Thanks to surprisedbylife on tumblr for betaing.

Sherlock was dead. There, he'd said it. He hadn't been quick enough. He would have been, if that damned biker hadn't hit him. He might have been able to save Sherlock Holmes's life.

That was what he couldn't tell Ella. He might have been able to save Sherlock. Could have used the little bit of healing magic he'd learned in Asgard to save his best friend's life. But he was too late.

Healing was an accepted path for men in Asgard, but it wasn't for a prince's son. Healing could never be more than a hobby for a Thorson. John Watson could be a doctor.

He could shoot a gun because he'd been in Afghanistan. But he had been a warrior before. Mycroft had known that. He hadn't been able to know the truth. He probably knew more ways to kill a man than even one of Moriarty's best operatives. His father had always enjoyed a fight and he'd taught his son most of what he knew.

But you couldn't exactly tell your therapist you were the son of the Norse thunder god. Couldn't tell her that the reason why you missed the war - why you had gone to war in the first place - was because you had grown up in a place where the excitement and terror of war were perfectly normal.

John had been planning to tell Sherlock. Wasn't sure when, but he had been planning to tell him for a while. Now he never would. He would never be able to see Sherlock's face when he found out he had deduced everything about John except his biggest secret.