TITLE: Bound Into the Fire

CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Five/ Scars

RATING: T (language, content)

A/N: Wow. So I sort of forgot that I didn't tie up the end of this story. Whoops. I am a horrible person. I had more planned but it kind of ended on its own. Like it was ready to be done. Anything more really would've been dragging it on longer than the life it was supposed to have. So, here it is, the final conclusion.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock. All credit to Doyle, Gatiss, and Moffat - and fire.

Chapter Five: Scars

I tear my heart open, I sew myself shut
My weakness is that I care too much
And my scars remind me that the past is real
I tear my heart open just to feel

- Scars by Papa Roach

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked cautiously as he approached the hospital bed.

John had hung on until the paramedics had finally arrived, losing consciousness only after being loaded into the back of the ambulance. He had only recently rejoined the realm of consciousness once more. Mary had already been to see her newly awakened fiance and now it was Sherlock's turn. He had wanted to rush in to the room upon hearing of his friend's waking, but instead elected to wait. Mary had protested, but Sherlock insisted. John would want to see her. And he could see how much she deeply desired to be with John. They needed their moment of privacy.

But that was only part of the reason he had hesitated.

There were so many others.

John was hurt. Not fatal. But hurt. John was rarely hurt. Not like this. Could he handle seeing his friend in such a state? It would be different now, with the adrenaline worn off. John had needed him to focus last night. He didn't have anything to focus on now to distract him from all this thoughts. His doubts.

Yes, his doubts.

Sherlock had waltzed back into John's life. John hadn't even been speaking to him. And yet, even when the doctor wasn't right at his side, within days of his return, he had put his friend in terrible danger. John had been safe for the past two years. Of course, Sherlock had been snipping away at Moriarty's web to ensure that, but John didn't know that. The danger that Sherlock had been involving himself in never touched John Watson. And then all it took was the detective coming back for something like this to happen.

If John had been having difficulty forgiving Sherlock before, how was he ever going to do so now?

He was still warring with himself when Mary emerged from the room, a soft smile spreading across her face.

"Your turn," she smirked. "Give you two some privacy, just hope it's not for as much kissing as we just did," she winked but then paused when Sherlock didn't move or speak.

Sighing, the woman stood directly in front of the detective.

"You saved his life," she said firmly.

"We," Sherlock corrected, as they had done to each other the night before.

"Yeah, in the end there it was all pretty much me," she teased and then turned serious. "But you did. You. Without you I wouldn't have known where to look, or gotten around police barricades on a motorbike. You pulled him out of the fire, Sherlock."

"I put him there," he whispered so faintly, Mary was sure she wasn't meant to hear it.

"You, Mr. Center-of-the-Universe, are not responsible for everyone and everything that happens," Mary crossed her arms. "Now, unless you physically put him in the bonfire, which you didn't, this isn't your fault."

Still, Sherlock was stiff.

"He was coming to see you, you know," Mary lifted her brow. "He wanted to talk to you. Sort things out. 'Course, I convinced him to, but still. I told you I'd bring him 'round. But he didn't need me to do it. I just pushed him to it a little faster than he would've done himself. He was always going to come around, Sherlock. Still will."

She paused and sighed when the man didn't respond.

"If that's not enough, he was asking for you."

Sherlock's eyes snapped to meet Mary's.

"Yup," she answered the unspoken question behind his irises. "For you. After me, of course," she jested, cocking her head. "But he asked for you. So, you can go in there now, or I can drag you in there myself."

Sherlock straightened and then swallowed a breath. With a nod at Mary, Sherlock strode past her and into the room he had been so fearful of.

"Oh," Mary rolled her head back, "these two are going to be a lot of work."

Sherlock tentatively opened the door and slipped inside. The doctor and detective's eyes met and locked there for a moment before Sherlock lowered his gaze and crossed the room.

There was a tangible silence that filled the small space with unspoken words and apologies and sentiment.

"How are you feeling?"

Are you alright? Please, be alright. Please, forgive me.

"Yeah, not bad," John nodded, "bit - smoked."

"Right," Sherlock tried to smile but found his face fall flat.

John was the stoic soldier. Always had been, always would be. Sherlock didn't need to read the chart to catalogue his friend's injuries.

Cyanide poisoning. Cracked rib from CPR. Lacerations on neck, head and face. First, second and third degree burns -

"Last night," John began, "who did that? And why did they target me?"

"I don't know," Sherlock ground out the words almost painfully.

I don't know. I usually love not knowing. A game to play. A mystery to solve. But not when it comes to you, John. Not your safety. Your life. I don't know. But I won't stop until I find out.

"Is it someone trying to get to you through me?"

And there it was. John wasn't stupid.

My fault.

"I don't know," Sherlock repeated, lowering his head.

There was a weighted paused.

"John - I'm - I'm sorry."

The sincerity in the self-proclaimed sociopath's voice caused John to snap his eyes up to meet Sherlock's.

"This - what happened to you - was my fault," he sighed. "If I hadn't come back -"

"Sherlock," John shook his head, "shut up. Just, shut up. You can apologize for leaving me in the bloody dark for two years while I thought you were dead. You can apologize for being an absolute arse by showing up in the middle of dinner and deciding that was somehow the best way to tell me you're alive. You, Sherlock, can apologize for a lot of things, should apologize for a lot of things. But not this. I don't care if it happened because you came back, because - you came back."

Damn it, I missed you, Sherlock. I'd take a thousand burning bonfires if it meant you being alive and here.

Both men averted each other gazes then. Sherlock dutifully staring at the floor and John's eyes wandering. He shifted in the bed in the silence and immediately regretted it, hissing at the sharp and shooting pain that seared through his leg.

The limb had received the worst of the the effects of the fire. He would definitely need that cane again, but not forever. There would be evidence left over, of course. The majority of his face would heal, but there still would be new scars now to decorate his already war battered body there too.

John Watson was a scarred man. From physical bullet and fire wounds, to the less noticeable, more intimate injuries. His parents. Harry.

Sherlock.

But, just as his bullet wound had slowly healed, so would all the others. His body would be forever marked with the evidence of the pain, but the pain itself wouldn't always be there.

And so it would be with Sherlock. John already knew he would forgive the bastard. He probably already did and was just being stubborn. Of course he did. His best friend was alive. That was all that mattered. Sure, his death, and resurrection, would leave scars.

But that was okay.

Because, in time, they would heal.

And the scars would remain. To remind John of how much he cared for Sherlock, and how much Sherlock had sacrificed for him.