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 or were goggles, you can read it anyway you like.

**An AU 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 13

The Shark at the Door

The myriad of emotions writhing just under the blank mask of Sherlock's expression was fathomless. He'd fully expected for their trials to be over and he was not easily surprised, but at the moment, he was quite, unhappily, surprised. He and John had both been thrown into the raging fires of Hell and they had managed to come out the other end. Not unscathed mind you, but rather tempered, honed into something stronger than they never would have achieved otherwise.

But as his blue-gray eyes flickered between John and Lestrade, Sherlock finally understood. He had faced his demons and, apparently, won, but his most loyal friend had not.

The consulting detective had wanted to believe that everything could now return to some semblance of normality in their lives. As if there is anything 'normal' about our lives. He thought bitterly. And yet, as he stared into the blurry silent image that he knew was John's face, he could feel the regret and the conflicted sorrow that pulsed just beneath the surface. He didn't need the crystal clear details to know that he was the only one in this room that felt that they had completed their gauntlet.

"Why?" he finally asked; simply allowing the immense hurt to penetrate his question as he waited for an answer.

John took a step toward him and Sherlock held his hand up to stop him, with a sigh the army doctor glanced back at Lestrade. "Can you give us a minute?"

The DI pulled in a ragged breath and merely nodded before slipping quietly from the room, pulling the door closed after him. Hearing the police man's silent retreat immediately put him on edge. Whatever it was that John wanted to say, it wasn't for anyone's ears but his.

Sherlock remained silent. He didn't want to give away all that he was feeling, mostly because he didn't truly understand the shifting emotions himself. Wave after wave of unwanted feelings were crashing over him like a lighthouse being dashed apart by the ocean's fury. He carefully concealed those burdensome little humanities, using the hard-learned lessons of childhood; he carefully hid them away under his practiced mask of blank indifference.

While he would not allow John Watson to waste away in some dingy prison cell, neither would he force the other man to remain with him if he needed time away. And that realization nearly shattered his mask. It pained him more than any torture he'd ever endured. For a fraction of a moment his thoughts drifted to the years he'd been dead. Those were indeed the worst years he'd ever lived through. The loneliness had only been part of what had chipped away the person he'd been. He hadn't realized it at the time, but those were the years that trumped everything he'd learned prior. That was when he'd learned that his choices had consequences.

During the last five months he'd been held and tortured within inches of death, but always, always, there had been the thought of coming home. He lifted his veiled gaze to the outline of his best friend and felt the tangible release of something deep inside him. None of the raging internal battle showed on his face, he made sure of that.

John stood silent for several minutes before crossing the few feet that separated them, folding his compact frame into the chair across from Sherlock before speaking. The image remained blurry, but the unhappiness created a halo-effect around him.

"Sherlock—" he ventured cautiously.

"Don't." There was no hint of emotion in Sherlock's one word; he couldn't afford it, instead allowing his lanky body to sink further into the leather chair.

John sighed, "I owe you an explanation."

"You don't owe me anything, John." He responded coolly. "I understand." He knew what he was doing. Without meaning to he was slipping back into that impenetrable that had kept him separated from the rest of the world, before he'd met John that is.

"Do you?" John asked in strained voice. He could feel the frustration building inside him. "Because I'm not sure I do." His voice softened with indecision, he pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "I'm a simple man—"

Sherlock snorted. "You are anything but simple." He retorted softly.

"Fine, I'm not complicated then." John concedes after a moment of reflection.

"All you did was change the wording, but it still means the same thing." The genius detective responded with a raised eyebrow. "And it is not accurate no matter what words you choose."

None of this appeared to be going the way John wanted it to, Sherlock didn't need eyes to figure that out. He fully understood that his friend wanted him to simply accept that this was his decision and that it was happening whether the youngest Holmes willed it or not. But he couldn't do that. He wouldn't do that.

Another long sigh filled the gaping silence between them. "I couldn't save you." He finally admitted, tension continued to build inside him, so he forced himself to continue. "After Mary, I was so wrapped up in the rage and white-hot anger, that I couldn't see what her death was doing to you…" He pulled in a breath to steady his trembling voice. "And I'm sorry for that."

