A/N: Again, sorry for OOC-ness. Also. Crudely edited. FYI.

Paint It Black

Chapter 21: Lackluster

JOHN POV

Even with our best efforts – primarily Mary's, of course – Mr. Openshaw passed away the following morning. He had engulfed too much water, and his body had gone too long without oxygen to be able to be resuscitated. He remained in a coma until his lungs eventually collapsed from vague symptoms we missed in our haste. When he fell into the Thames, his chest smashed with the jagged bottom, injuring him further and considering we hadn't removed any of his clothing (to see the bruising) or had been focused on other matters (like myself), it had all gone unnoticed.

I hoped, for his cause, it was a peaceful death.

Sherlock didn't hope for the same. While Mary and I sat dutifully in the same room as Mr. Openshaw, keeping an eye on his vitals in routine sweeps, Sherlock had fled back to the flat. Apparently, he had been gathering every piece of evidence regarding the case, although it was clear his goal was for the coma victim to wake up from his trance. Even when both Mary and I told him it was highly unlikely, he still left with sulking shoulders and murmurings of "idiots" and "medically trained monkeys" on his trail.

A sting in my arm brought me back to reality with harsh recollections. The high of my irrational irritability had long faded, and I was now sitting in one of the visitor chairs, watching the cot where Mr. Openshaw lay not half an hour ago with a machine running his lungs and heart. Mary had retrieved a first aid kit with a few little extras to redo my stitches as well as tend to my shoulder which had been strained in my diving. Surprisingly, she hadn't even started to scold me yet.

I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Everything wasn't going "well" per say, but it was going better than I had expected. Nobody had asked me why I had gone on my own. Nobody had uttered a word regarding my stupidity. Nobody and this is pointed directly at Sherlock, had even begun questioning me as to what I saw before Mr. Openshaw fell into the cold water below.

It was like they were tip-toeing around the subject.

And why should they? I have seen worse – bloody hell I have practically done worse – than watch a man die in front of my eyes. I have been the one to perform the compressions. I have been the one to use the AED. I have been the one to hold the god damn watch to tell the time of death. This man's demise didn't deter me. My experience alone in both professions (military and medical) have endorsed that upon myself.

So why they should even have to gently skirt the edges of the recounting is beyond me.

Mary tugged harshly at the sutures she was restitching into my arm. More than a few had been pulled and I hadn't even noticed they started bleeding until we had all arrived at the hospital, and Mr. Openshaw was well taken care of.

"You're thinking too much," she finally said when I glanced at her. "You always think too much, John. You never consider that perhaps some things are not a lone-wolf job."

And here it started. The drop I mentioned?

"But it was a 'lone-wolf' job, Mary," I responded with a shrug. "I could have had you come along, but you were not prepared for the situation. I could have gotten Sherlock, I suppose, but with how fast Mr. Openshaw was advancing, how was I to tell him where I was? I was the only one that could do it."

Following Mr. Openshaw was something that only I could do anyways. Tracking in itself was a solo job. You don't need two people to follow one man; the math didn't add up like that.

In the military, I followed Faded Resistance generals with only myself and static-filled comms to guide me in the sand that seemed so alike the last few kilometers and the future ones ahead. I was trained solo. I reacted solo. I don't know why Mary thought I could just change it to a double duty.

But she was never in the forces. She never participated in what I did and saw. To her everything seemed to derive of a team effort.

If only it was that simple.

Mary huffed to herself, muttering small insults like "reckless idiot" and "adrenaline junkie" under her breath. I could feel her frustration echoing into her sutures as she went back over them once more. I didn't make a sound, however, since this would no doubt spur her into more arguing over my sanity and reflex for a trigger.

I did, however, finish my thoughts. "There was no chance to get anyone else, Mary," I spoke softly and her movements stilled. "Trust me. If I had a chance, a second of space, I would have contacted you or Sherlock. You know I would have. But sound would have ruined it and, like I said, he was moving too fast. I didn't have the time and in the area, I was in, who could have possibly helped me?"

"But you were already still recovering from injuries!" she countered angrily but it was only the tail of her argument. Sparse things that she found to irk her. "You shouldn't have chased a man with your body like it was. What were you thinking?"

"Nothing," I smiled bitterly as she scoffed. "I wasn't thinking of anything besides stopping him. It was-"

"Stupid," she finished with a sigh. "Incredibly foolish. You mental idiot. Sometimes I wonder why I deal with you."

Her quick finger skills slowed down to a leisure pace. She was thinking and no doubt not liking the conclusion she was coming to.

