John was distant now.
Sherlock hadn't expected this sort of reaction, and to be honest it was a little disconcerting. What he'd done had been completely necessary, in order to save John's life—so why was he so upset with him?
But Sherlock did feel something.
Confusion.
Regret.
Sorry.
He hadn't been expecting John to mourn like that, to spend an entire year grieving over him, and then just give up. It had all caught him a bit off guard.
He had really thought John would move on after a while and find something else to do, and go on with his life.
But he hadn't.
It was a hard equation for him to solve, but Sherlock was slowly beginning to realise that perhaps John was more dependant on him than he'd thought. He still didn't understand why, but knowing that and looking back on what he'd had to do... What that had done to John...
It hurt.
Somehow.
He couldn't quite describe it, even to himself, but he knew part of it was being sorry.
He was sorry he'd left him like that, and made him watch, and worry... He knew it had all been for John's own good, and there really hadn't been anything he could have done differently, but he still almost felt ashamed.
Which was completely wrong for him. It felt wrong, and uncomfortable, and he didn't like it and didn't know what to do about it.
Maybe that's why he'd let John choke him.
In a way it was payback.
He'd had it coming.
John deserved justice, and if Sherlock couldn't make it up to him, then he at least deserved to get a few good hits in.
Logically the doctor's hands around his throat should have been nothing compared to what he'd endured during the year he'd been gone, but somehow it was worse.
Worse because he deserved it.
Worse because that was his best, and only friend.
Worse because it didn't hurt enough.
And now things were different.
Now that he was back Sherlock could sense a rift between them that hadn't been there before. A distance that John enforced, probably to protect himself, and also because he probably still held a grudge against Sherlock for what he'd put him through.
He hated that rift. It was hard to take, alienating and bewildering. And the most difficult thing was that he couldn't figure out how to close that gap. How to make it up to John. How to make himself acceptable again.
Would demonstrations of skill work? No... They hadn't worked before, when John had been angry with him, so why would they work now?
John didn't care about his skill.
Which was extremely vexing.
And also strangely heartening.
But that didn't do him any good now, as he still had no clue what to do. If only people were as easy to figure out as crime scenes were. They were always so mercurial and illogical and unfamiliar and emotional... And to be completely honest, just vaguely scary.
Not the same sort of fear he'd felt when he thought he'd seen the hound of Baskerville.
Not real fear.
But something close to it.
It didn't stop him from being charming, or being loud, or rude, or clever, but it was always there in the back of his mind.
A knowledge that they weren't like him.
And that they wouldn't accept him.
But that was okay, because he didn't need them to. He'd always had his work to keep him company, and then he'd had John—but now John was distant, and Sherlock was finding it difficult to just go back to having the work.
It felt empty somehow.
Emptier.
What the hell was he supposed to say?
What could he do that would make John accept him again?
Sure, they were speaking, and there wasn't any outright hostility—but things were just different.
Awkward.
Wrong.
Distant.