A/N: A roleplay turned fanfiction, written with my lovely Mary (marian93) and her brilliant Sherlock. I'm still in the process of converting it to story format and apologize for any errors.

Disclaimer: You know the drill.

To Hinder or Heal
by Magickbeing and Marian93

Welcoming Sherlock back into his life was proving to be more difficult than he had once thought it would be. There had been many a night when John had convinced himself that Sherlock was still alive, that he had to be alive, if only because of how desperately John needed him—many a night in which it was impossible for John to keep up the facade that he had moved on, that he was healing, and living, and alive. It was on these nights that John imagined their reunion—he had imagined it a thousand different times, it seemed, and in a dozen different ways; in one instance, he punched Sherlock, breaking his nose—in another, he held Sherlock close, gripping his jacket with closed fists for support—and yet in another, he pushed Sherlock against the wall and reacquainted himself with the man's presence in a more intimate way. What actually happened was far different than anything John had imagined. Their reunion was considerably more awkward and took place in 221B, with John, silently fuming, jaw clenched, on one end of the couch and Sherlock on the other, pushing his way through an explanation and an apology. And when said explanation was done? John fled. He left, unable to face his once-dead flatmate any longer, and dragged himself to the nearest pub to drown himself in pint after pint, struggling to sort out his feelings somewhere along the way.

That had been the first—and last—night they discussed Sherlock's absence. He had been gone for nearly three years and then, all at once, he was back in John's life, leaving pickled body parts in the fridge and mold-covered specimen in the sink. He had returned without pause, as if nothing had changed when, in reality, everything had. There had been more than one occasion in which John simply stopped, staring at Sherlock until he could believe that he was real, reacquainting himself with the man's presence. The normality had been nice at first. It had been comforting, reassuring, much like running a hand across a worn quilt, its fabric familiar, wrought with sentiment and weaved with memories—a quilt that, while nice to look at or hold, provided little warmth or use. Once John's initial shock wore off, the normality of their old life started grating against his nerves; the holes became apparent, glaringly obvious, and his anger resurfaced. He was angry at Sherlock for leaving—for lying—and strangely enough, for returning. He was angry at himself for being a coward—for wrapping himself in something that was no longer of use—for pretending things were okay when things were anything but okay. He was angry at himself for allowing Sherlock into his life, as if forgiven—and he was angry at himself for being so angry. There was absolutely no logic to his anger—or the sadness that accompanied it. It simply existed, raw and smothering, and no matter how he tried, he was unable to move past it.

His nightmares returned with a vengeance. He stopped going out to the pub with Lestrade or going on dates or playing bridge with Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner; he slept little and ate even less. He was slowly slipping back into the depression that had overwhelmed him when Sherlock 'died', but this time, there was nothing to target, nothing to work through—nothing to blame. There was nothing to credit the hollow, dull ache in his chest to—nothing to explain his behavior. He pushed through each day on auto-pilot, going through the motions as if a very large and important part of himself had checked out and had yet to return—and so John waited.

Sherlock had noticed, of course. He noticed everything. It was slow, but steady—John's descent into depression. He had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that John would be alright again with him back, that his mere presence would fix the doctor, like it had before—curing his limp along with his apathy. But this was different, and he could feel it. There was nothing to cure, nothing visible like a psychosomatic limp or an intermittent tremor—just the blank look on his face, the vacancy in his eyes. It was as if he was waiting on standby, just waiting for something to flip the switch back on. It had taken several weeks before the full regression had happened and Sherlock was left helpless against it, trying to stave it off by acting like he always had, trying to reassure John that he really was back... but to no avail. And now there they were, sitting in the living room on a warm, lazy Sunday afternoon, trying to ignore the elephant in the room or, rather, the gaping, roaring black hole that sucked every ounce of feeling from the both of them.

Instead of going out for a walk or doing the dishes or picking up milk or, just, anything, John sat in his usual armchair, staring blankly at his detective, newspaper across his lap. Becoming vaguely aware that he was staring, John forced himself to look away and toward the window, watching small, glittering particles of dust dance through the sunlight that filtered into their flat from the window.

