Sherlock doesn't push John away from him. He doesn't enjoy the touch, but he doesn't mind it either. He feels numb, so the physical touch is all but unnoticed. There's no answers for him. At least none that John's willing to share with him for the moment, so the world just stays open under his feet and keeps him dangling there and waiting to fall.

His hand slides off of John's shoulder easily as the other man pulls away from him. Sherlock probably looks pale and distant. He's thinking back on the moment several hours ago when he'd killed his own brother and substitute mother.

"J-Just. Just two," Sherlock tells John unsteadily, head lulling down as he pulls his knees up to his chest. He doesn't usually show this side of himself to anyone, but he also doesn't usually kill his loved ones. He wants his bedroom door closed, whether John stays or goes. For now, he's a welcome presence. He's already seen the shift in him and what's shattering all over again.

Would John know which two he'd killed? There'd been only one room with two inhabitants, so it would be an easy thing to deduce.