Disclaimer: I don't own a thing.
John had never wanted to follow doctor Reese's instructions less. For a supposed fake therapy, they were supposed to speak about uncomfortable subjects for real. Couldn't their killer kindly deem them healed already and attempt to murder them? Honestly, he wouldn't even complain too much if their mysterious serial killer actually managed to kill them. It would be better than facing Sherlock's…hiatus.
Yeah, hiatus worked. After all, anatomy used the word for the holes in the human body, mostly allowing for the passage of nerves or blood vessels. During that best-forgotten (even if he'd never managed it and never would) time, he had indeed felt as if he'd been dropped into an empty universe. Yet, somehow, Sherlock had slithered through it and came back the other way, connecting what would have otherwise been the disjointed, lifeless pieces of his existence.
They didn't have the heart to play tourist that day, or even eat – neither of them. Normally, John would push to make sure they had the energy to face whatever might come, but as it was, he was feeling nauseous, too. They came straight back to the hotel from their appointment, and holed up in their room, the doctor taking the time to lock the door. Just because he would be looking forward to being interrupted by a murderer, it didn't mean that he wanted to risk a cleaning lady or another guest coming in and finding themselves in the midst of…well, whatever would happen next. Once done, he flopped on his side of the bed.
Sherlock, instead, was prowling around the room. He reminded his blogger of these downright insane wolves you saw in the worst of zoos. John was tempted to tell him to calm down, but given what they had to do, if walking until he made himself dizzy was his friend's way of coping, who was he to argue?
"We don't have to actually talk about it," John said, "not if you don't feel like it. I mean, we can tell him we did, and it's all fine, and…we're not actually doing therapy. Not us."
"But you want to. That's why you ensured we had privacy. To be honest, I do, too. I was serious, before. I want to be forgiven, John. I don't know what it'll take, because clearly saying sorry didn't work. Just…just tell me what would make you let it go." Sherlock stilled in front of him, and threw his arms open in defeat.
"I have forgiven you. I…just the fact that you came back is more than I'd ever hoped for. I mean, it feels ungrateful to complain. But…I know we just ignored everything until now. But – why? I mean, not why you didn't tell me you were alive, I am not as trustworthy as others, fine. Well, not fine, but you picked people in the know strictly on a need to know basis, and maybe I didn't need to know – not for your plan to work. What I need to know is, why did faking your own death ever look like a good plan? How can I know that you won't do it again the next time an interesting criminal comes around?" John stumbled over his words, looking intently at the carpet at the right of the detective's posh shoes.
"You can't," the detective said.
John's eyes shot up at him, and he looked as if he'd been slapped. Before he could reply, the other continued, "In the same circumstances, I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat."
The former soldier squared his shoulders, and tried to get the hurt away from his expression. Don't give the bastard the satisfaction, since he obviously didn't care. "Well, that's something I needed to hear, I suppose," he said, voce low and bitter.
"You asked why," the sleuth reminded him quietly.
"Yeah, well, it's rather obvious now," John retorted, wishing the other would just step away so he could leave. Or at least open the window. It felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.
"That's what I thought, but you still asked. So maybe Reese has a point about things not being as patent as we think. Moriarty had snipers, John –" Sherlock replied, a hand gesturing around him as if they were still there to be pointed at.
"Yeah, I know. I was there at the pool, remember? I know he liked his guns," the blogger snapped.
"And I wasn't speaking in general terms. Moriarty had snipers on Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and you. With the order to shoot unless I died, as spectacularly as possible. Thankfully, that meant I could literally give them a show and they'd retreat. But if word came out that I was alive before Moriarty's web was destroyed…well, he killed himself in front of me, but he was just the type to leave standing orders – and the money to cover them – to ensure you died if I resurfaced." The detective had never been happier for English having lost the second person singular a few centuries ago. John's mind would supply that he cared about all of them, while only one person had been his motivation – his priority. The man in front of him.
"Fuck!" the doctor exclaimed. "Is that why you wouldn't let me know? Not just that I'm a terrible actor, but that a slip up in acting would get Mrs. Hudson killed, maybe at Tesco or during her weekly burraco night with Mrs. Turner? Why the everloving fuck didn't you tell me months ago?"
Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't think it was important. I still hurt you."
"Yeah, but not for a game. Not because Moriarty was so bloody brilliant that having me around would only slow you down and ruin the fun. That's quite the difference. If you told me, and I messed up without meaning to, just because I wanted to come to back you up, and Mrs. Hudson died because I was an idiot….well, I've enough people I failed to save as it is. Her death being my fault…I don't think there are enough therapists in England for me to deal with that," John admitted. She was family. And the therapists he could afford were shit at helping people through grief. The only reason he hadn't gone completely insane was that Sherlock was resurrected. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have had the chance.
"Ruin the fun?" the sleuth hissed. "Do you honestly think these two years were fun?"
"Well, normally I'd say no, but I've seen you ecstatic about serial killers, and I don't have any details, do I?" It was the blogger's turn to shrug.
Before his friend's…absence, he would have sworn that he knew what Sherlock would and would not do. Sure, the detective's code of behaviour might be…unusual, and he surely needed some steering here and there to interact with ordinary people, but his heart was in the right place. Despite Donovan's hissed warnings, John would never believe that his best friend would destroy a person's life intentionally. He thought he'd been proven wrong since, in the worst way possible, and knowing he'd never been – that Sherlock had done that to protect them, the same way he'd casually destroyed Molly's relationship with 'Jim from IT' to be kind, pulverised a boulder he had no idea he'd been carrying on his chest even after his return, all this time. (Lie. He knew perfectly well it was there, but it felt almost sacrilegious, and yet he couldn't free himself of it.) Still, even with his knowledge of the consulting detective restored, he couldn't say why his jaunt against Moriarty's men wouldn't be fun. The man was married to his work, for crying out loud! Didn't cases count as dates?
Sherlock plopped down to sit on the carpet, as if all his energy had suddenly fizzled out. "The planning genius had just shot his brain out in front of me, John. What was left was a seemingly infinite web of violent thugs, mafiosi, traffickers of basically everything under the sun, and generally people who specialized in one type of crime, and even then they might need some extra guidance to pull off a faultless felony. These people were so dull and boring I wanted to cry when I was lucky."
Something in the wording set all kind of alarms off in John's brain. It could seem like a harmless quip, but… "And when you weren't lucky?" he asked softly.
The detective shrugged. "It wasn't a holiday."
John held out his hand. "Come up here. Whether you want to speak about this or not – and that's your choice, not Reese's or mine – you can do that in bed."
"It's barely after lunch," Sherlock pointed out, ignoring the offer.
"And we're both fasting and stressed. I found it in an article about writer's block. Just lay in bed, and your brain will be tricked into relaxing. Whether it gets the words to flow or not, it can't hurt. I'm already halfway there. Just lay beside me. We don't have to touch, or do anything you don't feel like," the blogger retorted.
"Just to prove you wrong," the sleuth said, finally taking the hand to rise. As if that suggestion would work. Were most people's brains really so pitiful?
John patted the mattress beside him, and the detective circumnavigated the bed to lie on top of the covers. He stared at the ceiling. He was right. This wasn't soothing at all.