There were no shards and splinters after that—only absolute darkness, and then waking up, bleary-eyed, in an empty room. Sherlock moaned at the intrusion of bright light under his sore eyelids and flickered his eyes open.

All white walls, white fixtures, no door or windows. A mystery as to how he ended up here. He felt his pockets with sluggish fingers—all empty. Pity.

He rolled over onto his side, struggling to make sense, when the only two spots of color in the room caught his eye.

One—John, in a heap on the floor. Coming to. Good. Not dead. (Yet.)

Two—words painted in thick red strokes on the wall in front of them. Dutch, again. Faded.

"Bloody heeeeellll," John groaned as he woke. He gasped a few times before sitting up, wincing at the inward pain, and blinked at the words as he saw them. "That's not blood, is it? Tell me that isn't blood painted on the wall."

"It's not," Sherlock said. "Blood doesn't dry red. It dries brownish black. You should know."

"Right." John rubbed at his eyes gingerly and turned to stare at him. "You all right, mate? For a moment there, I thought… Well, that was more fun on a case than I ever want to have again."

Sherlock chuckled mirthlessly. "I couldn't agree more. Perhaps retirement is in order."

"Like you could ever retire," John joked. He stood up shakily and looked at the words again. "So, what does it say?"

Sherlock swallowed quickly and redirected. "No windows or doors to speak of, so no means of escape. There's nothing to unlock or break open. But we must have gotten here somehow."

"You're avoiding the question. You only do that when something's wrong."

"It's entirely possible, judging from the cement under the carpet of this floor, that we're on some sort of platform raised into this room from under it. Which means there's a lever outside that controls the level of the platform."

"Sherlock." John crossed his arms. "What's wrong?"

"Oh, very well, if you really want to know," Sherlock said snidely. "The wall, roughly translated from Dutch, says, 'One of you is dying. You have one hour.' "

John blinked rapidly. "Sorry?"

"You heard me. Now do you know why I wasn't keen on telling you?"

"Bloody fucking hell, Sherlock—we—one of us is dying? How do we know? I don't feel like I'm dying! Do you feel like you're dying? Sherlock, how do you feel?"

John immediately knelt by Sherlock's side, feeling his forehead and looking for signs. Sherlock batted him away. "They wouldn't have made it obvious, John," he insisted. Pointing at the wall and its message, he said, "The paint is faded and chipped in some places, but as we discussed, it isn't blood. That message has been here for ages, meaning it's been relevant before. No doors, no windows, and we're most likely on raised platform only the outside authorities can control. We're meant to be trapped while one of us dies, and we're not the first people to be in here."

John blanched. "You mean they've done this before."

"I can only assume, from what we've gleaned of this organization, that they have a flair for the dramatic." Sherlock looked down at his arm and rolled up his sleeve, maintaining a bored expression. "Besides, you needn't worry. Injection site," he pointed out, showing John a little gauze patch over a bit of blood. "I'm the one they've killed."

"No, you're not."

"Stubbornness doesn't change anything."

"No, I mean it." John rolled up the sleeve of his oatmeal colored jumper and sighed, showing an identical gauze patch on the same arm. "You were right. They wouldn't make it obvious."

Sherlock breathed in sharply. "Two injections?"

"One's probably a simple saline solution," John said mournfully. "Harmless. The other…"

"Poison." Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall behind him. "We have one hour. Brilliant."

He stayed completely still and silent, evidently thinking of a plan, while John paced back and forth across the room. He only saw the blank whiteness of the walls and carpet, and the size of the room (which Sherlock had already calculated—4 meters square). "Right…hmm. Right. So. We're on a platform, yeah?"

Sherlock didn't feel like answering.

"Sherlock. Cooperate. There's a chance neither of us are poisoned and the gang only wanted us to panic, and in that case we have to get out."

"There's also a chance both of us are poisoned."

"We'd still need to get out."

"Why? There's no point."

"That's a load of bollocks," John hissed. "You don't just give up! Not after everything we've been through! You jumped off a bloody building and you survived, and you're going to let a bunch of Dutch thugs play some stupid mind game with you now? Not on my watch, mate." He leveled his gaze with Sherlock's, who stared at him coolly. "We have a family to get back to. Doctors we could go to. We have one hour."