"You really didn't have a choice, then," she murmured and I didn't know if she was assuring herself or making sure with me. Probably both.

The needle pierced my neck as she began to work on that next. I didn't expect her to say anything more because, really, what else was there to say? My stupidity, recklessness, and utter idiocy? That had just been discussed. My priorities? Well, I guess that was also handled. We already talked about what I knew was on her mind. The silence wasn't even that intolerable at all.

"I really wish that it wasn't you out there." Well, I stand corrected. "I thought that your risky war days would have ended back in Afghanistan – back where they should stay."

I was confused and that was putting it lightly. What could she possibly be on about now? "But they have? This is completely different."

"No, John, it isn't," she bit out, looking at me with a desperation most shouldn't have for topics like these. "You think it is because instead of being in a uniform and healing wounds while having a rifle at the ready, you are in a comfortable flat pursuing cases with as much bloody recklessness! Don't you realize what you are tampering in?"

Tampering in? I repeated to myself. My mind separated from itself and then came back together with a denouement I didn't wish to assume.

My face fell flat from puzzlement and concern into what I hoped to be seriousness.

"What do you mean tampering in?"

She bit her lip, and I knew that she regretted the wording immediately. She didn't mean to let it slip, and the lament that she had didn't make her image any better in my eyes. I trusted her, God knew how much I trusted her, but this was different than the friendship. This was a woman who seemed to know as much as Sherlock and me without actually being there. It was false pretenses and I knew that more than the trust I have had in her since my childhood days of "cops and robbers".

Or, this could just have been a simple miswording.

But if it was, why hadn't she attempted to correct herself?

"Mary?" I repeated and she winced.

The look in her eye was a look I never expected her to ever have. A look of begging to not reveal information. A look to forget everything. Who could harbor such a look? Bloody hell Mary, what did you do? How could she even come to master it if not for it being a part of this ordeal for so long?

What was she even a part of?

Finally, she took a deep breath and let it out. Preparing herself it seemed.

"You are involving yourself in aspects you really should not interfere with. I am not saying to ignore it," she bit sharply when I opened my mouth to retort. "But you should let someone else involve themselves." Her lips resealed, and I knew I wasn't going to get any more information without prodding.

"And let them get hurt instead."

"That's not what I-"

"No, Mary, that is exactly what you mean. You don't want me to get involved and risk getting hurt pursuing something I have full determination in. You want me to slink back and watch. Like a coward."

"John, I just want you to be safe."

"In a world where nothing really defines safe anymore?"

She was quiet and I allowed a bitter laugh to consume me. I was tempted to tell her exactly what I thought of her plan, but I couldn't do it no matter how much I may have wanted to.

For one, she couldn't meet my eyes. She wouldn't. She kept staring at the needle in her hands with tightened lips and furrowed brows.

Sighing, I brought up my hand and rubbed the back of my head. "No one else will do it. You know this."

"He has a point."

Both Mary and I flinched at the sound of a different voice. Shooting a glance at the doorway, I saw Sherlock leaning casually against the wall. I hadn't heard him enter and judging by the sharp look in Mary's eyes, she hadn't either. He was practically a ghost, the way he entered with no sense or reason. I didn't even know when he entered.

Had he heard the entire ordeal with Mary? Did he hold any conclusions? Ones that – I secretly hoped – were more rational than my own assumptions?

But at the same time, I was annoyed. I had Mary just about to reveal more information and then he had to enter at this time.

"Timing," I swear under my breath, but it is loud enough for him to hear.

Seeming to realize that he had our focus, he tilted his head to the side. "Not good?"

Despite my wish to retaliate, "Yeah, a bit," I held it back and chuckled my annoyance away. "No… No… it's fine." Mary opened her mouth, but I silenced her with a look. We would talk later but not now. This was a conversation between us alone, without Sherlock.

Steeling her gaze, she snipped the thread harshly and grabbed the medical supplies, leaving the room with a worried look in my direction and a glare in Sherlock's that he seemed to retort coolly.

The door shut and Sherlock's gaze seemed to transfer into apathy when he met my gaze once more. Far different from the annoyed man from before that seemed enraged that Mr. Openshaw had the audacity to die before releasing information regarding his murderers.

"You seem calmer now," I remarked aloud and watched him shrug minutely. "Got a bite or some much-needed rest?"

He scoffed as if both offended him severely. "Neither. I managed to solve the case and deal with it accordingly."

