Chapter 3

"I've seen a lot of people die," John breaks the silence. Four feet and books and papers and notes and Mrs Hudson's nice wood floor and experience.

"More than I should probably admit to you, as a doctor I mean." John continues. "Certainly more than my fair share."

Sherlock has stilled, completely. No more pacing. Instead he's found the arm of the sofa. Perched there.

John goes on. "What I'm trying to say is; I know what death looks like. And it was you. Lying there. On the pavement. Covered in blood. I saw that. Do you have any idea how often I see that?"

John's voice seems to continue speaking well after he wishes he could keep the thoughts back.

Sherlock swallows. He's heard it. Stored it away.

"Exactly John."

"Exactly?"

"You know what death looks like. You saw what you expected to see."

"You're right I did. A man falls off a roof…"

"Jumps."

"Yes." John's word is slightly strangled. Trust Sherlock to correct this mistake. "Yes, jumps." John sighs, "He's going to look a certain way when that jump is over."

"Pavement. Blood"

"Yes."

"Cause and effect."

"Yes."

"So knowing what you know about the likely implications on a human body of hitting a pavement from a distance of let's say, thirty feet, you would, as a doctor, be able to give me a pretty accurate description of injuries likely to be sustained in such a circumstance."

"Did you always talk like that?" John asks suddenly.

"Yes." Sherlock's reply is instant; his face a picture of confusion. "Why?"

"Of course. I'd forgotten."

"You had?"

"It seems so." A pause, John wets his lips, "Yes."

A pause as Sherlock considers the word, "Yes, what?" He asks finally.

"The answer to your ridiculously worded question: Yes. Yes I know the likely effects of a pavement on a body thrown at it from a distance of approximately thirty feet."

"So your mind would be able to supply those details. Even if they weren't present."

"It's certainly supplying those details right now."

"Blood. Pavement. Yes, John. Exactly."

"I can imagine them. But I can't see them."

"But what if your mind were particularly susceptible? To see those things it imagined." The tempo of Sherlock's words seems to be speeding up.

"You mean a dream?" John asks,

"A waking one perhaps." Sherlock counters quickly,

"Hallucination? A drug then? In the sugar."

"It was in the air,"

"Yes, but you thought it was in the sugar."

"Yes, nevermind that."

"There was a drug in the air?" John comes back to the point.

"No. Not a drug. Something of the same strength. To muddle the mind."

"A blow to the head."

"Yes."

"The cyclist."

"Yes." Sherlock confirms, quicker now.

John's mind is suddenly flooded with the sensation of that blow. The cyclist. Crowding him.

"Misdirection John." Sherlock continues.

"But, the blood."

"Not my blood."

"Molly," John says, tumblers falling.

"Yes."

"I touched you."

"Barely. They wouldn't let you."

"They?" John asks, before his mind supplies the detail: "The people, the bystanders."

"Yes, did you not wonder where they were before?"

"Before?"

"Before I fell." Sherlock is still talking too fast.

"Well, no."

"You weren't thinking about that."

"No."

"You were thinking about the effects a fall like that would have on any normal human body."

"Not a fall."

"A jump" Sherlock confirms quickly.

"I was thinking… that I'd lost you."

"But subconsciously, you were supplying those details."

"I have no idea."

"You were, you saw me fall. Cause…"

"I did,"

"… You saw a body on the pavement. Effect. Blood: supplied. Broken: implied…"

"Stop it." John's voice is quiet.

"It wasn't my body John" Sherlock looks up at him, continues as if he hasn't spoken. "It was a dummy, a decoy, the likely effect to your witnessesed cause."

"Stop it." John repeats.

"You saw what you thought you would. Knew you would."

"Stop it." Again.

"I made you see what you knew you would."

"Stop it!" John stands.

Sherlock's open mouth freezes.

"Stop it!" John's voice is louder. Anger again. "Stop that. Stop talking about it as if it's something clever that you did Sherlock! The "cause and effect", the details. The little things that made me think what I wanted to believe. I didn't want to believe that Sherlock! I didn't want to believe the person that meant the most to me in the world had done that. Done that to himself!"

Sherlock can only sit and stare.

"Stop talking like you're not really hearing what I'm saying Sherlock. 'Look at me John, look at how clever I am, look at how I managed to pull it off' Details. Details. Details." John's breath is fast again. "I don't want the details Sherlock. I want you to hear what I'm saying to you: I. Thought. I. Had. Lost. You."

