Each lost soul will be a hell unto itself, the boundless fire raging in its very vitals.
-JAMES JOYCE, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

She'd told him to go to hell. To anyone else, it would sound like the last thing one friend would tell another, especially in the face of asking for posthumous help. But Sherlock was clever, and Mary knew it.

What she'd meant was, he would have to go to hell to save John Watson.

Sherlock was partially there already. John's aftermath to Mary's death was nothing short of animalistic. Sherlock wasn't expecting it, wasn't prepared for the keening, the growling, the pure hate John immediately projected onto Sherlock.

Sherlock blamed himself. Of course he did. Until now, he'd thought self-inflicted blame was the worst type. People always blamed him for things; sometimes it was true, sometimes not. Rarely did he care. If he ever blamed himself for something (Redbeard, for instance), it took drugs to drive it away.

But John's blame…that, Sherlock found, he simply could not handle. Because it came with so much. Being banned from the house, severed from both John's life and Rosie's. And it wasn't just the Watsons. Molly's blend of pity and apprehension. Lestrade's quiet distance. Mrs. Hudson's increased visits. Even Mycroft's efforts to resume normalcy, maybe even a return to something of a pre-John life. None of it was acceptable.

Sherlock was already on the threshold of hell. What was one more step?

He waited until one evening when he heard Rosie's cries in the stairwell, the opening and closing of Mrs. Hudson's door. He didn't dare risk looking out the window: he already knew it was John who'd come by. Sherlock waited half an hour, donned his coat, and slipped out his flat.

Mrs. Hudson stopped him as his hand reached for the front door.

"You're not going where I think you are, are you, love?"

She'd left Rosie in her flat, likely an agreement with John that the baby would not even see her former godfather. Sherlock didn't blame her: given John's current state, one misstep and you were cut off for good.

In lieu of a response, Sherlock leaned down and kissed the older woman's cheek. "Give my love to Rosamund," he murmured, then slipped out the door without meeting her gaze. He couldn't lie to her, not anymore.

Given the old house was occupied by a former solider and former spy, it should have been harder to break into. Sherlock secretly suspected Mary and John left it that way so he could always return on his terms. Now, either John didn't care enough to make the effort, or actually believed Sherlock would listen to him and stay away for good.

Once he was inside, Sherlock took a quick inventory. The sitting room was a disaster, with Rosie's cot jammed in a corner, her toys and clothes scattered about. The sofa cushions were askew, suggesting John was sleeping there rather than his own bed. Likely he'd condensed his life down to that one room, shutting off the rest of the house.

Except for the kitchen, Sherlock noted, where liquor bottles were mixed in with baby bottles. It didn't take much deductive reasoning to see how John was coping through the nights.

That's where he'd gone this evening, Sherlock knew. He'd known it the moment John came back to Baker Street with Rosie: he was heading out to a pub and planned to come home in a state that neither Molly nor Mrs. Hudson needed to see. If he came home at all.

Sherlock picked up Rosie's toys, sorted her soiled clothes into a pile for laundry. While he was waiting to descend into hell, he might as well tidy up a bit.

At first it seemed John wouldn't come home at all. Running on nervous energy, Sherlock had cleaned the sitting room and kitchen, disposed of the alcohol, sanitized Rosie's bottles, washed her clothes, bedding and toys, built a fire in the fireplace, and solved two cases by text. Then he sat on the sofa in the darkened room, stared at the floor and tried to remember the day John had made him Rosie's godfather. He'd been on his phone, mostly, but he could close his eyes and see Mary and John together, the sunlight coming in and Molly and Mrs. Hudson's cooing and—

The door opened and John stumbled in, stopping in the foyer. Sherlock stood and waited.

Without looking at him, John took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"What part," he began, "of I don't want to see you, of anyone but you, don't you understand?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, then shut it again.

John's eyes were still closed, his side still turned to Sherlock. His left fist clenched and opened, clenched and opened.

He smiled and hummed deeply in his throat.

"Supposed to be a genius," John continued. "Brain big as the Eye of London, yeah?"

"No," Sherlock whispered.

At this, John yanked his head in Sherlock's direction.

"I told you to do one thing," he hissed. "One fucking thing. Stay away."

Feeling Mary's hand at his back, Sherlock took a step forward.

"Yes," he replied. "But Mary…told me to do something else."

John's eyes went blank. "Don't say her name. I am warning you, Sherlock Holmes, do not say her name."

It was falling off the building all over again. It was being captured in the Serbian wilderness, or shooting Magnussen, or stepping onto the plane. Sherlock could see the outcome a split second before he put the wheel in motion.

He took one more step.

