When John arrived home from his meeting with Mycroft he tripped over an ice skate and fell forward into a stack of Condensed Matter Physics journals. The journals toppled into a pile of Guns and Ammo magazines, and it was as they all slid down around him that John decided to take a holiday.

He felt overwhelmed by the mess in the flat, and he hadn't had a break from his routine at the surgery in ages. He and Mary hadn't even taken a honeymoon. They'd tentatively planned it for the winter following their wedding, but then Mary had turned out to be an assassin and shot Sherlock, and booking a Caribbean bungalow had somehow become less appealing than it had originally been.

But now, he could take a week off. Why not? He would go somewhere with nice scenery to gain some perspective. He needed a reminder that the world was still a beautiful place—that the timeless perfection of nature endured unaffected by such petty human quibbles as failed marriages and assassins and difficult friendships. Yes, a holiday would do him a lot of good. And it certainly wouldn't hurt to throw Sherlock for a loop for once, by being the one to disappear wordlessly. The thought of giving Sherlock a taste of his own medicine was not the primary reason for John's decision, but it really didn't deter him either.

So John set about calling his colleagues, asking them to cover his appointments while he was away. They were more than happy to oblige, considering John had spent the past year picking up as many of their unwanted shifts as he could in favour of spending the time at home.

His schedule cleared for the week, he booked a room at a quaint inn in Ireland close to the internationally renowned Cliffs of Moher. He'd never been, and figured that with October being the off-season for tourism he'd be able to enjoy the views undisturbed by swarms of vacationing families.

The last thing to be done was to arrange the cleaning for while he was away. He paid for a day's service with Sherlock's money, and went downstairs to have a cup of tea with Mrs. Hudson. She promised to oversee the cleaning (partly to keep an eye on Sherlock's expensive equipment, but also to prevent anyone from opening the fridge and inadvertently buying themselves years' worth of therapy). He left strict instructions with Mrs. Hudson that all newspapers and journals should be recycled (they were all online in the archives. Sherlock didn't need to keep everything in hard copy like a bloody hoarder from the 19th century), anything broken should be tossed, the floors and kitchen should be scrubbed spotless, and absolutely everything should be dusted.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes widened anxiously at this last order. "Oh, but Sherlock won't like that at all!"

"Yep," John concurred.

She grinned conspiratorially. "It really is wonderful to have you back, John."

The next evening John was in Ireland, standing on a path at the edge of the famous, western-facing Cliffs of Moher looking out at the most spectacular sunset he may have ever seen. The stunning view accomplished everything he'd hoped it would. London and liars seemed far away and unimportant as he watched the sun sink into the water and light the clouds like fire. There were bigger, more incomprehensible things in the world than any of his current problems. He allowed this understanding to wash over him, and he felt at peace.

John had taken to running along the cliffs each day on the virtually empty paths. He hadn't run in a long time, but he was in better shape now, thanks to weekly training with the rugby team and the extra time spent at the gym avoiding Mary. Because of this, and because his army training had taught him to ignore physical fatigue, he'd been able to run five miles on his first day out.

The physical exertion combined with the breath-taking scenery gave John a natural high which worked wonders on his nerves. He'd been so achingly stressed in the final weeks with Mary; now he felt the tension leaving his body. He imagined his negative feelings falling away from him as he ran, and he came back to the hotel each day feeling lighter than ever. He used to run to keep in training, back in his university rugby days, and he liked the feeling of getting back to it.

It was late in the afternoon on the third day of John's holiday when he was coming back along the cliffs, having finally slowed to a walk. The day was cool and clear and the sun, low in the sky, cast long shadows.

He thought about Sherlock as he walked the half-mile back toward the car park. He wondered if Sherlock had returned from Switzerland yet, and tried to imagine his reaction upon finding the flat sparkling clean and himself missing. He'd be furious about the flat, of course, and it wouldn't take him long to discover where John had gone. Being flatmates with the world's only consulting detective meant little opportunity for secrecy.

John knew Sherlock wouldn't be bothered by his absence, considering he'd apparently already forgotten John had moved back in, having left the next morning without a word. John guessed he could stay in Ireland for a month and return to find Sherlock surprised to discover he'd been away at all.

But that was Sherlock's way. Other people moved around him like shadows, only coming into sharp focus when they figured centrally in a case. They immediately faded back into grey background when their relevance to his work ceased.

John was satisfied with his decision to leave. Things had changed since they'd been flatmates the first time around, and he was determined to prove that despite having left Mary, Sherlock would not be the only thing in his life now. He was not a shadow on the periphery of Sherlock's awareness waiting to be called into focus. He was an independent person, capable of doing and enjoying things that had nothing at all to do with Sherlock. And if Sherlock thought John was so enamoured with him that he'd just be sitting on the front step of 221B waiting for him to come home—

John's train of thought was instantly derailed as he came upon the visitor centre and saw Sherlock sitting on the steps.

