Hello all, Kathson updating again You're getting this a bit ahead of schedule, but we have enough material for a few chapters ahead. Enjoy!

Sherlock

Sherlock folds his hands about the warm mug - his own, he notices - and stares at the thin steam floating up towards the ceiling. It's such a simple gesture, John making tea for the both of them without even bothering to ask. What follows, however, is not so simple.

John has retaken his place in his chair, his own mug in his hands, and focuses on the detective, who desperately tries not to squirm under the gaze. Sherlock detects no anger in the doctor's eyes, but he knows John is not satisfied. He will have to tell John everything and even then, he is not sure John will be able to handle it all.

Sherlock is still contemplating how to start his story when John suddenly speaks up. "Where have you been?" The detective looks up, meeting John's gaze and - to his surprise - holding it. The doctor cocks his head a bit, urging him to answer the question.

Sherlock shrugs. "Everywhere. You name it, I've been there." John nods slowly and Sherlock knows he needs to elaborate. "Moriarty had... a very large web. Assassins, torturers, forgers, anything. And wherever they were or went, I knew I had to find them." To keep you safe, he adds mentally, but doesn't say it.

John frowns. "So this was about Moriarty, then?"

Sherlock almost shakes his head; he wants to shake his head. How can John think that he faked his own suicide that he spent three years of his life away from his beloved doctor, only because of some petty consulting criminal? Sherlock wants to explain, he desperately wants to explain, but John is on his feet already, turning away from him when he starts to pace.

"Three years, Sherlock. You faked your own suicide, you made me believe you were dead and put me through a living hell, all because of him?" John puts his hands on the mantelpiece, his fingers clenching tightly around the chipped edge. "I know you're not good with people, Sherlock, but this... even you should have known that you don't do this to someone who... considers you a friend."

Sherlock flinches at the tone in John's voice, the obvious hurt in his words. What hurts even more, though, is the fact that John just called him a friend. A friend. He should have known that that was all he would ever be to John, if John even considered them still to be friends after all of this.

"John, I'm... I'm sorry."

The doctor lets out a laugh that has no happiness in it. "You're sorry? And why would I believe you, Sherlock? How can I ever trust you again?"

And Sherlock finds himself unable to answer.

John

John knows the words are harsh, but not unprecedented. Sherlock had turned his world upside-down and inside out when he jumped. Everything John thought he'd known about Sherlock had been thrown into question.

And now he's here wanting, what? Forgiveness? For everything to return to normal? John's not sure.

He wishes Sherlock would speak. He wants him to say something, anything. To own up to the pain and suffering he caused. To explain. Not in a logical, pragmatic way. Not by giving the facts what lead to his fake suicide. But the motivations, the thoughts, the emotions that caused him to skydive off a roof three years ago.

But Sherlock remains silent, watching John with pleading eyes. Pleading him to what? To understand? To believe? John snorts at the thought.

"You know what's funny?" he asks, with a hollow mirthless laugh.

Sherlock draws a breath and murmurs quietly "What?" as if he's unsure whether or not he wants an answer.

John sets his tea-cup down with a harsh clatter before answering. "I spent the last three years defending your memory. Telling people that you were real and whatever happened on that day was just some twisted, fucking disaster."

Sherlock flinches, though whether it's at the profanity or the anger that's crept back into his tone he can't be sure. John pays no attention to his discomfort and continues in a chillingly casual voice.

"You know there was this street campaign started about you? 'Believe in Sherlock Holmes.' it was. Painted on walls and the sides of abandoned houses and posted on street poles. And I was right there with it the whole time. Now..." the last word is chocked off roughly as John wrangles with himself.

"Now I don't know why I bothered. I feel like a bloody hypocrite cause you're standing here asking me to trust you, to believe you and I can't do it. You say you're sorry but you're going to have to prove that to me. I can't take your word for it anymore."

John sits back in his chair, having finished his piece. He watches Sherlock's mind whir with thoughts, gasping for a solution to this puzzle.

There is an unusual desperation in his eyes as he searches for the answer and for a moment John finds himself touched.

Resolving this, righting their friendship really does seem important to Sherlock. "That's got to count for something." he thinks to himself, then awaits Sherlock's reaction.