It was the second occasion by which both men had come into the shack dripping wet but this time the sky outside was still bright and the day only half done. They giggled like children as they bolted inside in a race for the shower. John had gotten a fair head start being on the passenger side and not having to stop the car himself. He slammed the bathroom door closed behind with a triumphant cheer as Sherlock was left to slide to a stop outside.

"Loser starts the kettle!" John called out.

"How do you expect to do that from in there?" Sherlock replied.

John started the water with a loud hiss-rush which added volume to his sarcastic laugh. There was no further consultation on the procedures for warming them both up once more. It was the same song they'd danced to before. John was pleased to see the fire burning and a blanket from upstairs waiting for him to snuggle deeply into on his chair. He finished the tea while Sherlock warmed himself under the hot water and set them up again in their chairs with all the comforts of home. The fight was lost or missing, nowhere to be found as they sat like beached manatees in the warm confines of their wound blankets. The fight could stay hidden as far as John was concerned. They could find it again later when needed. Right now he was far less inclined to let Sherlock have a piece of his mind than he was to enjoy what they shared as another jigsaw piece to their puzzle.

He downed large mouthfuls of tea, the liquid scalding in all the ways that hurt but somehow still felt good. He could trace its path from his lips to his gut in the lingering warmth he experienced and sat back in his chair with only a minor headache to protest to his cold excursion. Worth it; in every way worth it. He chuckled at their stupidity in short chorus with Sherlock's own hum. They day was going so much better than it had started. He couldn't help but smile with all the youth and joy left in him. "What on earth possessed you to go swimming in the middle of March?" he asked, shaking his head with affectionate concern.

Sherlock shrugged, his mug clasped between his palms. "Cornwall's not exactly an amusement park. Sounded better than another walk or coming straight back."

John nodded, breathing in deep the smell of their hearth as the tinder cracked and rustled. "Sometimes I think you like to suggest things just to see how far I'll let you go."

"Haven't exactly found your limit yet."

"Well, keep trying. It's bound to be around here somewhere." He joked, smile still pulling deep into his cheeks. He loved the way Sherlock's taut face wrinkled with amusement as well, age hiding in the fine lines they'd made in the boyish adventures of their adult years. One was only as old as they felt, and John felt like his mum might walk in and ground him for following his friend off another bridge as it were. They were bare as babies and with only half the sense all swaddled in blankets for warmth. "I haven't had this much fun since my stag night," John confessed, letting the tea continue to work its magic from the inside out.

Sherlock half snorted. "You remember your stag night?"

"Bits of it," John said. "I remember the cigars and mass quantities of alcohol. The very nice ladies and their very nice pasties."

"A crowning display of masculinity."

John shook his head, fingers tapping on the ceramic mug. "I remember you being in a foul mood all night."

"Of course I was in a foul mood. I had to stay up with you while you vomited into the toilet on the bathroom floor. Not exactly my definition of fun." Sherlock pulled a face, his expression hardly forgiving of John's excessive behavior.

The doctor frowned, thinking back to the night six months before but drawing a blank. He could recall the trays of shots and the beautiful dancing women. He remembered singing along to barroom songs like every other drunken tit he'd ever rolled his eyes at. There were quite a few points in the night that rang with the utmost clarity but there had been an awful lot of toasts and cheers and liberal libations. "I don't remember that part. Did you really?" he asked at last.

"Mm. Right after I asked you to run away with me."

John paused, wracking his brain to no avail. "Definitely don't remember that part." He took one last swig from his tea mug then set it down on the floor, pulling his trappings in tight along his torso where both arms could tuck in and warm. "What did I say?" he asked, watching with interest the open book of Sherlock's face.

The man scowled slightly. "You threw up on my shoes."

"... I might remember that bit." John said at last with an embarrassed chuckle. Sherlock rolled his eyes but joined in on the laugh all the same. They had always been contagious in their revelry. "Good god, it doesn't feel like it's been six months since then. It feels like years as much as it feels like just yesterday."

Sherlock nodded solemnly, his curls towel-dried but still damp enough to cling to his forehead and cheeks. "A lot can happen in six months."

