The One Where Everything gets Explained (and neither Tony nor Sherlock actually say 'sorry')
John didn't like to cause a scene. He was much happier letting someone else take the limelight, steering them away from bad decisions if he was able, and cleaning up the mess left behind if he was not. It was because of this that, after sending Sherlock sprawling across the floor, John stepped over him and – as calmly as he possibly could, given the circumstances – walked back to the elevator and rode it straight back down to his floor without another word to anyone.
Once the doors had shut behind him, John once again made a beeline for his bedroom door, shutting and locking it behind him. He asked JARVIS with only a slight tremor in his voice to keep the others away and allow him some privacy. It was only then, after ensuring that his solitude was unlikely to be intruded on, that John gave in to the urge to weep.
His grief was something that he had bourn for some months now, however, and it had run its course. What came after was worse. The sheer anger at the deception, of not being included in whatever scheme Sherlock had cooked up, of believing his best friend dead for the better part of a year. John almost wished that Sherlock was in the room so that he could punch him again and again and again until some small piece of John's emotional hurt might be imprinted on Sherlock's skin.
Under the tidal wave of fury, however, was a sense of betrayal, a self doubt. Had Sherlock not trusted John enough with his secret? Had he thought, perhaps, that John might post about it on his blog, tell the world, give the game away?
That ruddy game. Just the thought of it – of the megalomaniacal courting ritual between two genius men with no apparent regard for life – it set John's stomach churning and his teeth on edge. How easily Moriarty had conducted the entirety of Sherlock's attention, had given the man just what he wanted with the criminal investigation of his life. John had chased after as well as he could, had gone sniffing about like the good dog he was around the things that Sherlock pointed out. But what use had John ever truly been to Sherlock? A hanger on, an unwanted burden, always jumping to the wrong conclusions, only there to stroke his ego.
John choked and tilted his head back in attempt to make the tears roll back into his eyes. He knew all that wasn't true. He knew that, in his own way, Sherlock gained as much from their friendship as John did. But John's effect was quieter, soothing, an anchor or a rock in comparison to the blinding light of Sherlock's contribution to the world. And, when put into comparison by an outside source, they didn't compare at all really. John's problem was that, towards the end, with Moriarty at his height, John had become an outsider. Or at least, that's what it felt like.
It took some time for him to regain control of himself, and it was only with the reassurance that Sherlock was not waiting for him outside his door, that John dared to brave the rest of the world again. He really ought to have checked that Stark wasn't out there either.
"Doc English," Stark said, in imitation of his usual brazen way, though a layer of uncertainty hid behind his words.
"What do you want Stark?" John grumbled, pushing past him to the kitchen. If he was going to have this conversation he needed a cup of tea or, preferably, a bottle of whisky and an oversized glass.
"To explain," Stark told him sincerely, following him to the kitchen and hopping up onto one of the counters to peer at John.
"Go on then," John said, reminding himself that it was, actually, Stark's kitchen, and he didn't have the right to feel annoyed by the man sitting on his – until then – clean work surfaces.
Stark grunted, one hand coming up and tapping his arc reactor, before starting in a rapid stream of words. "When you first came to work with us I did a background check on you, read your military background, your education, your work, read your blog. Your Sherlock person intrigued me so I started doing background checks on him too – there was a fuck tonne of firewalls, but nothing I can't crack – and found a load of files more recent than the date you mentioned for his death, so I read into the whole scandal, how you uncovered the truth, proved he was innocent, looked over all the footage from his suicide, and it didn't take me long to realise that Sherlock was still alive, running around the world hunting down the rest of Moriarty's little crime syndicate.
"I swear to God, I thought you knew. From the phonecall, and the way you acted following his death I figured you'd hatched the plan between you, and you were pissed off because you couldn't plausibly die as well to go with him. And I thought, what with you bringing us Agent back, it would be nice for you to have a holographic version of your friend. I didn't program it to talk or anything, just pull a few trademark expressions, maybe roll his eyes. Like having a 3D photo. I thought it'd be something nice for you before Sherlock came back."
John stared at Stark in amazement. Thought he knew? Good lord, were they all like this? Always jumping to the wrong conclusions about what they thought other people knew, then not caring about the consequences when they assumed incorrectly?
To be fair to Stark, if John had been aware that Sherlock was still alive, the presentation of a '3D photo' would have been appreciated. He would have probably reacted the same way, jumping up to hug the ridiculous man before falling through the image of light. And, John conceded, it would have been funny. If he had known.