Sherlock was watching his blogger—not that John even blogged anymore, but the title had stuck in Sherlock's brain—who, in turn, was fixing an unfocused gaze out the window. This had to stop. There had to be something he could do to make it stop. And maybe Sherlock knew, maybe he was aware, on some remote and rarely-used part of his mind that wasn't completely oblivious to social interaction, what it was that John needed, but he was scared. He knew John needed to talk, needed to uncork the myriad of things bottled up inside, clogging in his heart and mind, poisoning him from the inside out. He needed to rage and punch and scream and cry. He needed to hate Sherlock and Sherlock needed to let him. He just didn't want to because he knew that, if he did, there was the very real possibility—and perhaps the best one for the older man—that John may never come back.

Taking one look at the doctor's face, expressionless and yet so very, very tired, Sherlock silently said goodbye to the fleeting normality and the short-lived sense of coming home he had experience and did a very uncharacteristically selfless thing: he put John's mental health before his own desires.

"We need to talk."

Following the dust particles' slow descent for a moment longer, John's gaze pivoted toward Sherlock.

He visibly straightened, as if slipping into character, and his brow creased at its center, puckering. Those three words had been expected but dreaded. Even Sherlock—Sherlock, the man that swore caring was not an advantage, that seemed to suppress all possible sentiment, that committed dozens of faux pas on a daily basis—could only remain quiet for so long. He could feel the tension from his body slipping into the air, weighing down the conversation. He wanted desperately to avoid this conversation. He didn't want to talk—he just wanted to be left alone.

Forcing a small, weak smile, John shifted in his chair, dropping his eyes from Sherlock and to his lap. He busied himself with folding up the newspaper, tossing it haphazardly onto the floor. How did he talk about this—what ever this was—when he didn't know how to describe it to himself?

"Yeah," he muttered, his smile softening. "Sure."

He settled back into his armchair, his fingers coming to rest on his thighs, curling into his trousers and pressing hard. "Let's talk, then."

Lifting his chin from where it was resting on his steepled hands, Sherlock dropped them onto his lap too, and weighed his options, unsure of where to start. It was strange how their positions had reversed. It was strange, feeling this much when he was used to feeling so little, and being the one to coax John out of his stupor, out of his black mood, when he was usually the one who had to pull Sherlock from his massive sulks. It was strange, knowing that this was it—the end. The only consolation Sherlock had was that it could be a new beginning for John, somewhere without resentments and old wounds left closed until they became infected—without deaths and grief and lies and disappointment—without him.

"You—" he stopped, restarted, "—there has been—" stopped again, hating himself for his lack of eloquence—one more time, "—you've changed."

Well, that wasn't precisely a baffling observation, but he supposed it was a starting point.

The corner of John's mouth twitched, his eyes trained on his hands. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, turning his hands over and curling his fingers into his palms to form half-fists. A soft scoff escaped parted lips and he cleared his throat, pressing his lips together so that his mouth was thinned into a tight line. He looked to Sherlock, forcing himself to meet his gaze. There was no fake smile this time. His expression was guarded, carefully controlled. John gave a one-shouldered shrug.

"Yeah."

He didn't say the obvious: three years was a lot of time.

The response was unsurprisingly dry, and Sherlock gave an internal sigh. The hard way it was, then. Leaning forward, eyes narrowing, Sherlock did what he did best. He deduced.

"You are angry. The constant set of your jaw, the restless clenching and unclenching of your fists, the stiff posture all point to chronic anger. Your eyes, however, are tired and ringed. Defeated. They keep losing focus, but the lack of eye-movement denotes lack of linear thinking. You simply stop." John visibly stiffened, his eyes fixated on Sherlock as he pressed on. "The popped vessels in your conjunctiva indicate sleepless nights, backed up by the rather vocal, almost nightly nightmares. Your refraining from social behaviors with our acquaintances, in addition to being out of character, suggests strong feelings of isolation and detachment. All of these are symptoms of depression. You are depressed, John."

