Disclaimer: we neither own, nor profit from, any characters or situations contained herein.

De-anon from kinkmeme prompt:

John and Sherlock get into a heated argument, resulting in John's calling Sherlock a 'freak.' Sherlock is instantaneously and visibly hurt, replying that John was the only one who never called him that. John then has to go to great lengths to gain Sherlock's trust again (because he can't go back in time to undo his words).

Sherlock Holmes was miles ahead by the time John started running.

He didn't know what Sherlock had figured out, had no idea why he and Lestrade and Donovan, of all people, were legging it across the back gardens of a dozen council houses in the direction of absolutely nothing at all. Still, Sherlock was running, and he usually had a reason, so they kept up as best they could, Donovan muttering something about 'the freak' under her breath.

Sherlock, well in front, knew exactly why he was running – the mottled, hand-shaped bruise on the locksmith's arm had given him the final piece of data he required, and he might have only minutes to get to the right cellar and stop…

… well, whatever was going on. He had a vague idea, but it had been far more urgent to find out where than what, and the second question had not yet been fully answered. He suspected this was about to become a moot point.

Reaching the correct house (his mental map of London the only thing keeping him oriented in this forest of red brick, green grass and identical washing on identical lines) he grasped the ring pull on the cellar trapdoor and flung himself in –

– only to be greeted with the sight of a pair of worn, black boots vanishing up the stairs and out through the internal cellar door.

Pausing only for a moment to take stock of the situation – child, rope, wires, yes, flashing lights, countdown, but there was plenty of time, Lestrade and John could take care of it – he followed up the slipshod wooden stairs in a whirlwhind of squeals and creaks and swirling coat.

He caught the man, of course, dragged him back to the cellar in question and handed him off to Lestrade with a dismissive gesture at their suspect's left hand, still clutching a set of keys Sherlock hadn't bothered to explain. The Detective Inspector's sigh was short and sharp, but Sherlock was never wrong, and his casually offered deductions were hard to refute.

He was halfway into them before he realized he hadn't heard John say "fantastic" even once.

It put a damper on the second half, and he ran through them as quickly as possible, without pause for breath, until he'd finished and dared to look up at his flatmate, perhaps deduce the reason for his unaccustomed silence.

Though John's face was impassive, the quiet thunder in his eyes did not bode well.

Sherlock showed astonishing good sense, for once, and waited until they were in a cab on the way back to Baker Street before shooting John a quizzical look. "Problem?"

John looked over at him. When he spoke, his tone was incredulous. "Problem, Sherlock?"

Sherlock merely looked back at him, a quizzical air descending across his puzzled features. "What?"

He honestly seemed to have no idea what John was driving at. John stared at him, completely disbelieving.

"How can you possibly – no. You know what, this is going to wait until we get back. I am not having this conversation with you in a cab." A brief snort of laughter escaped him at this statement. "No. But we will address this, Sherlock, is that clear?"

Sherlock sat ramrod straight and nodded silently, too taken aback to do much more.

"Good."

John sat back against his seat and stared forward, leaving Sherlock to gaze out of the window, feeling oddly glad that it wasn't yet dark enough out to reflect. Both pointedly ignored the presence of the silence that followed them the rest of the way back to Baker Street.

When they arrived, John shouldered open the door of 221B with considerably more force than necessary and strode directly up the stairs, not pausing to wait for Sherlock as he usually did.

Sherlock followed with trepidation, not entirely sure he wanted to find out what had put John in such a snit. Quickly replaying the scene as he ascended the stairs, he drew a most irritating blank.

Was it that he had run ahead? No, impossible – he'd done that far too many times for it still to irritate John, who seemed to enjoy writing up those so-called "chase scenes" on his blog.

Was it that he had almost been too late? No, John wouldn't have seen the booted foot going up the steps, and who cared if he was almosttoo late, as long as he wasn't?

Were his deductions flawed? Ridiculous thought, instantly dismissed. But John hadn't seemed impressed…
If John wasn't impressed, then it wasn't the deductions themselves, as such feats were far beyond his abilities.

This was as far as he got before reaching the top of the stairs.

