A/N: To avoid any confusion, for reasons that I'll get into more later, Sherlock has decided not to tell John about Vanya's role in this whole thing for now, so that's why he leaves certain things out and adjusts his story a little bit when he discusses how everything went down.

Chapter 10: And Conversations

A few minutes later, Mycroft lets John out on the corner of Baker Street and then drives off into the night.

John stands on the curb, staring at the door for several long moments before he gets up the courage to enter.

When he gets to the top of the stairs, the door is unlocked, and there is no light except the dim glow of the fire, and no sounds other than the crackling of the wood in the hearth.

He calls out, tentatively, "Sherlock?"

"In here."

John turns the corner to see Sherlock hunched over at the kitchen table.

"Bit dark in here, don't you think?"

"I prefer it this way."

"Suit yourself, I guess."

John suddenly feels incredibly out of his element. The anger has all but disappeared leaving a gaping hole in its wake. He feels uneasy, and part of him wants to run away again, but he forces himself to stay.

Turning his attention back to Sherlock, he asks, "What are you doing? Trying to memorize the blood stains on the kitchen table?"

Sherlock doesn't respond to John's attempt at humor. Instead, he says, quietly, "I assume you didn't come by to have a friendly chat."

"No, I—"

John pauses, takes a deep breath before saying, "I want you to tell me everything. Start to finish. Who did this, why, how you caught them, and what you did to them."

Sherlock redirects his attention from the kitchen table, but chooses to stare off into the distance rather than look directly at John.

"There are some things that I would rather not have you know—that I believe it is in your best interest not to know."

"You're wrong, Sherlock. This one time, you're so wrong. I need to know. I've been driving myself crazy imagining all of this, what might have happened, who these people were, how you figured it out, what you did to them. It's—I can't escape it. Whatever the truth is, I need to know. I don't think I can move on any other way."

John's voice drops a little lower. "Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock looks up, stares into John's face, trying to read his expression despite the darkness of the room. After a few moments, he gestures to the other seat at the kitchen table.

After John sits down, Sherlock says, "I never intended to tell you much of this. I had hoped—I suppose it doesn't matter now. I should have known you wouldn't rest until you knew every last gory detail."

With a sigh, Sherlock adds, "I'm not entirely sure where to begin—"

"How about why these men were after Mary."

Sherlock gives him a sharp look. "How did you—"

"Mycroft."

"Ah, yes, my meddling older brother. I'll be sure to have a word with him after this is settled."

For once, John finds himself in the uncomfortable position of wanting to defend Mycroft. "He was just looking out for you."

An unspoken, I should have been looking out for Sherlock too, echoes in John's mind, and he feels an uncomfortable knot form his stomach. He starts to open his mouth, to offer an explanation for his behavior— but Sherlock has already commenced his recounting of the facts.

"In the course of her early work for the CIA—the 'wet jobs' that Magnussen referenced—Mary was involved in breaking up a massive ring of Eastern European drug traders. When her involvement became known, she was a target, which is why she took on a new identity and moved to London. That's why they wanted to kill her, but not just her. They wanted you as well. Revenge is a very powerful motivator."

"But why couldn't you phone for help? You could have gone to Lestrade or—"

"I had to act quickly. Mycroft was out of the country, and I needed to keep you away. I had hoped that I could make the trade—me, in exchange for Mary. I didn't consider at the time that Mary was their target all along, although I should have. I—or rather you—would just have been collateral damage. A way to twist the knife a little further."

"I did in fact leave orders for Wiggins to contact Lestrade, but I miscalculated again, because as soon as I arrived at the address they gave me, they transported me somewhere else. Maybe, if they hadn't moved me—if Lestrade had arrived at the right address—"

Sherlock trails off, and John doesn't have it in himself to push further on that line of questioning.

Instead, he asks in a quiet voice, "Why did you lie to me? Why did you let me go on believing for so long that all of this was your fault?"

"You assumed it was my fault. And, in a way, you were right."

"I don't follow."

Sherlock reflexively opens his mouth, but John quickly cuts him off with, "Don't be a smartass."

So Sherlock swallows the Obviously that had automatically sprung to mind.

Sherlock has to choose his next words carefully. He's not yet willing to reveal Vanya Petrov's role in the entire affair, and he hopes to go to his grave without revealing to John the choice that Mary made to contact Sherlock via her kidnapper's in place of John. Sherlock doesn't have to feign the emotions behind the words. Every moment since Mary's death has been weighed down by the tremendous guilt he feels at not being able to protect her.