The visitor centre was closed, and Sherlock had been sitting on the steps for about half an hour. He'd been browsing through international news sites on his phone looking for murders and possible connections between them. Serial killers were his favourite challenges and he was always hoping to come across one. But unfortunately the news that day was as dull as ever, so Sherlock had downloaded a Sudoku app out of curiosity. He proceeded to obliterate it by completing all of the levels within minutes. He had just decided Sudoku was not at all worth the hype when he spotted John coming up the path. He put his phone away and waited for John to reach him.

When John stopped in front of him, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was momentarily taken aback by what he saw.

John was wearing trainers, dark grey jogging bottoms and a navy hoodie, which was unzipped, revealing a white Barts t-shirt underneath. The circles under his eyes had been erased by several nights of good rest, and his blond hair was glowing bright in the low sunlight. In a flash Sherlock saw him as he must have looked ten years ago, a university student in rugby training wear, before Afghanistan, before him, and before Mary.

"Sherlock?" John asked incredulously. "What are you doing here?"

"It was absurdly easy to find you," Sherlock drawled, regaining his nonchalance. "It's almost as if you weren't even trying to make it interesting for me."

John pinched the bridge of his nose: a signal Sherlock had learned meant John was irritated with him.

"I wasn't trying to make it interesting for you. This is my holiday, Sherlock, not a puzzle for you to solve. Believe it or not, some things have nothing to do with you at all."

John's flush from his run deepened and Sherlock deduced he hadn't planned on saying that last sentence, and possibly regretted it. Interesting.

"If it wasn't meant to be a puzzle for me, why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" Sherlock asked, looking up at John from his seat on the stairs.

John shrugged. "I didn't think it was important. How was Switzerland, by the way?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You're angry."

"No, I'm not angry," John said, crossing his arms over his chest.

He was angry. Even if Sherlock wasn't an observational genius, he knew John too well to miss the signals. What had changed? He'd seen John's expression from a distance when John had first spotted him. John had smiled; he'd been pleased to see him, as Sherlock had predicted he would be. What had happened in the past minute to change his mood? Though he knew psychology to be one of the more inexact sciences, he estimated that John's change of emotion might have something to do with Switzerland.

Sherlock sighed as if such explanations were physically painful for him. "You were asleep when I left and I knew if I woke you you'd want to come with me. I knew Mrs. Hudson would fill you in later."

"So?"

"…So what?"

"So what if I had wanted to come with you? I always come with you on cases."

Sherlock shook his head, "You couldn't have come this time. It was a matter involving the Credit Suisse Bank and the client insisted upon the strictest confidentiality."

"Right," John said, deflating. "I get it."

"What?" Sherlock asked, again not following the change of mood.

"You don't trust me," John said simply, shrugging his shoulders.

Sherlock's eyes widened and he propelled himself off the steps so that he was standing in front of John, glaring into his eyes. John had blue eyes. Dark, deep blue eyes, constant and steady as the ocean with just as much potential for storm.

"That's not true," Sherlock said, unblinking.

"It is true." John held his ground. "You told me yourself."

Sherlock took a few seconds to scan his record of conversations with John. He concluded with certainty, "I never said that."

John looked annoyed, and when he spoke his tone confirmed Sherlock's appraisal. "Your suicide holiday? Remember? You came back to London and told me the only reason I had to spend two years thinking you were dead was because you thought I'd say something 'indiscreet.'"

Sherlock's mouth parted in surprise. He had not anticipated this turn in the conversation. Although it was hardly a pleasant topic, Sherlock couldn't help feeling a twinge of pleasure at receiving further evidence that John was one of the few people he knew well who could continually surprise him.

John continued, "It wasn't a great moment for me when you told me that out of everyone you know, including twenty-five homeless people, I'm the one you trust the least. It took me a while to get used to the idea, but I got it. I get it."

Sherlock flinched inwardly but kept his face impassive. There was no one better at suppressing emotion. With twenty-three years of practice it came to him naturally; no thought, no effort required.

"I do trust you," Sherlock said, his voice deep with a sincerity he didn't consciously have to summon. It was the truth, but he knew John wouldn't believe him. Not this time.

John scoffed, "I suffered for two years because you didn't even trust me enough not to go running to the press to tell them the suicide was fake—or whatever it was you imagined I'd do if you contacted me. If you couldn't trust me with a secret like 'don't tell people I'm alive,' then I wouldn't expect you to trust me with much of anything."

Sherlock may have been an Olympic champion at concealing emotions, but John was not. Open, helplessly readable John's every emotion moved across his face in a regular parade of thoughts and feelings. John was looking away but Sherlock saw the pain in his expression plainly.

"John—" Sherlock started, involuntarily moving toward him. Gold medal champion in all categories except John. Silver medallist for John.