Anger bubbled in John's chest, red-hot and raw, lighting him aflame, nerves exposed. Sherlock was acting as if he was telling John something that he didn't know, as if he was completely unaware of how he felt; he swallowed hard and then there was another smile, completely and utterly patronizing.

"Congratulations," he muttered. "You're so clever."

His eyes held Sherlock's gaze for a long moment, darker than usual, before switching to the floor. Ah, there. That flare of fire, that blind flash of fury that made his pupils contract. It was something, uncontrolled and unregulated—like a broken faucet that only had two settings, gushing and shut—and better than nothing. John let out a slow, deliberate huff of a breath, desperately trying to keep his emotions under tight reign. When he looked back to Sherlock, he had forced his expression to soften, to become stoic again, and his smile had vanished. Too soon, the fire was suffocated and gone, replaced by that hateful calm—the quiet, poisonous rage—the one that exploded inwards, breaking everything that was John.

"I'm very aware of it, thank you—anything else you'd like to mention?" John asked, tone clipped.

Sherlock knew he had been close; he had seen that volatile thing simmering just beneath the surface... if he could just tap it, just once, he knew it would come roaring its terrible, beautiful head.

"Yes. You are a masochist. It is the only explanation to all the facts. You seek emotional turmoil. It's like an addiction. Once I was gone, you replaced your need for adrenaline with a desire for misery. You feed it, and it gives you a dark pleasure, to suffer. Maybe it is a deep seated guilt for the people that died in Afghanistan. A search for redemption. Maybe you feel better knowing you are not living your life while they can never be. Maybe my death renewed that compulsion. For whatever reason, you seek pain, you crave despair, and you are never going to leave because I'm your fix. Always have been. Takes an addict to know an addict." He finished his tirade, leaning back on his chair and drumming his fingers on the armrest. There. The final shake. It wasn't true, of course it wasn't. But if it got John to react, to finally snap out of it, Sherlock was willing to lie. One last time.

He waited for the pressure of weeks —years, really— of bottled up feelings to reach their bursting point and explode.

There was little John could do but stare, his mouth opening, betraying the slow building shock forming with each word. Shock quickly gave into something more, his anger threatening to spiral from his grip and lash out. His heart quickened, beating hard against his ribs—loud in his ears, John struggled to focus on Sherlock, struggled to keep his anger at bay—but it was a pointless, losing battle. His fingers pressed hard into his palms, his knuckles turning white, and his jaw was tight, teeth clenched. Sherlock had managed to press every one of his buttons and for another long moment, John could do nothing but stare. The shock had vanished, melting into something more intense, his fury written across his face. How dare Sherlock—he had waited for him—had believed in him for three years—three God forsaken years and because he wasn't instantly better, wasn't instantly okay, Sherlock thought he had the right to judge him?

Anger wrapped itself around his heart, stifling its beat and protecting it—there was a knot sliding up his throat, hard and acidic, a bundle of words slipping over his tongue and pushing itself through his lips. His voice was considerably lower than usual, its edge obvious.

"I'm a masochist? Says the resident sadist—" he stopped, shaking his head, face scrunched up in a strange mixture of pain and anger. He sucked in a deliberate breath, voice cracking. "I waited for you for three fucking years. You made me watch you fall. I thought you were dead—and there was nothing I could do to change it." He was on the edge of his seat now, his hands balled into tight fists. "Do you want to talk about my nightmares, Sherlock? They're not about Afghanistan—they're about you. Even now—even knowing—" he stopped, shaking his head, the words bitter in his mouth. "I watch you die over and over. You're still dead to me. I'm so sorry if I can't turn a switch and make everything better—so sorry I'm such a bloody inconvenience." He was on his feet now, his body trembling with each breath. "Maybe my mind is trying to tell me something, yeah? Maybe things were better when you were dead."

