When John found out that Sherlock had been alive all along, he'd taken quite a different approach to it. When Sherlock came back to his flat, you'd catch a glimpse of new bruises forming. You couldn't help finding it funny. It was so like John. It was like he never changed. Although you knew he must have. Two years didn't go by without some aspect of a person changing; look what had happened to you. From what Mrs Hudson said, he even looked different. Before he was confronted by the not-dead sociopath, he somehow found the time to visit Mrs H, ("For the first time in twice as many years!" She'd exclaimed), and you managed to catch a glimpse of him yourself.
Ugh.
He'd really let himself go, hadn't he?
By his depressing aura and dead look in his eyes, you guessed that he was doing mundane work. Probably acting as a general practitioner. That would explain it.
Thankfully, he didn't see you. And you didn't want to see him. You couldn't stop the paranoia from rising up again, terrified that Sherlock would've have secretly caught up with him earlier and told him everything. How would you have been able to handle those looks of hurt and disgust? You wouldn't have.
And, of course, everything worked out to be just fucking fine. Oh, apart from the little mishaps of John nearly being burned alive and the Houses of Parliament nearly being blown out. Just another day in London, right?
But you couldn't think about that today. That was last week's news. John wanted to meet you. Properly. With his new, brilliant, girlfriend. Mary, she was called. What could go wrong?
Oh right, everything.
When you'd arrived at the restaurant that you and John and Mary had agreed to meet at, you were apprehensive but you couldn't stop yourself from feeling happy at meeting an old friend. You were early of course, although the happy couple arrived only a few minutes after you'd sat down and made yourself comfortable. The modest reunion that took place between you and John was just that - modest. A warm greeting and heartfelt embrace was enough to make up for the years that had gone by. But as you tried to make the small talk flow, you noticed that John was looking rather shifty-eyed. Why would he have any reason to be, you wondered. It was you he should have been wary of, treating you with caution and not with such friendliness. Oh god. Oh shit. What if he was wary because he knew? Oh god he knew and he didn't know how to go on now. Oh shit, oh shit, oh fuck-
"______, I don't believe we've ever met before. I'm Mary. Surprisingly enough, I'm actually with this awkward man here."
You were pulled away from the rising paranoia by the shock of this woman's body against yours. How could Mary, a person you'd never met before, act so kindly to such a miserable wreck as yourself? This unexpected kindness brought a tear to your eye and you wiped it away before Mary, or John, could see it. You smiled politely and thanked her for such a warm greeting, confirming that this was indeed your first meeting at the same time. Yet John still looked strange, and kept looking over at the restaurant door. Mary seemed to notice his weird behaviour too. Maybe it wasn't just because of you. After a few minutes, she commented on the absurdity of you all standing there and commanded you, gently, to sit down like ordinary people did. After more looks on John's part, she sighed and said,
"Look ______, we're actually waiting for another person to join us. That's why John has been acting so strangely. I'd assumed he already told you that we were to be joined by a fourth member."
She looked at you expectantly, as you tried to process this unexpected information. She hesitated before continuing,
"It's Sherlock. Sherlock is the one who is going to join us, ______. We - I - had to do something about you two."
You froze, waiting for the accusations to start flying.
"From what John says, you two were intensely close and now... now John says that Sherlock refuses to talk about you. But then he said that Sherlock mentioned he'd already made his... his reappearance to you, so I couldn't understand why he'd tell you he was alive and then avoid all mention of you."
As Mary was talking, you managed to relax. They didn't - they didn't know. How fantastic was this? Had you ever been so happy at your betrayal being so expertly kept a secret? You couldn't even remember. But at least you could breathe again.
Until that restaurant door opened. Obviously it had been opening and closing before but this time you knew that it was him.
You hadn't seen him since he lost his temper at you and finally let out those pent up emotions. Since you tried to redeem yourself in his eyes. Since you kissed him and made him realise that he hadn't lost some particular feelings for you. God, he must hate you even more for that.
You kept your eyes trained on the table; on this scratch - this little scratch - ingrained in the wood. You absentmindedly ran your finger against the indent, which only made you more furious at its refusal to be whole and perfect. Why couldn't there be just one thing that could be perfectly perfect-
"No, Sherlock, don't you dare leave!" That was John shouting. Why was he shouting? You lifted your head up to see John a few metres from the table, holding onto Sherlock's forearm, who looked as though he'd walked in, changed his mind, and turned away to walk back out. Until John stopped him, of course. Sherlock must've have been kept in the dark too. Although you couldn't understand why he'd agree to go out with the happy couple. Maybe he was trying to make it up to John, for the pain he caused him. And of course, he doesn't think to make it up to you-
He had nothing to apologise for. Essentially you were even. In fact, Sherlock could be furious with you until the end of time before it would match the evilness of what you'd done. To him. You let your eyes find his. Fury was there, as expected. Malevolence. Disgust. Run-of-the-mill emotions for a betrayal. You kept your eyes focused on his, unable - or just unwilling - to hear what John was saying to him to make him sit down beside you. Yet, John actually managed to make him do it. But it didn't mean that the next hour wasn't agonising. You all ordered food, yet it was barely half gone by the time Mary decided that she had had enough. And so, she talked. She asked you questions about what you had been up to. You had to lie. 'I tried to kill myself to stop the guilt of betraying my lover destroy me' didn't go down well with new acquaintances. So you just omitted the couple of months you'd been... you'd not been yourself. Mary asked Sherlock questions and he answered them with as much information as could be allowed. Apparently he'd dismantled Moriarty's whole operation. How he'd ever been in a state of mind to ever forgive you, you'd never know.
