When the cab reached Baker Street, Sherlock hopped out, looking uncharacteristically apologetic as John paid the driver. Sherlock waited for John to catch up before starting up the stairs. He held the door open for John, waiting eagerly for an expression of gratitude, but John just brushed by. Sherlock frowned momentarily, but he brightened when he realized that this was the first time in years he and John had been back home.
"It still looks the same as I remember," Sherlock said conversationally, to break the silence. John hummed. Sherlock tried again. "I would have thought you would throw most of my stuff away, or at the very least cleaned up a bit around here," he pressed, looking to John for a reaction. "Why didn't you?"
John's eyes flicked to Sherlock and then away once more. "Hurt too much," he said briefly, shrugging.
Sherlock stood still. "You... really care that much?" He asked, swallowing thickly.
John faced him, a bitter smile on his face.
"Of course I care," he said emphatically. "You may not understand, but I-"
"No," Sherlock interrupted vehemently. "You're wrong John." His voice was hollow and distant. "I understand. I understand so well."
Their eyes connected, John's showing surprise and tenderness, Sherlock's full of fire and passion.
"Why did you do it?" John finally broke, needing to know the answer.
"I had to," Sherlock said quietly, nearly a whisper. "It was the only way."
"The only way to beat Moriarty?" John asked, growing angry. "And you couldn't have told me? You couldn't have told me that you weren't dead?" His voice shook, and Sherlock flinched at the years of agony that were resurfacing. "Do you have any idea how much pain I was in because of you? I died that day!" He shouted. "And now it doesn't matter, because you've been alive this whole time and you, you didn't even tell me," he ended brokenly. Sherlock felt so guilty, although it had been unavoidable.
"I did tell you." Sherlock's voice was no more than the tiniest breath, so soft John nearly missed it. John's face reflected hurt and confusion. "I did tell you," Sherlock said louder. "The mirror. Surely you saw. Please tell me you saw," Sherlock nearly begged.
John was shocked. All this time, Sherlock really had tried to tell John. He tried to make things right, as right as they could be, and John just wasn't able to see it.
"I," John began, breathing in deeply. "So that's what you meant. I guess I just never understood," he admitted, completely defeated.
Sherlock was silent. Here was John, his best friend, his only friend, completely broken and worn. And it was Sherlock's fault.
"John," Sherlock said, waiting for John to turn his head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I never meant to hurt you, but I have, and I can't tell you how awful I feel. But please believe me when I say that I had no other option."
Sherlock's eyes shone with emotion and sincerity, and John couldn't be mad, not truly. But part of John broke when he saw the little drops of water fall from those eyes. In that moment, he realized that it's often the strongest people who are the most fragile.
John didn't know what to do. This was Sherlock. Sherlock never showed remorse, never apologized. And he never, never cried. And it made John hurt.
John stepped forward gently, seeing Sherlock's pleading face, silently begging for forgiveness that John had already given. John opened his arms, and seconds later, Sherlock was clinging to the front of his shirt, head buried in his shoulder, whispering "I'm sorry, so so sorry," over and over, and John felt his own eyes grow damp.
"Sherlock, it's okay. I'm not mad. You're here now, that's what matters," John whispered, holding Sherlock gently. Sherlock shook his head violently.
"It's not okay. I hurt you. You didn't deserve that. I left you, and I-"
"Sherlock," John said sternly. "Sherlock listen to me." Sherlock's apologies faded. "Look at me," John commanded, and Sherlock lifted his head up to look at John, his eyes red and teary. John hated seeing his friend so broken. "Do you trust me?" He asked more gently. Sherlock nodded. Of course he trusted John. He trusted him with his life. "Then believe me when I tell you it's okay. It's alright because I'm saying it's alright. The past doesn't matter anymore. There's only the future from here, and we can't face that if you can't forgive yourself. It's okay Sherlock, because I forgive you."
Sherlock blinked. Once, twice. John was truly an amazing person. Sherlock hugged him, surprising them both.
"John, I-" He didn't know what to say. He didn't have words to express his gratitude. "I-"
"I know, Sherlock. I know." John had never thought of Sherlock as being a very emotional person, but now, he had opened up to John in ways neither of them could have expected.
"Isn't this a bit, er, sentimental?" John said lightly, trying to ease the mood.
Sherlock laughed. "You knew what, John. You've always been right, about emotional matters. Sentiment is not a weakness. It's the greatest form of strength. The strongest heroes are the ones that have something to fight for."
John smiled. He was so glad Sherlock was back, even if he had spent all that time suffering. That hardly mattered now.
John went into the kitchen to make tea, smiling because life was good.