Sherlock's head snaps up at the apology, his brows furrowing as his mask slips momentarily. This was certainly not how he thought the conversation was going to go. He wanted nothing more than to deny what John is saying. To ease the pain he hears in the other man's voice, but he can't, because it's true and they both know it. He would be doing John a disservice to ignore the truths he was revealing and Sherlock would do anything to avoid hurting him again.

It was a long time before he could answer, eventually he did, "But you did, save me that is."

"I wouldn't have." John states bluntly. "Not if she hadn't told me to. Not if she hadn't reached out from beyond the grave and forced me to see what was happening around me."

The admission sent a cold tendril of fear down his spine and Sherlock cringed.

"As I said, I am not a complicated man. I am quick to anger and slow to forgive. I bear a grudge as easily as wearing a comfortable jumper. And I believe in right and wrong, Sherlock. I can't continue down this path with you if I don't do this." His entire demeanor shifted as though he was waiting for the biting response that currently sat unspoken on Sherlock's tongue. "I almost killed you…" John whispered brokenly.

Sherlock's color blanches as John drifted into silence, struggling to understand the pain that was chocking his from the inside out.

"I almost killed you." The doctor repeated in tortured voice. His blurry image moved as he sat forward, resting his good hand over his eyes as his guilt erupted inside him.

After what felt like forever, Sherlock finally responds hoarsely, "But you didn't."

How did I miss this? He hadn't realized just how much, that afternoon in the morgue, was weighing on John's conscience. How could I have been so blind? He wondered.

Sherlock knew how men like John were supposed to tick. Yet his friend, the one that had attached himself to the consulting detective and never turned away, had always been an enigma. He'd never conformed to the stereotypical man he was supposed to be. He was brave, wise, rash, strategic and most all loyal to a fault. The detective had failed to notice the tiny bits of John that died every time Sherlock emotionally eviscerated him.

The realization hurt in ways torture couldn't touch. It stretched into the tiniest corners of his broken heart, reminding him that he and John were not the same. They were friends because John had wanted it. In the beginning had it been left to Sherlock he would have taken that pill and likely died… Yes, I admit I wasn't sure which pill was which.

"Sherlock, do you get it? I could have. I wasn't going to stop." His voice broke and he coughed. "If those orderly hadn't pulled me off you…" He broke off again, the strain evident in the way he was speaking. "I would not have survived your death. Not again." A shuddered breath echoed through the otherwise silent flat. "Not once I realized that you had been trying to save me the whole time."

Sherlock's gaze flashed up and he suddenly wished with all his heart that he could see John's expression clearly. Because if his tone was anything to go by, the doctor wasn't far from losing it, "I didn't save you, Sherlock. Not until she told me to. And the thing is…she shouldn't have had to tell me. I should have done it because it was the right thing to do. You were my friend and you were killing yourself with guilt and I knew it. I just didn't care."

The confession was tearing down Sherlock's wall faster than he could rebuild it. He knew what John's mental state had been following Mary's death, but he hadn't realized that John knew it too. It was one thing to suspect that John had written him out of his and Rosie's lives, but quite another to hear it stated so bluntly. It was painfully difficult to hear.

John took a long pause before continuing, "You did not kill Mary. I knew that. No, I know that, and I still blamed you for her death because I couldn't accept that there was so much about her that I didn't know. Things that she took to her grave." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I didn't understand how much until she was gone."

"And because of me you'll never know." Sherlock said bitterly. His mask of indifference was slipping, he could feel his tortured, raw emotions gathering, preparing to explode into the conversation.

"No, not because of you, Sherlock." John said forcefully before clearing his throat. "Because of her."

That silenced whatever the consulting detective had been about to say and he swallowed the thick wave of things he wants to say. Eventually he settles on, "Mary was a good woman." Sherlock was defending her without even thinking. He was tempted to go on, but sensed that he has said enough.

"I know that. I promise you, I do know that." John paused gathering his thoughts.

Sherlock simply stared wide-eyed at the hunched out of focus figure across from him.

