Sherlock felt like hell. His ribs ached from sharp kicks, there was a cut next to his eyebrow, his left eye burned and was probably bloodshot, and that was only how he felt externally. Internally, he felt downright ill, and he knew the drugs were to blame. He couldn't recall ever feeling this badly, not even when he was young and Mycroft had to drag him to a hospital after an overdose. But this time, he was almost forty. It would take much longer for his body to recover from this. Being off his tits on hard drugs for weeks had dire consequences. He let out a long, pained breath through his nose, the beeping of the heart monitor the only sound he registered.

And yet, he could sense a presence at his bedside.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and there he was: Culverton Smith. He knew it. He knew his plan would work, and he knew what was to come next. This would be painful, and he dreaded it. But it had to be done. Culverton had to be stopped.

"You've been ages waking up," Smith said quietly. "I watched you. It's quite lovely, in its way."

Sherlock's insides rolled with repulsion. It reminded him of when Magnussen came into his hospital room, touching him while he was drugged, semi-conscious, and helpless. This felt eerily similar. Sherlock gulped.

Culverton continued in his slimy, soft voice, "Take it easy, it's okay. Don't want to rush this." He smiled, showing his discolored teeth. "You're Sherlock Holmes."

Despite this being part of the plan, Sherlock felt a ripple of anxiety course through his veins. He didn't want to be hurt. He hoped John would arrive soon. A small voice asked in his head if John would arrive at all, but he dismissed it. John will come. He has to.

Playing the game, Sherlock asked, voice hoarse from disuse, "How did you get in?"

Culverton looked pleased with himself. "Can't you guess?"

Sherlock didn't guess-he knew.

Culverton said, "Secret door. I built this whole wing. I can slip in and out anywhere I like, you know..." He paused, looking like he was struggling to control himself. "When I get the urge," he finished.

Sherlock kept quiet, but inside, he was satisfied. He was right. He wasn't crazy. He was still the genius detective. Still the detective that impressed John, his mind supplied, and Sherlock held back a wince. He had to stop thinking that. He had work to do. He couldn't get distracted. He couldn't think of John now. You always think of him, his treacherous brain taunted him.

Culverton was looking at him curiously. "Why are you here?" he asked, and seemed genuinely confused. "It's like you walked into my den and laid down in front of me."

Sherlock looked down. Part of it was to play the role, but another part, a part which frightened him, knew there was some truth to what he was about to say.

"Why?" Culverton pressed on.

Sherlock looked up, his heart heavy. "I want you to kill me."

Culverton walked closer to the bed, resting a gloved hand on one of the rails. "We can make it look like an accident. If you increase the dosage four or five times," he referred to the saline being shot into Sherlock's bloodstream, "it would knock you out in about a half hour. Then, I restore the settings. People would think you just gave up the ghost."

"Yes," Sherlock said. His ribs were aching. In his condition, giving up the ghost would have been completely believable.

Culverton took off his jacket. "Before we start, tell me how you feel."

Sherlock dealt with many killers in his life, but Culverton had to be among the most disgusting. The pure joy he got from his victims' suffering made Sherlock want to throttle him, but he had to stay still. He had to let Culverton hurt him, at least until John came. John would come. Right? What if he didn't?

"I feel scared," Sherlock admitted weakly.

Culverton scoffed, as if it were a ridiculous thing to say when about the face death. "Be more specific! You only get to do this once."

His heart started to beat faster, the beeps from the monitor quickening. "I'm...scared of dying." It was true. He was scared of the end. That was one of the reasons why, even now, when he was alone in the world without his best friend, he hadn't tried anything. He had to get Culverton behind bars, and that was his motivation throughout the past few weeks, but after this? If John did come for him, but was still angry, and still didn't want to talk...He didn't know what he would do. The situation was clawing at his heart, tearing him into bits, and it was unbearable. He told Faith-or his hallucination of Faith-that her life was not her own, but without John to look after him, who else would want Sherlock to stay alive? Mycroft? Mrs. Hudson? Mummy and Dad? They didn't matter. Not nearly as much as John. A horrifying question was at the forefront of his mind: would John care if he died?

