Disclaimer: Not mine. Darn it!

A/N: This story takes place immediately after Sherlock rescues John and Sarah in The Blind Banker.

"You are angry," Sherlock observed as they entered their flat at 221B Baker St. Sherlock rubbed at his sore throat and eyed his husband warily.

"Yes," John bit out, though he gently pulled Sherlock's hand away from his throat and inspected the damage from that Chinese smuggler/assassin strangling him. He'd be fine, John decided, though his throat would hurt for a day or two. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock. I mean really I thought I'd hid it so well."

"But…" Sherlock hesitated; he really didn't understand how John's touch could be so gentle when the fire in his eyes was so intense and angry. He had never been able to understand the dichotomies that made up his husband. John always surprised him. Even after having known him his whole life. "I don't understand, John. Why? Why are you angry with me?"

John let out a sigh, closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. He should know after a lifetime of being with Sherlock exactly how to deal with him but maybe those nearly twenty years in the army had messed up his Sherlock sense more than he'd thought. "Of course you don't. Of course you bloody don't understand why I could possibly be angry with you. Why did I expect you to understand? It's silly human sentiment, Sherlock. Not something you've ever cared about." His tone, so frustrated and angry in the beginning, had become tinged with bitterness and hurt.

Sherlock took a step back, unaccountably stung by this comment, and the tone it had been delivered in. "John…" he didn't know what he wanted to say. Sherlock hated when John was angry like this. It only happened rarely but when it did it made his chest hurt and he could barely breathe. "I'm sorry? I don't know why you're angry but I'll fix it, if you'll only tell me what I did wrong."

John turned away from him, heading into the kitchen. Sherlock watched from the door as John put the kettle on and rubbed at his temples again. Was John's headache a result of the blow to the head or was it because of him?

"Right. Sit down, Sherlock. This is going to take a little while." John heard Sherlock sit at the table behind him. He finished the tea and sat down across from his husband handing one cup to him. He took a sip to steel his courage and stared down into the milky brown depths. "First off," he paused, afraid of the answer to this question. "Are you ashamed of being married to me?" He didn't take his eyes off of his tea. He didn't want to see the expression on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock spluttered his tea all over the table. "What?" He practically shouted. "Where on Earth would you get such a ridiculous idea?"

"Sebastian Wilkes," John replied still staring at his tea. He knew that his voice was quiet, too quiet to give the illusion of disinterest that he'd wanted to.

"What does he have to do with anything? He's an idiot!" Sherlock's voice was loud enough for both of them anyway.

"And so am I, if you'll remember," John drew a deep breath trying to control his anger. The anger was better than the utter desolation that was under it though. "You've only been calling me that every time I turn around since the Pink case."

"No, I haven't." Sherlock denied and then flushed at John's raised brow. "Well, I know that you aren't an idiot. You're my husband." Sherlock sounded petulant. Had he really been calling John an idiot that much? Surely John knew that he didn't mean it. It was just a word that seemed to roll off of his tongue when he was frustrated with other people. John didn't frustrate him in the same way but maybe he hadn't really been paying attention to the words he was saying. He hadn't had to think about it before. Before John came home. Before John nearly…he stopped that thought before it could form.

"Yes." John acknowledged. "But I've been gone off and on for the entire time we've been married, Sherlock. It is entirely possible that during that time you've lost a bit of your…respect for me." Dear God, he wouldn't say love. He didn't want to know if Sherlock had stopped loving him. He more than half thought that would burn him more than getting shot had. "I would understand. I love you, Sherlock, but I know I'm nowhere near as intelligent as you. And the fact that you still haven't given me a straight answer about my question rather does give me that answer doesn't it?" John closed his eyes, sorrow filling him. He had known, known, that everything had changed. Sherlock didn't want him around anymore. Not where people could see him anyway.

"I am NOT ashamed to be married to you!" Sherlock stood and slammed his hands down on the table. "That's the most idiotic, ridiculous notion that has ever come out of your mouth, John Hamish Watson-Holmes! And that includes the time you wanted a penguin for a pet and wanted it to sleep in your bed with you."

John couldn't help the smile that took over his mouth at the memory. "I was nine, Sherlock." Then he frowned again. "And if you aren't ashamed of me then why did you tell Sebastian Wilkes we were friends?"

Sherlock collapsed back into his chair, stunned by the question. How could John not know? "I…he's not the most…er, polite of people, John. I did not want him to…insult you for loving me. He was an arse in university and he's only become worse with age."

John finally raised his eyes from his mug but he still avoided Sherlock's. He didn't think he could say all he needed to say if he looked into eyes that he knew would be grey and filled with scorn or pain. "All right, I could understand that if Anderson didn't know you were married to me. He insults me on a regular basis."

"Anderson's different," Sherlock insisted. "He only knows because he's at the crime scenes. He's an irritant only. Wilkes is powerful. Granted anything he tried Mycroft would stop in minutes but still, I'd rather neither of us had to deal with that." Sherlock paused and stared at his husband's averted eyes. "I would shout my love for you at the top of my lungs if you wished."

John felt a weight lift off of his chest that he hadn't known was there. Sherlock's love or lack of love wasn't the real issue bothering him though. He knew down to the depths of his soul that Sherlock loved him and always would. Sometimes though love wasn't enough, no matter what the songs and poems and stories said. "All right." He nodded, conceding that point. "So you're not ashamed of people knowing you're married to me but you don't trust me anymore, do you? You don't trust that I'll have your back."

Sherlock glared at him, though John didn't see it as he was looking everywhere but at Sherlock. "What? Of course I trust you!"

"No," John shook his head, suddenly adamant and angry again. "You don't. You ran off on me from the Pink Case. Twice. You hid the fact that an assassin tried to kill you, here in our flat, from me. You went into Soo Lin's flat without me and didn't tell me about the assassin that tried to strangle you until later. You left Soo Lin and me at the museum to go off after a killer by yourself. You think I'm a hindrance when it comes down to the dangerous stuff. You used to drag me along with you and never thought twice about the danger so long as I was with you. Now, as soon as the situation becomes even slightly dangerous you run off and leave me behind." The fury in his voice was cold, ice cold.

Silence filled the kitchen as Sherlock processed this and remembered each incident. "I do trust you, John," he finally whispered, aching because he knew what John meant. He hadn't meant to make John feel this way but he couldn't stop. He had to keep John safe. "But I can't stop seeing you in that hospital bed. No one told me but I knew as soon as I saw you that…your heart stopped at least once, John. I know it did. I told Lestrade the night the army brought me news of your injury that I didn't believe that I could exist in a world without you. I know now that I can't."

John finally, finally looked into his husband's grey eyes. "Sherlock," he sighed out. "I know that I'm not the man you married."

"Shut up!" Sherlock shouted cutting John off. "This isn't about you! You're exactly the man I married and I can't lose you! Not again! If I can prevent you from ever getting hurt again I will!" Sherlock leapt from the table and slammed the door as he left the room and the flat. He couldn't stay there or he'd say something he'd regret and then John would leave him for good. It was inevitable. He wasn't the same man John had married either. He'd lost his empathy for other people. He didn't like other people, he knew that he never really had but he had tolerated them better when he was younger. Now, he only really liked the Lestrade's and John.

"Well," John told the tea mug as the slamming of the door echoed around the now empty flat. "That went well." Tea dripping from the table to the floor was his only answer.