"You were being watched. Moriarty expected me to find a way out of it. He planned for that eventuality, too. And you think these men would have believed that you knew I was alive, but didn't know where I was? Truly? Haven't you seen enough spy movies?" Sherlock cleared his throat, and almost stopped altogether. "As I got deeper in, I thought I was going to die. You know what I said when I felt it? It wasn't asking God to let me live. To myself, in the darkness, I said, 'I have lived far longer than I deserved to'. And I said, 'I'm glad I never sent those letters. I'm glad he has already mourned me. It makes it easier to die now.' Somehow, I didn't, though. All this work to clear my name, all this keeping me alive in the press, and I thought, 'just let it go, let my reputation die with me', but you wouldn't, would you?" There was a slight smile on his lips, but a sadness in his eyes. "You fought for me. Never stopped believing in me. Maybe you wanted that part of me alive as much as I wanted to be back with you. But. Then you had found someone. Someone who made you happy. I knew when I saw you in that restaurant. I knew I had lost you. And I let you shove me to the ground, punch me in the face, nearly break my nose, make the pain physically manifest, and it didn't help." Sherlock lathered some soap and balanced his right foot on the tub and leaned forward, scrubbing at his toes. "Even in the train car, when you thought we were seconds from death, I couldn't help it, couldn't help but say that you would have been better off without me back. That it could have been just you and Mary... a quick fantasy, to give you a chance to deny that truth and claim me back as yours in our final seconds. What do people say when they think they are going to die, John?" He switched feet. "Confessions, perhaps? You had no place for me in your life. I needed to let you go."

Sherlock continued to bathe. John was torn. Half of him wanted to see if two adult men could cram into a bathtub, while the other half thought he should respectfully leave the room. Whatever Sherlock had once thought, he had found moving from fantasy to reality to be a difficult transition, and having John ogling him while he bathed seemed intrusive. Neither one said a word, and John tried his best to look away from the amazing-in-every-way man in the bathtub as he began lathering up his chest.

"You're trying to not look at me. Why?" Sherlock stopped washing to search John's face, soap still clinging to his chest. "Never mind. You can go. I didn't slip into a fugue state, and I'm not going to lose consciousness bathing myself. I deliberately chose to disconnect myself from the situation. My Mind Palace provided a quick and reliable refuge."

John turned to leave, nodding solemnly. "I'm sorry you needed a refuge from me, Sherlock. I never wanted you to feel uncomfortable with me. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

John had his hand on the doorknob before he heard Sherlock's voice. "It wasn't you I was uncomfortable with, John."

John removed his hand, but hadn't turned around.

"Quite the opposite, in fact."