It was only a few weeks later when there was another case with an unfortunate ending. Drugs laced with toxins had been distributed throughout the city. Sherlock went undercover to catch the drug dealer responsible, but not in time to prevent one final death. By the time Sherlock and John tracked the final client down, he'd already died.

Sherlock could feel the way John looked at him at the crime scene, and in the taxi home. (Because yes, of course John was going to accompany him home after that.)

"Do you think you're going to talk me out of it?" Sherlock asked him quietly as soon as he finished paying the driver.

John shook his head as Sherlock unlocked the door. "No one can talk out of doing anything. But I'm going to be here for you."

Sherlock frowned, but dismissed it as yet another expression of sentiment he didn't understand.

John followed him into the bathroom after he tossed his coat on the couch, taking care to pull out the pad of paper with the young man's name on it.

Sherlock stuck the sheet to the mirror with a bit of tape and moved on.

He ignored John best he could, pulling out the supplies, noticing with distraction that John was rolling up his pant leg for some unknown reason. He said something that Sherlock didn't hear.

"What?" he asked, glancing up at John, leg bare.

"Do it on me," John repeated, kicking his leg impatiently.

Sherlock still couldn't wrap his head around it. "What?"

"Do it on me. Instead of you. I'll bear this one. It's my fault anyway."

Sherlock swallowed against the roiling in his stomach. "It's not your fault John," he said quietly.

"It is though," John insisted, looking at least somewhat miserable. "I want to. You can do it, or give me the scalpel and I'll do it. You're running out of room, and I can bear some of the load."

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't."

"Why not?"

Sherlock shook his head again. He didn't even know. How could he explain it to John? "I don't want you to hurt." I'd do anything to prevent that. I did, do you remember that? I did it to you for two whole years, just to keep you from the worst hurt of all, and I'm sorry, but I can't do that again.

John looked at him kindly. "Sherlock, mate, I don't want to see you hurt. Do you understand?"

Of course he understood. John was just saying words and he was hearing them and they were being comprehended in his brain and he was thinking about them and mulling over them and of course he understood.

But on one level, he really didn't.

"Sentiment?" he hazarded.

John grinned at him. "Quite right."

"I'm not going to do it to you," he affirmed. "And I won't let you do it."

John shook his head. "You can't stop me. Whatever you cut into your skin, I'll do as well."

Sherlock glared at him. "That's not fair."

"The world isn't fair," John replied sadly. "And if you think commemorating all those people who died by carving their names into your skin is going to make it somehow fairer, then I think you've lost your touch."

Sherlock considered that.

Of course it wasn't going to restore balance to the universe. (Throwing the man out of the window who hurt Mrs Hudson would. Action and reaction.) He knew that.

So why do you keep on doing it? he whispered to himself.

Sherlock tilted his head. "I don't know how to not do this," he admitted.

John smiled. "That's alright. I do." He closed the case that contained the scalpel. "Now, I don't suppose you saw the things I left in the freezer?"

Sherlock frowned. "What things?"

"Excellent."

Sherlock trailed John to the kitchen as he began pulling out body parts. How on earth did he miss those?

"I suspect you didn't do a lot of eating this week, and sure as hell not a lot of cooking, so I'm not surprised you didn't see them."

Sherlock frowned at what John was implying, but had no time to focus on that. Not when John had brought him body parts.

"Where were you going to do it?" John asked.

Sherlock looked up sharply.

"Where were you going to put his name?" John said, more gently.

"Oh. Right thigh."

John nodded, and went back to pulling out and repacking various frozen pieces of meat until he found what he was looking for.

He set a piece of meat that looked suspiciously like a human thigh on the table. (He could figure out what it was if he was given a little bit of time, and his microscope-)

"We're not doing experiments on it," John told him firmly, perhaps noting the glint in Sherlock's eye. "You're going to use it instead of yourself."

"What?"

"Carve the name into the meat instead of yourself. It may take a bit of work, it's sort of frozen."

Sherlock snorted. Of course it was frozen.

Still, he took the scalpel John handed him, not his scalpel, and examined the leg of some unfortunate creature.

He closed his eyes and remembered the name on the mirror.

Jonathan Basser. 23. No father in the picture. Mother works two jobs to support her son, who she was trying to put through college. Digital design. Hadn't used drugs much before. Not a regular user. Smoker.

Sherlock carved all of these things into the leg on the counter.

When he finally looked up, John was staring at him.

"What was the cause of death Sherlock?"

"It's hard to say at this point-"

"Don't," John interrupted. "You're sure enough."

Sherlock sighed. "Likely respiratory depression as a result of the fentanyl laced heroin."

"Did you laced the heroin with fentanyl?"

"No-"

"Did you inject the heroin into Jonathan's arm?"

"No-"

"Then you did not kill him," John said firmly. "Jonathan is a grown man. He took the risk of using drugs, and he unfortunately lost his life. But that is not your fault. Now carve it into the leg."

Sherlock was quite sure that phrase had never been uttered before, but he obeyed nonetheless.

CAUSE OF DEATH: NOT SHERLOCK HOLMES

He stepped back to admire his handiwork.

"Do you feel okay? Good?"

Sherlock considered that.

"Yes," he said, a bit surprised about his response. Yes he did.