"No, sorry, look, just forget it," John said, backing away. "I'm going for a walk, we can talk later."

"You just came back from a walk," Sherlock had to state for the sake of logic.

"I'll take another one then," John said, already walking away.

Sherlock stood still for a moment. It was annoying that John was still angry about the suicide hoax. He thought they had settled that a long time ago. Sherlock had tricked John into forgiving him in a bomb Tube car, hadn't he? So why had John continued to think about it? He wasn't supposed to continue to think about it.

Because the truth was, Sherlock had lied. And he had really hoped he'd never have to explain his actual reason for allowing John to think he was dead.

At the time, he'd counted on John's anger to distract him from the weakness of his explanation for why he hadn't contacted him: 'I thought you'd say something indiscreet.' A pathetically weak excuse considering Sherlock trusted John with his life; of course he would have trusted him with a secret about his fake death. But he'd taken the risk, and it had worked. John's anger had been blinding, and he hadn't questioned Sherlock further about it.

But now John was walking away from him, believing Sherlock didn't trust him at all, and that wouldn't do. Sherlock quickly ran through the options in his mind and realised the truth was going to be the only workable solution. And John really wasn't going to like it.

John walked briskly down the path. The wind had picked up and it felt good against his face. He regretted his outburst. If he was going to confront Sherlock about trust issues he'd wanted to do it when he was better prepared. He'd said all the wrong things and he just needed a moment alone to think about how to handle the situation.

Unfortunately for this plan, John heard fast footsteps coming up behind him and he'd barely had a moment to groan inwardly before a hand was on his upper arm arresting his movement and spinning him around.

"I put considerable effort into persuading my client to allow you to work with me in Switzerland, but he wouldn't have it and in the end the case was too interesting to pass up," Sherlock insisted.

"Right, fine," John said and Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously.

The two of them presented quite a picture, standing alone on a path at the edge of the cliffs, John in his jogging bottoms and Sherlock in his dramatic Belstaff coat, glaring daggers at each other.

"It's true," Sherlock said in that deep, inimitable voice. It resonated to John's core; it always had. Sherlock tightened his grip on John's arm. John knew the warning signs, but he didn't care. He'd given Sherlock the option to avoid the argument. As far as John was concerned, by following him Sherlock waived any right to blame him for whatever happened next. He briefly wondered if either of them would survive whatever was about to happen next.

"You don't need to lie to placate me," John shot back, jerking his arm out of Sherlock's grasp. "They're your cases; you decide how to handle them. It's nothing."

"What I said just now is true." Sherlock's low voice was barely a step from a growl. "I did want you to come with me. The other thing wasn't true."

"What other thing?"

"When I came back to London and I said I didn't contact you because I thought you'd say something indiscreet."

John felt his heart pound in his chest and it was a moment before he responded. "What?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "I won't repeat it."

"No, I think you damn well better repeat that, Sherlock," John said, voice shaking. "Now, again, WHAT?"

"I LIED," Sherlock raised his voice. "There was a different reason why I didn't contact you."

"And what," John ground out the words, "reason was that?"

"It was an experiment," Sherlock said with abrupt dismissiveness.

"An experiment," John repeated, making an effort to control his voice.

"Yes. I needed you to believe the suicide in the beginning because that was the only way anyone else would believe it. I had to be dead to disappear. And your—your grief was what made it convincing. It's true I could have contacted you later, after a few months perhaps. I didn't because I couldn't pass up the perfect opportunity for the experiment that presented itself. If you continued to believe I was dead I could observe how you would do without me," Sherlock explained coolly.

"How I'd do without you," John echoed, horrified.

"Yes," Sherlock responded, annoyed. "That's what I said."

"Like a RAT in a CONTROLLED ENVIRONMENT," John shouted. "Just like Dartmoor, right? You wanted to torture me and watch how I'd do?"

Sherlock ignored him. "My hypothesis was that you'd be better off without me—I mean obviously you'd be devastated at first, but, you know, better off in the long run, and I had to know—"

"YOUR HYPOTHESIS?" The rising wind ripped the words from John's mouth.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Are you actually going to repeat everything I say? Because this could be a much shorter exchange if—"

"You fucking bastard," John seethed, launching forward and seizing the lapels of Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock grabbed fistfuls of John's hoodie in return and shook him once hard. "Did you hear what I said? I did it for you, you ungrateful idiot," he said, eyes flashing.

"Go ahead and wait for me to thank you," John snarled.

"You don't understand anything—"

"I understand you're a fucking prick—"

"Then why don't you leave?" Sherlock hissed, close enough John could feel the heat of his breath on his face. "Or am I the closest thing you have to feeling important?"

And, in a déjà vu moment from a restaurant two years ago, John lunged at Sherlock, sending them both crashing to the ground.