"I'm angry," The words floated on the wind, hollow and devoid of the bite they deserved as they nested in the ears of the unseen observer, hidden in the shadows of a nearby tree. He watched Mrs. Hudson stroke John's arm comfortingly.

"You're not angry, John," Sherlock murmured to himself, a sick feeling in his stomach. He'd miscalculated this terribly. In all his life he'd never missed something so glaringly obvious. Even now as he watched his dearest, his only friend, he'd only begun to realize the gravity of his error. He had meant to protect John, to protect them all. To keep them alive. For once to do what friends were meant to do. How could he have made such a disaster of things?

"I'm not actually that angry, okay," John's voice cut through his thoughts drawing a pained smile to his lips. No, the good doctor was depressed, despairing, a broken man. And in all those things there was anger, but it paled by comparison. What John was, he couldn't own to, it was just too awful to utter, too terrible a burden to place on those around him. But the consulting detective could see it, could hear it as plainly as if John had spoken the word outright for the world to hear.

Suicidal.

Why? It didn't make any sense. He'd thought it all out that day in the morgue, planned it to within a fraction of an inch. John had other friends, comrades, people who cared for him, people he could turn to in his grief. Captain Watson the soldier had lost friends in battle, had seen them brutally cut down before his eyes. Good men, far better men than himself. Who was Sherlock Holmes that he could elicit such an emotional breakdown from a man hardened by war?

He had known John would be hurt, would certainly be angry, angry enough to hit him properly when found out the truth. And though he entertained no notions that he would still be alive to take it, Sherlock knew he deserved it. In spite of the fact that he could think of no other way to save his best friend he still deserved it. One day, one day when all this bloody mess was over he would be obliged to tell John the truth, John deserved that and he had made arrangements. His only regret was that he couldn't tell him now.

He stared across the graveyard at his friend, the horror of it all hitting him afresh. He could cope with John's rage, even his grief. If those things were needed for John to heal, then so be it. Those things were all bearable. That John would forgive him he had no doubt. John was what Sherlock himself had never been; a good man. Perhaps it would take some time, perhaps the storm of the doctor's pain and feelings of betrayal would rattle him, but John would forgive him eventually.

He had wanted John to see him fall, to believe him dead, to believe it with every fiber of his being. Because if he believed otherwise, Morarity's men would certainly derive a great deal of pleasure in torturing him for information before they finally killed him. Of everything, that was the only thing more unbearable than the thought of John lying in a pool of his own blood with a bullet though his head.

That John would follow him, aid him if he knew, Sherlock was certain. The doctor's loyalty mystified him. John should have turned his back on Sherlock, should have accepted Sherlock's assertion that it had all been a lie. Any sane, reasonable person should, shouldn't they? But not John. He'd begun to notice his friend picking up some of his skills in observation. Had been proud of it, had clung to it as if it were some rallying flag of a brotherhood. If John could occasionally see what he saw then perhaps he wasn't the freak everyone declared him to be.

He had known all of this. Morarity had promised to burn the heart out of him, and the Consulting Criminal had no difficulty in locating it. The only thing that mattered, the only thing he would value in this would be the lives of the people who meant the most to him. Everything else, his own life included, was forfeit. That had been his plan the day he stepped off the roof of St Bart's. If it succeeded, Sherlock would become a ghost who could take down Morarity's empire unseen. If he failed... well, he would be dead and John would still be protected because there would be no Sherlock Holmes to threaten. He was going forth to die, he knew that. This was, in all probability, the last time he would ever see John and he knew it. He couldn't allow himself to entertain the notion that he'd return, it was just too painful. Better that John grieve now and move on.

"No one will ever convince me that you told me a lie" John's voice wavered as a single tear crept out beneath his lashes. Sherlock felt a stab in his chest and winced.

It was too painful to watch but he steeled himself, forcing his eyes open. If John could face this without bending to the temptation to stick his gun in his mouth, then by god Sherlock would face it with him, even if it was from a distance. He owed the man that much. More. So much more, more than he could ever repay. He had to choke back a hollow laugh as the same words left John's lips. What had he really brought the doctor more than the threat of death and a life completely absorbed by a generally inconsiderate flatmate? It was cruelly laughable. How could he have done anything for his friend that compared to what John had given him, to what John meant to him?

There was a time not to long ago when he would have dismissed these feelings as useless sentiment. Such things were a danger, a distraction, drawing attention from the task at hand and causing a disturbing tendency to make irrational choices. But what he felt for John was no sentiment. It gave focus, rather than robbing it, making every detail, every task, clearer. It added a defining contrast to everything it touched, John gave his life a clarity he had never known before and he cherished it, more than he had ever cherished anything in his life.

But even now as he watched his only true friend struggle not to weep before his grave he knew himself to be inadequate to the doctor's affections for him. His love. The only love Sherlock had ever experienced, love deeper than a brother and more steadfast than any romantic attachment could ever be. In a planet of billions, only one had ever truly accepted him.

