This chapter has a bit of bad language, but I think it's justified in terms of the story and after checking the rules, I don't think I need to up the rating (I do get paranoid about these things). Anyway, thanks for the kind reviews so far. On with the angst.

They reached the operating theatre, where the doctor stopped them just outside the doors.

"We didn't want to risk moving her from here to the ICU, in case her heart stopped on the way. But it's private in here and you can take as long as you need Doctor Watson. I'm so terribly sorry that we weren't able to do more for her."

The doctor squeezed John's arm sympathetically, but he didn't seem to notice, as he pushed his way through the doors, his sobs subsiding into the noises children made when they'd cried themselves breathless. Sherlock went to follow him, but Greg threw an arm across his chest, blocking his path.

"Thank you doctor, we'll keep an eye on him." Greg said, gratefully. The doctor nodded and left, Greg looked at Sherlock. "Just John right now, I don't think having you there will help matters, do you?"

The theatre seemed cold. John had never really noticed that about operating theatres before, how clinical and indifferent they seemed to life or death when, after losing a loved one, you wanted chaos, you wanted the world to sit up and take notice, to scream and shout with you.

At least when Sherlock had 'died', the media had been in uproar and others had railed at the injustice and tragedy alongside John. Mary was just an ordinary woman. If the media took any notice of her death, it would be in relation to Sherlock Holmes.

Bloody Sherlock, who couldn't even let him have the knowledge of his child's existence to himself, who had to rip John's grief from him like ripping a plaster from a wound, like everything that man did in his life, abrupt, callous and selfish.

Now here John was, watching the kindest heart he'd known slow and stop; the existence of the only woman he'd ever truly loved snuffed out in the split second it took for a bullet to fly through the air. John touched his left shoulder, feeling the scar beneath and thinking how, almost seven years ago, he should have died on a battlefield far from home; life was indiscriminate and cruel.

John pulled up a stool to the side of the operating table and sat down. They'd done a great job of cleaning Mary up; if the surroundings hadn't given the game away, John would say that not a drop of Mary's blood had been spilt in here. She was covered up to her chest by sterile sheets, the machines were breathing for her and the monitor, although the staff had turned off the sound, was counting her slowing heartbeat and dropping blood pressure. John thought he might have a couple of minutes at the most.

He picked up her hand, it was cold, so he kissed it briefly, before covering it with his other hand; Mary hated being cold.

"I …" John's voice almost deserted him straight away, but he took a deep breath, he needed to get this out, "I just found out, about the baby, you would have been a wonderful mother. God, could you imagine our child?" John smiled, even though hot tears were streaming down his face.

"I think it would have been a girl and she'd have been as beautiful and as clever as you and just as competitive and headstrong. She would have made me the proudest father alive. I'd have done anything for you and that child, Mary."

John bowed his head and gathered himself.

"I was so glad that you were finally getting along with Sherlock, you knew how much that meant to me. Thank you so much babe, for sticking with the life I led, for saving me when I had nothing left, for making me so happy. But, I don't know …"

John's voice faltered and he sobbed for a few seconds before steeling himself to say more.

"But I don't know if I'll have anything left to live for now. I don't think I can forgive him, Mary, not after this. You'd yell at me for that, I know you would. You were the one who told me to forgive him when he came back. You always saw the good in people, but that's because you brought out the best in everyone around you. You didn't deserve this. A stupid drugs bust. Why did you even come tonight? If he hadn't wound you up so much … if I'd never have met you ... No, I shouldn't speak like that, not now."

John squeezed her hand, it seemed to be getting colder.

"Remember our wedding day? You looked so beautiful, you always did to me, but that day, I couldn't take my eyes off you. You lit up the room, everyone adored you and I was so happy, so bloody stunned that even after meeting Sherlock you still wanted to be my wife. And you told me not to think like that, not to imagine that I meant nothing to people compared to him. You said that Sherlock saw something remarkable in me and that you saw it too. You said that because he risked his life to save me, that made him a hero in your eyes. I loved you for that, Mary, for taking us both on, like we were two halves of a whole person."

John sighed and a frown crossed his brow.

"But now I'm not so sure. You were the half I needed, I think he was just the half I got stuck with when I had nothing else. Do you hear me Mary, I need you, other people need you. What am I going to tell your family? Who am I going to get to understand me like you did? There isn't anybody else. We were going to have a family. We were going to grow old together. You deserved so much more."

John's voice was becoming frantic.

"I didn't want to do this, I didn't want to break down in front of you, but I don't want to lose you, it's not fair, it's not fair …" John gave in to the tears and put his head on Mary's chest, sobbing. One hand came up to tangle in her hair, the other still holding her hand.

John wasn't sure how long he lay there sobbing, but he was murmuring, "I'm sorry, I love you", over and over, when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. He turned to see Lestrade right behind him and Sherlock standing some distance away.

"She's gone mate" Lestrade said, tearfully, but gently, gesturing to the monitors which showed a flat line where the heartbeat should have been.

