Author's Note: This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

**A tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had to Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

PLEASE REVIEW: This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!

Disclaimer:Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

Chapter 10

Spirits of a Contrite Doctor & of a Consulting Detective

Sherlock had no reliable concept to judge the passage of time, not in his unfamiliar world of darkness. He found himself unable to determine if it was morning or night, early or late…so instead, he found himself listening to everything that happened inside his hospital room.

He was fairly certain he was not still inside the murder room, but he couldn't be absolutely certain of that. Women's voices floated through the atmosphere, bouncing off the walls of the institution, nurses, he determined. The soft beeping of medical machines, sitting next to his head, confirmed his suspicions; he was still inside a hospital.

The detective ached to turn his head; to move, just a little. Instantly, he regretted the rather poor decision. His entire throat lit up in a startlingly painful way. Knife-like pain with the precision of a scalpel seemed to radiate along his entire left side, so probably some form of surgery…he shifted again, grimacing in the process. He could still feel the tightness of swelling along the ridge of his left eyebrow. The place where John's fists had connected over and over…he shied away from the pain elicited by those memories.

The air seemed shift and he was instantly still, listening… danger? He couldn't be certain…the movement was just inside his room. It diverted his attention before he could delve too deeply into his own emotional pain.

"You shouldn't move, brother mine." Mycroft's words were a statement of the obvious and Sherlock found his normal irritation levels rising slightly. His brother knew how much he hated that kind of benign chatter. Was it his sole purpose in life to continually remind Sherlock of just how much more Mycroft knew than his younger brother?

Sherlock has always thought that if one was going to speak, then they should attempt to improve the silence, not fill it with further inane drivel. He chose not to shift again and simply waited for his brother to explain what had happened. Mycroft loved to explain things to Sherlock. For once, the younger man was okay with this obnoxious side of his older brother, because to be completely honest the whole event was more than slightly fuzzy. Access to his mind palace was still very limited and that particular room appeared to be dead-bolted from the inside.

When Mycroft chose to irritatingly silent, Sherlock sighed loudly and attempted to use his vocal cords, "Wh…at hap…nd?" He swallowed the emotional words that he was desperate to ask. What if he didn't come? What if John isn't here…was never here?

Mycroft's feet shifted in a nervous way. It was a habit that he'd developed in primary school; finally, he sighed, "You very nearly died, Sherlock. That's what happened. That reptile, Culverton nearly choked the life from you." His brother's words choked off and there was a long pause before he continued, his voice a bit more steady now. "He has been using that hospital of his as a his own personal murder castle." Another pause broke his explanation up and Sherlock wished he could actually see what his brother was concealing in the silence.

Slowly he continued, "He came very close to adding you to his list. A very long list of people that have checked into the hospital, but do not check out." Mycroft bit off the final word, anger finally working its way into his words.

Sherlock nodded once in understanding, the movement hurt, a lot.

He sank into silence as he considered what he'd been told, finding that he couldn't move away from one overwhelming thought. The one that was burning a hole in his brain, "John?" he asked hoarsely.

His brother waited so long to answer that the younger Holmes felt his fears tighten around his heart and his throat bob with emotions he didn't have the energy to control.

John had chosen to leave him then…Sherlock hadn't realized just how much hope he'd been harboring. Not that he blamed the doctor. John had simply lost too much at the junkie's hands.

So many things…he'd done so many things that he regretted. He'd used John as bait on more occasions than he cared to admit. He'd lied to his friend. Again, that had happened so often that Sherlock wondered if John just assumed he was lying whenever he opened his mouth at this point. He'd faked his own death sending John into a year of hell that Sherlock had only understood recently. Because it had only been with the loss of his wife that John had utterly removed himself from the younger Holmes's life. And it had been crushing.

The death of John's beloved wife had been the final straw and now there was simply nothing left. John didn't have it in him to forgive the arrogance that gotten Mary killed. That's okay, John. I can't forgive it either. Anguish washed over Sherlock in a tidal wave of heart-wrenching loss that refused to allow him to breathe, let alone speak; he dropped back into the silence.

Mycroft watch his brother's suffering with a heavy heart. Sherlock, I tried to tell you. I tried to warn you…caring, is not an advantage. The darkness had drawn the dark-haired man back in and the room became alarmingly quiet as he suffered quietly.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's soft voice startled him and he jerked in surprise when his brother's hand ghosted over his right hand. "John is here."