The surprise must have shown on my face for a small, dignified smirk manifested on the detective's own. Even so, he allowed me to speak my shock – probably to fuel his ego furthermore.

"What do you mean you solved it? I thought they were gone, presumably back to America?"

"They were," he affirmed slowly as if speaking to a child. My eyebrows twitched as I realized I needed to egg him on.

"Then…?"

Sauntering over to the seat Mary sat not one minute before, Sherlock sat close enough to where contact seemed inevitable. I wasn't really bothered by this. It wasn't skin on skin so no shocks shook my form thankfully. It was pleasant to have him there without having him bloody hovering.

Seemingly unaware of the proximity, Sherlock proceeded to double check Mary's sutures. I didn't know if he even knew enough medical basics to know good sutures from the not so good, but the act that he was doing so stumped me. Another act of affection. Another loop thrown at me to make me wonder. Another reason for me to hate him so much for his damn complexity.

"Was it Moriarty after all?" I prodded and his lips peeled back into a grimace as he shook his head.

"No. It wasn't." I didn't miss the bitter annoyance underlining his tone. The note of being wrong and the further thought that Moriarty must be playing games with him. I wasn't a mind reader like certain Translucence, but I knew what he was thinking. I've been with him enough to know that much. "It was merely coincidental to the time. Only a fluke that it happened as and when it had."

"There is a life at stake, Sherlock. Actual human life – Just, just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them? Then I'll continue not to make that mistake. Save him, John? I don't take cases to save people. I take cases to cure my boredom and alleviate any sense of satisfaction in my abilities. What personal value comes to the client is not of my worries as a detective."

"And you find that easy, do you? Ah. Right. You're a machine."

"Right. I am a machine. Is that news to you?"

The earlier argument came back with a wave of silence. I knew that Sherlock remembered it as well as I did. It only happened last night after all. How could you not forget something like that? It surely wasn't our first argument, but it was damn near the worst. What was even better than this was that we were so full of pride (or dignity or whatever) that we were not about to apologize for it.

As far as I knew, I wasn't in the wrong. I hadn't been. The only crime I could be accused of was expecting more than I should, taking everything for granted. Taking the detective as something more than he was. Basically a first-degree crime of assumptions.

But that was about as bad as when Harry and I used to say "It wasn't me! It was him/her!"

Someone needed to speak up, but Sherlock was taking full advantage of the fact that he could focus on my sutures and not respond.

"So," I cleared my throat of the bitter taste of past anger. "The case? You solved it, yeah?" He nodded faintly so I prodded further. "How?"

There was a pause in his evaluating and I could sense the reluctance to take to the change of conversation. A first since I've known him.

"Back in the 1880s, both 1883 and 1885 – the years the Openshaw's' received their letters – a ship that went by the name "The Lone Star" went to Pondicherry and Dundee. While the original ship is out of commission, there has been another one built. A cargo carrier by the same name – Lone Star." I listened as he murmured his findings, the previous bravado from before only hinted instead of expressed as a smirk. "The ship was recorded to have taken a separate route than it was given. While it was scheduled to be in St. Petersburg, Russia three days ago, it reported a storm that deterred its route all the way to London. However, there were no storms in sight and it could have landed at five other cities before reaching our ports."

"There is no way that could have been a coincidence then," I concluded but Sherlock continued.

"Both the captain and the two crew members were reported as missing the night of the murder," at this he allowed a smirk to drift through. "In white uniforms as customized for the ship."

"The white suits I saw on the men who cornered Mr. Openshaw."

"Exactly," he spoke with a smile before remembering he still had to finish his narration. "They departed from the port this morning."

"How did you proceed then? They got away?" He did say he solved the case after all.

Pulling away from checking my wounds, Sherlock's responding grin is bittersweet.

"The captain will find a surprising letter directed from Mr. Openshaw – presumed dead – on his ship. I have already alerted the correct authorities of their next stop of their current crimes."

I could see why Sherlock wasn't satisfied with this. While he wasn't one for fame and notary from the populace for his cases, he knew that this didn't count necessarily as a win on his part. It didn't count as a completion.

"So that's it then."

He shrugged, averting his gaze to the empty cot Mr. Openshaw occupied hours ago. "So it is."

When his eyes met mine again, they were shielded as they always were. A part of me was annoyed with this. A part of me was fine with it. A part of me would just wish that he would open up instead of closing in upon himself.

All of a sudden, he laughed. Well, more like he chuckled softly but the reaction was much the same with me.

"What's so funny?"

"You."

Sherlock's lips spread into a small smile as he pointedly got closer.

