He sat on the sofa late into the night, in the dark, thinking. This guilt-thing was beyond annoying. How did other people do it? How did normal people deal with their almost-fatal mistakes without going mad? He so seldom made a mistake, he'd never really learnt what to do when he made one.
One would think that forgiveness would be the cure. As soon as John had awakened from his drugged sleep, Sherlock had said those difficult, important words. "I'm sorry, John," Sherlock had said. How inadequate those words sounded. They did not convey the smallest fraction of the depth of remorse he was experiencing. I'm sorry I stabbed you in the back. How could mere words make things right?
John, still sluggish from the many hours of anaesthesia he'd been subjected to during his long surgery, and still heavily drugged for the pain, had tried to focus on his friend's face and managed a crooked smile. "Not your fault," he had mumbled. Of course he had. He didn't know the whole truth, did he? Sherlock had been behind John as they chased the thief through the warehouse. John couldn't know that Sherlock had been distracted, looking down at the knife in his hand instead of focusing on what was in front of him. That moment of distraction had nearly cost his friend his life. His best friend. His only friend. It was unconscionable. John—strong, capable, reliable John—always did an exemplary job watching Sherlock's back. But when it was time for Sherlock to watch John's . . . . The detective stirred himself and realized he was chilled to the bone. He deftly built a fire in the fireplace and stood before the flames, soaking in the warmth and thinking.
John had spent a week in hospital on IV antibiotics to fight the peritonitis that had set in so quickly. The filthy knife and the bowel perforation had unleashed a potentially lethal infection that only the timely use of powerful antibiotics and John's own over-all excellent health had fought off in a remarkably short time. But John had been so ill that week that Sherlock could not bring himself to talk to his friend about serious matters.
And now John was home, settled that morning into Sherlock's room to spare him the second flight of stairs and to put him nearer the bathroom. And Mary had moved into John's room, a fact to which Sherlock was still reconciling himself. She was the only reason John had been allowed to come home after only one week. As a doctor, she could give him proper care. But she also needed to go back to work, and so Sherlock was to be John's care provider for eight hours a day. Tomorrow would be the first day Sherlock would be alone with John since The Accident, as Mary and Lestrade persisted in calling it. The Accident, indeed; as if it had been no one's fault. He sank into his chair and sighed. He'd come so close to losing John. It was unthinkable.
Since The Accident, Sherlock's hard drive had been caught up in a feedback loop, replaying those horrifying few minutes over and over through his memory. He constantly re-experienced every sound, sight, scent: John's astonished gasp as the thief pushed him; the weight of John's body falling into him, knocking them both to the floor; the gush of red warmth over his hands; the shocking, coppery smell filling his senses. His own sudden panic as he, Sherlock Holmes, found himself unable to think of what to do; John's rasping voice weakly directing his own first aid. Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration, trying to delete the memories, in vain.
A crash from the bedroom brought him abruptly to his feet and he found himself at John's side so quickly he could not remember the movement in between. Fortunately, John had not fallen; he had merely turned over the nightstand by the bed as he tried to get up by himself. Sherlock shook his head, frowning down at his friend perched unsteadily on the edge of the bed.
"Doctors are useless as patients," he intoned. "Why didn't you call me if you needed to get up?"
John smiled sheepishly. "I know you haven't slept much lately. I wanted you to have your rest."
Sherlock grasped his friend by the elbows and helped him to stand. He watched John pick up the bulb of his abdominal drain and nonchalantly tuck it into his pyjama pocket. Sherlock could not feel casual about this tangible reminder of John's near-demise. The fact of a rubber tube coming directly out of his friend's insides was unsettling, although admittedly rather fascinating. Together they made their way carefully across the hall so that John could take care of business. Then Sherlock started him on the long trek back to bed.
