Tired of dying for the sake of his relative comfort. Exhaling softly, John shakes his head at the brass of that statement and gulps down another mouthful of hot tea. Sherlock knows which words can cut deep and it hit the mark. Not apologizing back then can mean any number of things, but it makes John think about the time he discovered Sherlock in that drug den after not hearing anything from him for a month. Considering the steps he took with Mycroft to prevent him falling back into that nasty habit, John's temper had been running particularly high. In this place, John can occasionally tap into reserves of unknown strength and trash an apartment if he wanted to, but he didn't need any genetic adjustment to throw Sherlock through the backdoor. He never did have the chance to apologize because, in the same day, they started pursuing Magnussen.
Since that day, everything became so complicated. His wife turned out to be a completely different person who shot his best friend and killed him. Only for a few short minutes, until his stubbornness prevailed and he pulled through, surprising everyone in the operating theatre. John has had months to cope and come to terms with what happened to them but, for Sherlock, it's still recent. It's easy to forget and he deserves this treatment. He can silence that little voice buried deep inside that doesn't agree with his decision; he's had years of practice and the power to fortify his emotions.
"Well, I'm apologizing now. For all of it. It's behind us now, so... yeah. Have a cake, then we can move on from it all." He declares with a sniff, hoping to keep this promise. But there is something about what Sherlock said that doesn't make sense to him and he follows the declaration up with a question.
"But there's something I don't understand. You keep saying you showed her what happened when she sho—" His voice catches. It still gets to him, referencing that horrible evening and he waves his hand, vocals navigating past the restriction that has formed in his throat during this conversation.
"You know what I mean. You're usually such a grammar nazi, so... I don't get it."
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Since that day, everything became so complicated. His wife turned out to be a completely different person who shot his best friend and killed him. Only for a few short minutes, until his stubbornness prevailed and he pulled through, surprising everyone in the operating theatre. John has had months to cope and come to terms with what happened to them but, for Sherlock, it's still recent. It's easy to forget and he deserves this treatment. He can silence that little voice buried deep inside that doesn't agree with his decision; he's had years of practice and the power to fortify his emotions.
"Well, I'm apologizing now. For all of it. It's behind us now, so... yeah. Have a cake, then we can move on from it all." He declares with a sniff, hoping to keep this promise. But there is something about what Sherlock said that doesn't make sense to him and he follows the declaration up with a question.
"But there's something I don't understand. You keep saying you showed her what happened when she sho—" His voice catches. It still gets to him, referencing that horrible evening and he waves his hand, vocals navigating past the restriction that has formed in his throat during this conversation.
"You know what I mean. You're usually such a grammar nazi, so... I don't get it."