"I am not one to feel shame for my actions, nor am I one to completely be at a loss of speech for said regrets, but it seems that you have caused both to occur simultaneously on the same night."

"Well, it was about time you felt some emotion, you machine."

Sherlock scoffed but it was half-hearted and playful in comparison to his usual dismissal. "Please. It's only a one-time ordeal I assure you."

Nudging his shoulder, I found myself laughing at his remark. "Oh really? Apparently, I am the exception. It's bound to happen again."

At that, Sherlock merely smiles. It was a genuine smile. Something I had rarely seen since Moriarty and couldn't believe I was seeing it now.

I felt a weight casually lean against my side but allowed it. Huffing a breathless chuckle, I reciprocated the action, leaning my head against his shoulder. I didn't care about how we looked now for some reason. I didn't care about the intimacy nor what people might say. None of that really mattered.

"I'm sorry."

Sorry? I stilled, catching onto those words and making sure I heard them right. That he was saying them and that they weren't my own.

When I was a hundred percent certain that it was Sherlock who said this, I relaxed forcefully – oddly enough not taking any satisfaction in Sherlock's apology.

"You're sorry?"

Sherlock released a sigh. "Not for my actions. It'll never be for my actions. I'm not sorry that I couldn't care for a man any more than one can a complete stranger. I am not sorry that I couldn't keep any more sentiment than what is expected," he took a deep breath before letting it out – like he was preparing himself for the apology. "I am sorry to not be you. I am sorry for being less than expected of me."

Expected of him?

It sounds more like he's apologizing to his father rather than a friend.

"Honestly, Sherlock? You have nothing to be sorry for."

Those words left my lips as easily as air, as automatic as breathing, and as serious as inhaling and exhaling. It required no thought – no effort – and a part of me was surprised by this because what was my previous standing argument? To say that I wasn't in the wrong? To not place blame on me?

But this was stupid because someone had to be wrong. There couldn't be anyone not at fault. This couldn't be a stasis.

I gritted my teeth but it wasn't anger at Sherlock. It was my pride that was currently damning me to the lowest pits of hell for admitting wrongness.

Closing my eyes, I pinched my nose as the words came out in a breathless rush. "Really, Sherlock. I mean it. You have nothing to apologize for because I was the one at fault." And those words were painful to say. To admit I was wrong? Me? You'd have better luck catching me holding a gun to my head before that occurred willingly. "I knew- know. I know what you are like and, well, I don't know. I'm not sure what exactly happened. I think I placed an image of some great person over you."

I saw his face darken immediately as I caught my lapse in words. Quickly trying to repair the damage, I tried to make up for it before it could prosper into his coat disappearing around the door.

"Not like that!" I rushed to say. "I mean, great as… fuck me." I sighed and there was this intense headache behind my eyes that wasn't there before but now made its presense very clear. "Great was not the word I meant. I meant emotional, empathetic, you know. Those kind of things that usually you claim I'm for. Not.. not that you aren't great because you are and… I'm going to stop here before this falls into some drama series."

Sherlock's lips gave a small twitch but other than that nothing. I wasn't even sure if he heard me with his long list of occasions where he completely forgot about me (whether I left for the hospital or if I was across London; it was ridiculous).

Then Sherlock coughed and stood abruptly, clearing his throat but he wouldn't look at me. "Right. Well." He stared at me until I caught onto his telepathic nonsense and followed suit, sore and body parts protesting incredulously. "It's pointless to stay here. Mr. Openshaw is gone and your sutures are good." He spoke this begrudgingly and I almost smiled. "Let's return to the flat."

I pursed my lips at the sudden departure. "Why?"

At that point, I heard a distinct vibration in Sherlock's coat. Within seconds, the detective pulled out his phone and checked the text before putting it away.

"Apparently, we have another case to attend to."

"So soon to the last?"

Sherlock rose a brow at me. "Unless there is a correlation to Moriarty, which I have said there wasn't, then there shouldn't be any discrepancies to another case should there?"

I paused and then furrowed my brows. Why was it weird to me? Crime didn't cease because someone died. I knew that. But for some reason, I had suspicions that this wasn't like normal crime. This one rang danger and I didn't like it.

The captain wanted to strategize.

The doctor wanted to prepare for casualties.

"John?"

I shook my head and returned Sherlock's concerned stare with an absolutely not embarrassed grin. "No. You're right. Must be the pain medication. Let's get to the flat. Don't want to leave the inspector waiting."

Sherlock eyed me oddly before snapping straight and nodding. "Right."