Mary was already at their front door, keys in hand, and John was close behind when he realised that Sherlock hadn't got out of the car. The doctor performed an about turn and marched back, jerking the door open. "Out." He pointed towards the house. When Sherlock didn't move, he started to reach into the car, but the detective gave a huff and climbed out. John pointedly waited for Sherlock to proceed him and followed him to the house.

Inside, Mary removed her coat. "The guest room's this way."

With a shake of his head, Sherlock protested. "I'm not tired. I won't be sleeping."

A muscle in John's jaw twitched. "You OD'd. You'll either sleep or lay there and pretend. I don't really give a damn which." He grabbed Sherlock's arm and propelled him along.

At the bedroom door, Mary was emerging. Sherlock shouldered his way past her and closed the door.

"John," Mary called as her husband marched passed, "Where are you going?"

"I'm getting a pillow and blanket. I'll sleep on the floor outside his room. He'll have to walk over me to get out."

With a sigh, Mary ran her hand through her hair. "He'll just go out a window if he wants out, Love."

The doctor stopped in mid stride and flexed his left hand. Turning around, he opened the guest room door, thankful he hadn't found time to fix the broken lock.

Sherlock's was stood by the window. He resisted the urge to snap his hand back from where it was running along the window sill. "John."

Crossing his arms, John gave him a bitter smile. "You're not going out the window, so you might as well get in bed."

Sherlock stiffened. "And how will you stop me? Stand there all night."

John didn't reply, simply leaned against the wall, his intention to do precisely that made clear.

With jerky motions, the detective took off his coat. His shoes were next and it was an almost irresistible temptation to throw them. Instead, he placed them by the bed with very deliberate motions. Lifting the bedclothes, he crawled under them and turned his back to John.

Mary was hovering by the door, a look of grim amusement on her face. "You can't do it. It's been a hard day for you too."

"I've had hard days before this. I've had my turn standing watch. Afghanistan."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, a sneer on his face. "You were a doctor, not a guard."

"I was a soldier. I did what it took to stay alive!"

Mary placed her hand on his arm. "Just sleep in the bed. You'll know if he tries to go somewhere."

He blinked at her. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I am. You're both good men. I trust you."

Sherlock buried his head beneath the bedclothes and huffed. He was anything but a good man.

John drew her into an embrace and kissed her forehead. "Alright. Night, then."

Even hidden as he was under the covers and back turned to them, Sherlock knew what was happening. John was twisting the knife in him and it was made all the worse because he knew. He had to know what it was doing to Sherlock and he didn't even care.

Mary left the room and John sighed. He walked over to the vacant side of the bed and sat, letting his head hang. Behind him, he could feel it as Sherlock rolled violently over. "Oh, God." He covered his face with his hands. "I didn't mean... Christ, Sherlock I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry." Why hadn't he thought?! Sherlock had said he loved him and he had just blithely kissed Mary while standing in the same room as him and... Bloody fuck! What kind of torture had it been for Sherlock to be his best man? "I never meant to hurt you."

From beneath the covers came the sound of Sherlock's broken laugh. "That's what we do, hurt each other. I jumped off a building and you..."

"Got married.," John finished for him. He rubbed at his eyes. "Our lives are a comedy of errors and I don't know how to fix them."

"I don't need to be fixed," Sherlock spat.

Incredulous, John turned around to face the lump on the other side of the bed. "You intentionally OD'd and you don't need fixed. That's just brilliant! And you do see what you did? I wasn't talking about fixing you. I was saying I need to fix everything I've fucked up." His voice took on a tremor, "Even you know you're broken. You just won't admit it."

Sherlock sat up in a explosion of bedclothes, tossing them back furiously. "Just because I'm gay doesn't mean I'm broken. Just because I fell in love with you, straight John Watson, doesn't mean I'm broken. I'm just a fool that gave his nonexistant heart to the only person who ever seemed to care."

When John spoke, it was with carefully contained fury. "What I said has nothing to do with you being gay. It's about you and your stupid, idiotic ideas. You really thought that OD'ing was a viable solution. Talking never occurred to you. Telling me how you felt never occurred to you. Asking for help never occurred to you."

"And what would it have changed? You would have still been married. Still been straight. A few more weeks and you will be a father. You can't tell me that won't be the end. You'll drift away and be nothing more than a memory, a name signed on an annual Christmas card."

"You are a fool, Sherlock Holmes." John shook his head, trying to find the words to explain. "I would never, will never let that happen. I can't give you everything that you want, I know that, but I do love you. I'm not sure what that means." He laughed brittlely. "Please, can you just give me time to figure it out? Don't... If you die again. I won't survive that."

"And Mary?"

John choked on a sob. "I don't... Christ."

Slowly, as if afraid of rejection, Sherlock reached out and took John's hand. They sat there quitely for several long minutes. Finally, they both lay down, each lost in his own thoughts, trying to find a path to navigate the future.