Oh. Oh, that was surprisingly… destructive. Sherlock had known it would be violent, wild and harmful, just not quite this devastating. It seemed he wasn't the only one who knew exactly what words to say to cause the most damage. But his words were real. They were genuine, not a manipulation to ignite hurt and anger, which made it all the worse. This was John, the true, raw John. All false calm stripped, all smothering defenses torn away. This was his heart, bleeding and damaged and honest. And right. So very painfully right. Sherlock had done this to him. He had fixed him, given him a reason to be all he could be again, given him thrills and danger and excitement. The spark that had been missing from his life. Given him a friend. And then he had taken all that again, in one quick, smooth sweep. Elegant. Clean.

Cold.

And not only had he taken it away, no. He had made him watch. Had made him promise to "keep your eyes fixed on me". He had made him look as he plunged to his death, had made him smell the blood, take his pulse, made sure to break that tiny, desperate hope of finding a heartbeat that the doctor in him could cling to, that the friend in him could hope for. It had been a complete destruction, a methodical breakdown. Beautifully executed. Perfect in every detail. Sadist indeed. He had hit all the crucial points: visual, auditory, touch and smell. For a man with a history of PTSD, it was the perfect way to brand his brain with sensory input.

The scientist in him cheered.

The friend in him… the friend in him ran away and hid from what he had done.

And now there John was, bringing him out kicking and screaming, with some well placed words and that lookon his face, to atone for his actions.

Sherlock sat there, and stared. Stared at the man he had made, the man he had unmade, and tiny little pieces inside of him broke. John's breathing was erratic, coming out in short, uneven puffs through flared nostrils and parted lips. He was right, John. He was so right. It would have been better if he had stayed dead. Or better yet, if he had really died in the first place. The only good he could see coming out of this was that John would finally be able to breathe, all that anger and damn well deserved hate was coming out, pus from a wound, cleaning him. And all he had to do was sit, trying to look detached and unfeeling, and let John heal himself some more. Scar over the wound and never, ever, let him in again.

As Sherlock stared, John searched his face, searched for some sign that what he said had affected the other man—but there was nothing. Sherlock was as neutral as ever, stoic and cold, and his detachment fed into John's anger. Of course he didn't really wish Sherlock had stayed dead—he needed Sherlock. Even if he was struggling then, even if he was trying to wade his way through the darkness, he knew his only chance lay in the man across from him. Losing Sherlock before had made him re-evaluate a lot of things. He realized that they were very much two parts of a whole—Sherlock was logical, detached, impatient and meticulous—John was sentimental, compassionate, grounded and strangely impulsive. They needed each other. Sherlock was the excitement John needed and John was the rock Sherlock anchored himself to. But right then, none of that mattered. Right then, John needed heat. He needed anger. He needed to know that Sherlock cared, that he had returned because of sentiment, not convenience—but right then, Sherlock refused to be what John needed.

His mouth puckered into a scowl and he looked way, rolling his tongue against the inside of his lips. Sherlock could see it, then, almost pinpoint the moment John let go. John forced his fists to unclench, his fingers flexing out and stabbing the air, and Sherlock saw it for what it was—that last hope, that last reaching out of a hand to grasp at thin air. The equivalent of his checking of Sherlock's pulse after seeing him hit the cement, now in the form of one final searching look, a hopeless gesture more to confirm loss than in expectance of a miracle. The flimsy comfort that he'd tried. But no amount of wanting and trying and checking would stop the fall, or spark some recognition into Sherlock's face. He remained silent and that silence reinforced everything that John was afraid of—that his realization was one-sided, that Sherlock needed him less than he thought. After all, John was the reason Sherlock had died. He was Sherlock's Achilles heel. Maybe Sherlock had decided to distance himself again, rid himself of such weakness, and his return had been nothing more than part of a bigger plan, another ploy to leave John broken and alone.

He shook his head, his eyes burning. Blinking against the sensation, John turned his gaze to Sherlock again.

His voice was dangerously low, barely audible as he said, "Well that settles that then, yeah?" He kept his eyes on Sherlock's. "I won't inconvenience you any longer."

There was a broken edge to his voice, his pain pushing itself through his anger, bloodied, desperate shards, a last attempt to reach the man across from him. He searched his face for a moment longer before stirring, pushing himself forward and toward the stairs to retreat to his bedroom.

And then he was gone, interrupted steps speaking of a returning limp.