"You have family."

"Mary's just as much your family as she is mine, Sherlock."

"Wrong," Sherlock sighed. "Besides, if there are cameras in this room, which I think there must be, the people watching simply want a good show. I intend to not give them one. If we prove useless on that front, they'll be more likely to let us go."

"That's what you want to gamble your life on, Sherlock? Or my life?" John scoffed. "This coming from the man who jumped off Bart's to save his friends."

"Save you."

"Exactly. What if I'm dying, right now?" John asked, coming to sit next to Sherlock. "What if I only have fifty-five minutes? You'd just sit here? After two years apart when you traveled the whole bloody world, like you told me you did, just to eliminate Moriarty's web, to protect me?"

Sherlock, again, chose not to answer.

"Well," John said quietly, "if it were you dying—if it is you dying—I wouldn't leave anything to chance. I'm going to give it my best shot, for you."

"There's hardly a reason. I'd say it was a fair trade for the way I treated you after I faked my death. No one would blame you."

"Sod off. You know none of that is true." But John was out of ideas, as Sherlock could tell, and so the men sat in silence.

Finally, Sherlock said, "If…well, since we're in this situation…"

"What?"

"I suppose I should say I'm sorry. For that." He cleared his throat. "The, er, dying thing."

John only shook his head, a small smile on his face. "It was years ago, Sherlock. You explained everything to me, cleared your name, and made it known that everything you did, you did for your friends."

"But I never asked…how it felt. What it was like."

"Well, no."

"…What was it like?" Sherlock asked quietly. "To think I was dead?"

"You really want to know?"

"Perhaps, a bit selfishly, I do." Sherlock smiled. "Humor me. I might be dying."

"Ha. Well, it's not really easy to explain," John replied. "It's like…well, it was my whole life. You, being with you, solving cases and having a row about body parts, and everything about 221B. When you jumped, I could feel it all being taken away from me. And…" He breathed deeply. "I dunno, I just…well. There're no words for it, mate. You were my best friend then and you still are."

"I was your life."

"In a matter of speaking—don't flatter yourself."

"Of course not," Sherlock amended. "Your life is Mary, now."

"Oh, don't grouse. If this is really it, for you, I couldn't take it. My life would still be destroyed."

"Mary would take care of it. She always does."

"Enough about Mary, Sherlock, I'm talking about you," John insisted, unconsciously taking Sherlock's cool hand in his own. "You really have no clue what you mean to me, do you? You know, for years, you and your insanity were the only things to get me up in the morning. There aren't words to say how much you are to me."

Sherlock only hummed in response and pretended not to care that John's grip tightened as he said it.

"What, what about you? How did you feel, knowing I thought you were dead? I never asked."

"There aren't words for that, either."

"Humor me. I might be dying."

Sherlock chuckled. "I thought about you. Constantly."

"I should hope so. I'm adorable."

"So you are. You must understand, John, that…well, I did some very bad things during that time, not the least of which was murder. When I did something I wasn't proud of, I would think about…you…and how you'd be taking your tea or picking out milk or…wearing jumpers." He laughed again. "There were nights, lots of terrible nights where I couldn't sleep or else risk being found, when I'd force myself to guess what jumper you'd worn that day."

"That's…weird."

"It worked. And I probably always guessed right, too. Does that answer your question?"

"Pretty much," John said complacently. Abruptly, he let go of Sherlock's hand (and Sherlock noticed the immediate lack of warmth at the loss of contact) and surveyed the room again. "You said there were cameras? Maybe there's a way we can get a message out, maybe to Mycroft or someone."

"Mycroft didn't know we'd left. I laid a false trail for him to follow to Paris. Didn't want his interference."

John grimaced. "You really, really are too thick for your own good. All right, so the cameras are useless. Is there any way we can trigger the platform to move from the inside?"

"I suppose we could look for a weakness along the wall," Sherlock said, repressing a snort. He started to feel at the juncture between the wall and the floor, feeling for any sort of gap or hole and John followed suit, making noises of anger when they failed.

"Shit." John clenched his fists. "Okay. How are you feeling?"

