A/N: Spoilers for A Scandal in Belgravia. All text pertaining to John's blog taken directly from source (johnwatsonblog . co . uk)

The Patience of Remorse

I

The flat was colder than when John had left it, as he mindlessly moved towards the kettle and flicked it on. Placing his palms flat against the countertop, he rotated his neck from side to side, keeping his eyes closed as he focused his ears to the sound of the water slowly coming to a boil.

He felt cold, but if only he could blame that on the temperature of the flat. The windows had yet to be repaired from when they had been blown out by the concussive force of the blast across the street. It was why he and Sherlock had sat in their living room still wearing their coats earlier, as he typed away at his laptop and Sherlock yelled at The Jeremy Kyle Show.

Sherlock... he had been right behind John as they'd quietly climbed the stairs, careful not to disturb Mrs Hudson since it was late at night, later even than when that Chinese takeaway on Baker Street stayed open. Whereas John had gone into the kitchen directly, his flatmate has taken up root in his arm chair, bringing his legs up and curling his arms around them. Very much in the same position John had left him in. Before... everything.

John suppressed a shiver as he opened the cupboard above the kettle, rooting around for clean, sanitary mugs. He wasn't wearing his customary black jacket, clad simply in the chequered shirt and brown cardigan he had on when he'd left. Somewhere between leaving Sherlock and meeting him again, his jacket had been replaced by the olive-green, fur-lined coat provided by Moriarty which had hid a vest lined with Semtex. Sherlock had ripped both jacket and explosives off him earlier, but even when the threat of dying had passed, there was no way John was putting that coat on again. Instead, he'd shivered as Scotland Yard had been called out to the pool, along with a bomb unit to collect and dispose of the explosives left behind. He'd wrapped his arms around himself as he gave his statement of how he'd ended up as the play-toy of a psychopath in a building miles from where he'd intended to be.

Sherlock, in a rare show of compassion, had held out his own woollen coat to him as they stood waiting for Lestrade to arrive, but he'd shaken his head. He didn't want anything from Sherlock.

The sound of the kettle clicking off as the water came to a full boil distracted John from the chill. Taking out two tea-bags from the massive PG Tips box Mrs Hudson had purchased for them, he put one in each of the mugs he'd set down next to the kettle. He grabbed a spoon and the sugar pot, measuring out two teaspoon's worth into the mug on the right, before filling both to the brim with water. He watched, thinking of nothing at all, as the tea brewed and slowly turned the water into the shade of brown he preferred. He disposed of the tea-bags before heading to the fridge, opening the door and pulling out a bottle of semi-skimmed milk.

It was only as he was twisting the cap open did he remember:

"There's still some of the risotto left in the fridge. And milk, we need milk."

"I'll get some."

"Really?"

"Really."

"And some... beans... then?"

Lifting the cap, John saw the plastic seal that guaranteed this to be a brand new bottle of milk. One that had definitely not been in the fridge when he'd left earlier. On a hunch, he turned his head to look at the kitchen table. Quite clearly, amongst the clutter and scientific equipment, was a brand new six-pack of Heinz Baked Beans, still halfway in the Tesco carrier bag.

Mrs Hudson only shopped from Sainsbury's. And she'd already done the weekly shop two days ago.

Picking up both mugs, glad for the warmth they afforded his hands, he stepping into the living room. Placing one mug on the stack of books to Sherlock's right, John sank into his armchair. A tiny part of him appreciated the comfort of the cushions, considering how close he'd come tonight to never being in this flat again. The warmth of the fire in the grate also went some way to easing the chill that had set in his bones.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed frozen. His eyes fixed somewhere in the vicinity of John's knees, he'd yet to move a muscle since John had set the tea down.

"You bought milk," John said quietly.

Sherlock's eyes flickered and he finally looked up. Shifting out of his almost childlike posture, he brought his knees down and placed his hands over the arms of the chair.

"I said I would."

"You also said you'd returned the plans to Mycroft," John snapped, before bringing his hand up and rubbing his eyes. He knew, deep down, that this moment mattered. They'd just survived a situation on the grace that their would-be murderer had forgotten to put his phone on silent. What was or wasn't said now, in the half darkness, in the middle of the night, had the potential to derail whatever path he and Sherlock had been on together since the moment they'd met.

John took a deep breath, and tried again.

"What happened after I left the flat?"

Sherlock looked away, gazing into the fire instead. "You must have overheard me telling Lestrade."

"Not good enough," John shook his head. "I want you to tell me. What happened after I left this room over six hours ago, Sherlock?"

For a moment, John thought Sherlock was going to ignore him but then his flatmate's deep baritone broke the silence.

"I put a message up on my website. 'Found. The Bruce-Partington Plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight."

John nodded. "Right. And Moriarty, he didn't call you or contact you in any way? No fifth pip?"

"No."

"And you thought that was what he was after all along, the plans?"

"Initially, yes. Now, obviously, no."

"And you deliberately waited for me to leave before getting in touch with him? When you knew I wouldn't be back for a while?"

Sherlock hesitated, but John knew only he and perhaps Mycroft would have noticed it. "Yes."

"Right," John nodded. "Right, good."

