John found himself standing there for several extraordinarily long moments, just looking back into Sherlock's face. The detective's cool gray-blue eyes were fixed on him, perhaps waiting, but they seemed guarded.

Of course they would be—even as he took such a large step into the void of chance, he would have to be prepared with extra walls to protect himself, just in case.

John wished he didn't.

Then again, the amount of courage that one step must have taken…

"You mean, you remember—"

Sherlock raised a hand to silence him. "Don't."

"But you called me because you—"

"I said don't." He kept his eyes on John's face carefully and didn't let them stray down to the blade in his hands.

"Well what do you need me to do, then? If you want, I could—"

"No. Just stay."

There were a few more moments of silence, and then John nodded.

He understood.

His hand closed around the blade lightly, feeling the cold bite of the metal against his skin. It sent a shiver up the back of his neck, and twisted a knot in the pit of his stomach.

He hated blades.

He hated them so fucking much.

Sherlock turned on his heel and returned to the armchair, back straight, shoulders squared, chin up.

Compensating.

"Er… D'you want me to get you a cup of tea or something?" He slipped the blade into his pocket. He'd have to deal with it later. Right now he needed to focus his whole attention on the situation.

The detective regarded him thoughtfully, and then shook his head.

John now caught the subtle clench of the jaw, the fingertips slipped up under his sleeve, the way he sat curled up on himself tightly.

This was killing him.

And it was obviously taking an enormous amount of energy to pretend that it wasn't.

He bit his lip and walked to the couch, settling himself so he could look over at Sherlock, close enough to be reassuring but not so close as to crowd him, which was a difficult judgement to make.

After a while he bit his lip and rested his chin in his palm, watching the silent struggle.

"Sherlock? –No, I'm not going to shut up now, thanks." He dismissed the mumbled rejection stoically and went on. "I want to help."

The detective rolled over so he could fix those guarded eyes on him again, the pupils of which were constricted with distress. "You are helping."

"Not as much as I could be. You texted me because you needed somebody. I don't want to just sit here now and watch you try to do this all by yourself."

Sherlock's teeth were gritted. "I don't try. I do. And I don't need anyone. I am all that I require."

Sherlock Holmes.

The closest thing to an island any man could ever be.

But the tide has to turn some time.

"Liar."

He blinked and frowned at John, not quite sure he'd heard him right. "What did you—"

"Sherlock. You don't have to protect yourself from me." Oh, he'd struck a chord there. "I'm just trying to help you. That's all I'm trying to do. Maybe that doesn't sound very plausible to you, but it's the truth. I'm just a normal human being; I do some things simply because I care about somebody, and I don't have any ulterior motives. Let me help you."

John could feel Sherlock staring at him, his intense gaze burning holes in him. But there was something approaching innocent confusion in his eyes now. Maybe his walls were cracking slightly…?

Sherlock took a few minutes, lips parted and then closed again as he faltered, for once in his life.

"Are you okay?" John leaned forward and spoke gently.

"…You care about me?"

John sat frozen on the couch, staring at the detective in astonishment that momentarily stole his voice and crumpled his train of thought into a tight wad of unintelligible garbage.

How could he…

Wasn't it obvious…?

He'd thought for sure…

But he really didn't…

"Sher… Well, yeah. Of course I do. You're my best friend in the whole world, Sherlock. I've said that before. What did you think I…?"

But Sherlock wasn't responding. His wide eyes were locked on John's face, unblinking, and the seconds stretched out into long minutes.

"Sherlock…?"

Still no answer.

John leaned forward again, half tempted to wave a hand in front of his face. "Sherlock, are you okay?"

When he finally seemed to break out of the daze he blinked and looked down at his hands a little unsteadily, his brows still furrowed.

"Do you want to tell me what the hell that was about?"

"I…" He glanced up at John. "I mean… I just didn't think…"

A speechless Holmes?

What was the world coming to?

"I didn't expect anyone would… could…" He swallowed. "You looked serious."

"That's because I was serious. And I still am. You are, honestly, my best friend."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but this time it wasn't snarky; instead he seemed completely out of his element. "I… I thought you were only saying that because of your instincts as a doctor… To try to put me at ease… Or something… And I didn't expect…"

"You—what? How could you think—?! Why would you doubt that? That's just—"

Oh…

Oh.

All this time, it hadn't been Sherlock who was ignorant because he had no idea how much of a rude, insulting prick he could be—

—It had truly been everyone else who was ignorant.

Because they didn't realize that he knew.

He knew he lacked the skills necessary to get along with human beings without conflict. He knew he pushed people away. He knew he wasn't the most likable person on the planet.

He knew people generally couldn't stand him.

And he had never expected anyone could possibly find him to be best friend material.

He'd thought John had been lying to him.

All this time.

That would explain a lot, actually.

Too much.

Sherlock Holmes.

So very close to humanity, and yet so very, very far.

The most isolated man alive.