"Yeah." John felt his chest grow slowly tighter, an echoing constriction of things he generally left alone. "Yeah, I know. And actually, you have no idea."

"I assure you I do."

He shook his head. "No, I mean... I haven't told you."

"Told me what?"

"About the baby."

Sherlock's demeanor had an instant change from mildly complacent to intensely focused. "Mary's pregnant?" he asked, his shoulders held ridged against the back of his seat.

"Was," John corrected. "She, uh... there was a miscarriage."

Sherlock said nothing, fixing John with the full power of his stare as he seemed to wait-invitation accepted-to hear what all had failed to be relayed.

John took a deep breath, trying to clear the tightness from his body that always seemed to creep in and constrain him. "It wasn't all that long ago," he started. "Late December. We're fine now. But, uh... I don't know. It's.. weird, in a way. Something that big of an event happens and somehow you're not the first to know? Never used to have to make a plan to tell you. You'd just know. The way you do. The way you always do. But not that time. I don't know, I guess I'm sorry in a way that I didn't tell you. I don't know. I just really don't know. The whole thing was just... surreal to begin with. I mean, it's one of the most terrifying things you can hear: 'We're going to have a baby'. I remember thinking... I'm not ready to be a father. Forty-three years old and I'm still not ready. Case and point: my stag night. But at that point, it's done. You're going to be a father whether you like it or not, whether you think your ready or not, there's just... it's happening and you're in it for life now. It is truly terrifying. But it really doesn't take too long to start thinking that it's pretty amazing too." John smiled to himself, eyes on the fire as it crackled in its consumption. "You know, at first there's all these worries about money and bills and time and then in the middle of it all you just start laughing because.. Oh my God. Oh my God. And you can read as many text books as you like and know every part of the biology that's in play behind it all and it still blows your mind because oh my God it's real and it's happening and everything that comes next is going to be a million years past normal and even normal is never going to be the same. And then it is. Because you're not. And even though you're left with exactly what you had before, it feels as though you've lost something. And in a way, I guess, it's because we had. Just a couple of cells, just the beginning of a life not developed enough to not just be reabsorbed or drained away. What we lost was the idea of what those cells could have become, what they meant for that short time. And as good as it felt before... does not even come close to how bad it feels after." He tucked his lips behind his teeth, biting down softly to hold back whatever vestigial tears remained. It wasn't something he'd talked about at great length with anyone and certainly not for several months. More than anyone else, John had wanted Sherlock to know. It felt right that he should know. They knew nearly everything else about each other. Something so intimate and painful belonged in that line-up of confessions.

Sherlock's gaze had not faltered even once as he spoke, his face having become an impassive slate. He pulled the corners of his blanket tighter about his shoulders as John paused to keep his emotions in check. Even then he seemed only half present as he held him in his scrutiny. "When were you going to tell me?" he asked flatly.

"I don't know." John let out a long breath, his head hanging as his bangs dripped sea water to his lap. "I just decided... even the mates I had who should have known better, the ones who are married or aren't generally insensitive would say things like 'there's always next time' or 'at least it happened early on'. I kept thinking about what you might say and I just didn't want to deal with it. I didn't want a reason to be mad at you when I already felt like shit."

"Probably a good idea."

John snorted with an awkward laugh. "Well, I know you pretty well." He felt the last of the tightness pass, his chest feeling less constrained by the painful beating of his heart. He sniffed back cold snot as he sat upright in his chair, licking his lips that still tasted of salt. "Out of curiosity, what would you have said if I had called and told you?"

Sherlock arched one brow with sedate interest. "I'd have asked how it happened."

Of course he would. Ever the scientist. John took one last deep breath, his toes curling along the hem of his blanket. "Rh incompatibility. She's A negative and the baby we made was Rh positive. Mary's own body attacked the fetus with antibodies like it was a parasite. It's common enough but Mary's body had a particularly strong defense against the baby." He pulled a face as though to sign 'que sera', finding little else to do to show despite the circumstances, he cast no blame on his wife. It was belittling, perhaps, but better than just the cold facts that Sherlock preferred. "There are medications that can be used to try and stop the body from rejecting an Rh positive fetus but really at that point it was more or less just information to use the next time. We're a high-risk pregnancy couple. It happens."