The pain that had ricocheted through him when he'd moved faded and whatever he'd about to say died on his parched lips at the revelation. John was here. He didn't abandon me…

"Where?" he whispered. Forcing the word past both the lump and the pain that had now set up permanent residence in his throat.

In typical Mycroft fashion, he released a long-suffering sigh and launched into a more in-depth explanation of the events over the past few days.

Sherlock listened in silence as the extent of Culverton's murder operation was laid out. Ripples of shock coursed through him as his brother told him about the doctor's frantic attempts to save him at the last minute. The injury to John's shoulder when he'd broken down the locked door; and the horror when he'd realized just how close he'd come to being too late. Finally, he explained that Lestraude's men had arrested the murderer and he'd been taken to Scotland Yard for processing.

A whoosh of air and Sherlock knew that they were no longer alone. He was glad for the distraction. He needed just a few seconds to comprehend the unalienable fact that it seemed he hadn't lost John.

Footsteps bustled into the room, halting near the foot of his bed. A quickly mumbled conversation with Mycroft and then the nurse, Sherlock assumed, adjusted something next to his elbow and he felt the warmth of morphine spread across his mind and body like a colorful fog, numbing the pain every place it touched.

His brother droned on for some time and Sherlock eventually found his thoughts wandering as the morphine dulled and finally slowed the rapid whirling of his mind. He wasn't sure when it happened, the exact moment that he'd drifted off into the blissful silence of sleep. But it was the first time since Mary's death that he was able to sleep without the haunting nightmares punctuated by John's anguished cries.

221B 221B

John glared daggers at the doctor; the one that had denied his repeated requests to visit Sherlock. When he'd first come to, the excuse had been his shoulder. So John had bit back his desperate need to see his friend. But then the surgery to repair his arm had been successful and they still hadn't conceded to his wishes. Complete and utter rubbish! The surgery had been long and complicated. Apparently, John had managed to break the scapula, fracture his collarbone and tear all the tendons holding his arm to his body. But he'd certainly had worse…or at least was the story he would be telling himself when the pain begins waking him at night, again.

He had swum back to consciousness in the tiny recovery room with no widows. The groggy, confused feelings coursing through him compelled John to ignore his doctor's advice and try to get up. The damn doctor had then seen fit to put him back to sleep, in order to aid him in recovering from the anesthesia of surgery.

John's medical mind was currently wondering exactly how that worked? They were waiting for him to wake up and then they put him back to sleep, in order to wait for him to wake up? What the hell kind of logic was that?

His gaze swept the small sterile room and he shifted to alleviate the itching that was just beneath his skin. He grimaced as his shoulder lit up with pain. "Son of a bitch." He swore.

Luckily the creak of his opening door stole his attention, blue eyes flashed over to the tall figure staring at him. Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway like a spectre, his expression masked, fingers dangling loosely on the door handle. Dread blossomed along John's heart as he gulped back the surly comment that had been perched on the tip of his tongue. He knew his own face was an open book and it was obvious that the older Holmes must have read it, because he immediately stepped into the room and gently closed the door. John prayed that he wouldn't have to, once again, bear witness to the death of Sherlock Holmes. He'd already done that…

The taller man sighed, "He's alive, John."

John blinked slowly as the information spread through him like a balm on his tattered soul. Those words quelled the fear that had stolen his very thought processes.

For a moment he wasn't sure he would find his voice, eventually he did. "How is he?'

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted dramatically and he shrugged, "As well as can be expected." The older Holmes studied the army doctor's complex reaction to Sherlock's survival with a mixture of both curiosity and respect. "You saved his life." He added simply.

Moments, or it could have been years, passed before John realized what he'd just been told.

Slowly, it occurred to John, that Mycroft had believed he and Sherlock had been finished after Mary's death. Had it really been so obvious to everyone but John? How could he have thought that no one would notice? "Yes." A painful thought flashed through his head. You 'were' finished. He'd had no intention of ever coming back to 221B, or the man that resided there. And yet, John had not known the events that would rebuild that shattered bridge; allowing him to find his way back to his friend.

Mycroft's face shifted and something that almost resembled fondness flitted across his features. "Thank you." The sentiment was soft, not at all the way he generally spoke to the army doctor…or anyone else for that matter. Except on occasion, Sherlock.

John's right hand twisted the white cotton blanket, which was currently pooled around his hips, into tiny-coiled springs. The tension he was feeling finding a strange outlet as, internally, he scrambled for something to say. Some way to respond to the brother of the man he'd saved. John wondered if, there had ever been a time, when even for a moment, he would have actually let Sherlock die.