"Don't," John protested. "I'm actually feeling better than I have since The Accident. And oddly enough, it's exhausting, lying in bed all the time. Let me sit in my armchair for a bit." Sherlock walked protectively by him into the sitting room and settled him with many pillows. "Mmm. You don't know how good it feels to sit up for a change," John said contentedly.
Sherlock was encouraged. His friend was more awake and alert than he had been since The Accident, and his colour looked better as well. He sat in his chair across from John and gazed at him thoughtfully. "Mary will be pleased. She said you needed to get up and move around more."
John looked thoughtfully back, measuring Sherlock's mood. "How is it going, with Mary living here? I know it's only been a day, but are you okay with this arrangement?" he asked with concern.
Sherlock considered his answer carefully. Mary did things Sherlock could not do: she took care of the port site of John's drainage tube; she changed his bandages; she monitored his medications; she kept a record of his vital signs. "She serves a useful purpose," he replied at last, and John chuckled.
"She serves a great many useful purposes," he agreed cheerfully. "I hope to spend the rest of my life proving useful to her, as well. But that isn't what I asked, is it?"
"If it weren't for Mary, you'd still be in hospital," Sherlock commented, as if that answered John's question. "You couldn't have come home."
"True," John nodded. "But still an evasive answer. It's different, having a third person living here. You've been put out of your room and your privacy has been invaded. Are you okay with that?"
What did John want him to say? Sherlock liked Mary well enough, and she was not as intrusive as she might have been. "She is important to you, therefore, she is important to me," he said at last. John smiled, recognizing Mary's own words being used.
A comfortable silence floated between them; they were so attuned to one another that they did not need words to be companionable. Sherlock felt the comfort and contentment that his friend always brought and was grateful this had not been lost to him. But still, there was that annoying, underlying nag of guilt. He dropped his head back ruefully and sighed.
"You need to let it go, Sherlock," John said gently. "It wasn't your fault."
Sherlock glared at him. "Stop reading my mind!" he snapped irritably. John just smiled.
"It doesn't take a psychic. I know you feel responsible for what happened. But you shouldn't. There's nothing you could have done to prevent it happening. The fact is, Sherlock, if this was anyone's fault, it was mine. I wasn't taking the suspect seriously enough and let my guard down. It was not the kind of mistake a seasoned army officer should ever make, and I'm just thankful I hurt only myself and that you were uninjured."
This irritated Sherlock a good deal. "That's nonsense, John," he growled. "It all happened much too quickly for you to have been able to avoid it. On the other hand, if I had put the knife in my pocket rather than carrying it in such a dangerous fashion . . . ."
"No, no, no," John argued. "You were doing your proper job; I wasn't doing mine. Why, you might have been killed through my inattention! If that thief hadn't been such a coward, he could have taken advantage of our being a tangled heap on the floor and finished us both off."
"If I hadn't been distracted. . . ." Sherlock countered.
"Good lord, you two," Mary's exasperated voice interrupted the self-blame session. She appeared in the doorway and shook her head at them. "Everyone knows The Accident was entirely MY fault for letting you two out of my sight for more than five minutes."
Sherlock stared at her incredulously, but John snorted with laughter. "I'm sorry, love, did we wake you?"
"You did, but that doesn't matter," she said in quiet earnest. "What does matter is that you both understand how completely ridiculous you are. It makes as much sense for you two blame yourselves as it makes for me to take the blame. The bloody thief is the one who did this to us, and he's being prosecuted for it. So let it go, for heaven's sake, and let's have some tea."
She wandered into the kitchen and put the kettle on. The two men looked at each other in silent amusement.
"She has a . . . forceful personality," Sherlock commented. "It's refreshing."
"She has at that." John leaned forward towards his friend, winced, and changed his mind abruptly about leaning, resettling back onto his cushions. "But that doesn't make her right," he added. "She wasn't there. She didn't see what really happened." Sherlock agreed. But her words had sent his mind off into another direction entirely. The bloody thief is the one who did this to us. . . . To us. To John, and to Mary, and to himself. Us. His heart inexplicably warmed as he pondered being considered part of an "us".
