the flow of blood, and offered no assistance- but really John, I didn't want you to go. After a few more fruitless attempts by you being ignored by passing cabs, all three of us were getting cold, so Mary intervened again and steered us into the Turkish kebab house where round three began."

"There's no point in recounting the exact conversation. I repeated the error of saying things that were obviously inflammatory in some way, and it ended as the others had, with you resorting to physical violence."

There was a pause. "John, there is something you should know. While I was away, I learned how to defend myself against people who wanted to kill me. I was willing to let you hit me. It seemed to make you feel better, and I trusted that you did not want to inflict lasting damage. So, I just…didn't fight back. After the head butt, however, I finally realised that I had better stop talking…I threw in the towel, so to speak."

There were a number of odd clicks on the recording that made Mary sit up. "Ooh- he's recorded something, a couple of times, and then erased it." She stopped it, backed it up and replayed the clicks. "Three times."

"Sssh. Just listen." John wanted to know what he was going to say.

The baritone that resumed had a different timbre to it. "I'm supposed to say now what I felt. The simplest answer is 'confused.' And then…." There was a silence. "I just didn't know what to say. You were so angry. I didn't expect that. I was anxious about what you'd say. With hindsight, the French waiter routine was probably a bit…over the top and inappropriate. "

John rolled his eyes and muttered, "You could say that again."

Now it was Mary's turn to shush him.

"That made me embarrassed…uh, ashamed actually that I hadn't really thought through the mechanics of or meeting. After being so meticulous in the planning of everything I did over the past two years, I just…didn't this time. When I got to the restaurant, I realised that walking up to you and pulling out a chair and saying "Hi, John" wasn't really going to work." There was a silence. Then a huff. "Once I got there, I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to say anything at all, and you'd…" There was a stutter, "…you'd tell me to piss off. Yes, you heard that right, me…afraid."

There was a deep breath. "So, I just…improvised." Another silence.

"John, you should have realised by now that when I get anxious I usually do something stupid. This was no exception. I have a bad habit. Well, Mycroft tells me it's a bad one… of trying to make a joke or say something funny…you know, to…to try to defuse the situation."

Mary looked at him with a question in her eyes, and John just rolled his eyes and nodded, before muttering, "One of his less endearing qualities."

As if Sherlock had heard the snide comment, he resumed now in a slightly defensive tone. "Using laughter to deal with stress and tension has a biological basis, all about the rhythmical audible contractions of the diaphragm and respiratory system as a way of responding to stimuli. It's called gelotology and there is a large body of learned literature about the psychological and physiological effects of it."

John noted that as soon as Sherlock was on more familiar ground- the facts and scientific side of things, his fluency dramatically increased.

"You wouldn't be the first to accuse me of being childish, but before you do so, I can say in my defence that laughing is actually a complex brain process. The left side of the cortex of the forebrain has to analyse words needed to form the joke, before the frontal lobe takes over and anticipates the social emotional responses to the joke." There was the sound of a Sherlockian sniff on the recording. "According to Mycroft that's one area of my deficiency. Anyway, then the right hemisphere structures the concepts so people will 'get' the joke. Then the sensory processing area of the occipital lobe gets involved, and finally the motor responses are generated, and voila- laughter results."

"Of course, understanding humour isn't the same as getting the joke. Mycroft told me that I don't always laugh at the right places. I used to tell him that it's because I have a different sense of humour. But, uh…I guess the jokes I made about your moustache upset you and made you angry. It's just, well…it doesn't suit you, but I wasn't sure how to tell you that. That's probably why Mary was smart enough not to mention earlier the fact that she didn't like it either. She's much more socially adept than I am."

John rolled his eyes. "If he thinks that I gave him a bloody nose over his comment about facial hair, I really will kill him." Mary smirked.

There was another click. When Sherlock's voice resumed, it was more serious. "I realise that little diversion might be thought of as a form of avoidance. So, I will get to the point. I am sorry that I caused you so much distress by what I did- all of it, the plot, my inability to keep you away from having to witness it- I really did try John, but your taxi managed to get back to Barts faster than the calculated average for the traffic situation at that time of day. And I meant what I said- once I was away, there were so many times when I wanted to tell you. But, I couldn't- not without jeopardising your survival and mine, too. And I botched telling you about my return. Completely. Well, what do you expect? It's at times like these that you should argue with anyone saying I am a 'high functioning' sociopath, as clearly, I still get too many things wrong to have earned that label."

"With the benefit of hindsight, I realise it was naïve of me to assume that things would not have changed with you when I got back. Perhaps I am guilty of wishful thinking. It seemed preferable to the alternative." He stopped. There was a long pause of silence, which lengthened.

John frowned. He felt like he was looking into the abyss. "Is that it?"

Mary glanced at the recorder. "Wait…there must be more. We aren't at the twenty four minutes and seven seconds yet. He's just trying to get up the nerve to say something."

"The alternative…." Sherlock stopped.

Another long pause.

"The most likely alternative was watching Moriarty kill you. Another alternative was taking you with me, and getting you killed along the way, which would have defeated the whole purpose. I'm not going to apologise for doing what I did to keep you alive and able to live a normal life. You can tell me to piss off now, and I will be glad that you are still alive and able to do just that. It's enough for me. And that's all I have to say about that." There was a click.

This time John did reach over and turn the device off.

"I need to think about that before going on to the last recording."

Silence fell. He felt Mary's eyes on him. He got up and stretched. "I'm going to take a walk. In the direction of Box Hill. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not." Mary watched him leave the living room, heard John's firm steps in the hall and then a few moments later, the kitchen door shutting behind him. The whole time of his exiting the Manor and for several minutes after that, she kept her eyes on the crutch that was still leaning up against the side of the sofa, where John had forgotten it.