Notes: In this chapter John is somehow aware of a few critical details of Sherlock's plans in TRF and HLV. But in the show it's not his fault when he doesn't know.
"I'm giving you a case, Sherlock, might be the hardest case of your career."
At first Mary's voice feels like a sharp blade shredding John's heart into pieces, if it wasn't already in pieces, his late guilt engulfed in a paroxysm of grief. He craved for her voice, her lips, the smell of her skin, for her lying with him and him touching her with one move of a finger. But it's all gone. Now she is no more than a cluster of recorded digits or the delirious hallucination that he can't help clinging to.
John sits still in his armchair, with Mrs Hudson by his side, eyes fixed on the low-quality image of Mary's face, listening and indulging in her long-lost voice.
He straightens up at the words "save John Watson," concentrating on what exactly she's saying. "The only way to save John, is to make him save you."
John's stomach twists inside out. I save Sherlock from what? He questions under his quickened breath. From myself?
'Go and pick a fight with a bad guy. Put yourself in harm's way. If he thinks you need him I SWEAR, he will be there.'
John can stand it no longer. He springs to his feet, adrenaline shooting up, circulating all over his body. "Need your car, Mrs H."
"John?" Mrs Hudson probes in a shrill voice.
"Now!" John barks, startling the lady off her feet.
"Downstairs," she confesses, turning to get the keys. And as John whirls down the stairs she follows, tossing them to him, "Be calm."
John drives like a monster across the city, left hand gripping the steering wheel and right hand holding the phone to his ears, calling Lestrade, "Please, I don't think he's safe."
"No, he's fine. I've got a man at the door," Lestrade states, sounding slightly worried. "Wh-what do you think's happened?"
"I don't know. Something. Mary left a message."
"What message?" Lestrade asks in doubt.
Yeah, what message? A message telling John to save Sherlock. The question is, can he?
By the time John gets to the hospital, the sergeant is gone and the door is locked. He immediately acquires an extinguisher and mashes the door open, seeing Culverton Smith jump from the chair beside Sherlock's bed.
"What the hell are you doing here?" John grabs his lapels and yanks him onto the wall.
"Just in to say hi," Smith raises his hands. "I should be asking, what are you doing breaking into my hospital? Last time I checked, you're the suspect of a physical assault. You not allowed anywhere near the victim."
The word stings John's heart but he doesn't flinch. "I'm not under arrest and no charges are pressed so technically I'm free. And this is none of your business so get the hell away from my friend," he snarls through gritted teeth.
Surprised by the toughness in his own tone, John retracts his hands and lets go of the smaller man. Smith leaves the room with a smug smirk on his lips.
John pulls the chair closer to the bed and sits down. Sherlock is still perfectly unconscious, and with his heart rate wavering around 40 he's unlikely to wake up any time soon. John watches Sherlock for a while, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest with his breathing. His face can never have been paler apart from the bruises, cheek bones protruding and eyes sunken, jaw smudged with stubble. When has Sherlock become so gaunt? He locked himself in the flat for a month, injecting into himself frantic doses of drugs that compromised both his kidneys, but what for? Was it grief? If John himself could drink through the night then why wouldn't Sherlock—No, he would never without cause risk his own life that had cost Mary's. Then why did he do this to himself?
"To end up in this hospital." John whips his head up at Mary's input. She stands at the foot of Sherlock's bed.
"Yes. Yes because you told him to."
"But I never expected the way he did it."
"No he didn't even have to do it. I put him in here. I nearly beat him to death. You saved his life and I tried to undo it. I'm so, so sorry—" he clenches the blanket in his hands, unable to decide which is more heartbreaking: Sherlock suffering in a hospital bed or Mary dying in his arms. He takes a few audible deep breaths, "But he killed you and I'm angry. I don't blame myself for being angry."
"Was that how you felt when I shot him?" Mary asks quietly.
John nods, biting on his lower lip, unsure what to say.
"Well, glad we're even," Mary says with a smirk.
"Don't say that," John snaps.
"No, you are, seeing as I'm inside your head."
"Exactly," John emphasises the second syllable. "You're dead and he's alive. He's my friend and you're my wife. I forgave you because I love you. That one reason is enough."
"Is that why he's less important than I am?" Mary gazes into John's eyes.
"That's not what I'm saying," John lowers his eyes, frustrated.
"Then why can't you forgive him too?" There's a desperate inquiry in her tone.
"Because he made a vow!" John snaps again, clenching his teeth. "He swore it! He swore to protect you, to protect the three of us, and—"
"He has been protecting us," Mary interrupts. "He jumped to save your life and you think the two years was easy for him? He tried to make it up for us even when I shot him, or wouldn't we have been divorced? Do you think we could live in peace with Rosie if he didn't kill Magnussen in exchange for his own death in Eastern Europe? With us he has been a different person and one time he wasn't and it was my turn to protect HIM. Of course I'd take it."
