"How- you-" John stumbled over his words after the end of Sherlock's very long and very eccentric tale. Had it been anyone else telling him this story, John wouldn't have believed them. But this was Sherlock. John had, unwittingly, started believing in Sherlock ever since the first day. And he had never stopped. It had gotten hard, but he had never stopped.
"It was complicated, John. You have to understand- actually, you probably won't, but at least try," Sherlock said, spearing a piece of pasta with his plastic fork.
"I'm trying, Sherlock, but I'm still fuzzy on why the hell you couldn't tell me."
"You're not really trying," Sherlock replied, placing the pasta in his mouth. "It's fairly easy to understand that point-"
"No, it's really not," John fired back. "I am your best friend, Sherlock, actually, as far as I know, I'm one of your only friends."
"I couldn't tell any of you! They had targets on your foreheads, prepared to pull the trigger if I didn't fall. You have to understand-"
"Do I?" John interrupted, his voice stopping Sherlock as the detective went to spear another piece of John's take-away. Sherlock's eyes looked from the pasta, to John.
"You're upset," he stated, sitting up straight again. "I don't understand."
"And you say that I'm a lost cause."
"I just don't understand why you're still upset. I could... empathize with you... while I was gone, while-while you didn't know, but now you know the truth, so I can't fathom why you're still upset."
"Because, Sherlock, I went for three years thinking you were dead! You have no idea what I've been through!"
"I've been watching, John."
"That doesn't make this any better!"
Sherlock sighed, going back to John's pasta. "Look-"
"Stop eating my take-away!" John demanded, grabbing the box and pulling it towards him.
"John, you're being childish. I paid for it."
John stabbed his fork stonily into his Italian, shoving it into his mouth. He didn't say anything else, although he caught the dirty look that Sherlock was giving him.
It was silent for a few moments.
"I only did it to protect you," Sherlock said quickly, on the offhand.
"You," John started, almost too quickly as he almost choked on his food, "could have told me. If they thought you were dead, when they saw you- fall," his voice stuttered, "you could have told me afterwards. You could have, I don't know, gotten a burner phone or something. If Moriarty was dead-"
"But his henchmen weren't!"
"How would his henchmen know if you'd call me?!" His voice was too loud, too laced with anger and venom. It was the poison that had been tainting his mind for the past three years, coming to voice. He had been collecting each thought, each word, in his mind, never expecting to say them out loud, much less to Sherlock. But now, now every word was fresh on his mind, falling off his tongue, and he couldn't stop the anger that he'd been harnessing the past three years.
Sherlock looked at him, a level-headed gaze that John thought was supposed to speak volumes, volumes that John didn't have the desire to listen to. "It was a risk. It was not one that I was willing to take."
John gave half a laugh in return. "You, the king of Risk-Taking, weren't willing to take this risk. Right."
"Lives were on the line, John!"
"You never cared before! Why start now?"
There was a flash of something that looked suspiciously like hurt that crossed Sherlock's eyes. "John..."
John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, unwilling to admit that the emotion in both Sherlock's eyes and voice was the deciding factor for his temper. Angry, they would get nowhere. It would take a rational mind, from both of them, to get past this hiccup in their relationship.
"You and... Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly... You are important. To me," Sherlock clarified. His voice faltered at the end, and for once, John thought that Sherlock was unsure of himself. Not unsure of his attachment to his friends, but unsure of... speaking aloud? Unsure of speaking words that actually meant attachment out loud? Was that it? "I didn't want anything to happen to you. Anything... more, anyway."
"Right... Right, I, I understand. Right," John repeated, looking into his diminishing pasta. "I suppose I should be thanking you. I mean, I'm glad that, you know, we didn't get shot but-" He looked up, pinning Sherlock with his eyes. "I would have taken that bullet for you, Sherlock. I hope you know that."
Sherlock didn't move for a moment, obviously deducing or whatever it was he did in that funny but functioning brain, before he nodded slightly. "I know. That's why I had to do it."
John heaved a sigh, raising his eyes to rub his weary eyes. "Selfless as usual, yeah?"
He could practically hear Sherlock smirking. "As usual."
John only shook his head, pushing his take-away back into the middle of the table.
They weren't all right. But they might get there soon.
After writing this... I'm not so sure if John would punch him... I initially thought that, but now I'm not sure. He would be angry, of course, and surprised, and obviously grateful... Anyway, thanks for following the story! I hope you enjoyed it!