John stood up and dashed at his tears, before leaning over and kissing Mary's face several times. Greg found himself thinking of the fairytales, where the handsome prince would come along and revive his princess with true love's kiss; if only that were true. There was nothing whatsoever romantic about watching a grief stricken husband kissing his dead wife's mouth, whilst it was filled with an ugly ventilation tube, still breathing air into her lifeless corpse.

"Do you want us to leave you alone for a bit longer?" Lestrade asked softly.

"I … I don't know … I can't go home Greg … don't make me go home … but I can't stay here … I … I …"

"Sshhhh, ok John, we'll sort something out. We just wanted to come in and say goodbye."

Greg squeezed John's arm gently and then stepped forward, leaning down, he kissed Mary on the forehead.

"Sleep tight angel," he whispered.

"I'll ask if there's anything you need to sign before you go, alright?" What Greg really meant was, 'I'll ask them to turn off the machines and pronounce her dead', but there was no way he could bring himself to say that. John nodded as Lestrade made his way out of the room and down the corridor, looking for a doctor.

Sherlock approached John tentatively. His hand was slightly outstretched and it was obvious he wanted to touch his blogger and offer some comfort, but he wasn't sure how.

"John, I …"

"Just tell her goodbye and then go, Sherlock, I can't speak to you right now."

Sherlock swallowed nervously and sidestepped John to get to Mary. He repeated Greg's action of kissing her on the forehead, noting how the cold of death quickly felt different to the temperature of a cold, living, human body and how the loss of circulation had caused the skin to begin loosening over the bones. Sherlock couldn't say anything to the corpse, it would be foolish, it was just a lump of flesh now after all.

However, on standing, he turned to John.

"I'm sorry. It was my fault."

He saw John tense up, even though he wasn't looking directly at Sherlock.

"What?"

"It was my fault she got shot, John. She died because I wasn't good enough. I should have anticipated that they'd be there." Sherlock's voice faltered slightly, he could feel himself frowning.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't you fucking dare make this about you." John was looking at him now and his eyes were blazing with anger.

"I'm not. I'm just saying sorry."

"You can't let me have one moment, can you, just one bloody moment that's something to call my own. YOU told me about my child, YOU tell me that it's YOUR fault she's dead, I find myself talking to her about YOU in her last moments, even her dying words were to YOU and she was MY wife, Sherlock. She was MY wife!"

John could feel the tears running down his face again, but they were angry tears now.

"Well what do you want me to say John?" Sherlock's voice was raised now too, signaling his frustration, this wasn't how apologies were supposed to go.

"How about, 'I'm sorry for your loss'? It's what normal people say Sherlock."

"I'm not normal though am I?"

"No you're not, you're a fucking freak and I should have listened to Sally Donovan all those years ago."

John noted the look of hurt on Sherlock's face with satisfaction.

"What are you saying?"

"What am I saying? I'm saying Sherlock that if I hadn't met you, you wouldn't have faked your death to save my life, I wouldn't have met Mary and she wouldn't be laying there dead right now. So, I blame you for this, Sherlock and I know that's irrational and I know that makes me an idiot, but it's how I feel right now and I want you to leave, before I do something stupid."

Sherlock sneered, seemingly disgusted by the illogical emotions of his blogger. He began advancing on John menacingly, his voice low and threatening.

"If I recall, you were the one who thought I was brilliant, you were the one who followed me everywhere like a lost puppy and decided to write about me, you were the one who fed my ego and got Moriarty interested, you were the one who mourned me and made yourself all pathetic, so that she fell in love with you, you were the one who let her come along to crime scenes. If you want to blame someone for her death, John, blame yourself."

'Strange,' thought Sherlock, 'how I should end up on the floor four times in one night. I have to work on retaining better balance when surprised'. As it was, the sensation of John smashing his fists into Sherlock's face made any further thought, on the part of the consulting detective, quite difficult.

Sherlock felt a splitting sensation throughout his head, intense pressure behind his eyes, a ringing in his ears and then pain, blooming across the centre of his face; he could taste blood in his mouth and it was running down the back of his throat. He tried to draw a better breath, but the side of his chest felt like someone had stabbed him, it took him a second to realise that this was where John's knee had connected, as they'd tumbled to the floor and a couple of ribs had probably cracked as a result.

Sherlock coughed and began choking, as the former soldier grabbed his throat and started shaking him, screaming profanities.

"Heartless bastard … fucking freak … stupid tosser …"

Sherlock felt a wave of sadness, as the world began to go dark around him. John hated him so much that he was prepared to kill him. This wasn't how things were meant to be; he must have said something really not good this time.

Suddenly, the world flooded back in and John was crouched on the floor beside him, sobbing, as Sherlock gasped for air.

The doors opened and Sherlock heard Greg cry out in surprise.

"Jesus! What the … John? Are you alright?"

'What a strange thing to ask', Sherlock thought. He was the one bleeding and half unconscious on the floor and clearly John had been the one responsible for his injuries. Did Lestrade hate him as much as John did now?

"Help him Greg," John's voice shook, "I think he hit his head on the way down."

'Of course', Sherlock thought, that was why the back of his head hurt so much. He looked up to the corner of the metal units, where he saw a blood stain and some hair, matted against the chrome.

"Fractured skull, sorry John," was the last thing Sherlock murmured before the world went dark.