The devastating ache the very thought sparked, instantly answered his internal question. He could not have let the obstinate, over-bearing, and downright rude consulting detective die, because John could not imagine life without him.

His stormy blue gaze lifted to meet Mycroft's keen assessing eyes. The older Holmes stared at him for a long time, like he was working something out, gauging the doctor's reactions to everything that had happened. He was waiting…

Gathering his courage and what little strength he had, John answered the other man's unasked question. "I could never let him die. Not like that…he…" Emotions choked off John's words and he glanced away in order to collect himself. To the other man's credit, he remained silent. Slowly John regained control and continued softly, "He didn't deserve that. He did not kill Mary." It was barely a whisper, but it expressed every emotion he was struggling to contain.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow and his eyes lingered, softening a bit. "No. He did not."

It was clear where his loyalties lie and they did not lie with the doctor. Not that John had thought they would. The man that literally was the British government had thrown his unrelenting support behind a certain sarcastic, dark, curly-haired detective a long time ago, and that was never going to change.

"Is he still—" The question was but a whisper of the emotional currents breaking against John's heart.

An underlying sense of desperation made it impossible for the posh man standing over John to ignore. "Blind?" He supplied evenly.

John nodded weakly.

"Yes. No changes there."

John had feared that was the case, but a small part of him had hoped he might be wrong, that all his years as a doctor had lied to him and that in this one instant there could be another outcome. His pained eyes flickered to the closed door and clouded with frustration. "They won't let me see him."

Mycroft tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes and folding his arms. John could feel the skeptical gaze assessing him in a way that made the injured man feel more ashamed of his part in Sherlock's current condition. More than he already did…which was impressive, because John was certain he would never forgive himself for what he'd done to Sherlock in the morgue. As the memories played across his thoughts, John found he couldn't lift his eyes to meet Mycroft's expression. The taller man finally moved around the bed so that he was standing directly in front of John.

The crushing silence lingered and the doctor wished that the elder Holmes would simply say what he had to say and leave.

Eventually, the other man spoke, "I will see to that." With that Mycroft Holmes spun on his heel and left. John's heart was still reeling in the silence of his darkened hospital room.

He wasn't sure what Mycroft had meant by that, but he desperately hoped that it would result in at least a short visit to the consulting detective's private hospital room.

221B 221B

After Mycroft's departure, Sherlock sank into himself. He didn't know how long he spent drifting before the rain that was pelting his window drew him back. He found himself wishing desperately that he could see the way, he knew, it would be running it rivulets down the uneven panes of glass.

The random paths chosen by falling water, and the way it always seemed to find the path of least resistance had always fascinated him. Only now, all he had to analyze were his memories. What good was perfect recall when one could no longer add to the mural of one's life? Sherlock sighed, turning away from the disheartening pitter-patter of the rain.

He wasn't sure what the future held, not only for him, but also for John and Rosie. Because John's life was now more than just his, he was responsible for the future of his and Mary's child. And Sherlock was responsible for them…

The tightness in his chest loosened a bit as he considered what Mycroft had told him. His brother had revealed that the doctor had been the one to save Sherlock's life. That it had been John that had thrown caution to the wind, racing to save the cracked out consulting detective from his own flawed plan. And the sheer faith, in Sherlock, that that had taken was staggering. His breathing hitched just as the air in the room shifted slightly and the soft swish of the door alerted Sherlock that someone had entered.

He slid his eyelids apart, more out of habit than expectation. His left eye barely parted and he blinked several times when there was a slight shift within the darkness. He blinked a few times but as suddenly as it had come, the blip was gone. He felt the sudden flair of hope slip away as quickly as it had come.

"Sherlock?" John's thick voice was perhaps that last one that Sherlock had expected to hear. Well, maybe not the last, but damn close.

While he now knew that John would never have let him die, not intentionally at least, Sherlock hadn't expected the doctor come visit any time soon either. When he didn't immediately answer, John released a pent up breath and Sherlock heard a chair slide across the tile only to settle near the head of his bed.

Sherlock's vacant pale gaze stared straight ahead until he heard John settle into the chair. Heat and sudden pressure near his right arm alerted him that John's hands rested near his elbow. For several moments Sherlock was worried that John would change his mind and leave without saying anything. The heavy silence seemed to stretch out into forever.

