Chapter 37: One More Miracle.

"Be careful not to lose your head, remember what the Dormouse said, Alice! Did someone pull you by the hand? How many miles to Wonderland? Please tell us so we'll understand."

-Danny Elfman, Alice's Theme.

It wasn't possible. It just wasn't. And yet, John felt no disbelief, just a deep numbness. It made sense, in a dark and twisted fashion. Jim and Sherlock were evenly matched, just as John had always feared. One could not be alive without the other. He remembered hearing a saying once, 'two sides of the same coin,' and now that idea clicked into place in John's mind. He was certain, in that moment, that the day one of them died, the other would follow.

"Sherlock?" he repeated, knowing that both Jim and Sherlock hated repetition, but unable to say anything else, and then all he could do was wait for a response.

"I… Yes, yes, it's me," came the voice, too familiar to be anything other than what it sounded like. "John, what are you-" The sentence trailed off, unfinished.

"Are you the one that's been shooting the snipers?" John asked again, blankly. Oh, god. Sherlock had shot Sebastian. Sherlock was trying to kill Sebastian. "But… you're not left-handed." There was a pause, and John thought about how it was funny, the little things that suddenly jumped to the front of your mind. "You're ambidextrous when you want to be. You were shooting that way to put us off your trail. I didn't even think of you." John breathed in deeply, savouring the one thing that made sense in this situation, the one thing that he could understand. He thought back to the nights spent with Moriarty as he paced back and forth, repeating the same words over and over, trying to make them fit together. John said them out loud, and every sentence was a question answered.

"One shooter. Not professionally trained, but well-practised. Changes guns every time. Left-handed, or at least uses their left hand to shoot. Knows that Moriarty and M are connected. Tried to get the snipers convicted through the law, and only started shooting to kill after that didn't work, which means that they're trying to do the 'right thing'. But they aren't working with the police or the Iceman, so why? Because he's supposed to be dead. Because his anonymity gave him the freedom to pick off the snipers without having his friends targeted. Again. Brilliant, as usual." The words were twisted now, coming out darkly sarcastic.

"You-" Sherlock was shaking his head now, curls bouncing. "They were going to kill you. I was trying to save you."

"I know," John said. "I found out. Not because you told me, by the way. Not because you took a minute to pick up the phone and say 'Oh, by the way, I'm not dead.' No, someone else had to tell me, and now I find out that you're alive?" He gestured with the gun. "I'm not even going to ask how, because frankly I don't care, and I don't want to hear you.." He ran out of words for the sentence.

It was funny, that he had wanted this so badly for so long. All he had wanted was for Sherlock to come back and save him from himself, and from the blankness of the world, and the temptation that was Moriarty. And now he was back, and John had nothing to say to him. What could he say?

His eyes flickered over to Sebastian, in the next bed over, and Sherlock's gaze followed his own. "John, this man, you don't know what he's done, you should not be defending him."

"You're right, I don't know everything he's done. But I've heard a lot of his stories, about Sandra and William and the Eastern Coastline job in America, and I know he's killed a lot of people, and I don't care, I'm bloody well defending him, because I have saved his life twice, and I am not letting you take it, because he is my friend."

"I am your friend," Sherlock said, and his voice was distant.

"Nope, uh-uh. Friends don't let friends believe they're dead. They don't let each other grieve over them. They don't abandon each other, and that's what you did to me, Sherlock, you abandoned me." The gun was pointing at Sherlock again, and although John had no intention of pulling the trigger, it made him feel better. He was the one who was in charge here, finally.

"I had to, they would have killed you. I'm sorry, John, but it was necessary."

"Obviously not." John gestured to Sebastian, lying on the bed, the slow and steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor a constant background to the conversation. "I know them, they like me, I like them. We're all good. No killing here!" His voice was starting to get a little bit maniacal now, a hint of hysteria making its way past the anger and confusion.

"They're tricking you, John." God, that voice, so familiar and so alien. A far away memory, even as it spoke in the present. Reminding him of what it used to be. John looked at Sherlock's silhouette and realized that he had remembered him wrong. In his absence, John had made him into something he was not; perfect.

No, Sherlock Holmes was not, and never would be, perfect.

The bodies in the fridge had not been endearing at the time. They had been disgusting. And being woken up by gunshots had been disturbing, not relaxing. And then there was having to go to the shop every week with absolutely no help with the groceries, which he had had to carry up the stairs and put away all by himself. That hadn't just been life, that had been completely irritating.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was a genius, and yes, John had loved him. But he had forgotten what an arrogant git he could really be.

"My friends are not tricking me." His voice was strong, laced with a hint of danger. "And you have no right to come in here and tell me that they are. You have no right to even talk to me, not after what you did." Anger was good, and he gave himself over to it, letting it burn away the uncertainty. "You let me grieve. You shot Sebastian. You killed Frederick. He died, coughing up blood, on my operating table. In front of Leo. It ruined my best jumper!"

John slid out of bed, still holding the gun steadily on Sherlock's forehead, and took a step forwards. The taller man retreated.

"I didn't know, John."

"No, you still don't know," John said grimly. "And you're never going to understand."

"Are you M?" The voice was distant again, as though coming from far deep inside Sherlock, where he had curled up against the reality of the world. John laughed, a choked sound he hadn't known he was capable of making.

"Yes, Sherlock, I've turned into a criminal mastermind in your absence." John realized that his tone was too filled with anger to communicate enough sarcasm to puncture Sherlock's social filters. "I don't owe you any answers. In fact, I don't owe you anything anymore. Get out, Sherlock."

"I only wanted to-"

"I don't care. Get out. I know you're alive, I know you're shooting the snipers, I know your number. I will contact you if I want to, which is unlikely. Now get out."

"If M has threatened you, if he's coerced you into this somehow-"

"Give it up, Sherlock. I want to be here, and I want you to leave. Now."

"I-" John pulled back the hammer, and the little click was louder than any of the consulting detective's words. The dark-haired man backed towards the door. "I will save you, John, if there's any way to."

"Well, good luck with that," John said firmly, unknowingly echoing Jim's words on the rooftop of Saint Bart's. Sherlock flinched at the quote, but John didn't notice. "I want you to leave this building. If you ever come here again, I will turn you over to the friends of the men you've killed. I wouldn't kill you myself, but they're trained assassins, and I don't think they're very happy with you right now."

"I'll see you again soon," Sherlock said, with some of his old confidence, and then the door banged shut behind him, and he was gone. John stood there with his gun held out in front of him, trained on nothing.

Sherlock is alive.

His legs were suddenly shaking, and he knelt on the concrete floor, still aiming at the door. Sherlock is alive. Finally, he put down the gun, staring blankly after his ex-flatmate, ex-friend, ex-centre of universe.

Things had just gotten much more complicated.