John had seemed to give up on Sherlock. The longer he spent away from him, the more he convinced himself he didn't want to know what had happened to him. Besides, he had clearly more pressing matters to be focused on. His wedding was only two months away. He couldn't think about Sherlock, especially with this.

He managed to convince himself he didn't care about Sherlock. He managed to keep the feelings about the man in a state of dull anger, which seemed to suffice enough for him. Anger, he figured, was better than caring. Anger was better than sadness or confusion. Of all the emotions he had to pick through, anger was the easiest to settle upon.

John could manage, with this anger, to go without nightmares and thinking and dreading and feeling. But because it was anger and not care, or confusion, or sadness, it made his life with Mary angry, too. Mary was a tolerant, patient, and understanding woman, among other things, but for once she seemed to think John was not doing what was best. All of which reached a peak when John stormed into Mary's small living quarters after a day at the clinic.

It was so obvious there was tension in the air as he did so, his face contorted in a frown and his eyes blazing.

"Not a dull day at the office today." John was talking before he fully passed through the door. "Three different patients with history of suicidal thoughts and tendencies – at least two of them have attempted. No one seems to realize anymore….it's sick."

Mary blinked from her spot on the couch, and John sighed, shaking his head, knowing he shouldn't be blaming those patients for what was wrong. More often than not, suicidal patients couldn't help it. But he was so angry. Maybe not specifically with them.

"No one realizes," John said again, running a hand through his dull, graying hair. "You know what would be an effective way to help? Show them what happens when you really are dead. When you're dead for three years, and watch everyone's lives just unravel…."

Without even knowing it, John had managed to turn the conversation completely into a Sherlock parallel. He glanced at Mary, worried about her reaction to him talking so obviously about Sherlock. Sherlock, who apparently loved her fiancé. Sherlock, who caused the love of her life to be in such a state of distress.

But Mary's face was still soft, kind, and understanding. Slowly she patted the spot next to her on the couch, and instantly John collapsed into it, allowing Mary to take his hand tightly.

"Why won't you talk to him?" Mary's voice was quiet and soothing, but John instantly felt uncomfortable and defensive.

"I have talked to him. What difference would it make if it hasn't made one already?" John responded, his voice tired and exasperated.

"John…John, I just wonder if you're really trying."

John looked over at her, taking in her soft face and deep eyes. A face so full of love and affection for John. And, all over again, John felt himself yearning and needing Mary even more.

But she was wrong. Caring and affectionate or not, she was wrong. He had tried. At first, anyway, he had tried. But there was no point in furthering the cause.

"I have been," he said aloud, closing his eyes and allowing his head to fall back. "I mean, I have already. Why should I continue? There's….there's no point."

"You know that's not true," Mary objected, giving his hand a squeeze. "You know he's your friend….and you know there's a 'point.' You need him, and he needs you, now more than ever….he's probably going through a lot, too, John…."

John tensed, a familiar anger slowly flooding him, starting from his toes and reaching his cheeks, causing them to flush.

"I do not 'need' him. I don't need him." He repeated it like a mantra, maybe to convince himself. "He….He was the one who jumped off that building. He's the one who has to deal with those consequences. I'm done. There's nothing I can do."

"You've given up." Mary's blunt statement was still backed by gentle softness, but John barely picked up on it. "You've given up…John. John, I want you to call him….tonight."

"And what? Apologize and try and understand and tell him I need him? Because what good will that do?" John snapped, yanking his hand away from Mary's. "It's done, Mary, and there's nothing to fix."

"You haven't even given it a chance to be fixed. It's only been a few days….you haven't allowed it to get better."

"Why should I?" John hissed, at once on his feet, propelled by his sudden fury. "It's not like three years can pass and I can just….just allow things to get better!"

Mary stared at him, hands folded in her lap, a determined glow to her eyes.

"Tonight, John….for me. Call him…."

"And what?" John asked again through gritted teeth, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands.

"Invite him over for dinner….Anything, John….I want to see you happy again…."

"What makes you think I'm upset?" But the defensive, agitated tone he used only confirmed that he is upset.

Mary smiled. It was a smile that didn't reach her eyes, a small, sad smile.

"Please, John. Please do this for me," she whispered.

John, without meaning to, rolled his eyes and turned his back on her, digging in his pocket for his mobile.

"Probably won't even agree to it," John told the air in front of him. "The dumbass doesn't even eat…."

Not for the first time in his life, John was wrong.

It shouldn't have been this awkward. Seeing Sherlock in Mary's home. John keeping a well measured distance from him. Mary, of course, being pleasant and kind and so damn wonderful to a man who was, in theory, someone she should've hated.

John found himself, as the night wore on tirelessly, hating Sherlock all the more.

Sherlock sat across from the both of them at the dinner table, for the first time in his life looking uncomfortable. John watched him with skeptical eyes, waiting for this all to take at turn for the worst, as they so often did where Sherlock was involved.

Mary was the only one who attempted conversation with Sherlock. Sherlock would only answer with short responses, his eyes determinedly fixed on Mary and not John.

John wasn't sure what had happened to Sherlock in the last few days since they last spoke, but he guessed it wasn't anything pleasant. As Sherlock talked, John noticed the slight shake to his voice, and the uncharacteristic stutter he adopted.

He wasn't the Sherlock John had once called his best friend. And that only made John clutch his fork with a tighter, iron clad fist.

Funny how the fact that this night was going so well was what angered him the most.

"What about yourself?" Sherlock asked suddenly close to the end of the night, his conversation directed at Mary. His food was untouched on his plate, and if John had been Mary, he would've been offended. But Mary looked nothing if not completely understanding.