"Same as ever."

"Me, too."

"I didn't want to go to your wedding."

John furrowed his brow and stared openly at Sherlock. "What?"

"I didn't want to go."

"Er…I thought you liked Mary."

"I do. Immensely. She's clever and she takes excellent care of you when I can't."

"You just don't like the institution of marriage, or something?"

"What? No," Sherlock scoffed. "Let me revise. I didn't want there to be a wedding."

John stared at Sherlock again, expression unfathomable for a few of what Sherlock could only classify as the most uncertain and terrifying seconds of his life. He swallowed a few times and tried to keep a steely face on, betraying nothing.

He cleared his throat. "You didn't want… Sherlock, what are you on about?"

"You heard me. One of us is dying, the room is inescapable, and there is nothing left to say but the truth. The truth is…I didn't want you to marry her."

John sighed. "Sherlock…how…do you expect me to answer that?"

"It wasn't a question. It's just the truth. You think you've seen the battlefield? Well, that was next to nothing compared to the millions of battles I fought against myself, in my head, every day since you asked me to be your best man. Trust me, John, it's not something I ever meant to happen. It just is."

"First of all, don't—don't compare your mental struggle with my experiences in Afghanistan. They won't ever measure up. Second," John said, lips pursed, eyes impossibly wild, "second of all, I don't—Sherlock, we're mates. I'm—I married Mary, I love her, I thought you were okay with us. I thought she was the best choice, the one you wouldn't have a problem with."

"I have no quarrel with Mary Morstan," Sherlock clarified. "She simply got the one thing in the world I wanted but had no idea how to get."

"What? Me? Sherlock, I'm your friend. You've never seen me as more than that. Blogger, best friend, partner."

"John," Sherlock said, "you've seen. You've always seen. You just didn't observe. Why, why would you be the one person that would prove my weakness, over and over again, if you were only my best friend? I…admittedly, I did not…figure out how to keep you. I thought if I could keep things interesting enough for you, you would never settle down with anyone else. And living with you, just as friends, was something I could manage. But then I came back, and Mary was already in the picture. I couldn't do anything about it."

"We've been married for two years, and you never thought to mention anything?"

"It was irrelevant."

"It wasn't bloody irrelevant," John growled. He began to pace again, leaving Sherlock stationary and despondent. "It wasn't—fucking hell, I can't believe you. Why say this now? Why now?"

"One of us is dying. We've less than an hour."

"Is this a joke to you?"

"No. It's the most serious I've ever been with you, if I'm being honest." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Does it really surprise you, after all these years, that I'm capable of love?"

"Love?" John choked. "You—fuck. Fuck. Fuck."

"The expletives are really not encouraging. Is this how you normally reject dates?"

John covered his face with his hands and breathed in deeply, over and over. "Sorry. Just. Erm—wow. I'm having a bit of trouble…so you've, erm, loved me."

"Yes."

"How long has this, erm, been going on?"

"Five years. Since the pool, to my knowledge."

"And when you came back," John said slowly, "after your death, when I was dating Mary, you never thought to say anything about it?"

Sherlock looked at the floor, a bit uncomfortably, and shifted from foot to foot in a manner very uncharacteristic of a Holmes. "D'you remember the Friday after I came back? I asked you over to 221B…"

"And there were candles, everywhere. I remember."

"You were in a suit, and I thought you knew. I thought you'd like it. Mrs. Hudson said—well. But then you invited me to dinner, to introduce me to Mary."

"And you were trying to…oh, Sherlock," John breathed. "Sherlock…you should have told me. That night."

"What good would it have done? She beat me to it."

"Things weren't set in stone, then. Sherlock, all that time I was waiting, looking for you, or someone as close as I could get to you," John said brokenly. "Sherlock, if you'd asked that night, I would've…I would've said yes."

Sherlock blinked in shock once, letting his jaw hang open. "Shut up."

"Is that seriously the response you have?"

"You're not lying, I know when you're lying," Sherlock reasoned. "That means you're telling the truth."

"Well-spotted," John said.

"The truth, John."

