John thought he understood why Sherlock left. It'd taken time, both before he'd returned and after, to piece it all together. Hoping for a miracle aside, John'd tried to attend to much of Sherlock's unfinished business. This had been more than simply sending off his microscope collection to various schools and packing up his books. John had been worried about the whole Moriarty affair, eagerly and easily covered up by a brother John listed as public enemy number one for quite a long time until the life of Mycroft Holmes, always and intentionally closed to him, faded to gray and then black.

Moriarty and his network had been obliterated, but John found mention here and there of people that had seen two men on the roof of Bart's. He knew Sherlock had killed himself to end the game. Knew it had to be the only way. And if Moriarty disappeared too?

Well that meant him dead as well.

John Watson has never once, in his life, believed Sherlock a liar or a fake. And he never would either.

Owlishly, he blinks now at his friend in his attempt to straighten up. Once a military man, always a military man. Drunken state notwithstanding.

Sherlock's answer makes very little sense to John's understanding of Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective.

"You left to try to save us," John says bluntly, nose wrinkling. "You came back to torment us." Now that's just a mean speculation. "I've-- I've changed. You didn't save me. And you're not doing me any favours now either."