With all of the stories here about the aftermath of The Final Problem, including my own, I thought for a change I'd like to explore what may have transpired between John and Sherlock, after Sherrinford and Musgrave Hall, but before the point where we authors took over with Sherlock's facing the music with Molly to explain himself after "THAT" scene. This is a oneshot, taking place at John and Mary's flat, which in my story he has fortunately not given up just yet at the time of 221B being leveled by the patience grenade at the beginning of The Final Problem. Pending Sherlolly, but this is basically what I would personally label a "chosen brothers" fic where John and Sherlock have a heart to heart that takes in the events of Season/Series 4.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson sat silently across from each other at the small table in the kitchen at John and Mary's flat, John flipping through the morning newspaper, Sherlock browsing the local news on his phone. Every now and then, the silence was broken by the sound of one of them sipping from their mug of tea, or a rustle of newsprint being turned.

John peered over the page at Sherlock, his brows furrowed. Sherlock appeared at first glance to be fully engrossed in the screen of his mobile, but John knew him better than that. Subtleties in his expression, the way he shuffled his feet under the table, in spite of supposedly being fully immersed in what he was reading. Little things about his body language made it quite clear to John that his best friend had a lot more on his mind than would be obvious to the casual observer

John, however, was no casual observer of his best friend.

"You know, Sherlock, you really need to go talk to her."

Sherlock paused from his scrolling, his body stock still aside from the raising of his eyebrows as he turned his eyes up to look at John. He sighed heavily, setting the mobile down next to the empty, crumb filled plate his breakfast had been eaten off of.

"I know," he said quietly. "I know Mycroft has already been there, her flat has been swept and cleared. I know he's told her absolutely everything. I know I need to speak to her. I just…" he trailed off, bringing his hands to his dark curls.

"You don't know quite what to say to her. I know, mate. She really needs to hear your side of it from YOU though. Mycroft can't possibly convey what's in your heart. Hell, Mycroft barely has a heart of his own."

"More than we think, I suspect," Sherlock smiled to himself with brief irony as he rose from his chair, picking up the empty plate. "More tea?" he asked. John nodded. Sherlock brought the pot over, refilling both their cups generously.

"I WILL go see her. Today. I promise. I just need to sort my thoughts."

John raised a knowing eyebrow while he stirred his tea.

"You mean, you need to figure out how to forgive yourself." John folded his paper carefully, and set it down, smoothing it with his hand while he considered what he was going to say next. Sometimes honesty, in all its brutality, was the only way to approach this man he had come to love as a brother.

"Sherlock, in all the years I've known you, up until a few days ago there has really been only one emotion you have been capable of expressing in any way, and that is self-loathing. I think it explains a lot, actually."

"You and I need to talk as well, don't we?" Sherlock asked, his bruised and scratched hands wrapping and unwrapping themselves around his tea mug.

"We do, yes. And," he said, pausing and taking a deep breath, "I have a lot to apologize for. A lot." John looked at him steadily as Sherlock raised an eyebrow, quizzically.

"YOU, apologize? John, I don't really think that…"

John cut him off, raising a hand. "Therein lies my point, exactly, Sherlock. Please hear me out."

Sherlock had no idea where John was going with this, but knowing his friend well, knew better than to argue.

"You know," John began, "I didn't really understand until Eurus… until what she did to us at Sherrinford. Then when she darted us and took us to Musgrave Hall… I didn't understand WHY you carried every speck of guilt with such stubborn grace… as if it were simply a part of you that you could no more strip away than you could strip away your own skin."

Sherlock shook his head, as if trying to justify the way he had been in the past. "I have done terrible, unforgivable things. You are a widower and a single parent because of my actions." John looked at his friend, then cast his eyes downwards. He fiddled with the handle of his cup for a few moments.

"You faked your own death, for which I had a hell of a hard time forgiving you. But that," he said, raising his head and with a pointed look, jabbed a finger towards Sherlock for emphasis, "opened the door for Mary. And that in turn opened the door for Rosie. And in the meantime, she made me realize how much you mean to me. In a sense, I have my family because of you."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, and appeared to hold his breath, trying to contain some burst of emotion. He only succeeded somewhat in controlling the small explosion of anger he still harboured towards himself.

"You LOST MARY because of ME," he snapped. "Because I couldn't keep my big, arrogant, smartass mouth SHUT." Sherlock turned his face upwards, fighting back tears of guilt and grief. "She is dead because of me," he said, his voice softening with remorse, his low baritone nearly reaching an inaudible whisper. "Rosie has no mother because of me." Sherlock, paced around briefly, running his hand through his hair.

John seemed to think a few moments, gathering what he wanted to say. Finally, thinking a reminder was instead in order, he said, "You forget, Mary is only gone because she chose to save you. That bullet was not meant for her, it was meant for you. You might have forced the firing of it, but you sure as hell didn't force her to jump in front of it. She did that of her own choice. HER OWN." He paused, taking a good pull from his mug, and stood up, walking around the table to look up at Sherlock.

"This is precisely what I mean, Sherlock. Self-loathing. You can't forgive yourself, can you? You never could forgive yourself. You blame yourself, you have for what, 35 years, for not being a clever enough CHILD to solve your sister's riddle. For not finding and saving your best friend. You hate yourself for it. Those were not your actions Sherlock. Those were someone else's."

Sherlock's shoulders sagged as the truth of what John was saying to him finally began to sink in.