"That's what you said it was time for. Less than an hour and one of us is dead, and that's the truth. I remember that night, too, Sherlock. I was blinded by how happy I was that you were home, and I was hoping so many things, and…I wasn't unaware of…" John trailed off uselessly, trying to gather his thoughts. He looked up at the ceiling, around the walls, anywhere but directly at Sherlock. "I was confused, for a long time, about how I felt about you, but when you came back I was ready to figure it out, with you, and when I saw all those ridiculous candles, those adorable candles, and you standing there with them, I didn't know what to say. I asked you to dinner with Mary because I panicked, and I was hoping you'd know that, but then you said yes and came up with some bloody stupid explanation about the candles! Something about testing different waxes and their melting rates!"

"You're saying it's my fault?"

"No, I'm just saying—" John began to cough violently, body-wracking coughs that shook him all the way through. He doubled over and clutched his side, and Sherlock rushed to him and eased him down on the floor.

"Shh, shh, calm down," Sherlock ordered.

John blustered away and gulped in air, a terrified look on his face, until the coughing subsided. "Fuck. It's me."

"It's not. You just got worked up."

"I'm dying, it's me, it's starting to work," John insisted.

"It's. Not. You." Sherlock looked at him fiercely, afraid to touch him, so he settled by his side and waiting for John to relax.

John shook his head. "One of us has to go, Sherlock. I'm just glad it's not you." He paused. "And it wasn't your fault. I was an ignorant sod. I always guessed, but I never did anything about it."

"It was my fault."

"How about," John said, "we just split the blame for missing out on possibly the best relationship ever of us were ever going to have?"

Sherlock smiled slightly. "You would have gotten sick of me in months. It would have been too different for you."

"I think you underestimate how much I loved you. And still do."

He cocked his head to the side. "Really? John Watson, the married man?"

"I never said it was easy, Sherlock. I just kind of hid it away, pretended it wasn't there."

"What, your homosexuality?'

"Bisexuality, if we're being technical, I suppose. No, I mean, I thought you wanted us to be friends. And I really did—do—love Mary. She's wonderful, and most importantly, she's understanding. I just had to take what I could get, like you. I had to accept that being your blogger was all I got."

Sherlock relaxed against the wall, finding his hand entwined with John's again, and frowned. "Do you really think we could have done it?"

"Of course."

"Then why did we never just—do it?"

"Because we're two idiots," John said simply. "At least you know. I think I would rather die with you knowing than…not."

"You're not dying," Sherlock said. "You just think you are because you're so bloody paranoid."

"Oh, and you're so sure it's you that's dying?"

"Don't see why not. I've got the same chance as you."

"What made you think of the candles?"

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock admitted. "I knew romance had to be an element when I expressed the depth of my feelings, but most notions of romance are absurd, as you know. Flowers, chocolates, champagne, all ridiculous. But candles were acceptable. According to Mrs. Hudson, they 'set the mood.' "

"They were lovely. You were holding your violin."

"I was going to play you something."

"Oh." John thought about that, absently settling his head onto Sherlock's shoulder and staring ahead. "What piece?"

"An original composition. For you."

"Lucky me. D'you remember it?"

"Bits and pieces."

"Could you sing it for me?"

Sherlock looked down at John in disgust. "I don't sing."

He simply rolled his eyes and looked up affectionately at Sherlock. "Hum it, then. I'll take the secret to the grave."

"Not funny," Sherlock said, but then he gave in and began to hum what he remembered (which was more than he'd let on), very softly.

(He hummed softly on purpose. John nestled closer when he couldn't hear.)

"I definitely would've said yes," John said quietly as Sherlock hummed. "I would have said yes, and you would have looked so surprised. Then I'd have torn off that suit and taken you to bed."

"I thought about that a lot," Sherlock commented before continuing.

"Me, too. It drove me to distraction on cases. Mind you, I really did think I was straight. I mean, besides some stuff in Afghanistan with the boys, but that's not quite the same. I thought I was going mad, thinking of you that way. But I wasn't—you just happen to be gorgeous."

Sherlock chuckled.