"She didn't take it well."

"No. Understandably no. She wanted that baby and the reason we weren't going to have it was... It's not her fault. But there's no easy way to say her body attacked and destroyed the fetus and have it not sound like it is. There's no real sugarcoating it. And she was so... hurt... and then of course it was my fault for not remembering she was A negative and that there might be a problem. I mean.. things were bad. They were really, really bad. And as much as I wanted to be able to tell you, I couldn't imagine you making it any better. Worse, yeah, but not better. These things, they're not... Our first case, that very first night... I just kept thinking back to that moment and no matter how much better you've gotten over the years, it was Rachel in my head every time I thought of telling you."

Sherlock nodded, his memory even better than John's and not requiring more than that. "Are you going to try again?" he asked.

"Yeah." John couldn't help but smile, a short laugh escaping with it. "Yeah, we are. Been trying, actually. She's on meds just in case. It's um... we don't have any issues with fertility so it's sort of... It'll be this year." It was all John could do to keep her from picking out baby names already. She was excited. It was contagious. Even thinking about it made him just a bit giddy. Whatever his fears before, he was well over them now. Now he was ready. Now he wanted to be someone's daddy.

"Do you expect you'll call me this time?" Sherlock asked, his gaze finally drifting away towards the fire, the flames turning his pale skin golden in the mix of their flicker and the sunlight though the open windows.

"Yeah. It'll be good news, this time."

"For you."

"Yeah. For Mary and me both." John cocked his head, Sherlock's odd reply nagging at his brain. "You're saying you wouldn't be happy for us? For me?"

Sherlock said nothing and moved not an inch.

John stared at him, disbelieving for only the moment it took for him to remember the unrivaled callousness of his friend. He clenched his jaw, the desire to punch him putting a tremor in his fist. "You're a piece of shit, you know that?"

Sherlock continued to offer up nothing and John ached too deeply at his lack of reply to pursue one.

Why had he ever thought Sherlock would care? Sympathy was hardly Sherlock's strong point but for him, for someone as close to him as John, he'd still somehow expected something of a damn to be given. If not for his pain at least for his happiness. Sherlock could do better; he was capable of better. John had thought he was worthy of more effort from the man who had once been his constant companion. Apparently such an expectation had been a mistake. Sherlock only cared about himself as always. Big shocker, plot twist: Sherlock was an asshole. John felt his breaths come slow and sharp with the pulse of aggravated blood, his nostrils flaring over his pursed lips as he tried not to say any more least he rail on him again.

For his part, Sherlock didn't look the least concerned or bothered. He continued to look down at the fire, watching the combustion with the same strange passivity he gave to the surveillance of all curious things both animate and inanimate. His blanket had fallen open on his chest, the pale expanse of skin showing where a heart would beat in a normal human being were he to possess one. John was beginning to doubt if Sherlock had feelings at all or if it had just been one long ruse the detective had grown tired of keeping up. Sherlock seemed just like any other automaton left in idle with only his mind engaged in the world.