John was waiting for him, leaning back against the arm of his customary chair. Nothing about his stance was particularly aggressive, but his face belied the impression of mere aggravation. The features were stony, carefully closed and blank, but the eyes were hard, harder than Sherlock had ever seen them. This wasn't determination, or even mulish stubbornness. This was anger, boiling and dangerous.

Sherlock stood just inside the doorway for a moment before fully entering the room and throwing himself down on the sofa in his customary position. He pressed his hands together beneath his chin and closed his eyes, waiting for John to make the first move. It wasn't long in coming.

"Sherlock." The voice was flat, yes, and hard, but he seemed to be trying to suppress his anger, which was a good sign, he supposed.

"John." Sherlock kept his voice as light and free of emotion as he could, not wanting to provoke John into the full of his apparent mood.

A loud breath exhaled through the nostrils told Sherlock he had failed in assuaging the simmering temper. He opened an eye and looked at John, who was gripping the arm of the chair with white-knuckled intensity, and clearly struggling to control himself.

"Problem?" The word was out before Sherlock realized he had said it, and he winced minutely in preparation for the coming storm just as John exploded.

"Yes, problem, Sherlock! How can you just sitthere and act like nothing's happened?"

Sherlock leveled an irritated gaze at the man opposite him. "Because, to the best of my knowledge, nothing has happened." The laconic, disinterested voice would do nothing to help his case, he knew, but if he couldn't find a problem, odds usually were there wasn't one.

"Nothing's happened? Sherlock, for god's sake, did you see the child strapped to a bomb as big as he was, and did you not just run past him?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course I saw him. I also saw how much time was left, and I knew you and Lestrade would be able to take care of it."

John scrubbed a hand through his hair, briefly clutching it with his fingers. "You knew we could take care of it."

"Yes." Sherlock closed his eyes again.

A small, humourless chuckle. "Yeah, and you know what that tells me?" Sherlock didn't respond, and as he had expected, John continued without waiting for a response. "It tells me that you didn't care. You never allow anyone else to do anything you consider 'important,' which apparently doesn't include de-rigging a bomb strapped to a child."

Sherlock levered himself up, swung his legs around, sat on the very edge of the sofa with his elbows on his knees, looking up at John. "I had a case, and therefore I was to give my full measure of devotion to that case. My options at that point were to either stop a much-wanted criminal or to let that criminal escape. Are you honestly surprised at my choice?" He couldn't help it – now he was becoming angry as well. John could lecture him about cleaning, or… or cooking, or manners, but he would nottell him how to go about doing his work.

"You made your choice entirely based on the assumption that Lestrade and I were right behind you?"

Sherlock looked at him incredulously. "No, of course not. Why would I… oh."

If Sherlock thought that John's earlier outburst was an explosion, then this was Santorini.

"Because it meant the difference between life and death, Sherlock!" He was yelling for the first time Sherlock had witnessed. Truly yelling, not just a raised voice. "The difference between a child's life and death! Does that mean anything to you?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to grip his hair. "What does that matter? So what if it was a child, it's not any more or less a person than you or I!"

"How can you be like this? How can you seriously not care that you could have let a child die, without a second thought? It's not normal!"

"Sociopath?"

"Freak."

Silence. Heavy, all-consuming silence that settled like a blanket over the room and made breathing impossible.

John's eyes widened slowly, his expression of fury changed to one of mortified horror, and he brought his hands up to cover his mouth. "Oh god, Sherlock – I – I didn't mean it, I'm so sorry, I – "

Sherlock sat frozen on the couch, staring through John with glassy eyes. He looked almost in shock – pale, barely breathing, mouth slightly open – was he actually trembling?

"Sherlock – " John tried again, pleading.

Sherlock stood slowly, looking atJohn now, and slowly brought his gaze up to meet his. John felt something break within him at the expression in his once-friend's gaze. Hurt. Deep, gnawing pain looked out from Sherlock's eyes, even though his face remained stony and pale. "I never thought to hear that word from you, John. I had hoped I never would. I had hoped you were above that."

With that, he slowly brushed past John and exited their flat. John was powerless to do anything but stand there, petrified, as he heard the front door close with ominous finality. He wondered what he had done, and hated himself for it.