"Keep humming, you. No, I think we would have had loads of fun. You probably would have made sex an experiment, but we would have had fun. No one would have been surprised when we announced it. Everybody already assumed we were together. And maybe, after a while, I would have proposed or something. We could have gotten married. You would have made a huge fuss over everything, but secretly you would have adored it all. And maybe we would've had kids, one day. Mycroft could've arranged something."

Sherlock stopped again. "I never wanted children."

"Not saying we would have had them."

"You'd be a terrific father."

"So would you," John said. "If we'd had that chance." He grimaced, clutching at his chest. "Sherlock—there's something—"

But the coughs started again, worse this time, and John wheezed helplessly while Sherlock tried to keep his arms locked tight around him, whispering words of comfort that only sounded harsh and just as scared as John.

"Sher—Sherlo—I can't—breathe—"

"You'll be fine," Sherlock growled, stabilizing him when the coughs subsided. "Do you understand? You're going to live, all right? You have a wife, you have me…"

John smiled through broken, hollow gasps. "How on Earth could I live with a choice like that?"

Sherlock froze. "You still have Mary," he said quietly.

"Yes."

"And you love her."

"She's my wife, Sherlock. Of course I love her."

"But you also love me."

"That's been established, yes," John said. "Not that it matters much. I won't ever see Mary again, and in about a half hour, I won't see you again, either."

Sherlock hissed wordlessly.

"All right, all right," John amended. "Probably. Maybe Mycroft got our message or something. Maybe he saw through your false trail."

"Maybe you're right. He is somewhat intelligent."

John laughed out loud until his lungs broke into wheezing again. "Do me a favor, though. When I go. Don't tell Mary—she already knows."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You told her how you felt?"

"She knew when she married me. She really is a remarkable woman, Sherlock. More understanding than most. Mary deserved better than what I had to offer her. Even when I thought you were dead, all I could give her was half a heart. The other half was wretchedly in love with you."

"I like the sound of that," Sherlock said. " 'Wretched.' "

"Sod off," John said. "I'm serious. Don't tell her and hurt her anymore than I already have. Let her take care of you. She did it for me and she'll do it for you, too."

"What makes you think that Mary Morstan has any sort of cure for how I would feel if anything ever happened to you?"

"Intuition. Oh, hell, Sherlock, it hurts," John whined, clutching at his chest. "You have to tell Mary—"

"Please don't make me do that."

"She has to—"

"She has had the privilege of being married to you for two years, John Watson," Sherlock said. "I'll be damned if I don't get anything from you, in the end. You've been mine for much longer."

And with that, he pressed his lips to John's.

John didn't respond at first—at all—and instead let Sherlock, concentrating and angry, hold him by the front of his jumper. When he released him, John just looked at him. "What?"

"Bit possessive, are we?" John joked weakly.

"I've been wanting to do that," Sherlock said, "since the day we met. I might not have loved you at the first, but that doesn't mean you're not gorgeous, too."

"I'm married, Sherlock." John shook his head and backed away. "It's not…you already have my heart, for all it's worth. She only gets second best. I don't want to…betray her, not at the end."

"And you think kissing me would be the ultimate betrayal?" Sherlock asked. "After you've sworn your love to me and essentially denounced your marriage, you think a kiss is the real problem?"

John frowned. "I haven't done a lot of good in my life, so forgive me if I wanted to do right by one person in the world. The person I love more than anything doesn't even know the way I feel until I'm about to die and it's too late, and the woman I married has to live knowing that on our wedding day, on our fucking wedding night, there were moments when I wished she had been you instead. So fuck off."

Both men fumed in silence for a long time, neither one wanting to be the one to break it, but all too aware of the seconds ticking by. Sherlock could only look at John and feel the anger vibrate inside him, knowing that the man he loved was sitting so close, and loved him, too, but couldn't touch him.

However, after some time—(five minutes? ten?)—John began to cough again, with Sherlock hovering protectively over him while he waited for the fit to be over.

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and frantically started to pound on the walls, tracing his long fingers over the paint and inspecting every inch as closely as he could.

"What—what're you—"

"Out. We're getting out. Now." Sherlock smacked the wall. "Solid concrete. This box is enormous. But this is a stage, John, and there are spectators." He smacked again. And again. "We're finished!" he yelled hoarsely. "Do you hear us, we've put on your little show! I hope you had a good laugh! It's over now, do you hear me?" He punched the wall, smearing his own blood on the words of the message. "I said IT'S OVER NOW! GET US OUT OF HERE!"

