It was the worst cab ride ever. For a moment, Sherlock wondered if John was going to refuse to get into the same one as Mary, but seeing the look on Sherlock's face, simply slid in after him.

Sherlock was thankful for that. He didn't know how much longer he could stay upright. He was fairly certain he was bleeding internally, if the pain was anything to go by, but the fact that he was no longer hooked up to the morphine drip could have been contributing.

Thankfully, the cabbie wasn't one who felt like making idle conversation, and the ride was silent.

Traffic was light, and they made it to the flat in under seven minutes.

John went up the stairs first, Mary following.

Sherlock struggled up after them, swearing that each step was worse than the last.

He wondered how his appearance had managed to escape John's attention, but he was rather preoccupied, and Sherlock could forgive him for that. After all, he understood. (He had skipped out of hospital after all, to deal with the mess and the confusion and the general fuck up that had happened.)

He just needed to make it through the conversation, then he could go back to being drugged out of his mind.

In fact, he was rather looking forward to it.

He held onto the wall as he made his way into the doorway. Surprisingly, Mrs Hudson was more observant than usual.

"John. Mary! Oh, Sherlock! Oh, good gracious, you look terrible."

In fact, Sherlock might even be shocked because John had failed to notice. This was the same man who somehow managed to find out that he'd broken and reset one of his own fingers. (Making him go to hospital, of course, which was just a waste of time.)

But he was a little busy for that. Far more important things to deal with. Like saving John's marriage.

But he'd need something else to help him deal with that.

He directed his attention back to the landlady.

"Get me some morphine from your kitchen. I've run out."

She looked appalled. "I don't have any morphine!"

Honestly... "Then what exactly is the point of you?" he bit, perhaps a bit more violently than was necessary.

"What is going on?"

"Bloody good question."

Sherlock leaned against the door frame more heavily. "The Watsons are about to have a domestic, and fairly quickly, I hope, because we've got work to do." And I need to pass out.

John turned away from him, staring at Mary.

"Oh, I have a better question. Is everyone I've ever met a psychopath?"

Sherlock glanced away for a moment. What does he want to hear? Right now, what does he need to hear? "Yes."

On the other side of the room, Mary nodded.

"Good that we've settled that. Anyway, we..."

"SHUT UP!" John bellowed, interrupting whatever Sherlock was going to say. He wasn't sure yet. He mostly opened his mouth and hoped. (Pain was surprisingly good at loosening inhibitions.)

Mrs Hudson tutted.

"And stay shut up, because this is not funny. Not this time." His tone was low and furious.

"I didn't say it was funny," Sherlock replied. He released his one hand from the door frame and leaned against the other side, attempting to stand and appear normal. John needed normal.

He glared at his wife. "You. What have I ever done... hmm?... my whole life... to deserve you?"

"Everything," Sherlock breathed. John turned back to stare at him, his gaze murderous.

"Sherlock, I've told you... shut up."

John took a few steps closer.

"Oh, I mean it, seriously. Everything. Everything you've ever done is what you did."

He winced internally, knowing how that was coming across. Like he was blaming John, when that really wasn't the case. He couldn't blame John for this life, for the mistakes he'd made, for the lies he'd believed. Because Sherlock wanted to believe them too.

"Sherlock, one more word and you will not need morphine."

Or about another ten minutes. If he wanted to wait that long.

He kept going.

"You were a doctor who went to war. You're a man who couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. That's me, by the way." He raised a hand to wave at John. "Hello. Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel." He pointed at her briefly before his hand fell back down.

Mrs Hudson mostly looked exasperated. "It was my husband's cartel. I was just typing."

"And exotic dancing," he reminded her.

John glanced at Mrs Hudson as Sherlock said that.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you've been Youtube-ing..."

Oh god, he couldn't listen to that again. (And honestly, it was just there for the public to see, so...) Sherlock interrupted perhaps a little more forcefully than was needed. "John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people... so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?"

John's voice broke, and Sherlock's heart wanted to break along with it. "But she wasn't supposed to be like that. Why is she like that?" (Perhaps his heart would just break... or stop.)

He couldn't look at John. He didn't want to. "Because you chose her."

You chose her.

John didn't say anything for a moment.

"Why is everything...always...My FAULT?!" He kicked a table as he bellowed.

Mrs Hudson jumped. "Oh, the neighbours!" she fretted. She disappeared down the stairs after that.

Even Sherlock jumped slightly, which he was hard pressed to admit. Mary did not stir. An assassin indeed.

But this was exactly what Sherlock wanted to avoid. He was not blaming John. That was not at all what he was trying to do. But as soon as the words had left his mouth, he knew that they would be misconstrued. And Sherlock wasn't sure if he was going to stay conscious long enough to fix it.

So he pressed forward. Priorities. Triage.