For a moment all John can do is stare. Turn slowly to take in the entirety of the room – the absence of Sherlock.
No note. No sign of a struggle. No sign of anything at all.
Four steps, up on the chair, pulling out the lock box with the gun, checking the clip and thrusting it into the waistband of his jeans. Already he feels steadier, more in control. Can take a full breath and let it out slowly without feeling as though he is about to choke.
He just needs to remain in control, remain calm. To think logically and rationally about it. Sherlock can't have gone far – can't have left. Wouldn't have left John on his own. Not again. Not like this. But God damn it John is going to beat him senseless for this when he finds him again.
Rational. Rational thoughts. Communication. John fumbles in his pockets for his phone but it isn't there. He never picked it up this morning before he left, and suddenly the seeds of fear turn into guilt. This is his fault.
Phone lying on the table, flashing with missed calls and texts. Shit.
I'm here, I'm home. I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was going out. Where are you?
Pacing, pacing, can't sit still, listening to the birds rustle and whisper above him as he passes. As he waits, waits for something, anything, a sign, another miracle. He's asking for a lot of them these days, each more sizeable than the last. For Sherlock to not be dead, for him to come home, for them to be ok again, to not be broken, to let them move forward without shattering apart. But if the first could come true, why not the next? John is pinning his life on miracles and wishes and he feels a laugh that's more a sob than anything else rise up in his throat at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
Door slamming down below and the slow steady movement of Sherlock's footsteps up the stairs and John feels himself sag with relief. Feels the crushing weight that had been hammering his heart begin to lift.
For a moment, when Sherlock appears framed in the doorway, they stare at each other. A moment of undisguised relief that the other is still whole – still there.
Then Sherlock is across the room and John feels the world shift around him as he's half lifted half pushed against the wall. Slammed there, pinned as the air leaves his lungs in a gasp.
"Did your capacity to form rational thought suddenly abandon you this morning?" Sherlock hisses into his ear, and John cannot help but stare at the fury in Sherlock's eyes. Cannot help but notice the faint tremor in the hand pressed to the wall by John's head.
And it thrills him. This Sherlock that is not passive and twisted in on himself with quiet self-loathing. This Sherlock that is so much more the Sherlock that John has been grieving, that was left behind on that blood stained pavement.
This Sherlock that feels so, so alive and breathless with anger and fear, and John can feel the desperation of the heartbeat beneath his hand twisted into Sherlock's shirt.
John cannot help it – he smiles. Feels the pain slice into the back of his head as Sherlock punches him. Wonders what the hell is wrong with him that he wants to laugh right now.
"Or perhaps I missed the moment where you received a previous blow to the head? Because that is the only explanation I can think of for your behaviour."
Something starts to loosen inside John, coiling to snap. "My behaviour?" He shoves Sherlock back, hard.
"You left. You didn't even bother to take your phone. On today of all days and I –" Sherlock stops, cannot seem to pull the words out, left stumbling on air for a moment whilst John feels the bitterness rise up inside him.
"It's not nice being left, is it." His voice is practically a whisper, malicious with intent, words dropped into Sherlock's ear even as he tightens his grip on him. "Not nice to be left behind – to feel sick with the fear and the desperation."
Sherlock slams John back against the wall.
"Don't, don't you dare."
"What? Dare what Sherlock? Dare to point out that a couple of hours where you didn't know where I was is nothing, nothing compared to the months of agony you put me through?" There is an unholy light in Sherlock's eyes, but John doesn't care. Just wants to push him, push him until he snaps. Breaks apart like John did, because they need this. They have spent too long dancing so carefully around this toxic mess that built up in the wake of Sherlock's death. Gentle touches and reassurances when what they really needed was to scream it out – fight out the rage and despair and fear and loneliness that has paralysed them, crippled them.
John can see it in Sherlock's face, he needs this too, needs to purge it from his system, is desperately hoping that John won't back down now the challenge has been issued. And John is only too happy to oblige. Isn't this what he went to Sherlock's grave this morning for? To move on. To push past this broken sham of pretending everything is ok. Burn it out of their systems in a blaze of fire.
"You couldn't even last three hours. Imagine how it felt for me. Imagine the agony of thinking you were dead, that you'd left me alone and all I'd ever have was memories and snatches of conversation because you were gone. Imagine – "
"Stop." Sherlock's voice is somewhere between a whisper and a shriek and there is a desperate pleading just behind it, laced at the edges, don't stop, please god don't stop.
"Make me."
Sherlock punches him again and John cannot resist the feral smile as he retaliates. Hits back – and there are no holds barred. A seething mess of anger and hurt and resentment and guilt as they fight. Desperate for the pain, for the release, for something that reminds them that they are alive. Despite everything they are alive.
John punches Sherlock twice in the jaw, doubles over in pain from a blow to his solar plexus, lets loose a string of expletives that sound wrong shaped around his smile. He grapples blindly, feels the shirt clenched in his fist rip and his fingers slide off skin instead.
John manages to pin Sherlock against the wall, and pulls his head down to his, making him meet his eye, hold his gaze, listen fully for a moment. And Sherlock is pushing, struggling to keep the momentum going but John isn't having it. Grabs his wrists and pins them roughly against the wall.
"Now you listen to me. You cannot keep on like this. You cannot let the guilt confine you. If you do you take us both down. And I did not fight through the last year only to fall at this. You made your choices and I made mine, and now we have to live with them. But that is the gift – we get to live. We get to keep fighting and making mistakes, and we get to do it together. But you have to stop this. You have to stop being so careful with me, stop regretting that decision. You have to let it go. We both do."
Somewhere in amongst the words Sherlock has stopped scrabbling at John's hands and John can feel a long finger stroking down the inside of his wrist – following the pulse and the veins and the steady thump of his heartbeat that hasn't felt so alive in months.
"We have to let it go. We have to try and move past this." John closes his eyes, the fight leaving him. "Promise me."
He can feel Sherlock's forehead pressed against his own, smell the faint peppermint of toothpaste on his breath, feel the hitch of Sherlock's chest against his as he tries to pull enough air into his lungs.
"I can't." Sherlock's words are more a sob than anything else. "I can't forgive myself for it. I can't just let it go – and neither should you."
John steps in, closing that final inch of space between them, can feel the hard beat of Sherlock's heart drumming straight through his chest and into his own. Plucks one of Sherlock's hands from where it hangs limply at his side and places it over John's heart.
"Feel that?" He waits until Sherlock gives a faint nod, eyes closed, breathing frantically through his nose. "That shows I am still here. Despite everything that has happened, I have survived it. You made a choice. You made what you felt was the right choice, and there is no shame in that. And I am still here. You don't need to carry on dragging this guilt with you."
Sherlock's fingers twitch, tightening until John can feel the five points of pressure against his chest.
John's voice dips, low and desperate. "We can't keep dragging around the past. I have to forgive you and you have to forgive yourself, otherwise we're just going to destroy each other."
He can feel the tremors running through Sherlock's body. Runs his thumb over the back of Sherlock's knuckles. "Promise me you'll at least try? Please – for me."
He leaves the words hanging for a moment, a desperate, quiet whisper that falls into the barely there gap between them. Sits in the hollow of Sherlock's throat that John cannot quiet tear his eyes from as he shifts, their bodies pressing closer, Sherlock trapped between the warmth of John and the wall.
For a moment there is complete stillness, and then Sherlock shifts back, pressing harder, tighter, a slight curving of his neck as he twists his face and dips the words directly into John's ear.
"I promise."