In fact, the emotion is so strong that he has to push past the lump in the back of the throat to say, "I'm the reason they found Mary in the first place. The picture in the paper of the three of us from the Scotland Yard Gala, that's—that's how they found her."

"Oh, god."

"The only fortunate—"

"Fortunate?

"Do you remember your annoyance at the photographer? How we were arranged so that I was standing next to Mary? The incorrect caption led them to believe that I was you, which is why they slipped the mobile phone into my coat pocket, and why no alarm bells were raised when I showed up at the warehouse in your place."

Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment to try to blot out the images that spring to mind of that day—standing outside, banging on the door—not knowing what waited on the other side—praying that Wiggins would keep John away. He feels his pulse spike and his breathing quickens as he's taken back to that day—the hopelessness, the fear, trying to come up with some way to salvage the situation, to save Mary if not himself—

His spiraling thoughts are interrupted by John asking, incredulously, "So you mean fortunate because you almost died instead of me?"

The only response John gets is a nod.

"Sherlock, that's—I mean—"

Sherlock cuts John off before he can finish that sentence.

"How much more do you want to know?"

"How did you find them?"

"I sent my people out to gather information. I knew that I had to be quick about it, before they all dispersed. Fortunately, they decided to hang around to conduct a few 'business deals' while they were here. With the help of certain connection, it really was quite easy to track them down."

"And then?"

"And then I killed them, each and everyone of them."

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Why? Because they didn't deserve to die? Or because you wanted to do it instead of me?"

John doesn't respond right away,

"I tried to save Mary, and I failed. But I still had a chance to save you. True, I could have handed them over to Lestrade or even to Mycroft, but certain circumstances made that impossible. It's probably for the best really. I know that you couldn't rest—couldn't move forward with your life—unless you knew for sure that justice had been done."

What Sherlock doesn't say out loud is: And I couldn't rest until I knew you would be safe from them.

"And so I killed them. I slipped into their hiding place, and dispatched of them one by one."

"How do you know that there aren't others?"

"Trust me. I was very thorough."

Something in Sherlock's words sent a chill down John's spine

"It should have been me."

"You are not a murderer, John. These men deserved anything you could possibly do to them, but I couldn't let you go down that path."

"Then what made it okay for you to do it?"

"I tried to save Mary, and I failed. But I still had a chance to save you."

"Save me from what?"

"From yourself, John."

John wants to argue with Sherlock. He wants to declare that he wouldn't have tracked them down and wrung all of their necks with his bare hands, that he hadn't wanted to beat them until they breathed their very last breath—but he can't.

With forced levity, Sherlock says, "Besides, after my time abroad and that little affair with Magnussen, I already have plenty of blood on my hands. What's a little more?"

Sherlock's attempt at dark humor falls flat, as John looks at him sharply.

"You don't actually believe that."

Sherlock turns earnest once again. "I believe that the most important thing was to keep you from doing something that you would come to regret. This was not an act of vengeance on my part. I did it to protect you. You may have been a soldier, but you are not a killer."

They lapse into silence, as John closely studies his hands in his lap, and Sherlock returns to studying the stains and scratches on the kitchen table.

Finally, even though he has to force out the words, John says, "There's one more thing that I need to know."

Sherlock waits patiently while John fights to maintain his composure.

"What did she—what were the last words that she said?"

Sherlock feels like each syllable is a struggle, as he closes his eyes and remembers that moment. He manages to choke out, "'Please take care of John,' and—"

Sherlock swallows heavily, "And, 'I'm sorry.'"

John scrubs his face with his hands.

Sherlock reaches his hand across the table without actually making contact and says, "I am sorry, John, for everything that happened. More sorry than you'll ever know."

"I do know that, Sherlock. At least, I know that now. I shouldn't have been—it wasn't your fault. You did everything you could. More than I had any right to expect."

"I vowed to protect you and Mary, but I couldn't save her. I should have been able to—If only I had—"

"Sherlock, you did everything that you could, and you nearly died in the process. I should never have blamed you. The only people that deserve blame are the men who did this and—"

John stops, midsentence, as the full reality hits him.

Sherlock studies John's face, as he prompts, "And?"

The words feel like they're being dragged out of him, but John manages to say, "And Mary, for the things she did that made them come after her."

"Whatever sins she may have committed in the past, Mary was an extraordinary woman who loved you as much as anyone could. She was no less than you deserved."

The sincerity in Sherlock's words make the ache in John's chest only hurt more, and he can't stop the words from spilling out—

"I think about her all the time. It feels like every minute of every day. I think about what our future could have been like—what we could have had together. About our future children, about how we would have grown old together. If only none of this—"

John feels his control start to slip, and he presses his hands up against his face, his elbows resting heavily on the table.