"I am sorry, John," Sherlock said, sounding as brave as he could knowing what was to come. "I am here because of Mary."

The punch was nothing new. John had hit Sherlock before.

The first time Sherlock had asked for it to get in Irene's flat, then struck John first to get a response. It had unleashed something, just for a moment, that John hadn't been able to control.

Then John had attacked Sherlock multiple times after his return.

Sherlock never hit him back.

They'd likely be evenly-matched, he'd thought after the first time. The problem was, Sherlock didn't fight when he was angry. He fought as a means to an end, or in defense. He'd gotten physical with Mycroft, of course, but that was a blend of drugs and deep-rooted family issues. Sherlock could win a fistfight with most opponents; therefore, he felt no need to instigate it.

John, on the other hand, John fought because he liked it. He only needed one thing to switch into battle mode, and it didn't matter who was on the receiving end. If Sherlock fought to subdue, John fought to destroy.

Sherlock had enough time to consider the implications of that personality trait before John's fist made contact with his right eye. He was down in an instant, John on top of him. Sherlock covered his head with his arms, less concerned about his face and more about the possibility of a concussion. But this opened his abdomen and John swung a fist into his side.

Sherlock gagged: likely a bruised kidney.

The only saving grace was that John was quite drunk—Sherlock took a moment to hope he'd called a cab at the pub rather than driving—and had spent many nights in a similar state. He'd lost some weight over the months, mostly muscle. He wasn't holding back, but his movements were more sluggish than they would have been weeks before.

Sherlock kept his head covered, curled in on himself, but otherwise offered no resistance. After the initial outburst, that seemed to infuriate John further.

"Fight back!" he yelled, his hands seeking purchase in Sherlock's hair. "Why won't you fight back?!"

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, his chest heaving and meeting John's breathing gasp for gasp.

"Because," he choked out, "I deserve it."

He felt John still, then suddenly remove his hands and slide off Sherlock's body. Sherlock lowered his hands from his head, risking a glance at his friend. John's breathing had become more labored, his chest heaving as though he were drowning.

Maybe he was. Their eyes met. Sherlock wasn't sure what John saw—what he could see of Sherlock's face for the bruising and blood from a nosebleed—but the blankness was gone from John's eyes. He shook his head, tears spilling down his cheeks, and slumped forward, his arms around his shaking body and his head resting on Sherlock's chest. A moment later, the room filled with deep howls, only partially muffled by Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock felt the vibration through his chest, the movement as John's mouth worked wordlessly, the heat of his tears.

He didn't speak, didn't move, didn't wrap his arms around John or wipe the blood from his face, out of fear he would break the moment's spell. From the sound of John's cries, this was the first time he'd vented his agony since Mary's death. Sherlock wanted to comfort him, but wasn't sure what would be acceptable. Mary'd sent him into hell, but not given him much guidance on what to do once there. John's head was just under Sherlock's heart, thudding loudly from exertion. He'd be able to feel the beating from the place Sherlock had kept all three Watsons for so long. Hopefully that would be enough.

After a moment, John spoke, his voice choked and filled with pain. "You don't deserve this."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut tight, but tears he didn't realize he'd been repressing still spilled out and down into his ears. "You don't either," he whispered.

They didn't speak again, but remained on the floor all night. At some point, Sherlock realized John had fallen asleep, exhausted by the physical and emotional upheaval. He reached out for his Belstaff, discarded in the fight, and draped it across his friend's body.

They would be sore tomorrow, he knew. Sleeping on the floor was not for those approaching middle age, or those who had just been beaten up. But they were leaving hell: comfortable sleeping arrangements were not to be expected.

The fire died down, casting the room into darkness. But soon enough, morning came and a grey light filtered in. John snuffled, raised his head from Sherlock's chest and squinted. Sherlock met his gaze openly. There was nothing for him to say.

John struggled to sit, wincing at his shoulder. He looked around the room, and for a moment, appeared on the brink of tears. Then he pressed his palms to his face and took a deep breath.

"Enough," he whispered. "Enough."

Then he turned back to Sherlock, looking a bit more like the John Watson he knew.

"Think I have eggs," John offered. "If you want."

Sherlock nodded. "I can make coffee."

John nodded and, with some difficulty, stood. He reached out a hand. Sherlock took it, and pulled himself to his feet.

At their backs, the sun burned through the clouds, casting long shadows on the floor. They would face it all soon enough: together.

Author's Note: Apologies for a dark John. I'm in NO way condoning his actions in this story...but I think one of the things we've overlooked/ignored in series 1-3 is that he's got some anger issues that are now coming to the surface. This was the result of TST's ending. Feedback, as always, is much appreciated.