John sat in his office with a pencil and a piece of paper he nicked from the printer. Facts, he'd written in strong, steady strokes at the top. He felt slightly… nervous. Not quite guilty, but as if this was something he shouldn't do. Like he might be hexing himself by actually writing it out.
Taking a breath, he scratched: Sherlock = not kill himself. If nothing else, Sherlock wouldn't be able to consider that the world might be able to get on without him.
Moriarty = wanted S. dead. That one was obvious. Moriarty said it himself, that first meeting.
I saw body. That was true, never mind how much it plagued his nightmares.
Not dead = body fake. It was a logical conclusion. It had been Sherlock—there was no faking that. John knew his flatmate too well—knew the high cheekbones, the icy eyes, the curling hair. It made him burn with fury to realize that Sherlock had fooled him—not so much that he had managed it, but that he had dared. What sort of friend does that? Sherlock was… well, Sherlock, but still.
Growling in frustration, John ripped the page from its pad and crumpled the sheet of paper, throwing it across the room and into the wastebasket by the door.
Logic didn't solve all problems.