After several minutes of silence lapse, punctuated only by the heavy sounds of John's labored breathing, Sherlock says, softly—

"I think about her too. I wake up in the morning every day and wonder why it had to be her and not me. I think about the life you two could have had together. I'm a brilliant and capable man, but even I can't trade places with the dead."

In an even quieter voice, he adds, "I wish I could. I would have done anything to spare you the hurt of losing her."

At that final sentiment, John looks up with red eyes, and asks, "Even dying yourself?"

"Especially that."

Too overcome to say anything else, John reaches over and put his hand on top of Sherlock's, but he instantly recoils.

"Jesus, Sherlock, your hand is freezing."

Before Sherlock can protest, John quickly flips Sherlock's hand over and takes his pulse.

"And you're tachycardic."

John gets up and switches on the light.

Sherlock is unnaturally pale, and there is a thin sheen of sweat over his sharp features. John notices for the first time the glassy look in his eyes and the slight tremors that periodically shake his body.

God, how had he not noticed this before? What kind of doctor is he?

"The kind who is still out of his mind with grief after the death of his wife."

"I didn't realize I said that out loud."

"You didn't have to. I know that look."

"You're a smart bastard, even when you're on death's doorstep. And you're an idiot for running around doing god knows what when you're still in such terrible shape. When's the last time you slept? Or ate?"

"Ate? Hospital. Slept? I don't know—does lying on the couch staring at the ceiling count?"

"No."

"Then I'm not sure. What day is it?"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. You stay here, and don't even think about moving. I'm getting my bag—"

"Your bag's not here anymore."

"Right, um—where's your coat?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

"Sherlock where's your coat? Or your dressing gown?"

"Why?"

"We're going to the hospital."

"No, we aren't. At least I'm not."

"Do you have to be so bloody stubborn all the time?"

"No more hospitals, John."

Sherlock's words are definitive, although his look is pleading. Still, John is unmoved.

"We have to get you help. You could be bleeding internally or septic, and I'm not equipped to diagnose or treat you from here."

In a quieter tone, John says, "Please, Sherlock. I can't—" His voice cracks. "I can't lose you too."

Sherlock breaks eye contact to look down at the table, but he relents. "Coat's on the back of my bedroom door."

John quickly grabs it and comes back into the kitchen.

"Do you think you can make the cab ride over? I can call an ambulance."

"No, that won't be necessary."

John looks skeptical, but he doesn't argue.

Sherlock starts to push himself up from the table, but instantly the color drains from his face, and he drops heavily back into his chair, his breaths coming short and fast, and his knuckles turn white as he grips the edge of the table with his left hand.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. What did you do to yourself?"

John doesn't really expect an answer, and Sherlock doesn't give him one.

Without pressing the issue further, John goes to Sherlock's side, and let's Sherlock throw his arm over John's shoulder. John reaches his other arm around Sherlock's side, helping to steady him, although at Sherlock's flinch, he moves his arm lower, below the rib cage.

The positioning should be awkward, what with Sherlock more than a head taller than John, but with Sherlock already slumped over, it almost doesn't matter.

John can feel Sherlock shaking—from pain, exhaustion, stress, he couldn't say. A part of him knows this is crazy—just call a damn ambulance—but he can't do it. He's already betrayed Sherlock so many times in recent memory, and he can't bear to do it again.

Carefully, and slowly, they make their way out of the kitchen, into the living room—and even more slowly—down the stairs, until they're outside, where John hails a taxi.

Once they're in the cab, John reaches over for Sherlock's wrist, quickly takes his pulse and counts his breaths, which are coming fast and shallow.

"Christ, Sherlock, you look terrible."

"You're too kind."

John reaches up and presses his hand against Sherlock's forehead.

"You've got a fever. Have you at least been staying hydrated? Stupid question, I'm sure you haven't."

They ride in silence for awhile, until Sherlock says, "I can't spend another night in that godforsaken place."

"You might not have a choice."

"I'm very good at daring escapes."

"I'm not letting you out of my sight."

"I'll fight back."

"You're acting like a child. And in your condition, I could definitely take you."

"Hmm."

"Look, I'll make you a deal. If you cooperate with the doctors—and that means no lying or goading—I'll do what I can to convince them to let you out as soon as possible. But only if you agree to take it easy. How does that sound?"

"It sounds like I don't have much choice."

"That's the spirit."