His anger is freeing. Sherlock blinks up at him.

"Your grief made that possible John."

John swallows: "That might be one of the coldest things you've ever said to me."

"You were upset. A blow to the head. Suggestible."

"I saw it because I cared?"

"You believed in me."

"Believed in you? Or believed you were dead?"

"Both." Sherlock confirms.

"I'm not sure where one starts and the other finishes anymore."

"They were always the same." Sherlock.

John sits again. Time passes.

"You tried to stop me believing in you."

"Yes."

"Tried to tell me you were a fraud."

"Yes."

"Did you think that by doing that I wouldn't believe you were really dead? I wouldn't care enough, to see, what I did?"

"I'm not sure." Sherlock meets his eyes. Seemingly for the first time in hours.

"Did you really think it would work that way?" John asks.

Sherlock's gaze shifts: "I'm not sure."

"Were you trying to protect me?"

Sherlock's repetition seems to hang in the air, unsaid. "I thought it would serve a purpose."

"What would?"

"Having you believe that of me. That I was a fraud."

"What purpose?"

"That if people could see you were against me, you'd be safe."

"So it was to protect me?" John asks

"Of course,"

"From other people? Not from you."

"I've never been very good at protecting you from me."

"No," And for some bizarre reason John finds himself smiling at that. "No, you haven't."

"You've not made it very easy for me."

"I guess I haven't."

Sherlock stands, slowly, an air of something to say:

"John, I…" His voice is low again,

"If you're going to tell me more details I don't think I want to hear them." John cuts him off.

"I don't think I've told you many to add more to."

"You've told me enough. For now."

"John, I…"

"I don't want to talk about details…" The end of John's sentence hangs with the expectations of what else there is to talk about. Three feet, those books, those papers, those notes, Mrs Hudson's nice wood floor and things unspoken.

John continues "I just told you I thought I'd lost you. You accepted that."

"Cause and effect…"

"No," John cuts in, "Not just that. I told you that I see it. Blood and pavement and…" John's voice chokes off slightly.

"Yes."

"…and that it hurts. It hurt. It was hard." A pause, John levels his gaze at him "I told you that. And you didn't even blink."

"I think I probably did."

"Figuratively. Not literally. You didn't react"

"No,"

"You expected that. You expected that I'd feel that way."

"Yes."

"You knew that. It was part of the plan."

"Not really, I…"Sherlock starts, looking lost.

"You knew that and yet you still did that."

"I…"

"You did that to me. Knowing that."

"I underestimated."

"No." John says firmly.

"No?"

"No, you didn't. You didn't underestimate anything. You never do. You knew exactly what you were doing."

"I…" Sherlock can't find any words of defence.

"You don't underestimate me. You know me." John continues. "You knew what you were doing. You knew what you were doing when you sent me to Mrs Hudson. You knew I'd go. You knew what you were doing when you kissed me. You knew what you were doing when you asked me to watch as you threw yourself off a building in some… in some… necessity."

His thoughts trail away.

Sherlock takes another step forward. John puts up his hands:

"Don't." John says, the same caution from earlier. "Don't" He scrubs his hands back over his eyes, feeling faintly like a wild animal that Sherlock is slowly creeping up on, pausing at each stage to build the trust necessary for another step. Is he still being trained?

"I did know what I was doing when I kissed you." Sherlock's voice is calm. Poised somewhere above John's covered eyes.

He uncovers them, looks up: "It was you. All you. It was 3am, I was…"

"Asleep, yes."

"You climbed into bed with me."

"Yes." Sherlock says blankly, as if confirming his drinks order.

"Flatmates don't do that."

"No, I…"

"Don't tell me it was some sort of experiment."

"It wasn't…"

"And all the other times? Expanding the dataset?"

"You're putting words in my mouth,"

"Believing what I want to believe?" John asks, looping around.

"At the moment, yes, you won't let me explain."

"You have explained. Cause and effect right?" John is lost. "Cause: me, effect: you."

"John,"

"Or is it the other way around? I'm not sure I can understand this anymore. People don't do that. People don't. You do. Cause: you. Effect: I don't believe anything you do any more."

"You said you believed in me."

"I believed you weren't a fraud. I believed you fell off a roof."

"Jumped," Sherlock corrects again.

"Jumped."

