John looked up as his hospital room door opened and Sherlock stumbled through. The detective had obviously been pushed into the room by his brother.
"Remember, rethink your attitude, brother mine. John needs you right now," Mycroft warned. He caught Greg's eye and jerked his head meaningfully towards the door.
The DI stood, feeling awkward. "I'll be going then. So you the two of you can talk. Yeah." He edged towards the door, then rushed out, glad to let the door close behind him and Mycroft.
Sherlock stood at the foot of John's bed with his hands shoved in the pockets of his Belstaff. "I thought you trusted me," he said in a bitter tone.
The doctor looked up at Sherlock. "I could say the same thing. No doubt you've been told what I've been saying, that I didn't try to kill myself. I can see you don't believe me."
"Well, I can see you believe it," the detective spat, "but the evidence doesn't lie." He produced a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and thrust it towards John as he stepped within his reach. "Your goodbye note."
Reaching out, the doctor took it. He uncrumpled it and stared at it for a full minute, stunned. It looked like his handwriting, at least at first glance. Reading the letter, which didn't sound like something he would have written, thankyouverymuch, he noticed a few discrepancies here and there in how particular letters had been formed. He shook his head as he looked up at his boyfriend. "You see, but you do not observe," he said, throwing Sherlock's words back at him. "Look at this again. Look at the letters l, h and k. I don't make them like that. Think, Sherlock!'
The detective examined the letter, paying particular attention to the letters John had mentioned. "You were under a great deal of stress. It's only natural that your handwriting would reflect that."
John stood, swaying. He was angry, hurt and felt like hell. He took a step and his knees gave out. Sherlock caught him in his arms and eased him into bed. "You said you would cooperate if I came. I'm here."
"What about last night?" John asked. "I don't remember anything after the pub, not really. Isn't it possible that something happened there or on my way home and then..." He couldn't put together a realistic scenario for after that. "There were some people I talked to..." He shook his head as he tried to remember. "Can't you do something with that? Please."
Sherlock turned his back on him. "What would you have me do? You were suicidal and you didn't trust me to talk to me about it. Do you want to talk about it now?"
"No!" the doctor was so frustrated. "I want you to give me the benefit of the doubt. Believe in me. Believe that, if I was suicidal, I would talk to you before I did anything. Find out what really happened."
Sherlock turned partially towards John. "You're asking me to investigate."
"Yes, but the trust is what matters more. I can't stand the thought that you don't believe me." John used his left hand to push his hair back. He needed Sherlock to believe him if no one else did.
Finally facing John, the detective stared at his boyfriend long and hard. "Alright. I'll see what I can find out. After the nurses get your IV started again and get the monitors reconnected, you and I will talk about what you remember."
Feeling as though a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders, John agreed. "Thank you, Sherlock."
