Sherlock hesitates when he hears John's words again. He wants to hear that 'no, please stop' that doesn't come. Some kind of indication that he hadn't been deluding himself by trying to come back to London to patch things up like they'd never been broken in the first place. It was one of his weaknesses, wanting to run away from the responsibility of his actions. Ever since he was a child, he'd never been able to say the words 'it was my fault,' much to his brother's endless frustration.

He's confused. First John tells him that his presence is harmful to him and then he tells him that he can't leave. It's the drink situation, isn't it? Indulge and find comfort in the very poison that's hurting you most. He'd done the same thing years ago with cocaine and later morphine, both landing him in the hospital a handful of times in total with suspected overdose. Is that what he's become to John?

After a moment, he turns his head to look over his shoulder and regards his friend's state. The look in John's eyes, posture, everything. Drunk. Self-abusively drunk. That emotional blow from before leaves him slightly less able to compartmentalise and suppress his emotional state as well as he'd like. Concern. Worry. Frustration. Anger. Devastation. Hurt.

"Well, what is it then?" He asks, voice biting as he closes the space between him and John until he's standing just inches apart from him. "Do you want me to stay or do you want me to go? I can't do both, John."