"Oh, I live nothing of a life compared to yours and John's," she said, smiling.

For the first time that night, at the sound of John's name, Sherlock turned to look at John. John could only stare back at him, forcing his face to be emotionless. And at the sight of John's face, something seemed to spark in him. His eyes narrowed and he turned instead back to Mary, only looking at her now in a different way.

And John knew that look. The pointed, intense look. A concentrated…deductive look.

Oh, fuck no…

"I wouldn't say that," Sherlock murmured, and before John was aware of what he was doing, his fork was clattering to the table and his hands were gripping the table in front of him.

"Stop," was all he said, and Sherlock looked at him, expressionless.

"It's obvious you don't work anywhere elaborate – John didn't meet you at the clinic or anywhere likewise," Sherlock began, glancing back at Mary, who was oblivious to what was about to happen. "Though you do have some amount of money – your diamond necklace and earrings do say something about that –"

"Sherlock," John hissed, his nails digging painfully into the table.

"So where do you get so much money? Not your parents….they don't live in London, do they? In Surrey, is it? Fitton? So they aren't around, and you left your whole family back to come to London, which means they may not approve of –"

"Sherlock!" John's voice was all but a snarl now, warning Sherlock to stop while he is still ahead, while he still has more harmful deductions to make.

"- what it is you're doing here. So where did you earn your money? Someone left it to you. And judging by your anxious habit of rubbing your left ring finger, and the slight indent of the skin there, it was your fiancé before John….Oh, no….no, he didn't leave you money, he's not dead. He bought that jewelry for you."

"Say another word, Sherlock Holmes, and I swear –"

"He bought that for you with his wealthy job and you were engaged to him but you left him before much could come out of it. You're still engaged to him." Sherlock finished his long stream of deductions with less flourish than John was used to.

John has never been angrier in his life.

Mary stared at Sherlock, a meek smile still on her face. John only had to see her slightly fallen face for a split second before rounding on Sherlock.

"You rightful bastard," he snarled, rising from his chair, dragging his fingernails across the table in order to release his grip on it.

"John….John, it's all right," Mary whispered, reaching to take John's hand, but John pulled away, his focus trained solely on Sherlock and Sherlock alone.

Sherlock stared at him emotionlessly, eyes still narrowed.

"You….You can't just come into my fiancée's home and start belittling her!" John growled, his arms shaking with the effort of restraining himself from launching themselves at Sherlock.

"I thought you deserved to know," Sherlock said, slightly dismissively.

"I already knew, you bloody idiot!" John shouted, and Mary frantically tried to calm him down.

"John, I promise, it's okay, he didn't –"

"He did know what he was doing, he did mean it! If this is another one of his stupid attempts to get me to see what I have never seen…." John's voice trailed off, too enraged to even formulate a proper sentence.

Sherlock was standing now, keeping his eyes away from John and slowly moving out of the dining room.

"Where do you think you're going?" John snapped, instantly following him.

"I feel as though I've overstayed my welcome," Sherlock said swiftly.

"You haven't –" Mary's voice came from behind, but John cut through her words.

"Damn right you have." John's fists were curled again, his wrists shaking. Sherlock noticed this, looking down at his closed hands, but he didn't move away any further.

"You don't know when your deductions start to hurt, do you? Nor do you realize when they're wrong," John continued vehemently, and Sherlock blinked at this.

"I'm never –"

"Mary's family has never been fit monetarily," John interrupted him fiercely, ignoring Mary's attempts to stop him. "Mary didn't leave for London because they didn't want her to – she left because they asked her to."

Sherlock's face drained of all color, but John didn't stop there.

"You're right; her fiancé did give her that necklace and those earrings," he said, feigning amazement that turned into coldness. "But he's been dead for six years. She didn't leave him, you bastard, he died."

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he glanced back at Mary. "I-I didn't know…"

John snorted instead of letting Mary speak. "That's a first."

Sherlock flinched, and it's so uncharacteristic of him John's anger ceased for a second before it returned worse than before.

"John….John, I'm really sorry….I didn't mean –"

"But you did mean it, and that's what makes it so wrong," John said scathingly. "You meant to make me look at Mary and think lowly of her. You meant for me to tell you that was 'amazing' or some other bullshit. You meant for every bit of this to happen, and you know it."

"John –"

"I don't even want to hear anything from you. I'm….I'm just done, Sherlock. I'm done trying to care or trying to make amends because when I do, shit like this happens. You humiliate me and upset my fiancée and make a complete wreck of everything. It….it would've been so much easier if you had stayed dead, don't you realize that yet?"

"John!" Mary's appalled voice comes from behind him, but John barely heard her. He's crossed the line – crossed it long ago – and is not about to turn back.

"You don't know how much I wish that to be true." Sherlock's voice was small and vulnerable.

"You say that, but I don't know whether or not what you say is the truth anymore, Sherlock. I gave up on trusting you when you didn't trust me. So….so just….just take your petty deductions and just….leave."

Sherlock, for a moment, just stood in front of John, looking lost and uncertain – both things John hated seeing in him, but is too angry to really care.

"Leave, Sherlock. And….and don't come back." John's voice had receded to a murmur.

And Sherlock didn't hesitate for a moment longer. He left.

All John had then was Mary, who went to bed that night disappointed in him. John went to bed that night still furious and slightly broken.

Following his last confrontation with Sherlock, it only took a week for John's limp to return.


A/N: ack what am I still writing this for. It was supposed to be a one-shot.