All throughout John's life, he can point to moments when he felt as though his mind was a slave to his body, just along for the ride. At age eight, when his body had leaned forward without his mind wanting it to and he'd planted a kiss on the lips of the cutest girl in his class. At fifteen, when he'd broken the nose of Harry's last ever boyfriend who had been such a dick that John frankly was not surprised that his sister never went near men again. At twenty eight, when he'd rushed into the open, even as his comrades yelled at him to get back, to get to the child who had been hit in the cross-fire between the Taliban and his regiment.

And now, right now, at thirty-six, his body once again moved without conscious command. First placing his tea down on the carpet, both his hands shot forward together and gripped the lapels of his flatmate's woollen coat. With a strength that surprised both of them, he yanked Sherlock out of his chair and shoved him up against the hearth, in between the grate and the bookshelf. Even though he knew the mantelpiece must have been digging uncomfortably into his flatmate's back, John did not let up. Nor did Sherlock resist, arms limp by his side. His face was blank as he peered down his nose into John's furious eyes.

"You're upset," he observed.

"Spot on, Sherlock," John congratulated. "Well done. Care to hazard a guess as to why?"

"Adult human emotion can rarely be reduced down to a single cause. Especially anger."

"That sounds about right. So why don't you tell me what you think might be the top three reasons," John countered.

Sherlock shifted in discomfort for a moment but made no attempt to dislodge John's grip. Nor did John loosen the pressure he exerted holding Sherlock up against the mantelpiece.

"You're upset because you almost died tonight," Sherlock ventured.

John gave a slight nod. "Partly, yes, but you can do better. Go on."

"You're upset because I lied to you about returning the plans to Mycroft and instead handed them over to Moriarty."

"Good, yes. And?"

"And...," Sherlock paused, his eyes flicking from left to right as though trying to read an answer which was written across John's face. "You're upset because it was your association with me that put you in danger. That Moriarty's sole purpose in kidnapping you was so you could be used against me." Sherlock could not stop the wince that crossed his face as John's grip tightened and he was pressed further back, the edge of the mantelpiece pressing directly onto his spine. "Am I correct?"

John did not answer his question. "You wanted to meet him. Why?"

"I had to," Sherlock replied. "I had to take control, which I thought I had because of my possession of the memory stick. All this while, he'd been orchestrating every move; I had to take that from him."

John's voice had steadily been going quieter and quieter. "So you arranged to meet - face-to-face - with a man who killed twelve people because an old lady described the sound of his voice."

Sherlock paused. "Yes." This was not the first time Sherlock had witnessed an angry John. But he was used to an angered John who shouted and yelled and paced. This John Watson was quiet, and fierce, and still. This John Watson had pointed his gun at the Golem and demanded Sherlock's release with understated intensity; who now held Sherlock pressed painfully against the wall with no apparent desire to let go anytime soon.

"And what did you think were the chances of you leaving that meeting alive? How many scenarios did your massive intellect come up with in which you came back to this flat in one piece?" Neither man noticed as John's grip tightened around the fistfuls of cloth in his hand, his knuckles turning white with strain.

"I was... aware... that there was a high likelihood that neither Moriarty nor I would survive the meeting. I took your gun with me for a reason," Sherlock admitted. "I did not anticipate him taking you. I thought you would be at Sarah's."

For a tenth of a second, Sherlock thought John was letting him go when the pressure eased somewhat, but instead, his head snapped back when John yanked him forward only to shove him hard against the mantelpiece again. Sherlock could not help the grunt of pain that escaped him.

"You bloody idiot. In your great plan, you were going to let me come back in the morning to an empty flat to eventually be told that you'd gotten yourself killed but 'hey, it's okay John, at least I got milk and beans before I died!" John hissed before he suddenly let go, as though it burned him to keep a hold of Sherlock any longer. He turned around and walked towards the opposite wall, rubbing his hand against the back of his head.

"Three months, Sherlock!" John suddenly yelled, heedless of the time of night, or that Mrs Hudson was asleep. "We've lived together three bloody months. And I've killed and bled for you and this is how you were willing to let things end?"

Sherlock stepped away from the hearth, his arms raised in a placating gesture. "John-,"

"And trust!" John continued, as though he hadn't heard Sherlock. "Clearly you don't trust me. At all."

"John, you know that's blatantly untrue. There's no one I trust more," Sherlock interjected.

"Is that so?" John asked, suddenly calm once more. "So tell me, Sherlock, when you first saw me at the pool, before you saw the bomb on my chest – did you, or did you not, think that I was Jim Moriarty?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He didn't need to.

John breathed out a laugh, pacing once more, unable to look at his flatmate any longer.

"That's it. I'm leaving." He made to grab his jacket from its usual spot on his arm-chair before remembering that it, too, was a casualty of the games between madmen. Deciding the nippy weather was the least of his problems, he moved towards the door without even a single glance back towards the man he had almost sacrificed his own life for a mere three hours ago.

"John. Stop."

John didn't. His hand turned the door-knob and he yanked open the door to the stairs. "Get some rest, Sherlock."

"Please."

John paused. He waited.

"Stay...here. Inside. Don't... leave." Silence "Please."

John squared his shoulders and gave a sharp nod.

"I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

TBC