As soon as Mrs. Hudson had left the room, John's inebriated mind processed the scene before him, and, like his hero, best friend, and lover before him, made a deduction. "Fucking hell, Sherlock!" he screeched, stumbling backwards. Mycroft, always prepared (though he'd been a terrible Boy Scout), pushed a chair underneath him. After pausing for a moment to collect himself (well, as much as is possible when one is a tired drunk under extreme conditions) before continuing.
Well, trying to continue. Instead of actually speaking, he spluttered, lips moving and nothing but gobs of spit coming out of his mouth, each fleck on the carpeting inducing another wince from Mycroft. "But… but…" he finally managed to say.
Sherlock rolled slowly from his position on the table, each movement slow and aged-looking. "Surprised? He asked calmly, voice as deep and steady as ever. "Really John, did you think I would kill myself? After all we did together?"
John staggered to his feet, arms swinging wildly as he swayed on the spot. Mycroft made a note to fire whoever had been stupid enough to give John another drink as the formerly dignified man swayed on the spot, pointing his finger at Sherlock furiously.
"Eight months!" he yelled, voice almost lost, absorbed to by the maroon wall hangings. "Eight fucking months!" John took an unsteady step forwards. "I had no idea, you fucking bastard! What kind of asshole does that to someone? Eight months I waited after your bullshit suicide, sitting in the same fucking apartment doing the same fucking things and it just wasn't the same."
By the end of his speech, his words had slowed to a mournful whimper as he collapsed into a pitiful slump on the carpet. His head raised slowly, each muscle motion laborious, and he spat, "I hate you."
Balanced on his side by his elbow, feeling naked without his thick wool coat, Sherlock swallowed. Usually, that would have been an unforgiveable crack in his stony façade, but what the hell. John was drunk, he wouldn't care.
"That's normal," Sherlock said smoothly, the waver in his voice barely noticeable even by Mycroft. "You have every right to be angry with me." His head dipped slightly, a subtle (and rare) sign of submission that went over John's head.
John swaggered to his feet. "You bet your ass I do." He stumbled a few steps forward, each venture on one foot another dangerous dip to either the right or left, each contempt-spiked word slurred almost disgustingly into the next. "You come crawling back on your fucking knees," he paused to take a deep, dragging breath, and leaned heavily against an end table, fingers scrabbling for a hold on the marble surface so that he could hold himself up. "And expect things to go back to fucking normal?"
Sherlock had been holding his breath, and he let it out with a sigh that reeked of cigarettes even to John's clouded senses. "John, you couldn't know." Sherlock was almost pleading, as close to pleading as he had ever come, on his metaphorical knees, and John, his John, was staring back at him with glazed distaste. It crushed him. "It was part of the—"
"The plan, Sherlock?" John yelled. "You and your fucking plans. Experiments, more like. Put the rat in the cage and take away the sunlight and see what sort of crazy bullshit he does, right? Why not toss in some rat poison then, yeah?"
By that point, John had sprung himself from the end table, throwing his hands in the air and pacing back and forth like a hero out of Poe. "Is that it?" he asked dully, collapsing into an armchair in a sudden bout of fatigue. "Did you get your results? Did the rat eat the fucking poison?