"I was so angry with you when Mary died. Yes I blamed you for a while. I did nothing to help you to see that it wasn't actually your fault, not entirely. I," he said, swallowing hard and glancing away, feeling his own tears imminent, "I forced you to take an extreme path in order to save me, because Mary thought… no she KNEW that if she were gone, I would need saving." John cast his face downwards, finding himself suddenly unable to look Sherlock in the eyes. "I sent you off your tits on smack and brought you to the brink of death because that's how far gone I really was. And then in my anger and blame I laid you out beaten and bleeding on a cold morgue floor and left you at the mercy of a fucking serial killer. That was on ME, not you. And what did you do in return?"

He raised his head, revealing a glistening trail on his cheek where a stray tear had slid down, and smiled at the man he had come to think of as his brother. He reached up and put a hand on his shoulder. "You saved me from Eurus. You couldn't save Victor decades ago, you couldn't solve her twisted little puzzle back then. But you did this time to save ME. Nothing can bring Victor back, but you brought ME back. So why can't you forgive yourself? Why can't you let the past look after itself?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said, softly. "I honestly don't know, John. I suppose I'm not accustomed just yet to letting my emotions lead me." He reached down and picked up his cup. Turning, he strode into the living room, settling himself down into the closest easy chair.

John seemed to think for a moment, then grabbed his own cup. He strolled into his living room and paused a moment at the wedding photo of him and Mary. He looked over at the one of him and Sherlock on that day, when Sherlock had stood up for him at his best man. It was a candid shot, the consulting detective tugging at his tie and looking uncomfortable, but smiling nonetheless. And then the one Mary had placed centre of them both – one of Sherlock holding Rosie at her christening, Molly on one side of him and Mrs. Hudson on the other. The newly appointed god-father looked awkward, but at the same time oddly at home and at ease cradling baby Rosie in his arms. In retrospect, John wondered, was it the occasion, or the camera, that caused such awkwardness?

"You know Sherlock, you are the brother I never suspected I even wanted. But here you are, whether we like it or not. Do you recall what you said to Mycroft only a few days ago? He wanted me to leave the room when he was going to fess up about Eurus because he said it was about family. You told him that was WHY I was to stay."

John took a breath, smiling at the photo of Sherlock holding Rosie at her christening. "You are a surprisingly wonderful second father to my little girl. Mary is to thank for all of this."

Sherlock stared into his cup. For a moment he was lost in thought, taken back to happier memories. Even, he realized, the look of innocence and trust on Rosie's face the first time he had changed her nappy. She didn't care, all she knew was she was loved and cared for, and Sherlock's face was one she knew to be a gentle and kind one. She didn't notice or comprehend the expression of distaste and inexperience on his face, or the skepticism behind the soft words he forced out of his throat, trying to convince himself it wasn't so bad. Rosie was pure innocence, untainted by the world and its sins, its cynicism. Sherlock was familiar, and constant, and his deep voice was soft and comforting to her, even the resonant calming warmth of his voice murmuring words she didn't understand while he tried to talk himself through his first go at the whole wretched ordeal. She wasn't old enough yet to know to identify it as love, but she loved him. And, if she had a warm dry nappy because of him, well she loved him even more.

No matter what Sherlock's state of mind was, picking Rosie up out of her crib settled him.

"You need to talk to Molly," John said, breaking Sherlock's mental distraction. "If I can forgive you now that I understand what was REALLY going on, what makes you think that she would be such an impossible sell?"

"She loves me, John. That fact was used against her in the worst possible way. I can forgive myself for some things, but this… this is the hard sell." Sherlock slid himself down into the chair, as if he were trying to hide himself and his shame in the thick comfortable padding.

"Really," John said, chuckling softly and without humour. "Is it a hard sell because what you were forced to do was horrible, or because the guilt you feel for gutting her like that is because you really DO love her. Sherlock, remember, I was there. I heard you say it too. I know real love and that was it. I think you just need to get used to the idea. You were forced to confront a lot of hidden, stashed away emotions, Sherlock. Your true feelings for Molly are just some of them, but they are some of the most important ones, mark my words."

Sherlock looked over at John, reflection and contemplation passing over his face. "There really isn't anything you can't see about me, is there? Am I really that transparent?" He braced his feet against the floor and pushed himself upright again. His gaze turned back to John, steady and curious.

"Only to those of us who care about you. We can see right through you William Sherlock Scott Holmes." John laughed, rising from the chair. "For some daft bloody reason, Mary loved us both, and she thought we were both worth saving. She knew somehow that it would take each of us to save the other, and it would take nothing short of a massive fucking effort on both our parts. She put value on BOTH of us… we MUST not waste what she has given us. It is precious currency."

"Indeed… we mustn't waste it," Sherlock said, softly, thinking back to a conversation at 221B not that long ago.

John smiled to himself, remembering that conversation as well. "Molly's flat. GO, you daft bugger. Go talk to her." He winced suddenly. "Two cups of tea, bloody hell I need to use the loo. Now when I get back, I expect to see you gone and when I text Molly in about 15 minutes, I expect for her to tell me that you are there, with her, explaining yourself."

"You're really going to do that, aren't you? Text her to check up on me." Sherlock couldn't help the start of a smile quivering on the corner of his mouth. He set his cup on the stand next to the chair and braced his hands on the arms, pushing his lean frame into a standing position.

John walked over to the closet and grabbed Sherlock's coat and scarf. He shoved them towards the taller man, winking. "Damned right I am. Aren't I that transparent to you yet?"

Sherlock laughed out loud, reaching out for the offered garments and shaking his head.

"I can see right through you, Dr. John Watson."