"But you didn't believe me when I kissed you."

There is actual hurt in Sherlock's face as he says this.

It brings John up short.

"How could I?" John asks. "We never…" He blinks, "We never spoke about it."

"I'm not good at that."

"I never knew," A stop. "When to expect. Whether I was just something to pass the time between cases."

"You were."

"You… What?"

"You interest me John."

"You just admitted I was just there to pass the time."

"That was, that wasn't… No. That wasn't what I meant."

"It wasn't?"

"Cases are interesting. You are interesting. I don't find many things interesting."

"So I was to keep you from getting bored?"

"No, I," Sherlock's turn to put his hand across his eyes. "I'm not good at this."

"Get good!" John's voice is louder.

"You are important John."

"So important, you died?"

"What? No." Sherlock is taken aback. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Stop calling me ridiculous!" Louder again.

"They aren't linked."

"How can they not be linked? You kissed me. You got into bed with me. More than once. We, we…" John comes to a halt in front of his own lack of words.

"I meant it," Sherlock assures.

"I thought," John can't quite believe his voice can be uttering these things. To a dead man. "I thought, you… I mean, I…"

"Yes?"

John closes his eyes, answers from behind dark lids "I thought, perhaps, there were feelings."

"There were."

"I thought. Maybe. At the time. But since…"

"Since?"

"Since you died. You had to know how much that was going to hurt, Sherlock. Hurt me."

"Yes."

"But you did it anyway?"

"It was necessary."

"That word again." John sighs. "You have to understand that I'd have questioned it."

"It?"

"That you were able to do that. To me. That you felt anything at all."

"John," Sherlock's voice is a low rumble. Across the space. Across two feet of it and books and papers and notes and Mrs Hudson's nice wood floor, and broken crockery and broken promises.

"Yes?"

"Would it help if I kissed you now?" Sherlock has to know the effect that pitch of voice has on him.

John's eyes snap open:

"No." His word freezes the step Sherlock had been preparing to take forward. "No," Decisive. "God. No."

"I could try and make you understand."

"Just don't touch me, not yet."

"It would explain better than I could…"

"You'll just have to use words Sherlock."

"But…"

"If you tried to touch me right now, I'm pretty sure I'd hit you." John assures him.

"Oh."

"Those cheekbones couldn't handle it."

"They have before."

"That time I avoided them."

"And she called you on it."

"She could always be trusted to say things out loud." John assures him.

"We say things out loud."

"Not the important things."

"The important things don't need to be said out loud."

"Some do."

"Like I love you?"

"Yes, like that." John doesn't miss a beat.

"Would it have made it easier?"

"What?"

"If I'd said that?" Sherlock asks.

"Before…. Before you…?" It's as if they each only have a certain quota of words on this night. John is running out of his.

"Would it have made it any easier if I'd said those things, out loud, before I died?"

John has to take a moment to think.

"Perhaps."

"I thought not." Sherlock has made his own deduction of John's tone.

"But I would have known."

"But you did know."

"No I didn't." John counters.

"But it was obvious."

"Obvious to you perhaps, we aren't all brilliant consulting detectives."

"But you know now?"

"What?"

"That I love you." Sherlock succeeds in taking that step forward. One foot. Books, papers, notes, wood floors and three little words.

"Don't be ridiculous." John replies.

Just a quick note to say hi to the fandom! I just want to thank you for being wonderful; so enthusiastic and so inclusive. These characters have really entered my head and I've enjoyed writing them as much as I've enjoyed watching and reading them!

Also setlock note: I didn't want this fic to be about the how but more about the why (as well at the truly spectacular relationship between these two main characters). However the nature of the fic did necessitate I add some of my own conclusions. I am desperate to avoid s3 spoilers so cannot confirm or deny the accuracy of any of my theories, but I am aware that some of my readers may actually already know how it was all done – please don't judge me (or tell me!) where I'm wrong!

If you do like what you read I generally keep things updated and post ideas, thoughts, snippets and things that inspire me on my tumbr blog. You can find me under "Qalets". I'm a shameful novice at the whole thing – so I'd welcome any hints and tips, ideas, thoughts and everything else you want to send me. Obviously I'm a fanfic writer so I live for feedback, post a review or send me a mail – I'd love to hear what you think.

Chapters 4 & 5 will be updated next week… With 6 & 7 to follow shortly after.