The worst was when Mary directed questions to the both of you. Because you could stand his frightening fury but it was his complete refusal to accept that you were there, to answer Mary's questions together, that slowly started to threaten your sanity. How could you keep yourself from falling apart when this man - your cruel love - was acting as though you didn't exist, when you knew that there was still something in him that desired you, that made him feel so much so that he had no other option but to hate himself - as well as you - for it?
But at long last, the this horrific meet up was over. As soon as Mary opened her mouth Sherlock interjected, apologising for keeping the two of them from a prior engagement, and walked out.
Wow.
Even after two years, his confidence and arrogance in his fabulous skills of deduction didn't cease to amaze you. You shook your head before asking,
"So John. How right was he?"
John looked up at you with a familiar look of wonder and chuckled before saying that Sherlock had been absolutely right, of course. Of course. You and the happy couple exchanged goodbyes before you excused yourself, saying that you had paperwork to get back to. Lies - all lies. Afraid of letting yourself get back into that awful and reckless state, you were more organised than you needed to be. But they bought the lie. After all, what reason would they have for not believing it? A frustrating taxi ride later and you were home - back at the little flat you called home so easily now. You let yourself in and were about to slam the door shut before realising that something was stopping the door from letting out that angry, satisfying, sound. You looked over your shoulder and saw a polished black shoe between the door and the wall. There was only one person you knew who wore these shoes. You sighed but you didn't look up to see who it was. You didn't need to. You turned back around to walk into your little home and heard the door shut behind you, heard the lock turning and clicking into place. Shrugging your jacket off so you could drape it on the back of a chair, you brushed your hair back behind your ear, about to face Sherlock - for it had to be Sherlock.
So it was surprising to see a face you hadn't had the miserable pleasure of seeing in over two years.
Mycroft.
Maybe you should've paid more attention to his shoes the other times he'd visited you... and Sherlock. Because it was the both of you he'd had the joy of seeing whenever he decided to grace his younger sibling with his presence.
A grey, tailored suit - tailored in an effort to hide the excess stomach fat that Sherlock always took pleasure in pointing out.
"It's been a long time, ______."
"Yes it has, Mycroft. Thank you for that amazing observation."
"It seemed more polite than the observations I made about you. I'm sure you'd rather I didn't go into all the details relating to the events of these past two years. How is the therapist? He must be going out of his mind with worry about you? Oh no wait. You're perfect now, aren't you-"
"Please, just stop. Talking. Just stop talking, Mycroft. It's complicated."
"Well, yours must have been a very difficult secret to keep, if you managed to keep it from Sherlock. I regret not coming to see you alone, ______. I could have talked some sense into my idiot of a brother and convinced him to stop this ill-fated relationship.
But perhaps you'll heed my words now. Don't put any ideas back into my brother's head."
He fixed a cuff link and walked to your door, turning round to face you with a face that looked like it showed human emotion.
"He's in a very vulnerable place, ______. Try to respect that, even if the urge to betray him again seems too delicious to turn away."
As the weight of that last statement sunk in on you, you had to grab the back of the chair to keep yourself from falling and turning into a tearful mess.
The door opened again. You should have locked it as soon as Mycroft had left. Could you even bear to hear anymore?
The door closed and you heard the click of the lock once more. You lifted your head so as to address Mycroft confidently and tell him to fuck off, when you felt a familiar pressure against your lips. You brought your hands up to bring Sherlock's face closer to yours - despite its already very close proximity - but were stopped by Sherlock. He broke away and looked into your eyes, as though he were searching for something that could condone what he was doing. The torment was all you could see in his - pain, anger, and lust conflicted with every passing second.
"Don't. Just... please just don't make this more complicated than it already is."
Who could resist such a desperate look?
You stood there with your hands by your sides, letting his suppressed love - his lust - take over the logical portion of his brain. It was only when he pulled away that you realised you both had tear tracks running down your cheeks.
//AN: You guys are even more depressing and dark than I am lol //