"Why didn't you tell me?" John asked, after what seemed like an extraordinarily long time.
Sherlock sighed inwardly. He hadn't answered the same question adequately for Mycroft, so he had little faith in his ability to do so for John.
He tried to think back, to work out himself, what it was about that detail that had passed him by in his many long explanations. It worried him, that he wasn't sure, because if he really had just forgotten, then was Mycroft right? Did he just not matter as much as the others?
The thought alone caused the heart he professed not to have to clench in his chest. He and Mycroft were unlikely to ever be friends; a situation which served them both well. He had been there, long before Lestrade, John, or even Mrs Hudson had. They'd remained part of each other's life, in a way no other member of their family had.
"It was three years John. It wasn't always easy to keep track of who knew what and which parts I did and didn't explain when I got back." He offered, aware it sounded as weak as every explanation he'd tried to give Mycroft.
John gave him a level stare.
"I didn't know anything, Sherlock. I had to trust you to tell me the important parts."
The accusing note in his voice made Sherlock bristle somewhat. He was successfully holding back anger at his flatmate for his presumptuous actions against his brother as it was. After all, if Mycroft had betrayed him, he would still not gain any satisfaction from John punching him. It was one of the very few times in which John punching Mycroft was not an idea which appealed to him.
"I know that." Sherlock replied briskly. "It was a mistake, as I said."
"So that's it is it, you made a mistake, no ramifications, just another thing you let me believe for three years?" John asked him, sounding weary, yet angry.
Sherlock's gaze snapped up and he glared at John, fury burning behind his cold grey eyes. The one thing he hadn't quite been able to fathom, no matter how many times Mycroft had tried to explain, was why the people he left behind, never seemed to register everything he'd done had been for them. Rather, than to spite them, as their reactions seemed more fitted to.
He understood, he couldn't let them grieve for him for three years and expect no bad feelings when he returned, but surely once they knew what he'd done…he didn't owe them anymore?
"The ramifications, John…" He began, a dangerous note in his voice. "Are very much the damage, emotional and physical, done to my brother. On this occasion, you will forgive me if I think I've apologised to you enough."
He was up and in his bedroom, door slammed behind him, before he could register the shock on John's face. He wondered idly, which part of his admonishment had come as a bigger surprise; his own anger, the reminder he'd apologised for every aspect - revealed and unrevealed - about the great hiatus many times over, or the suggestion Mycroft had emotions.
He wasn't rightly sure of that last part himself in fact. He had seemed what normal people would describe as 'upset', but maybe he had simply run to the end of the vast reserves of energy directed purely at his role as Sherlock's shadow.
He felt a familiar weariness starting to creep over him at the silence that had somehow followed him from the living room into his bedroom. Mycroft had been right, when he'd told him caring was never an advantage. He couldn't prevent himself hating the thought of John grieving for three years, but he simply could not continue to feel crippling guilt for it. It didn't help either of them, it served no useful purpose at all and he couldn't see how John's continuing anger did either.
He hadn't needed proof John cared about him. The day he punched the chief constable for insulting Sherlock, had been both touching and useful, as it meant Sherlock could bring John on the run with him, briefly. Visiting a similar punishment for Mycroft's imaginary crime, was in no way useful to anyone. It brought on the kind of feelings Sherlock didn't want to feel, double whammy of guilt. What made him snap at John, though he knew he shouldn't, was that he surely should understand, Sherlock hadn't had any choice, which meant he couldn't really be angry at him. Conversely, Mycroft had every right to be angry, but Sherlock didn't think he really was.