Mary soon returned with the tea, handed each of her boys a cup, and sat on the floor at John's feet with her hands wrapped around her own mug. Leaning against John's knee, she looked up at him seriously. "Remember the poem I read to you that I said reminded me of you?"
"Invictus", by Henley," John nodded, amused. "You misquoted it, as I recall."
Mary chuckled. "I changed some of the words to suit me, yes. Remember the last line? You are 'the captain of your soul'. You two like to think you've got everything in your life well in hand. But things happen that are entirely out of your control and there's nothing you can do about it. What you can control is your response to your circumstances. That's being the captain of your soul."
They sat in companionable silence for a while, sipping their tea and looking at the fire. Sherlock noted that Mary had already learned how to fix his cuppa just the way he liked. Us. John and Mary would be married soon and would move to Mary's flat. But she considered the three of them to be Us. He was surprised at how serene he felt about that, in spite of the foreign taste of the word. Mary was right. He could not always control his circumstances. But he could control his own reactions to them. He realized that his sense of guilt about hurting John had been linked to his own unsettled feelings about losing his flatmate. But he wasn't losing John, was he? He was gaining a new friend. He found himself feeling pleased about that in spite of himself.
The fire was dying and the sky outside was growing grey. Mary finished her tea and stood up and stretched lazily. "I have to go to work in a few hours, I'm sorry to say," she said regretfully. She brought them each a second cup of tea and said, "I think I'll try to get a bit of a kip before I go in to work. Good-night, Captain." She bent and kissed John thoroughly.
"Good-night, Sweetheart," she said to Sherlock, kissing him on the cheek. "Be kind to yourselves. I won't stand for anymore self-recriminations." She disappeared up the stairs.
John chuckled at Sherlock, bemused. "Since when does she call you 'Sweetheart'?" he grinned.
"Since when does she call you 'Captain'?" Sherlock returned sharply, embarrassed. He did not want John to know about the panic attack he'd suffered the day of The Accident, which Mary had somehow cured him of with her kindness.
"I AM a Captain," John reminded him, keeping a straight face. "Or, anyway, I was. So my new nickname suits me, doesn't it? I guess that means your nickname must suit you, as well. Maybe I'll start calling you . . . ."
"No, you won't," Sherlock said sternly. The two stared at each other for a long moment. And then they began to giggle uncontrollably.
"Only in front of Anderson," John chortled, barely able to speak.
"You ought to have seen Donovan's face when Mary called me that in hospital," Sherlock admittedly, suddenly able to laugh at the memory. Something tight in his insides suddenly released, and he felt better than he had since that horrible day of The Accident.
John grasped his sides in pain. "Ah, laughing hurts," he gasped. He looked at Sherlock with affection. "I've slept too long; I won't be able to sleep now. But you go ahead, if you're tired. You haven't slept properly since . . . it happened."
He hadn't; although how John, who had been unconscious most of the past week, knew this, Sherlock didn't know. But he was wide awake now and filled with relief that life seemed to be reaching equilibrium once more.
"I'll read the newspapers to you," he offered. John lifted an eyebrow at this role reversal—reading the papers aloud to Sherlock over breakfast had been one of their rituals almost from the beginning of their relationship. However, he settled himself to listen and sipped his tea. In his most mellifluous, melodramatic voice, Sherlock began to read the headlines, pleased to make his friend snort with amusement at his theatrics.
And gradually, John dropped off to sleep in spite of himself. Sherlock smiled gratefully at his friend, this part of the 'us' whom he'd almost lost, and realized that the feedback loop in his hard drive had resolved itself, replaced by a more gentle and pleasant memory of friendship and caring. Perhaps he HAD made a mistake—an almost fatal mistake—but how he coped with it now was what mattered. How THEY coped with it. Perhaps that was what an 'us' was meant for; helping one another cope. It was a new idea to ponder, anyway.