John reaches over to check Sherlock's radial pulse again, but in the process, he catches a glimpse of Sherlock's knuckles, and—before Sherlock can object—he has Sherlock's hand in his, examining it closely, noticing the dark coloring of recent bruising.

"What happened to your hand?"

He only gets silence in response.

John traces his fingers over the knuckles lightly, but even just the soft pressure is enough to make Sherlock flinch away.

"Sherlock, is this from—"

John stops his question partway through, because the look on Sherlock's face tells him everything. A knot forms in his stomach as he thinks about what Sherlock must have done—who he must have done it too—to cause this kind of damage.

Sherlock turns his head away, looking out the window, away from John, but now, with the new angle, John catches sight of something that only makes the sick feeling in his stomach magnify. At first he thinks—maybe it's just a shadow—but no, he can see it clearly—the bruising around Sherlock's neck, so distinctive, the kind of bruising that comes from another person's grip.

Without thinking, he reaches towards Sherlock, to examine further, but Sherlock catches the movement out of the corner of his eye, and reflexively whips his body around and grabs John's hand in his, with a surprisingly strong grip—hard enough to hurt, although John pays it no mind, and Sherlock releases his hand an instant later, as he cradles his side carefully.

"Sherlock—"

"I'm sorry."

John has to think for a moment before he realizes what Sherlock is even apologizing for. When he does, John says, "No, I should have warned you. I was just—Sherlock, this could be really bad. After the injuries you sustained from—"

the explosion

John can't get those words out though as his thoughts start to spiral out of control so he takes a deep breath and says, more calmly, "Please, Sherlock, let me take a look?"

Sherlock stares at John's expression intently, before nodding his ascent, and shifting his attention to the window once more.

John leans forward, and begins to undo the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, and pulling the shirt aside, he examines the skin underneath—swelling, black and blue. He brushes his fingers over Sherlock's ribcage lightly, and even that's enough to make Sherlock jump.

"This is bad."

"Is that your professional medical opinion? Or are just trying to cheer me up again?"

"I'm just worried."

"You shouldn't be."

However, Sherlock undermines his own argument, when a moment later, the taxi goes over a deep pothole, and the jolt is enough to make Sherlock gasp in pain, and double over, wrapping his arms protectively around his midsection.

He's seen Sherlock at less than his best on a number of occasions, but this may be their worst ordeal yet. His skin is practically grey, his eyes unfocussed, small tremors every few moments, his skin hot to the touch, his breathing labored.

"They're going to ask what happened. What do you want me to tell them?"

"I fell down the stairs."

"We need something more plausible than that."

"Look, I'm not going to tell them that you went after a gang of Russian drug smugglers, but they'll need to know what happened to accurately assess your injuries. This is important, Sherlock."

At this point, John is keeping his hand permanently wrapped around Sherlock's wrist, if only to reassure himself that his heart is still beating, and now, he can feel the pulse under his fingers spike as Sherlock says—

"Fall from approximately 20 feet. Fist fight. Blows to abdomen, and—"

Sherlock stops, so John fills in the gap. "You were nearly strangled to death."

"Not the first time."

"Jesus Christ—you could have died. You could still—"

"I'm fine."

"That may be the biggest lie you've ever told."

Despite the tension in his body, Sherlock manages a slight smile as he says, "And that's saying a lot."

They lapse into silence for a little while, with John's hand still lightly holding onto Sherlock's wrist.

Finally, Sherlock admits, quietly, "I feel a bit light-headed."

"Christ—we should have taken a bloody ambulance. Internal bleeding, fractured ribs—this isn't good."

"Your bedside manner could use some work."

"Just hang in there, we're only a minute away."

When they do finally reach Bart's, Sherlock can barely make it out of the taxi. Although John has managed to maintain his composure well enough up until now, suddenly he starts to feel overwhelmed by all of these emotions—fear foremost among them—but he manages to hold it together while he gets the attention of the staff. Fortunately, one look at the state Sherlock is in is enough for them to get him on a gurney and rushed off into triage.

And just like that, Sherlock is gone, and John is left to wait.

A/N: I'm so excited to finally get this chapter posted! All of this angst has been building up, and I figured it's time for that to start paying off. Of course, John and Sherlock have a lot to work through, and there's still awhile to go before this story's completion, but at least John and Sherlock's friendship is on the mend. They still both have a lot further to go before they're fully healed, but now they can help each other.

I've really appreciated the reviews and positive feedback that I've gotten on the last couple chapters, so thanks for that! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you have a chance, I'd love to hear what you thought of this latest installment.