"I started round about the time you got engaged," Sherlock said into the long stretch of quiet with a voice deep enough to rumble in tune to the crackle of tinder. "And it's exactly what that sounds like, I won't lie even though I'm sure it would be considered the charitable thing to do. I didn't want it to be true. My first hit was that night and I kept a supply for the occasional top up when you were out with her. I was high on your wedding day, even-not that you paid me much attention. That's normal, I'm told. It was your day. Only it's been 'your day' ever since. When there are cases, I'm fine. I'm busy and it's fantastic and I don't even care that you're not there. I used to care but that part was relatively easy to get over. You'd already sort of weened yourself out of my work when we still lived together so that much went on without a worry. But your name is still the first thing I call when I get home. After all this time I still shout 'John' while I'm stripping off my scarf and coat. Depending on how excited I am, I don't remember right away. One night it took me actually running up the stairs and throwing open your bedroom door to remember you don't live there anymore." His chinned dropped though his eyes staid steady, burning with the flames till John swore the grey turned to ash. "There's never any food in," he said. "I have to go and get my own things because yours aren't there for me to confiscate. I can lay about the flat all day and no one tuts. As a consulting detective I'm at the top of my game. But I think I stopped existing as a human being. I don't remember how to be on my own. I know I must exist because I'm there when Lestrade calls me but I spend so much of that time self-medicating the absence of you that I can't really be sure. And I honestly like it better that way. And if you ask what I'm going to do when my holiday here is over, I'd have to say I'm going to my dealer. I can't change what I don't like about my life. It's more than just being lonely. You were more than just someone to pay the other share of the rent. I can't replace you the way you replaced me. But I can stop it from mattering for a few hours at a time."

John couldn't be sure if his anger was greater or somehow quelled in the unadulterated confession. He expected to have to do or say much more to get him to speak and the words which he expected to come in anger rolled out into the air like case notes instead-cold, calm and detached. Genuine. Genuine to a fault with no consideration behind them in the least. John breathed deep, his lips pursed as he swallowed the taste of bile with his heart. "That's the way you look at it? I replaced you?"

"Yes." Sherlock's eyes swiveled to pin John to his chair, harsh but still vulnerable in the sheer amount of emotion that betrayed him through them. "I shared everything with you. My life, my home, my work, everything that has ever mattered to me and made me who I am. And we were happy for years. Had I been born a woman, you'd have married me. After everything, if I were female, we would never have cause to be here now. As it happens, I'm not. And that lack of adequate genitalia means you can leave me behind even when everything between us is perfect. I never had a chance. I was never who you pictured yourself spending your life with; I was always just your meantime fancy. And I'm not misinterpreting our relationship; I know what we were to each other. After all those years I thought maybe you weren't just settling for my company, though. I somehow convinced myself our friendship meant more to you than the pointless dates and sex you weren't having in the interim. The fact that you can show up one day and proudly exclaim you're leaving to spend your life with someone else, that you can see this as something to be celebrated and in fact invite me to share in the festivities is a cruel turn. You say I don't understand what it feels like to worry about someone else, well I put it to you that you do not understand what it is like to lose your entire life on the basis of one's gender." Sherlock paused only long enough to breathe, closing his eyes as he did so to look away once more. "There were always a million ways I could have lost you, a million mistakes I could have made to make you hate me and leave for your own safety and peace of mind. Somehow I never thought the one thing that would cause me to lose you would be the one thing that was always completely outside of my control."

John licked his lips, his chest tight once more. "Do you hate her?"

"Yes. I'm sure she's nice enough; she has always been nothing but kind to me and in my presence. But I hate her existence. I hate that there exists in this world something better to you than me. It's nothing personal."

"Nothing personal? She's my wife."

"And how lucky she is to have a title that outweighs my own." Sherlock's voice regained its sharpness, his tone no longer a rumble but a smack. "You call the people you see once a month the same thing you called me: friend. I deluded myself into thinking that what we were was simply beyond conventional language and so the term made do but here we are with me set firmly in my place within the hierarchy of John Watson's time and affection. Sherlock Holmes is just a friend, one of many, and God Save the Queen who has bested us all."

John could not remain seated. His feet were under him in an instant, his weight shifting forward till he was sure he was going to punch him this time. And Sherlock sat looking up at him, thin, pale, and with the eyes of someone not merely broken but shattered.

Here lied the remnants of all that had been-a sacrifice to all that had yet to be.

John took six steps past him and punched the wall instead, his knuckles cracking against the plaster as an inhuman sound burst through his throat on impact.

"For what it's worth, John," Sherlock said, still in his seat, still facing the empty chair. "I am sorry about the baby. You would have... you will make a wonderful father."

John put his bruised knuckles to his lips, biting at the split skin to sever the broken flaps. "Thanks," he said quietly, as he finally left the room and retreated to his bedroom upstairs to dress and find reprieve.