Why? What is it that makes it so bloody imperative that you be dead?
[ John doesn't shove him. Not yet. He is, however, very much in Sherlock's space. ]
If you wanted rid of me, you know, I wouldn't have made you jump off Bart's for it. I'd have rather been useless for whatever you... whatever you had to do on your own than have you dead.
[ The final word is punctuated with another push, really more of a flat-palmed slap against the other's chest. Sherlock could have told him. John would have protested, but... But that was surely better than thinking the detective leapt to his death while John looked on like a complete, brainless idiot, debilitated by the weight of nothing more than a request and deep denial. It'd have been easier to stay strong for the man if John had had more to go on than a hunch and an unwillingness to deal with the thought of how much it hurt to lose him.
John stared back, eyes just a bit wider with his own will, and bright with whatever emotion he was pinning down as tightly as the wings on his shoulders. He wasn't as good at impassive as Sherlock was and he wasn't trying to be, but it'd be a grave mistake to let it out of control. ]
If that's your way of being nice, don't bother. You're shit at it. You're a great, bloody idiot.
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[ John doesn't shove him. Not yet. He is, however, very much in Sherlock's space. ]
If you wanted rid of me, you know, I wouldn't have made you jump off Bart's for it. I'd have rather been useless for whatever you... whatever you had to do on your own than have you dead.
[ The final word is punctuated with another push, really more of a flat-palmed slap against the other's chest. Sherlock could have told him. John would have protested, but... But that was surely better than thinking the detective leapt to his death while John looked on like a complete, brainless idiot, debilitated by the weight of nothing more than a request and deep denial. It'd have been easier to stay strong for the man if John had had more to go on than a hunch and an unwillingness to deal with the thought of how much it hurt to lose him.
John stared back, eyes just a bit wider with his own will, and bright with whatever emotion he was pinning down as tightly as the wings on his shoulders. He wasn't as good at impassive as Sherlock was and he wasn't trying to be, but it'd be a grave mistake to let it out of control. ]
If that's your way of being nice, don't bother. You're shit at it. You're a great, bloody idiot.
[ A pause. ]
This is where you say you're sorry.