"Were you worried? Did you think just for a second that I wouldn't make it?"
"Of course but what does…"
"It wasn't pleasant was it?"
"No."
"Now take that worry and that panic and times it by a thousand" John's voice had gotten flat and somber. "Add in some traumatic invasive memories of seeing your best friend falling from a building or lying on the pavement with his head smashed in. Let all that seethe together and then live with it for two years while people tell you that he was a fake and a horrible human being. Now do you see how I felt when you "died"?"
Sherlock was speechless. "John I had no idea…"
"I know. I know. You come in as I was just starting to get over you and act like nothing had happened" John's voice began to break and he screwed up his eyes, clearly on the verge of tears. Sherlock started forward to hug him, console him, do something but John held out a hand, warding him back. He was determined to choke this out. "Like you'd just popped out of the room for a minute and everything was fine. You tore me to pieces and you didn't even care… why Sherlock? Why?"
"John" Sherlock was rapidly losing it in a way he really didn't like. John was in pain and it was his fault. "I never meant to hurt you like this…"
"Why did you do it?!" John screamed, body shaking with grief and rage.
"He would have killed you!" Sherlock screamed back, utterly broken.
The silence now was like it had been then, when he'd jumped. Except now it was John who was falling.
"What?"
"Moriarty." Sherlock said, unable to speak louder than a whisper "He had snipers, on you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. I had to die or you would have."
John was speechless. There were no words for news like this. He fell into a chair. Sherlock crouched down, hand on his knee.
"John?" Why was he so bad at things like this? "I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry." He was begging now "I want to fix this! Please!"
John looked up at him, eyes shining "I'm sorry too, Sherlock"
"What?"
"Sorry that you had to go through something like that. Seeing your friends threatened by a mad man. I can't imagine what that must have been like."
Sherlock didn't know if it was hysteria or just relief but he swept John up into his arms, lifted him up out of the chair and held him. Just held him. And John held him back. These wounds had gone septic and now they were clean. They were deep, they would scar, but now they were closed. Healing.