"No." Sherlock spoke the word quietly, but with steel in his tone.
John started to stand, but Mary held her hand out in his direction and gave a small shake of her head. "Tell him, Sherlock," she said, her tone easily a match for the detective's.
"What would you have me say?" Sherlock's lip had curled into an ugly snarl. "That I've lied to everyone around me for years, pretending to be the good boy, the recovering addict? That half the time I slipped off into my Mind Palace I was actually high." His face twisted. "It was a convenient diversion, one that no one ever questioned. Perhaps I should say that I'm a self-centered prick? That I don't give a damn about any of you!" His voice was so loud that surely he had been heard a block away.
John sprang to his feet, shaking with fury. He would have left right then, but Mary grasped him by the arm amd urged, "Wait." She addressed the detective, "You and I both know that's not what I meant."
Sherlock whirled, grasping the mantle to steady himself, his knuckles going white. "No."
"Yes!" Mary countered.
At that moment, Sherlock's leg gave way and he started to fall, but John was there to catch him. The detective lurched fron John's grasp as if his touch were fire burning him and wobbled over to fall into his chair. He sat there staring at his shaking hands.
"I went away for two years," Sherlock began. He gave a shudder and let his eyes fall shut. "Two years of hiding and thinking, analysing patterns and identifying the cells in Moriarty's network. Figuring out how to infiltrate them and tear them apart from the inside. It was lonely. I only wanted to come home. Each time I was captured, I could have given up. I almost did, at the last. Even I can only endure so much." He went silent, remembering, then gave a hiss and opened his eyes. His lips curled into a bitter smile. "But I couldn't give up. I had to come home. Come back to you. But you had Mary." He paused, swallowed. "I wanted to hate her." His eyes turned in her direction. "I tried to hate you. I really did. Then you shot me and I had my reason, finally, a license to hate, and still I couldn't, because I understood. Then everything happened so fast. I was kept in solitary for a week, broken only by the routine of meals and the whispered mocking of the guards. Then came my brother's visit. When he brought his plan to me, I agreed to it, it was my only way out, but I knew he was wrong, I wouldn't be coming back. There was nothing left for me to fight for. It was a simple matter to aquire the drugs after that. A deduction here, a threat there. The guards knew my connections and they knew I could follow through on my threats. So, there you have it. Now kindly leave me in peace. I find myself in need of another hit."
John stared straight ahead at nothing, his hands curled into fists. He opened his mouth several times in abortive attempts at speach. Finally, he took a step closer to Sherlock and looked down at him. "Say it."
The detective looked away in silent refusal to speak.
"No, you don't get to do this." John's voice quavered under the onslaught of so many emotions. "You don't get to dance around this, whatever this is. Say it!"
Already weak and exhausted from the day's events, Sherlock surrendered. "I... love you." He looked at Mary. "Satisfied? I've driven home the last nail in the coffin."
"Oh, Sherlock." She smiled sadly."It was never about that."
John gave himself a shake, then walked across the room towards the door to the stair well.
"John, where are you going?" Mary's voice was full of concern.
"Out," came the short reply. "I need to go for a walk."
"But..."
Without turning around, he said "Mary, don't. I have to think and I can't do it here. I'll be back. I promise you."