Author's note: Hi guys, a big thank you to all those who follow my story, and an even bigger thank you for the lovely reviews – you really made me happy!
Two (shorter) chapters today, because they belong together.
Effigy
So this was MI6 inside. Unglamorous.
What Sherlock was doing here was beyond John's grasp, but with Sherlock you never knew – perhaps he had acquired information on a particularly salacious scandal on his three-year walk on the wild side, and some foreign government was now miffed, giving Mycroft a headache.
John was being escorted down a corridor with offices, at this time of the night deserted. The two men in dark suits indicated a door, then withdrew silently.
John took a deep breath and straightened up. Suddenly, his heart was fluttering and his throat felt tight. That, however, reminded him of Sherlock choking him, and the memory was not helpful.
Over the years he had imagined their reunion hundreds of times in dozens of ways, mostly involving cursing, punching, and hugging, but never awkwardness in as dull a place as an office. He cleared his throat and tried to lift his spirits, but as soon as he pushed the door open and saw Sherlock standing in front of the window, his back to him, he knew reconnecting wasn't going to be easy.
John blinked in surprise: he was wearing his coat. It had to be a replica; he would never forget the dreadful moment when he had collected the bloodied Belstaff from the morgue, burying his face in the heavy fabric, believing that the scent worn into the wool was the last trace of Sherlock he would ever have.
The memory brought back the days following the fall, when he had felt as if someone had drained all the blood from his body, leaving him a walking dead, unable to cry or mourn. The blackness that had enveloped him for more than a year, rendering everything meaningless, threatened to return, and he almost staggered at the mere memory. He quickly put his hands on a chair and tried to push the feeling away. Sherlock was alive, he was back, and they had a chance of starting anew. Or so he hoped.
Silence greeted him from the window. John swallowed nervously, suddenly tongue-tied – what do you say to a supposedly dead friend? Hi, how are you? Hardly. He looked left, looked right, then said, "So, you're alive." He dug his fingers into the back of the chair, realizing that he was stating the obvious, and Sherlock hated that. He sensed the tiniest bit of movement from him, as if he were about to comment, and in his mind he already heard the annoyed obvious, but it never came.
John cleared his throat. "Sherlock …"
No reaction.
John frowned, wondering whether Sherlock had not registered him coming in – but this was impossible. John took a deep breath, trying hard not to feel like a schoolboy in the headmaster's office. This was ridiculous, they were both grown men, they had risked their lives for each other and no matter what had happened, all they needed to do was talk.
Only, with Sherlock nothing was ever that simple.
John mentally kicked himself and decided to end this ridiculous impasse. Only hours ago, they had been fine, almost back to their former state, Sherlock pushing the gun into his hands and ordering him to go after Moran – that was the man he knew and trusted, not this silent effigy. Somewhere beneath this frozen surface was the Sherlock he knew, and he was damned if he didn't drag him out.
He let go of the chair, marched around the table and approached Sherlock from the side – not from behind, his past experience told him to be careful. He had no intention of reaching out and touching him, no matter how badly he ached to do so – God, it would be wonderful to feel the warmth of this strong body, to take in that familiar scent – but no. Sherlock had not been keen on those small gestures of affection even before the fall, and Mycroft's warning was still fresh in his memory.
Yet, Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly, expecting a hand on his shoulder. It hurt John beyond reason that he obviously loathed his touch so much, and it annoyed him immensely that Sherlock expected him to be careless enough to cause him discomfort. He should have known he would never touch him if he did not like it.
John felt a wave of bitterness wash over him, and suddenly he remembered all those moments when Sherlock had hurt him, calling him an idiot, hissing at him that he did not have friends, nearly driving him out of his mind with that cruel experiment in the Baskerville lab and finally making him watch his suicide, shattering his own life the very moment his body hit the pavement. If Moriarty had burned Sherlock's heart out of him, Sherlock had ripped John's heart from his body just as well. That he still lived and breathed and loved he owed to Mary.
Yet, Sherlock had saved him from Moriarty's killer – so he cared, or at least had cared three years ago.
John cleared his throat.
Sherlock's head jerked to the side, just enough to acknowledge John's presence; but his gaze was fixed on the floor. John would have given a lot to look into those iridescent eyes again, their hues shifting in the light from sea green to ice-blue, like the inside of a sea shell. The last time he had seen them properly, they had been grey and dead.
But Sherlock never met his gaze. His lips parted and quivered faintly, but it seemed to take an eternity until he finally spoke, and when he did, he sounded cool and distant.
"Mycroft and I are working on a plan to capture Moran. Your home is being refitted to be secure right now, so you should be able to return soon. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade are both under Mycroft's protection, though neither know that I am alive yet. Moran needs to be neutralised first. I suggest we postpone all other issues."
John stood ramrod straight, feeling numb, as if he had just received a massive blow to the head. He had expected all kinds of reactions from Sherlock, from complete incomprehension of his emotions to sizzling energy in anticipation of the hunt – but not such coldness.
He swallowed hard, struggling to remain in control of his emotions. He was torn between slapping Sherlock across the face and crying with disappointment, but he refused to grant him either – he needed to remain in control of himself.
"Right," John bit out. "All other issues. Huh. You don't deem them important, then. But I do. I want to talk to you, Sherlock. I want you to explain–"
"No."
"No?" John gaped, fighting a sudden rush of anger. "Okay, listen, I understand you don't want to be distracted right now, but please–"
"No."
John stared at the man's profile. It was carved in stone; no human reaction. "Why?" He breathed.
Sherlock answered in a flat tone. "I do not want you to burden me with your emotional chaos."
John stared at him, feeling as if he had been punched in the stomach. It took a while until the magnitude of the insult had sunken in. He nodded slightly, turned on his heel and stiffly marched to the door.
Stopping, he said without turning around, "I just hope there will be a chance to talk later. People die sometimes, you know."
With that, he slammed the door behind him, burning with rage and nauseous from the ugly feeling of having been betrayed.
Three years of mourning and then his feelings weren't important. Worse, they were a burden.
He had waited three bloody years - for an insult. He was not important. Obviously.