John didn't seem to notice, he just carried on with his rant. "You clearly have no idea." He couldn't help himself now, he'd held back the night before but no longer, he just had to get this out. If only so Sherlock would realise people cared about him and took more care for himself.
"I spent every bloody day by your bedside, even though the nurses kept dragging me back to my own room, cause I was still bloody injured myself." He rested his hands on the back of the arm chair. "I'd read to you, from your books or the newspaper or just... I'd just talk to you." John rubbed his eyes.
"I'd hope that some of it was getting through to you, that you'd come back to m-, that you'd come back." Sherlock was still hunched over. "I did come back". "Yes Sherlock, I know, you did, but... Sherlock the thought of you never coming back, never waking up. The thought of that brilliant mind, and yes it is brilliant, being forever locked up in that thick skull of yours... it broke me Sherlock."
It was useless trying to hide his tears now, he let them fall freely down his cheeks. "And the mere fact that you think you can just joke about it and ignore what happened... I can't accept that, I won't accept that."
John turned, his back now to his flatmate. "If you don't start taking better care of yourself, if you don't quit being so reckless all the time...Im not sure I can follow you on all your "adventures" again. Im not sure my heart will be able to take it the next time..." He limped off into the kitchen.
Oh John.. oh John... Im so sorry. Sherlock's shoulders quivered, shook. He was crying, genuinely crying. Such a flippant comment had hurt his friend because he failed to realise just how much pain he was carrying. Sherlock was not used to friends, so he needed to take better care of the only one he had. John had seen so many comrades lost in battle, it only made sense for him to feel as he did right now, over the one friend he hadn't yet lost.
It was sad in a way, but they only had each other. Both had siblings they didn't get along with, John's he rarely even saw. Sherlock's was always watching from the shadows. But neither were truly as close to them as they were to each other. They were bonded, not in blood but by heart and soul. And Sherlock knew, this was the reason that John was so upset. Poor John had had to envision a life without the only person he had left. Sherlock didn't begrudge him his rant, he just hoped he could make things right again.
He picked up his crutches, painfully walking towards the kitchen. John was standing in front of the fridge, most likely deep in thought, but his shoulders were shaking, the detective could clearly hear him crying, and it broke his heart.
Oh John, how can I make this right?