"Sherlock…"

"No, John, it doesn't end here. It doesn't end with this, not after everything I've done to protect you, not a year of pining, two years of waiting and needing you, and two more years of knowing that by saving your life, I missed my chance. This is not," Sherlock punctuated this with another punch, "how it ends."

John feebly argued against his rant, letting Sherlock punch the wall repeatedly and only bloodying his knuckles in the process.

"IT—DOESN'T—END—NOW—" Sherlock shouted, and then he stopped and stooped his head, out of breath and looking at his hands curiously. "Interesting." He studied his hands closely, flexing the right hand, until John interrupted him.

"What? Did you find a way out?"

"No," Sherlock turned away from the wall, out of breath, and smiled weakly at John. "No, I was wrong. About a lot of things. You're right, of course, about Mary. I understand everything."

John frowned and stood up, walking over to Sherlock and examining his hands. "You're an idiot."

"I know. How else would we have gotten here?" Sherlock said simply, and the sheer absurdity of it all made John laugh so hard that he was wheezing again, and Sherlock had to hold him up.

This, Sherlock could handle. Muscle supporting muscle, keeping a man standing upright. KeepingJohn standing.

He could even handle (if he lied a bit to himself) when John stopped shuddering, sighed, and threw his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, burying his head under Sherlock's chin and sighing.

"I love you," John said. "Always did. Sorry I forgot to mention it five years ago. Or two years ago."

Sherlock swallowed thickly. "You're forgiven. Sorry I did such a shoddy job of everything."

" 'S all right," John said. He perked his head up a bit, staring at Sherlock through blond lashes, and rested his forehead against Sherlock's. "I really shouldn't want this. You. So much." He leaned an infinitesimal space closer and continued to look at him with so much adoration that Sherlock thought he would crumble. (Couldn't handle that.)

He swallowed again. "You're doing a poor job of hiding it."

"You won't tell Mary. It's just—I have so much I want to tell you, so much I wanted to show you, and I only have about…ten minutes to do it." He leaned closer still. "It very well might take me to hell."

"Don't worry too much. I'd follow you down."

"That shouldn't sound as sexy as it does."

"You thought that was sexy?"

"Everything you do is," John explained, and then he was kissing him, and it was the single most painful thing Sherlock had ever experienced or categorized. Sensation flooded in from all directions, all forbidden, forgotten, lost—

And suddenly the arms around his neck were loosening, and Sherlock didn't like that, but it didn't matter—one calloused hand was tangling roughly in his curls, and Sherlock did like that. He quite liked everything.

John's lips were moving relentlessly against his, gentle but unstoppable in their force, and Sherlock was drowning in nerve endings and wires and the very best kind of electricity. He pressed closer and engaged himself completely to the idea of kissing the life out of John Watson, wrapping one arm around to the small of his back and pushing him in while the other hand explored John's close-cropped hair, his jaw, his neck, his collarbone.

Ten minutes? Sherlock could do a lot in ten minutes. If his memory served.

John squeaked a quick "bloody hell" when Sherlock swiveled them around and pinned John to the wall, completely unforgiving. His lips traveled down to John's neck, sucking ruthlessly at the pressure point where John's pulse was beating wildly against his skin.

"Sherlock…" John breathed above him, and Sherlock smiled into his skin.

"You thought about this—me—us," Sherlock whispered into the juncture between his throat and shoulder.

"Yes."

"Live up to your expectation?" Sherlock asked wickedly, biting down hard on John's collarbone. John yelped and pushed Sherlock away with surprising force, sending him staggering back into the floor, and from there John pounced on him as best he could.

"This is more what I had in mind," John replied with a smile, straddling Sherlock's hips and leaning over to capture Sherlock's lips with his own. This was blissful, this was—unexpected. Suddenly it wasn't just taste alone, it was friction, too, and Sherlock loved it, rolling his hips against John's.

John giggled. "You're a bad, bad man."

