Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock
Bitter
John listened.
It made sense that Moriarty wanted the game to end in Sherlock's suicide, that Sherlock saw it coming and turned to poor, overlooked Molly. It made sense that she had done everything he asked of her and had been acting strangely ever since. It made sense that Sherlock used it all to his advantage and didn't let anyone else in on his plan.
It was heroic. The whole thing was so damn selfless and noble that John couldn't possibly be angry with the idiot.
Which was infuriating.
Because now, Sherlock was staring at him almost fearfully, nearly vulnerably, as if everything depended on John's next words.
Never mind that John had already fought his way through all the stages of grief, that he had just tried to help a concussed old lady and found that it was actually his dead flat mate in disguise, or that Sherlock had failed to trust him again.
The man had effectively died to save his friends, so John had to be grateful.
"It's a shame," John said, sighing.
He watched Sherlock's face fall with some satisfaction.
"What is?"
"That you decided end your heroic quest by coming to my office dressed as an old woman and fainting. Not your usual style."
John smiled and let his relief and happiness push away all bitterness.