Finally, "I wanted to see you. I asked for three days…and now I don't know what to say." John admitted quietly. His voice tightly constrained with roiling emotions; emotions that he typically avoided at all costs. But his inability to share how he was feeling had been part of what had led to the fracturing of their friendship.

Sherlock forced himself to remain silent. He too had wanted to speak. To tell his friend that he was sorry. That he hated the loss John had suffered at his hands, but he was even worse with emotions than his struggling friend and he owed the doctor an apology for not trusting him with the truth about his plans for Culverton.

John inhaled, "I saw Mary's message." He said softly.

Sherlock turned his head, just a bit and instantly regretting it when his swollen flesh reminded him that he'd nearly had his throat crushed by a serial killer. He blinked back the stinging tears of pain. He remained silent, not trusting his own voice to remain steady.

"I know he nearly killed you, so I don't expect a lot of conversation from you" John's gaze dropped to the vibrant colors crisscrossing Sherlock's slender neck. "…But you should probably know that he won't be killing anyone ever again. He's being questioned and detained by Scotland Yard." John suddenly found that once he'd started talking the whole story just slipped past his lips. "Lestrade was livid when he arrived and realized what was happening. I'm fairly certain that Smith didn't make it to the station without some bruises of his own." A bit of satisfaction worked its way into John's tone as he remembered tackling the smarmy little man, feeling his body collide with the hard tile floor.

They descended back into silence and Sherlock hoped that John wasn't done talking yet. He'd missed their conversations.

The consulting detective's whirlwind into the drug-induced madness had been starkly contrasted by John's confinement of all emotions, save rage. Neither man could truly understand what the other had gone through. They only knew that there was no chance at recovery, for either of them, if they didn't work out a way to cross the gaping chasm of betrayal, hurt and guilt that now separated them.

Sherlock swallowed, determining that he would rather risk everything than not regain what he had lost.

"I'm sorry, John." the whispered apology was so soft that John barely heard it.

Sherlock waited, his chest tight with fear that it wouldn't be enough. It wasn't enough, it would never be enough, but if John happened to be willing then Sherlock would spend the rest of his life atoning for his past mistakes. And any future ones you are sure to make. A voice, that suspiciously like Mycroft, said.

Tears were burning at the back of Sherlock's eyes as he continued to stare straight ahead. He supposed he could have stopped the tears, shoved the annoying emotions, the sentiment, deep down and ignored the rush of overwhelming feelings that threatened to undo his life's work.

But wasn't that what had gotten him into this whole mess in the first place? Ignoring the people around him, the ones that were best able to interpret his more ridiculous compulsions? Mary had tried to warn him about Vivian Norberry, but Sherlock had been so arrogantly positive that he knew better…as it turned out, he had never been more wrong in his life.

A lump formed in his throat, making him swallow hard, ignoring the burning pain as he slowly turned his head toward where John was sitting. The other man remained completely silent and if Sherlock hadn't heard him breathing in ragged little pants; he would have assumed that John had disappeared. "…for Mary…I am so very sorry…" Sherlock clarified brokenly.

John's head snapped up and he stared down at his friend. The normally emotionless man was blinking back tears, his normally steady baritone wavering with barely controlled sorrow.

Physically, the doctor felt something tear loose inside him. The anger drained away, leaving him feeling exhausted and lonely. He had spent so much energy raging against the unfairness of it all. And yet as he found himself staring down into the unfocused blue-grey eyes of the world's only consulting detective, he found he no longer had the energy to sustain rage. More than that, he no longer wanted to.

John had missed his friend with the same deep penetrating ache that he would always miss Mary. And while he knew that the wounds of Mary's death would never fully heal, he believed that, with time, he and Sherlock would be okay.

His fingers shook as he stretched his left hand toward the shuddering figure lying beside him. John blinked back his own tears as his hand landed gently on Sherlock's pale arm. He felt the muscles tense, but only for a moment before he turned his hand over and John grasped it in an iron-like grip.

Only now did Sherlock tilt his head in John's direction, his sightless teary eyes, somehow, landing on precisely where the doctor sat. "She said I had to save you."

John's fingers tightened. "You did."

TBS…

Author's Note: The Epilogue will tie all of the angst and hurt up in a very satisfactory little bow. I hope you will take the time to let me know what you thought of the chapter? Bromance galore in this one. This is the one episode where I actually felt that the intensity of the emotions that had torn these two men apart would have to be paralleled in intensity with the friendship/deep devotion (and dare I say it…love) that would eventually drive them back together.

Take a moment and review…a shameless request, I know.