"I've waited too long to be insulted," Sherlock argued against his kiss. He leaned up and held John's torso, exploring the lines of his shoulders and back with the precision of a violinist. "Aren't you curious what these fingers can do?"

"Bloody hell. There isn't enough time in the world," John said breathlessly.

"Less talking, more snogging," Sherlock replied, but it didn't matter, because John had already collapsed to the side, spluttering in earnest. "John?"

John shook his head roughly, gasping for air, and Sherlock sat him upright. " 'M fine—it's just—"

"John, listen to me," Sherlock said. "You're not dying now."

"Sorry—"

"No, no apologies. I don't accept them. You're not dying, you're a doctor."

John glared at him through watery eyes but still didn't stop choking.

"John, John, listen—your body, it's been in panic mode ever since the message. It only thinks you're dying, but you're not. It's in your head," Sherlock cried. "Just think—you're not choking. You're not dying. You're just scared."

"I'm not—bloody scared—Sherlock!"

"You are, but that's all you are. It's a physical reaction to a psychological concern. It's the shock that's weakened your lungs, not poison. You're misdiagnosing."

John barked out a final cough and sucked in air like a man rescued from drowning. "What the hell are you talking about? One of us—has got to die! That's the point! And it's going to be me!"

"No, old friend," Sherlock said sadly. "It's not. I noticed ten minutes ago, when I was having a row with the wall." He tugged John close and clung to him, knowing the clinical way to say what would happen next, but not the kindest way. "My pulse has been slowing down. My breathing's shallower. My blood's already started to thicken and slow down, too."

John only stared, dumb-founded. "What?"

"You're not dying, John." Sherlock smiled. "You're going to be fine."

"Sherlock—you've known—"

"I had a hunch. I only knew just now. Can't you tell?" Sherlock asked, bringing John's palm up to his neck where a love bite was already bruising. "Feel it. My heart. It's yours, anyway, but it doesn't have a lot of energy left."

Pure, unadulterated anger blazed through John Watson's eyes. "No. NO. This isn't—I can't—not again," he said, collapsing into Sherlock's shoulder. "Not again, not again, I can't do it again, I can't lose you again…"

"I'm sorry. I wanted you to know everything, regardless."

"How'm I supposed to live, knowing what I know? Sherlock, you can't do this to me. I won't live through it. There'll be nothing to bring me through this."

"Mary," Sherlock said firmly. "She did it once, she can do it again."

"She's not you!" John cried brokenly, seizing Sherlock's face, and he covered him with kisses on his nose and cheeks and forehead and eyelids, any bit of skin he could reach. "She's never going to be you! You'll be dead for real this time, and I have to watch, again…again…"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered through John's kisses. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I should have told you on your wedding. On that Friday. Before I fell. The pool. The day we met."

"You did, you sod. I was too thick to see…I didn't observe…" John laughed bitterly, panicking when he heard Sherlock's breathing get shallower. He pressed a hand up to the artery on Sherlock's neck, right below the blooming bruise, and felt the beats slow under his fingertips.

"Tell me something," Sherlock commanded, sounding for all the world like he had air in his lungs.

"What?"

"The words. You said…there were no words for it. What it was like."

"When you jumped?"

He snorted. "To feel. About me."

"Oh. Erm, right, okay," John said, clearing his throat. He let Sherlock settle into his arms, holding him from behind, and rested his head on top of Sherlock's curls. "It's absolutely…brilliant. It's like running away from a bomb and shooting a gun and having terrific sex all at once. You were always so…cool…and it was amazing to unravel you. To figure out everything about you, the things that made you tick…"

Sherlock shuddered in front of him, and John clutched him tighter. "You said it was the pool? I think it was the day we left Dartmoor. You were driving us home. The sun was setting, and the color was almost what it was like in Afghanistan when the sun sets, and you looked so…fucking beautiful. I couldn't breathe for a minute. And that minute, seeing the sun and you, made me feel like you'd always been there. Like you were fighting with me in Afghanistan, like you trained with me at Bart's." He smiled and looked down at Sherlock. "But you were always there, weren't you? Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. We were never not going to happen…" He blinked once when he didn't get an answer. "Sherlock?"

"Sherlock!?"