"No," John tried to breathe normally. Everything in him was frozen. "No."

Disappointment flickered on Sherlock's face, but only for a moment. "No? I thought you'd be pleased to see me, John. Was I really that bad of a flatmate? I suppose it may have been a bit of a relief. Managing a full night's sleep for a while must have been nice, but I never really thought that the late night cases and violin playing bothered you. In fact, I thought you rather enjoyed them, really –the cases, that is- but you did have the tendency to-"

"Sherlock- Sherlock!" John's voice was shaky, but firm. He was lightheaded, not entirely sure this was really happening, and entirely sure he wasn't in the mood to listen to Sherlock's internal dialogue turned external, voicing his impossible train of thought.

Sherlock's head snapped up from his violin, which he had been studying. "Yes?"

"You… how…" John shook his head. "You jumped. I watched you jump. I took your pulse, and there was absolutely nothing there. This… this can't be happening. It can't. I've finally lost it. Gone mental. I knew it was only a matter of time."

"Oh, my dear John. I promise I'm here. You found my letters, did you? I noticed, going through everything, that they were all in a new file. So you read them... But you didn't figure it all out? I thought for sure you'd have picked up on the hints I placed in them. Hmm. Perhaps I put too much faith in your intellect."

John stiffened. Even hallucination Sherlock was a callous jerk. This was too much. This was too realistic. He ran his hand down his face, suddenly aware of a headache coming on, overwhelming his dizziness.

Sherlock almost looked concerned about John's wobbling, his level of anxiety. "Here, come, sit down," He insisted, pointing his bow over at John's chair.

"No," John said again. He was dazed. Sherlock hated the lack of emotion on his friend's face.

"John," Sherlock said softly. No answer. "John!" A little sharper, this time. Sharp enough that it caught John's attention. "I know you're shocked, and obviously questioning if this is reality, hallucination, or dream. I can assure you, I am here. I am. Just like that miracle you asked for, actually. See," he grinned briefly, his eyes crinkling at the edges, "You should be pleased."

The second the words were out of his mouth, the second John's eyes widened, Sherlock realized the mistake he had made.

"M…Miracle?" John's voice was shaky. "How did you know about that? How could you possibly know about that?"

"John." Sherlock's voice was soft and regretful; it was the closest he could get to pleading.

"No!" Sherlock saw the tension, saw the shock, saw the building rage in John's posture, his clenched fists, his shaking body. His jaw was tight and his eyes were full of ire and maybe just a thin lining of unshed tears. "Don't. Either you are a hallucination, or you're real and were there. Were you there, Sherlock, as I stood at your grave and cried for you? Were you there while I pleaded for you to come back?"

Even Sherlock, callous though he always was, always had been, felt guilt so intense it took his breath away.

He didn't like it, and clenched his teeth, raised his chin haughtily, and narrowed his eyes. "Yes." His voice was no longer pleading, but clipped and disdainful.

This created even more fury in John. "So that's it, then? Nearly a year of leaving me to think you've been dead, and this is what I- You know what? Fine. I don't know why I'm surprised. It's just like you to pull something like this and expect everything to go back to normal once you've come back."

"Well why shouldn't it?" Sherlock's eyes weren't on John anymore. He was once again inspecting his violin. It sounded like, by this point, he had grown bored with the conversation. In truth, he was reeling inside. His heart was fluttering madly, excited to finally see John but nervous and panicky at how it was turning out so far. This was not how he had planned it. He thought for sure that John would be happy to see him, but it seemed he had disappointed John. Again.

He never was good at this sort of thing.

John's eyes widened for a moment. He had almost forgotten how utterly impossible, how utterly self-centered this man had been. John threw his hands up in the air. "You were dead for a year!" He could feel his blood pressure rising. "You made me watch you jump off of a building. I saw your body lying in a pool of blood. There was even a funeral for you-"

Sherlock's eyes darted back to John. "You didn't go."

John didn't even try to mask the disbelief, the disgust on his face. He nodded to himself, not wanting to look at Sherlock. "Yep. Don't know why I mourned you the way I did." The words weren't true, of course. He knew exactly why he mourned. But his anger and, honestly, his hurt, were overriding his ability to filter the words coming out of his mouth. A little voice in the back of his mind felt the need to show Sherlock what it felt like to be insulted, how it felt when he was so callous, so insensitive, so hurtful.

Sherlock held his poker face. He didn't want John to see how much it did sting.

Sherlock couldn't help but wonder... Had John not even missed him?

"You saw how it was affecting those around you, Sherlock. You saw how it was affecting me. And you just sat back and watched it happen. How long did you follow me? Or maybe it wasn't you. How long did Mycroft follow me?" John stared at the infuriating man in front of him. When Sherlock said nothing, he groaned and kept going. "Did you really think that this would all be okay?"

"Yes."

John shook his head. "You are… an unbelievably incredible man."

A hint of a smile curled at the corners of Sherlock's lips. It was more a twitch of a smirk than anything. "Well thank you, John, that's very kind of y-"

"I didn't mean that as a compliment, you… you…" John tried to spit out a word that correctly summed up his plethora of feelings towards the brilliant yet stupid man in front of him.

"Machine?" Sherlock offered dryly.

He watched John's face fall and willed himself to just stop talking. Why did he always do this? Why did he always feel the compulsion to be as much of a dick as possible? John-his John- had a look on his face that signaled emotional torment, and it was all his fault. If only he could just turn it off. But he couldn't, he couldn't force himself to say nice things, gentle things, if something a little more caustic, a little more honest was on his mind.

So, going by that logic, Sherlock shut his mouth for once. He felt he owed John that much.

John took a deep breath. "What you did was not okay. Do you understand me? Not. Okay."

"I was only doing what I had to do."

John continued to stare him down. "What you had to? You had to keep me in the dark this long? Do you even know-"

"Yes, I do know. Mycroft filled me in. He came to see me after he spoke to you. He was never supposed to tell you why I had to leave. I'm sorry. Forgive me."

John scoffed with disbelief. "You think that's why I'm-" He cut himself off as he realized something. "Wait. That was months ago, his filling me in. He knew? Even then? That information he gave me destroyed me, Sherlock. I know he was keeping tabs on me. He saw me fall apart and he knew and didn't tell me?"

Sherlock had no answers, because he had to admit even to himself that his actions had been unfair. They had all been for John's safety, of course, but were they fair? Not in the slightest. Sherlock brought his steepled hands to his lips and closed his eyes as he thought of a way to answer John.

"Sod this," Sherlock heard him say all too soon. "Sod this, all of this. I'm not playing this game anymore, Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes darted open instantly. "John..."

"Nope!" Sherlock watched as his doctor, his blogger, turned, wrenched the door open, and all but ran out of the room. "Keep the bloody flat!" He called back toward Sherlock before slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock closed his eyes again as he counted John's uneven steps hurry down the stairs. He could hear the doctor's loud, jumbled string of profanities all the way out the door.

Don't go after him, He thought to himself. He'll be back. He just needs some time. He'll be fine, he'll forgive me. ...Right?