Sherlock had been standing by the window for over two hours, now.
He did things like that sometimes when he was thinking, so John wasn't all that surprised. But he did wonder what the detective was thinking about.
All he could do was wonder, these days.
John was overjoyed to discover that his best friend was still alive, of course—but he was also having a hard time coming to grips with what that meant.
That Sherlock had lied to him.
That he'd left him like that without so much as a text message.
That maybe John hadn't really gotten through to him as much as he thought he had.
Maybe John didn't matter to him as much as he'd hoped he did.
That was a hard thought to have, so he tried to ignore it, for the most part. And talking to Sherlock made that difficult. It almost felt as if he'd had to step back and take a fresh look at the man he called his friend—to re-evaluate him and decide again how much he understood him. He knew he didn't dislike him. It was because he didn't that all this hurt so much.
Sherlock was still his friend.
He just didn't know if Sherlock really thought that way, too.
The detective finally turned his head away from the window and looked back at him; John could feel his gaze on him, like a black hole, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"What."
Sherlock didn't look away, and tipped his head to the side slightly. "I'm just thinking."
"Don't stare at me. It's basic manners."
"You know how deficient I am in that area." Sherlock shrugged and turned back to the glass, and John almost scoffed out-loud.
Understatement of the century, there.
After a while John gave up and folded his newspaper in his lap, pursing his lips resignedly and looking up at the detective's back. "Are you ever going to tell me why?"
There was silence for a moment.
"...I did. I had to. It was for your own good."
This time John didn't bother to smother his sound of indignation. "Again with that garbage. You saw what was about to happen—what that drove me to. What you did was going to kill me."
He hadn't really been prepared for just how fast Sherlock's head would snap around to look at him, or how intense his eyes would be.
There was something in them that looked almost... hurt.
The detective stared at him in a silence that John supposed was meant to be expressive, but he missed its meaning.
Sherlock swallowed. "What was I supposed to do...? If I didn't do it, you'd be killed. If I did, you'd kill yourself. At least I found you in time. I did what I had to do."
John found himself just sitting there, staring back at him, the forgotten newspaper still folded in his hands.
Killed.
So...
"...You mean... It was because... You did all that to..."
"Save your life? Yes. Yours, and Mrs. Hudson's, and Lestrade's. I had no choice. But... I... do feel sorry, for some reason." He crossed his arms over his chest and turned his back on John, a gesture that seemed more of self-preservation than of hostility. "I shouldn't have to apologise. But I will. If only for peace of mind. I won't even blame you if you don't accept it, though logically I should. Your lack of understanding astounds me."
"You git..." John could feel Sherlock tense up in surprise at the hug, but he didn't stop or look up.
Right now, he just needed to remind himself that all this was real.
That Sherlock was really alive.
That it wasn't because he didn't care.
In fact, it was because Sherlock did care. No, it hadn't been easy, and no, this did not mean things were completely back to normal—but at least now he sort of knew why.
That was something.
After a minute Sherlock still hadn't really relaxed, and John let him go, straightening up and trying to figure out what to do from here. "Sherlock?"
"Mm?"
"Are you alright?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Don't do that." John gave him a look, trying to be imposing despite his stature.
"Do what?"
"You know what I mean. That."
"No, I don't." Sherlock was beginning to look more and more bewildered. "What do you mean?"
"Saying you're fine. Putting on a face. I've had enough of you lying to me. Okay? I can tell when something's off; I'm not as stupid as you think I am. So quit doing that. I don't even know why you think you have to do that—all I've ever tried to do was help you. It's pretty moronic, actually."
Sherlock's lips parted, but no sound came out. For a moment John thought he would have some stinging quip thrown back at him, but then the detective shut his mouth. He looked down at him, as close to stunned as the doctor had really ever seen him.
"...I have appearances to keep up."
"So it's your ego? I don't know... That seems a little superficial to me."
"No. A person can't be both strong and needy."
