"Yes" Sherlock whispered, siting up a little straighter. "He did." John jerked his head back up, a sudden movement that sent his entire body rocking backwards slightly.

"You left me to fester in your apartment, saturated with everything you used to be, and expected me to come out the same?" John flopped exhaustedly into a nearby armchair. "Rats only live so long, Sherlock."

Anger was creeping into Sherlock's tone as well. "I made a decision that I deemed appropriate at the time." When all he received was a highly skeptical eyebrow raise on John's end of the so-called 'conversation', he elaborated slightly. "I assessed the situation and made an executive judgment. I jumped, your life, and the life of those others whom I value, were spared, at least temporarily."

It wasn't your call, Sherlock! Did you ever think, even for one minute, that maybe your decision, your executive judgment, wasn't the right one?"

It might have been the copious quantities of alcohol he had consumed, and it might have been the stress of having to look presentable, but no matter the cause, it was clear that the ugly noises coming from John's heaving figure were wheezes, each great, quivering sigh a sob. He pawed angrily at his face as if scraping the liquid from his eyes, but the tears just kept slipping out. When he finally looked up, vision marred by salty splotches, Sherlock had left.

Sherlock sighed as soon as the door closed softly behind him. "Mycroft, deal with this mess."

"Not likely, my dear brother," Mycroft said, smirking. "You are, after all, the one that died." He patted Mrs. Hudson on the shoulder, a gesture so domestic that it crossed one's mind that he might be stoned. "No, this is your fault, Sherlock, and you have to learn to clean up after yourself."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please. Mrs. Hudson?"

Following her cue, she stood up from, the armchair Lestrade had shoved her into, awkwardly shrugging off Mycroft's hand. "I'd better go talk to him," she said worriedly. "He's had a rather rough time of it, what with the alcohol and all."

Mycroft replaced his hand, dragging Mrs. Hudson back into her seat. "Sherlock, if you don't go in there and talk to that man, you'll never see him again." His fingers drummed on the handle of his umbrella, which had conveniently appeared leaning on the chair when Sherlock had arrived. "I'll give him a credit card and a flat near a liquor store, and leave him to die of alcohol poisoning in peace."

Sherlock turned and opened the door. "John?" He poked his head around the door cautiously. "John, I'm sorry."

"Like hell you are." John barked harshly. "Sherlock Holmes, detective extraordinaire, sorry?" he rolled his eyes. "Mycroft put you up to this."

Sherlock entered the room, bare feet making a surprisingly soft sound on the marble parquet floor compared to his brother's impeccably polished dress shoes that never seemed to leave his feet. "It doesn't-"

"Bullshit," John spat, rising to his knees from his slumped position on the rug. Sherlock could see splotches of dark blood, nearly identical to the shade of the carpet, puddling around his knees, and tinting the light that bounced off the shattered crystal that had once been a rather dreadful vase a pinkish crimson. "If he weren't waiting outside, threatening to haul at least one of us off to a remote unknown location, you would be halfway down the block already."

Sherlock attempted to protest, but only a strangled sort of mutter could come out before John continued. "I know you, Sherlock Holmes, better than you think. I've had eight months of emptiness, eight months of despair, to think about you. And I've come to a couple of very simple conclusions. First, you're a bastard. Second, you're a slob. I don't want to find six-month old fingers in the crisper when I'm looking for a beer. And third, you need to fuck off very, very soon, because there is only so long that I'll be able to sit on this rug before I stand up and carve your face to shreds with this hideous piece of crystal.