How We Unfold (SherlockBBC; Johnlock)

Chapter 12: A Midnight Affair

John

The phone poised loosely in my hand, I can only stare at it. Oddly, I couldn't bring myself to actually dial Mycroft. I'm not sure why, honestly. I suppose the shock is really hitting me. I haven't any idea what I would say. I'm not sure how to even articulate what's just happened.

Sherlock Holmes is alive.

I sit in silence, long slow minutes stretch out around me. I hear my heart beating, my hand sweats against the smooth plastic of the phone. And then it comes. The anger. The outrage. I've dealt with his death; I've grieved! And I was ready to accept that and move on, with Mary!

What can I possibly do now?

I place my phone face down on the desk and for a moment I have to resist the impulse to propel his violin across the room. Smash it to pieces; oh, how it's haunted me. Before I can contemplate further, faint steps fall upon the stairs. They're hesitant. I turn and find him standing at the door. More wet than he was before. For a moment I think this odd, since he walked here earlier, but then I realize it's his shirt. It's wet now, where it was not before. Because it was protected. I walked briskly to the coat rack, unwilling to look him in the eye.

Crystal droplets of water cling desperately to his shaken hair. His curls are pulled by the weight of the water. He parts his lips to speak, but pauses.

"I forgot my coat," his voice is heavy, just as I've always remembered it.

I stop before him, instead of grabbing his coat, "You're an idiot." It's that anger again.

He blinks, slowly, perhaps arranging words in his mind. I can almost see him file sentences.

"Look, maybe I should have chosen a better way-"

"A better way?! As in a better way to let your friend go on believing you're- you let me grieve!"

His elegant hand is up now, unfolded between us, as if in effort to calm me.

"And now you know. I'm not dead. So now we can get back to work." He says this far too cheerfully, clearly not understanding the great injustice he's done me.

It happens far too quickly for me to have stopped it. I hadn't even thought about it. He certainly didn't expect it, of course he didn't. He's too oblivious to even try to understand how he's made me feel. So when my right fist made contact with his left cheek, it knocked him off balance.

His lengthy form hits the door frame, his right arm outstretched to catch himself against the wall. This does nothing, he tumbles over like a giant redwood, cut down by a chainsaw. It's really ungraceful, the way he collapses. And I remember the first time we had worked a case together, thinking that he must be ungainly. If I weren't so hurt, and angry, I might find it even comical; his long limbs sprawled out in the air as he falls, his eyes wide from surprise.

For someone so observant it's ironic he's so shocked. He lands in an awkward angle, his butt somewhat protruding upward. He quickly regains his posture and sits up. Bringing his nimble fingers up to cup his cheek, he looks up at me with an intense gaze. I don't waver. I don't even blink. I realize my hands are in fists at my sides, as though if they squeeze tight enough they may hold back the anger. He slowly pulls himself up, careful not to stand too close.

"Alright, John," he starts, "I suppose, in retrospect, that may have been warranted-"

"Just get your coat, Sherlock!" I demand. I'm afraid if I let him continue on, I'll be tempted to try the other cheek.

"I really don't-"

"Fine. Have it your way." I yank my coat from the rack and brush past him, to the stairs.