"But she was far from perfect and those imperfections finally caught up with her." He finished his thought and sank into the silence.

Sherlock can't watch this anymore. Even with his eyes still ruined, he can see that this is tearing John apart in ways that aren't remotely fair, or accurate. "She was perfect for you." He whispered, the words are nowhere near what he wants to say, but they'll have do. After all, this whole emotional vomiting of his feelings wasn't exactly his strong suit. And it wasn't as if what he'd said weren't true; Mary had been the perfect counterpart to John. So far as females are concerned.

In the beginning their connection had scared Sherlock; he'd been terrified of losing what he and John had built over the years. Losing the only friend that he had. It had taken him almost losing his life to Mary's bullet to fully understand that this wasn't about him, it couldn't be. He had to do what was best for John and that meant having to accept that the other man needed both he and Mary. To that end, Sherlock's actions inside 221B the fateful night John had learned the truth had been driven by completely unselfish motivations.

He imagines the sad smile that must be pulling at John's lips as the silence stretches into minutes. Finally a low intake of shaky breath lets him know that his friend has again gained control of his emotions.

"She was." John admits freely through the pain.

Sherlock can still hear the resignation in the other man's voice and he knows that he hasn't convinced John not to turn himself over to Scotland Yard. So he uses the last bit of ammunition in his John arsenal. "Mary wouldn't want this for you."

"You're right. She wouldn't."

He concedes easily and Sherlock thinks he's finally won the war. You'd think he knew better than to assume anything where John Watson was concerned.

"But this is one of the many ways Mary and I differed. She was able to shove away her guilt. Bury it so that it couldn't torment her. It is a skill you and she shared. Unfortunately, it is not one that I have or could ever learn. For me, there must be a balance between right and wrong, consequences for my actions, good or bad. This is the only way I know how to atone for what I did to you, Sherlock and I am truly sorry that it hurts you."

Sherlock started to protest, but he caught movement that must be John's hand coming up to silence him. Under normal circumstances, he would ignore the obnoxious gesture, but there were not normal circumstances.

"Just listen to me for a moment, Sherlock. When you were injecting that poison into your veins, what were you thinking?"

The ex-junkie can't help but flinch at the choice of words. John knows him well enough to guess that he will never answer a question as loaded as that one. He quickly continues, "You were searching for a way to help me, yes. Of that I have no doubt, but weren't you also looking for some kind of remedy to the pain of Mary's death? Some way to atone for your part in it?"

Silence is the only answer to a question that feels anything but rhetorical. What can he possibly say to that? But the guilt once again floods to the surface and he drops his gaze toward the unremarkable floor.

John inhales deeply, leaning forward to regain the other man's attention, "This is my atonement, Sherlock. I can't hide at the bottom of a syringe. And at this moment, I don't the option jump in front of a bullet meant for you, but I can do this. Take the legal and lawful punishment for a crime that I did commit…against you." His tone softens, becoming slightly breathy as he continues, "Against our friendship."

For that, Sherlock has no response. John wasn't the only one that had committed crimes against their friendship over the years. But it appeared that he was the only on that might serve prison time as a result. But there was a bigger question hanging in the atmosphere of tension inside 221B. "What about Rosie?" The question had been buzzing around inside his head since Mary died.

A soft, emotion-laded chuckle slips out. "She has you. Rosie will be okay until I can come home."

John said it so easily. Like he trusted Sherlock not to screw up his only daughter while he was behind bars. The image that thought conjured sent a jolt of fear through him; he blinked several times, trying to understand the faith that his friend seemed to have in his non-existent parenting skills. "I'm not good with children." He muttered weakly.

"Oh I don't know, you handled our ring bearer just fine."

"I promised to show him crime scene photos of beheadings."

John snorted as he attempted not to laugh at that. "I figured you'd promised him something, but he wouldn't give up what it was."

His glassy blue-grey eyes lifted, "You don't have to do this, John. Please…let me find another way."

