As much as John projected a calm coolness, Sherlock knew there was anger hidden in those shaking hands and flushed cheeks.
"You lied," John's tone of voice made it clear this wasn't a question.
"I prefer the term obscurification," Sherlock replied lightly.
"I don't care what you call it."
Sherlock had forgotten in their time apart how easily John rose to challenge him, forcing him to explain his feelings actions. While he functioned on a different level than everyone else, with John there was a synchronicity. Which is why this irritation surprised him. Conclusion: John was upset about something else.
"And?" Sherlock asked. John's jaw clenched, but he held his anger and his fists in check. John, always the soldier, Sherlock thought.
"Who are you to play judge and jury?" John accused him.
"At least I'm not also the executioner, doctor," was the stinging reply. "To do no harm – unless it's to shoot a cabby to save a man you just met."
Forensics had revealed both pills had been poisoned, a fact that had initially surprised Sherlock and became clearer the closer he got to Moriarty. It had been a test, a game within a game, and one he would have failed without John.
Aloud Sherlock said, "I'm not the only one with... flexible morals. You shot an innocent man."
"He was a serial killer, you egotistical bastard!" John spat out incredulously.
"Mr. Mehra is not," Sherlock said and hoped that would end the conversation.
"So you trust him? But not us, not your friends, because we're all so stupid!"
"Not stupid, ordinary," Sherlock gave a nervous chuckle, unsure how to proceed when he wasn't sure of the end result.
"You don't trust people. You don't trust me. Is that why you couldn't tell me? Two years, Sherlock. Two bloody years!"
Behind them the kettle whistled for attention, and Sherlock broke away to provide it. He poured the tea deliberately and slowly, considering. He didn't have an answer he could give John.
"We settled this," he tried.
"That doesn't count, Sherlock! You made me think we were going to die in an explosion."
"John, I've tested our friendship..."
"Damn right you have," John snarled from behind him, the agitation in his voice making Sherlock's shoulders twitch. He stirred the tea, still facing the kitchen.
"Your assistance has been invaluable to me," Sherlock replied. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose as he felt something uncontrolled and dangerous rise up in his chest. "As you said, I fight crimes, you blog about it. What else do you want?"
"I don't know," John was behind him. His hand reached around to take his tea. Sherlock turned to face him.
John waited without drinking his tea.
Sherlock broke the silence. "I'm sorry."
"No you're not. You never are," John answered, heading towards the door. "Not really."
Sherlock stared a moment at the empty doorway, then at the cooling cup of tea on the counter. It was nestled between the dirty beakers, petri dishes, and other glassware. Glancing around the flat he looked for any other sign of John. The chair was gone, moved upstairs where it didn't obscure his view of the kitchen. All John's medical books and magazines were missing from the bookcases and dust was collecting where they used to take up space. This was the flat of a single man.
Sherlock brought the cup to his lips and drank.
Coming back to London had changed everything.