A/N: Sorry for the eons-long wait... I got hit by projects, then finals, then writer's block, then I didn't have internet... A big thanks to everyone who PM'ed me to make sure I wasn't dead or kidnapped by Mycroft :) And another big thanks to star-eye, who is such an encouragement and a fantastic writer. Check out her stuff, she actually updates ;)
Obviously this whole story is now an AU, but since I'm in America I haven't seen the true version yet (AND I DON'T WANT ANY SPOILERS) this is still good for a bit longer :)
John's mad at him. That's ok. Angry John is ok, he has every right to be angry, he's never angry except when he has every right to, and even then he never stays angry for long. And afterwards things go back to normal (or what is normal for them). But Sherlock's never seen John so furious. When John's peeved, he gets snarky, when he's a bit madder, he'll get loud, when he's really angry, he'll go soft and dangerous with the occasional outbursts, and when he's truly furious, he goes silent and his actions speak for him. But this isn't a typical angry-John situation. John is outraged, but inexplicably, he sounds practically normal. Normal to most people, that is. Not to Sherlock though, who can feel the roiling tension behind every raspy syllable. And it makes him afraid. Because when John is angry, he'll say his piece, possibly punch some people who really deserve it, but always, always, no matter how much or how little John is mad, he always leaves right after. And the angrier he is, the longer he stays away.
Sherlock can't handle that right now. John cannot leave, under any circumstances—he's just got him back from the dead and he can't possibly let him go. So he listens to every word John says, willing him to say more, despite the fact that every sentence is like a dagger to his soul. It's a pleasant pain. As long as John is talking, he is here, with Sherlock, who is drinking in every possible detail of John while trying and failing to ignore the deductions flying through his brain like angry wasps. Lost weight, a lot of weight, at one point, but has gained some of it back. Not sleeping well at all, hasn't been for a long time. Grey hair from stress, wrinkles on his forehead from frowning, laugh lines faded. Not drinking, no girlfriends. He knew these things before. It tortured him to think that he had done this. Every wrinkle, every grey hair, was his fault. Completely his fault.
But a broken John is still a living, breathing John.
And then John stops speaking, and looks at him expectantly. This is the part where Sherlock says something stupid and John leaves. Forever this time. Sherlock finds that he can't say the fatal words, lips gasping like a landed fish. The moment stretches to infinity. John deflates, looks away, sighs. Sherlock mentally curses himself. He needs to say something, anything, and right now. Because there is an astronomically small chance that if he says the right thing, John will stay. If he remains silent, there isn't a chance at all.
Sherlock races to find this magic phrase and soon flounders—the harder he thinks, the harder it becomes to think, and within moments, he is incapable of forming even syllable due to the mental overload.
John stands up, turning away as he leans heavily on a cane that's appeared from somewhere. Sherlock's battered heart drops, shattering into a million shards when it hits rock bottom.