He watched the doctor pull in a deep breath before slipping off the chair and closing the distance between them. It wasn't anything more than John choosing to come down to Sherlock's level. Two pairs of blue eyes now stared at one another, earnest emotions tumbling in their depths. It wasn't until John was barely five inches from his face that the consulting detective realized the other man was slightly less blurry.

"If I thought there was another way, I'd take it. Really, I would. The balance in my life leans so heavily to one side, that I can't see anything else. I need you to let me do this, Sherlock. Please."

The burning sensation behind his eyes finally spilled over as the tears slid down his bruised angular face. Everything he'd been feeling over the last several weeks finally broke the dam of iron-strong will that he'd been hiding behind.

John said nothing, but he did slowly climb to his feet and pull Sherlock up into a hug. There was no wailing or trembling shoulders, just silent tears and the comfort only a true friend could offer. He had no idea how long they stood there, and truthfully, it didn't matter. Finally, he slowly pulled away from the one armed hug of the shorter blonde.

"Can you give me a couple days?" It might be the most vulnerable Sherlock had ever been with another person. That isn't Mycroft. His mind supplies evenly. Shut-up. And then, taking a page out of John's book, he continued with, "Please…"

There was no mistaking the hitched breath that caught in his friend's throat at the naked-pain he no longer wanted to hide.

"Sherlock…" John responded quietly. But whatever he'd been about to say died on his lips the dark-haired detective stepped away from him. "Okay." He reluctantly agreed. "If we can stall Scotland Yard." He amended with a sigh.

"I'll talk to Greg."

He felt more than saw John's gaze jump to his, "You do know his name."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of that sentence. "Of course I know his name." He settled back into his chair, attempting to regain some of his composure and maybe a smidgeon of his dignity. "It irritates him that I call him everything but Greg."

As they slipped back in the normality of their banter, the door opened and Mrs. Hudson swept into the room with sandwiches and offered to make a fresh pot of tea.

221B 221B

John stared into the beveled mirror in the steamy bathroom, carefully assessing the man he'd become since the death of his wife. This was a man that he didn't recognize, hair longer than normal, eyes distant and stormy with dark smudges that almost looked like bruising beneath them and thinner than he could ever remember being. Yet it wasn't the physical differences that kept him awake at night, it was the bloody nightmares. He hadn't been there when Mary had taken the bullet meant for Sherlock. Another pang of deep painful guilt clenched his heart when he realized that he hadn't been there when Sherlock had been shot the last time either.

As a matter of fact, he'd only been present once when someone had tried to kill off his best friend. And yet, there were so many other instances when someone had sought to end the life of the world's only consulting detective. Had he been there, at the aquarium, he would not have hesitated to take the bullet. It wasn't a question that he needed answered, because he'd already taken bullets for people he cared about in the past. Don't think about that. He cautioned his wandering thoughts before lifted his gaze back to the slightly less steamy mirror.

The surgery had left him with another long scar spanning the joint of right shoulder, it was raised and puffy at the moment, but it would eventually turn a pale pink color before slowly fading to almost white. His gaze drifted over the many other scars that littered his body. John's life was a series of events that always seem to leave the tangible reminders etched in his flesh.

There was a two-inch line running along the left side of his chest, just beneath the jutting collarbone. His father had been drunk and John had been there. The broken glass of the beer bottle had easily sliced through his thin t-shirt when his father had thrown it at him. If John hadn't been so surprised, he would have ducked. He'd pretty good at gauging the severity of father's drunken rages over the years. But this had been different, he'd been away and his reflexes had lost some of the speed they'd had when this was a regular occurrence.

He blinked several times as painful memories of his past winked back at him through the scars he'd been staring at, before slowly reaching to down to grab his sling. It had been years since he'd reflected on the bastard that his father had been. John hadn't been able to do much about it when he'd been younger, but he'd learned the lesson that he must accept the devastating hits and keep pushing forward. Part of him recognized that that was why he was able to put up with Sherlock's personality, at least in the beginning.

Over the years, he had come to respect and love the other man as the brother that he'd never had. They were so different and yet there was a similarity to the way they had each chosen to live their lives. John had hidden away in the army, using his medical skills to save the lives of men that wouldn't survive otherwise, me worthier than himself. Sherlock had chosen to apply his genius-level intellect to solving the unsolvable mysteries of the world.