"When you told me you didn't know Sherlock was alive," Stark continued uninterrupted, "I knew I had to do something. I mean, I've been known to do lots of hurtful things to people who care about me, but I've never pretended to kill myself in front of anyone. It was pretty easy to work out where Sherlock had been, and where he was likely to make his next move, from the files I'd found, and from there it was just a case of cornering him and telling him your health was in danger if he did not return."
John had no doubt that when Stark said 'pretty easy' what he actually meant was 'ridiculously difficult'. But he was also certain that Mycroft was aware that Sherlock was alive, and very probably responsible for the fact that Sherlock looked so well. Mycroft had told John he'd keep an eye on him and, after learning how the hologram had affected John, had probably left just the right number of bread crumbs to lead Stark straight to Sherlock.
"Bastards the lot of them," John muttered to himself.
Stark grinned winningly at the comment.
"Get lost," John added, when the billionaire looked as though he was just going to sit there and stare at him for the foreseeable future.
"Want me to send Sherlock down?" Stark asked, jumping off the surface and would have toppled John's tea if he didn't have such quick reactions.
John tilted his head, pretending to consider it. Of course he wanted to see Sherlock again. He was just buying himself a few more seconds before that happened. Eventually, when Stark seemed to be losing patience, John nodded, and turned his attention back to his cup of tea, stirring it disconsolately. He didn't look up as Stark left, and he definitely didn't look up when the elevator announced its arrival again, and a tall figure stalked over to him and sat down on a stool opposite.
"Are you going to punch me again?" Sherlock asked.
"I don't know. I haven't decided yet," John replied honestly, finally drawing his gaze away from his mug to blink balefully at the other man. There was a long pause during which neither of them said anything, and Sherlock made two abortive movements with his hands. This, more than anything, reminded John that Sherlock did care for him. Either Sherlock chose to do something or he did not. He didn't start and then not finish it.
"You're looking very well for being dead," John finally broke the silence.
"Mycroft kept using you as emotional blackmail," Sherlock said, as though it were nothing, before shaking his head as though to shake away a fly and added quietly, "I didn't know I could be emotionally blackmailed until then."
John huffed something that would have been laughter had he not still been feeling so betrayed.
"There were three snipers," Sherlock told him, when it seemed as though the silence might stretch out between them again. "One for Lestrade, one for Mrs Hudson, and one for you. If I hadn't jumped off the hospital, the only three people I care about at all would be dead right now."
John returned to staring at his tea. The news that Sherlock had been blackmailed into jumping did not surprise him. That Moriarty had chosen to aim for Mrs Hudson and Lestrade as well... John couldn't imagine how Sherlock must have felt.
"Two of the snipers are dead now. The other was Moriarty's second in command, and it won't take me long."
"Sherlock," John interrupted before he could get any further. "Why didn't you tell me? Why couldn't I have come with you? You know – you must know – that I was more than willing to leave everything behind."
Sherlock reached across the counter and covered one of John's hands with his own. John glanced up to meet his eyes. "I know. I never meant to be away for so long. I needed... I needed you to be innocent of all the things I was accused of. I needed to know that you were safe and alive."
"You selfish bastard!" John croaked, fighting the urge to cry again. "What about me? I saw you die. I buried you. And you didn't tell me you were alive because you thought I was safe?"
Sherlock flinched, but kept his hand curled around John's.
"How long?" John asked. "How long would you have been willing to betray me like this if Stark hadn't tracked you down?"
At the word 'betray' Sherlock let go of John's hand, his shoulders hunching and curling in on himself. "I would have stayed away until each and every one of Moriarty's employees was dead."
John tilted his head back and glared at the light fixture for a long moment, before he stood up, emptied the rest of his mug into the sink and left it on the side to wash up later. Then he moved around the counter, tapping his cane louder than was strictly necessary, and came to a halt right in front of Sherlock.
"John?" Sherlock asked, sounding confused and uncertain.
"Well get down here, you great idiot," John ordered, opening his arms wide and grunting when Sherlock fell off his stool and into him, wrapping long arms tightly around John's shoulders and burying his face in his neck as though he never wanted to let go ever again.
AN: There was going to be kissing and maybe declarations of love, but apparently I can only do so much emotion per chapter. Only one more chapter to go (and probably an epilogue too)! Much love xx