There was Mrs. Hudson, of course, and Morarity had been right to target her. Sherlock would never forgive himself if anything happened to her. If there was anyone, apart from John that he was honestly attached to, it was Mrs. Hudson. She was truly, deeply grateful to him and so chose to overlook his failings, to turn a blind eye to them, but to say she was untroubled by them was simply not true. He saw it in the way she carried herself, her occasional disapproval. Though harsh words never left her lips he could still hear the subtext, clear as the spoken word, in the turn of her head or the downturn of her lips. He unsettled her at times and though he did regret it, he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

It was the same with Lestrade. Detective Inspector Lestrade who was all lines and circles and point A to point B until it was maddening. Sherlock had thought, before he met John, that what he had between himself and the DI was friendship. Had thought it largely because it was the first time in his life he'd felt a connection to anyone. Lestrade had overlooked his eccentricities, had tolerated him rather than hurl insults in his general direction and though Sherlock knew Lestrade found him largely irritating, he was grateful to the older man for his attempts to see beyond it. It was a forbearance he'd never known before, not from anyone.

Not even Molly. Sherlock sighed, shaking his head. If she only knew. If she only opened her eyes now and again it should have been obvious. But she wouldn't, perhaps, he reasoned, she couldn't. It wasn't that he didn't care for her, he did. He'd relied on her more than once, more times than he could count now. He had used her too, or rather her infatuation for him. The truth was he needed her, her access. And the smallest part of him found comfort in her attachment to him. It was like a warm blanket on a cold, rainy day. And in his own way he had been grateful. Now alongside that gratefulness was a fair amount of guilt at what he'd put her through, though unintentional. Before John he'd never understood love in any sense, least of all Molly's. But as the months with John in his life had passed, he'd come to feel close to someone for the first time in his life and he'd begun to see Molly's feelings in clearer contrast. Dear, sweet, naive Molly, so blinded by the lens of her adoration for him that she was incapable of seeing what was right in front of her; he could never give her what she wanted. He was incapable of giving her what she wanted because he was incapable of giving it to anyone.

He wondered now if The Woman had worked it out, he'd certainly given her everything she needed to make her deduction. His memory skipped back to that night, her flushed lips so near his own, her elegant fingers stroking his arm. Sherlock understood beauty, appreciated it even, and Irene Adler was beautiful, beyond all sense and reason for someone so dangerous, truth be told. But wasn't danger often beautiful? He'd been surprised. Not that she'd attempted to seduce him, realistically that was to be expected, considering her line of work. What had shocked him as his fingers pressed softly against her wrist was that she wanted him. It seemed incomprehensible to him even now. It made no logical sense; what could someone of her background possibly find arousing in someone of his... experience. He drew in a long slow breath. She'd probably guessed, he reasoned, guessed what even John and his own brother hadn't managed to put together.

He wasn't certain he could ever forgive Mycroft, forgive him his taunting. Mycroft's powers of observation were nearly as developed as Sherlock's own, though he would sooner leap off the roof of Bart's a second time than admit it. He should have known, should have realized when Sherlock was still a boy instead of relentlessly hounding him to be "more normal", "more acceptable". It grated on Mycroft that Sherlock failed so spectacularly at being the charming younger brother, the perfect counterpoint to the serious older that their positions in good society demanded. He had tried in his youth. In spite of himself he had worshiped Mycroft as only a boy can worship a hero and he had wanted his brother's approval more desperately than anything else. And that was, in the end, what had made the truth so plainly obvious to himself; He would never be the charismatic Mycroft wished him to be. He was incapable of understanding desire because he was incapable of feeling it.

John hadn't realized, it wasn't in his nature to judge or label, he probably never would. But that didn't bother Sherlock in the slightest because even if John did know, he simply wouldn't care. Like so much of Sherlock Holmes, it was only one more quirk, like the violin at half past three in the morning, or the jar of eyes in the fridge. Perhaps they grated now and again but John shook it off with a roll of his eyes and a snort of amusement, occasionally with a laugh or, when he felt it warranted, a rebuke. But not one of judgement, never of judgement. John had seen him, John who so often sees and doesn't observe, didn't observe because it was irrelevant. John had given him what no one else had; true acceptance. Not in spite of his faults but because of them. John's devotion was unshakable because Sherlock was flawed, not because John was blind to it. John understood what no one else had, had told Sherlock he understood in that first night they sat at Angelo's; "It's all okay." And it was, it truly, honestly was because the good doctor understood what no one else seemed to grasp; that they were all flawed and failing and broken, only in different ways. That humanity was all one collective pebble in each other's shoes. John would accept Sherlock's failings because he was aware of his own. He would snap and bicker and occasional fight not because he found Sherlock intolerable but because he knew Sherlock was capable of better, because he knew that they were all capable of better and because he had the patience and bravery to soldier through the moments when none of them were.

"One more miracle, Sherlock, for me" John's unsteady voice met his ears and he felt the need to brace himself. "don't... be... dead... will you do that, just for me?" Sherlock felt his heart constrict painfully in his chest and he swallowed. How could he do this? How could he do this to the only person in the world he truly cared for? For the briefest moment he relented, a moment of weakness, perhaps. He opened his lips just as he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. His keen gaze tracked the assassin, no doubt assigned to the doctor to insure that Sherlock was well and truly gone. He winced, he'd almost destroyed everything. He couldn't allow himself to be so weak again, for John's sake.

John struggled before Sherlock's grave to pull himself together and the consulting detective's face contorted with the pain of it. The moment passed and John straightened his shoulders, turning to follow Mrs. Hudson.

No. His brow knitted in anger. He had come here today to say goodbye one last time. Like a soldier looking his last on his loved ones before marching off to a war he knows there can be no return from. He couldn't. John deserved better than this, Sherlock owed him more than this.

"Soon, John," Sherlock whispered the promise, gritting his teeth. "As soon as I can. As soon as you're safe. I swear, I'll stop."