The doctor was under no illusions that his friend had not done this for the people he was saving, at least not at first. The self-proclaimed sociopath had been bored. And for that reason he started looking for ways to occupy the lightning fast brain he'd been born with. The first time that John had realized that there was more to the tall, pale, dark-haired young detective, had been inside the pool area when Moriarty finally revealed himself.

There had been glimpses of the man Sherlock could become, but nothing concrete to crack open the carefully constructed world the youngest Holmes lived in. Truly, it hadn't been until John had stepped out wearing the vest lined in explosives that he recognized something in the surprised man's pale eyes, fear. He had been afraid of losing John. Whether that been to a crafted deception on the doctor's part or to the explosive finality of the bomb, John had never really worked out.

Shaking his head at the fractured way his brain was working recently, he worked his sleep pants over his hips before looking at the t-shirt with something akin to frustration. Working around a shoulder injury was far more difficult than people seemed to think. Just the act of putting on a simple shirt was agony. Biting his lower lip in anticipation he grabbed the grey material and slipped it over his damp hair. Ignoring the way his silver-blonde locks now stood up in disarray he gingerly pulled the sling over his head allow the straps to settle into place.

A light knock on the door focused his wandering thoughts, "John?"

Sherlock sounded tired. Like he'd been beaten down by everything that had happened to them recently. When he considered the magnitude of the shift in their lives, he supposed that was an apt assessment of his friend. "Yeah?" he called through the closed the door.

"I'm ordering take-away. Chinese?"

He pulled the door open to find the tall man leaning heavily on his cane, his eyes focused a bit to the left of where John was standing. Seeing the evidence that Sherlock's sight hadn't returned completely chucked the older man into a spiral of self-inflicted guilt. "Sure. Yeah, that sounds good."

He watched the younger Holmes's eyes narrow when he recognized John's emotionally strained tone, but decided not to remark on it. Without another word he turned back toward the front room of the flat. The newly showered doctor followed him, "You spoke with Greg?"

Sherlock's back stiffened, "I did."

When he didn't elaborate, "And?" John huffed out, his agitation clear in the one word question.

"You have a week." The other man said without turning away from the mantle he was leaning against. He tended to set his phone there when he wandered around the flat, that way it was easily accessible, yet out of the way to prying eyes…like John's.

"Would you mind be a bit less cryptic?"

This seemed to pull the reluctant consulting detective around to face him. "You have a week, John." He repeated coolly.

There was something he wasn't being told and he didn't like that. Not where Sherlock was concerned. The man's secret's probably had secrets and they were likely stored inside an impenetrable vault. "Sherlock, is there something I should know?" His insides coiled warily at the shadow that flickered through the pale eyes of his best friend. John didn't like the idea that they had returned to the status quo so quickly. Part of him had believed that maybe he and Sherlock would be honest with each other after everything the lies had taken from them. But as he evaluated the younger Holmes, he knew that that was not to be the case.

An old familiar anger burst to life before settling into a painful ache in his chest. I thought we were past all this. Guess not.

Sherlock didn't answer him; instead he limped into the kitchen to grab the take-away menu off the counter. "The usual?" he called from the other room.

John clenched his teeth to keep from retaliating with the angry words that rose unbidden to his lips. He took a deep breath, allowing the pain it caused in his shoulder to ground him. "That's fine."

He listened to the deep rumble of the other man's baritone as he ordered the food and suddenly he realized how much he was going to miss this. The complex nature of their friendship and the ease with which they lived in each other's space was unprecedented for the doctor. Even in the army he'd been a loner.

Grabbing the remote and settling into his chair, he flicked on the telly and pressed the volume button. Sherlock liked the mute the thing and then try and lip-read what was being said. For the first little while he'd lived there, John had been certain the speakers were broken. But no, it had all been to benefit the strange man he had chosen shared his life with. So that from a distance Sherlock could silently read what others were saying aloud.

