A/N Argh, I missed a couple of days again. Sorry, I've had some personal issues going on. Anyhoo, yeah, emotionally vulnerable!Sherlock is a beautiful thing.

Thanks to Natalie Nallareet, total-animal-lover, johnsarmylady, Outspoken Lamb, Song of Grey Lemons, Motaku1235, BernardTheWolf, and Sendai

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

LXXV. Mirror

"I'm just like he was," Sherlock whispers.

"No." John's reply is steady, which is only appropriate, because he's absolutely confident of the words he's speaking. Sherlock has been on edge all evening, pacing, gnashing his teeth and running his fingers obsessively through his hair, and this is the first time he's spoken out—sudden though the words may be, John understands them instantly, and therefore makes an effort to correct them in as immediate a manner as possible.

"No," he repeats, turning from where he was focused on preparing a cup of tea and turning to face Sherlock. His fingers curl around the countertop behind him, and he balances their gaze evenly, trying to ignore the fact that Sherlock looks utterly terrified of nothing, his eyes wide, pupils dilated and lips parted. Stray curls spring off his head in all directions, a clear result of his clawing through them endlessly, and though John can't quite tell from this distance, it looks like he might even have been biting his lips. "You're not. You mean Moriarty, right?"

Of course he does. There's no one else he could have meant. Sherlock gives a tiny nod anyways, the knuckles of his twin fists straining vivid white.

"God, that's just ridiculous," John promises him, lifting the teacups and bringing them into the living room. He indicates that Sherlock take a seat, and the detective shakily lowers himself into his chair, gripping the arms stiffly and keeping his legs horribly rigid. He numbly accepts the offered cup of tea, but makes no move to bring it to his lips.

John sits down much more comfortably, and takes a long, thoughtful swallow before going on. It makes sense, really, that this is what Sherlock's been so worried about. Ever since his return after three years of a faked death, he's been a lot more susceptible to emotions, almost constantly on the edge of some sort of anxiety. His face is older than before, as if much more than three years have taken their toll, and his frosty cool from before seems to be permanently gone, melted away by his plunge from the St. Bart's rooftop over two thousand days ago.

"You're nothing like him, Sherlock. You're… the opposite of what he was, in every way."

"No… no, I'm the same," the detective insists, his tone almost frantic. "The uncaring, the detachedness… you always used to point it out to me… used to complain about it…"

"Sherlock, listen to me," John sighs, setting his cup in its saucer and leaning forward, placing his hands on his knees. "You've never killed an innocent person in your life. He was ruthless. He destroyed… God, I don't even want to think about how many murders he committed. His final act was getting you to kill yourself, just to rip everyone apart by destroying their false idol… to rip me apart." His last words are barely breathed, and Sherlock's eyes suddenly seem much more intent, more like his old self… angry, almost, but in a darkly tamed way.

"And all you've ever done is good," he plows on insistently, not giving Sherlock a chance to speak. "So just look in a mirror once in a while, okay? Really see yourself, because I can promise it'll be perfectly clear that you aren't a thing like he was, and, as long as I'm around, you never will be."