John avoids Mary's eyes without saying a word. She's right, all of it is true. He's been expecting too much from Sherlock, and when that fails—he's not angry with Sherlock. He is angry with himself.
"And I did it because I know how important he is to you, John," Mary softens her voice and continues. "He's no less important than me. I knew that. I also knew I wasn't to live long and I put all of you in danger. And I believed that you were able to let it go and move on, that you could live without me."
"But I wasn't, was I? I failed you," John looks to Sherlock again. "Am I a monster?"
"Yes," Mary nods, half joking. "But you're my monster, both of you are."
John smiles a bitter smile.
Then Mary's grin turns into a serious look, "John, you're my whole world, but I'm not yours, never have been. That's why this isn't the end of the world, so I need you to live on. Can you do that?"
John nods silently. All can't be clearer. Mary is dead but he still has Sherlock. Half of his world is torn, perished, but the other half is filling it up, slowly and agonisingly.
"I love you," he says without looking at Mary, a tear rolling down the side of his face.
"I love you too," it's almost inaudible, like foam that dissolves into air. And when John looks back to where she was standing, she's gone.
John sits back in the chair, deluging himself in the rhythmic beeping and clicking of the machines attached to Sherlock, as if he was back to his medical school years, when these noises were no more than thrilling wonders of medicine, when he was filled with the excitement of saving lives, and solemnly took the oath that he would never hurt one, only it was long broken.
He must have fell asleep some time later, for it is the warming sunlight that woke him. He straightens up in the chair, stretching against the sore in his back. Sherlock's eyes flicker open at the sound, head turning rigidly towards John.
"Sherlock?" John sounds out. He's afraid of the fear and guilt in Sherlock's eyes, but thank God they just looked weary and drowsy. "How are you feeling?"
Sherlock wets his lips and swallows, trying to shift in bed but wincing. Pain is obvious on his face. "Fine," he croaks.
"No you're not, not even close," John almost grins despite the guilt surging through him. "I owe you an apology. I'm sorry, Sherlock."
"It's alright."
"No. none of this, is alright," John states seriously. "What I did was unforgivable."
"I forgive you because…you're entitled," Sherlock struggles to meet John's eyes. Now the guilt is apparent.
"No you don't!" John snaps, springing to his feet. "You died, twice! Three times to me, and you would've died a fourth time if Moriarty didn't hack into the bloody screens and a fifth time if I didn't get here in time. And it's all for me, or for Mary. You risk your life for us, which I took for granted because—because you swore it. You made a vow at the wedding, so I put all my trust in you—"
"Turns out you shouldn't have," Sherlock interrupts. He voice strains but the guilt is obvious. "I killed Mary."
John takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down, then sits back into the chair, "Mary killed you, for 23 minutes. You were dead for twenty three minutes, but you pulled through and you told me to forgive her, and how could I not? She was my wife, she was bearing my child, and I loved her so much. I still do, and there's no guilt in that. I know you understand that, Sherlock, I know."
They fall into long enough silence that John thinks Sherlock has fallen asleep, but when Sherlock's eyes reopen John exhales deeply and the words come out flowing, "You didn't kill Mary. Mary died saving your life. No one made her do it, and no one could've known she would do it, not even you. You made a mistake of being your old self, whom you hadn't been since you came back, or with me and Mary. But we all make mistakes and we wouldn't if we knew the consequences would we?"
"But it was my fault," Sherlock rasps.
"Didn't say it wasn't, but you didn't, kill, Mary. She saved your life and I'm proud of her, I really am," John's lips quirks into a light smile.
"I'm sorry Sherlock. I know you don't blame me but nothing you say will release me of the guilt, so I have to say that I'm sorry. I'm sorry that it nearly took your life again for me to realize that she wasn't my whole world, but you are, now, because she sacrificed her life for yours. Do you see what I'm saying? No I didn't mean that you should live Mary's life. Just—" he draws in a deep breath. "I love you. I love both of you, always have."
Then he pauses shortly, to rethink about his own words, and goes on, "I was angry, when she—half of me was ripped away, but you're my other half. I just—I'm so, so sorry that I hurt you, Sherlock."
John leans forward and buries his face in the blanket, letting his tears flow freely into the cloth. Sherlock's chest rises as he draws in another effortful breath, tilting his head a tiny bit towards John, his eyes slack. Then he hesitantly raises his left hand and runs his fingers through John's hair, "It's okay."
"It's not okay," John whimpers through the blanket.
"No, but it is what it is."
After a while John raises his head and grasps Sherlock's hand, "Promise me you'll live."
"What?" Sherlock gives a frail whisper, puzzled.
"Promise me you'll stay alive and well Sherlock," John earnestly looks into the detective's eyes. "You're not allowed to die before I do, okay? This is—this is important. This is the last thing I ask you to do, for me and Mary," his voice breaks as tears refill his eyes.
Sherlock's chest rises as he draws in another effortful breath, tilting his head a tiny bit towards John, his eyes slack. "I promise," he whispers, before letting himself drift off with his hand gripped in John's.