John flipped through the channels aimlessly before finally settling on the BBC news channel. He shook his head at the ridiculous stories that seemed to comprise everything coming out of the America lately. The sound of his flat-mate bustling around in their small kitchen was a comforting mix of the normal and the strange. Generally, the preoccupied consulting detective was only found inside that room if he was immersed in a case, thereby studying something through his microscope with far too much attention.

It was only thanks to the extremely unusual chance of fate that Sherlock wasn't sitting next to John when the news report flashed across the screen.

-Culverton Smith, the serial-killing billionaire has been exonerated of all charges and released from Scotland Yard. His representatives could not be reached for a statement at the time of this broadcast. There is some speculation if his dealings with the illusive Sherlock Homes have something to do with his unlikely release. –

John swallowed the lump of panic that exploded through him. The odd rhythmic clock of Sherlock's cane forced him to quickly change the channel. He didn't want him to know yet. Not yet. God, can we have one bloody night without the world shattering around us?

There was a stilted halt to the steps before the end of the cane lifted to point at the television. "Miss Marple's murder Mysteries?" The soft music of the beginning of the show must have given it away. There was a hint of approval in his soft tone and the doctor found his gaze lifting to see a slight quark of a smile making itself known the edges of his friend's lips. "I don't think I've seen this one."

Without missing a beat, Sherlock ambled over to his chair and carefully lowered his still healing body into the soft leather. The fact that he completely missed John's worried expression could be placed squarely on the fact that he couldn't yet see it clearly.

John sat without really listening to the program, his mind completely occupied with more pressing matters. In one moment everything that he'd planned came crashing down around him. He only had one week to find the son of bitch that had tried to murder Sherlock. In his own haste to dispel the grief and guilt he had been drowning in, he had most likely lift his best friend to the tender mercies of a serial killer.

Something hardened inside him at that thought. Not bloody likely. He silently promised the dark head sitting across from him. The buzzer from the door drilled through his contemplation. There was a tightening of Sherlock's muscles as he prepared to navigate the treacherous stairs in pursuit of the take-away he'd ordered. "I'll get it." John said, before quickly pulling himself upright. "Wouldn't want to miss the end of the show."

A dark eyebrow lifted in answer to that. "Are you suggesting that I don't know 'who done it'?"

The strangely American phrase caused John to stare at his posh flat-mate in surprise. "What?"

Sherlock shook his head and rolled his eyes. "It was the sister. She was in love with the delivery driver, who needed the money to gain access to his father's bank records in order to determine who actually the cottage."

The doctor found himself standing open-mouthed in their flat, staring at a man that could barely seen the television, let alone the intricate clues of the case. "How the hell…where…what?!"

"You're making even less sense than normal, John." The bite to Sherlock's retort held no heat, nothing like it would have in the past. "Take-away?"

The reminder had John turning away the amazing deductions he'd just witnessed. It never got old. Not in all the years that he'd watch the man sitting in 221B easily rip away the extraneous details of a problem, leaving only the relevant parts for analysis.

When stepped on the board near the base of the staircase, it creaked loudly. Mrs. Hudson popped her head out of her flat, curlers wrapped tightly against her head. "You got it then, John?"

It was a silly question, really. Of course he had it, otherwise he wouldn't be standing at the door digging money out of his wallet. "Yes thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She smiled warmly and then slipped back inside her flat, gently closing the door. Shaking head at the watch-dog capabilities of their landlady, he pulled open the door and found himself staring in the beady blue eyes of Culverton Smith. The man was even wearing the uniform from the Chinese restaurant and a sick grin that sent a chill of icy fear through the doctor.

With twisted smile, revealing the yellowed crooked teeth that made the shocked think of a shark, the dangerous little man said, "John."

TBC.

Author's Note: Since when do people with massive amounts of fame and wealth pay for their crimes? It was a bit too easy in the episode, so here's my take on what happens when true power and wealth are confronted with honest men trying to enforce the law. As I promised, one last very BIG complication is needed to get John's head on straight. He's already been charged for his 'sins', as he calls them, he just doesn't realize that the price may be more than he's willing to pay.

Shameless request for reviews?