Stop it, he's going to come! Sherlock scolded himself. His mind was in ruins.

Culverton rolled up his sleeves. "But you wanted this."

"I have reasons," Sherlock said vaguely.

"But you don't actually want to die."

"No," he said. But, was that true? "Yes. No."

Culverton looked delighted. "Oh, you're conflicted? I like that. I like that very much," he said softly. "You don't actually want to die, do you? But there's something that's making you miserable. I'd like to know what that is."

Sherlock swallowed again. The image of John, looking up at him with fury in his eyes as he held Mary's corpse, invaded his mind without warning, and he couldn't stop the deep, sorrowful frown from coming onto his face.

"Oh, there it is," Culverton said in wonder. "You're thinking of it, I can tell."

Sherlock's throat was tight. He felt ashamed.

"I want you to tell me," Culverton said playfully, leaning in. "I won't do it unless you tell me."

Sherlock's eyes darted around the room, as if looking for a way out, but he did this to himself.

"Is it that doctor fellow?"

Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut.

"It is," Culverton said in amusement. "But, is he why you want to live, or die?"

Tears stung behind Sherlock's eyelids. John turned his life around in a way no one else could. John was his conductor of light, his heart, his soul. He brought out the best in him, made Sherlock be a better man, better than he ever thought he could be. John was his favorite person.

John despised him.

Sherlock's jaw trembled. "I don't know," he confessed, voice small.

"Open your eyes for me."

Sherlock did, and to his mortification, his vision was blurry.

Culverton's smile widened. "Lovely. This is better than I thought it would be. You continue to surprise me, Mr. Holmes."

He needed to get the subject back to Culverton's crimes. "This isn't the only reason, or the main reason why I'm doing this. I needed to hear you confess. I needed to know I was right."

"Does it matter, though?" he asked. "You're right, but your little doctor thinks you're off your rocker. Don't you care about what he thinks?"

The question felt like a jab to his heart.

When he said nothing, Culverton chuckled quietly. "That's what I thought. But, why do you need to die? You could have proven yourself right in another way and offed yourself later."

Sherlock felt rattled, his insides cold. It hurt to have someone else know how he felt. "The mortuary-you talk to the dead."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes," Culverton nodded. "Very good."

"Why do you kill?"

"Oh, it's not out of hatred, or revenge. It just makes me…" he sighed in bliss, "incredibly happy."

Sherlock felt angry that this man was able to get away with murder for god-knows how long, only because of his money. This was the moment of irrefutable proof, though, that would be used against him once the police listened to the recording device in John's cane. Gotcha.

"But let's talk more about you," Culverton said. "That John Watson really means a lot to you." It wasn't a question.

"He does," Sherlock said quietly.

"You know each other a long time?"

"A few years, yes."

"You like having him around?"

"Yes."

How'd it feel when he beat you?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip and he looked away, turning his eyes to the wall. He was breathing heavily, and for once in his life, he wished he had listened to Mycroft. Caring was not an advantage, but he could not stop loving John even if he tried. Loving John was a part of him that could never be removed. Every breath he took was for John, in one way or another. But if John never wanted to see him again, was his life worth living? John saved him so many times and in so many ways. Without John, and the warmth and constancy of his friendship, Sherlock didn't know if he could survive. He had grown not only accustomed, but dependent to John's companionship. He remembered the look of pure awe John gave him when Angelo showed up to 221B with his cane, and then the look of hatred in his eyes as he stared down at Sherlock as he coughed up blood on the floor of the morgue. How did this happen? How did everything go so wrong between them?

Mary, his mind supplied.

"Well?" Culverton prompted. "How'd it feel? I saw it happen. Quite violent, wasn't it? I even felt sorry for you."

Sherlock still couldn't look at him. He wasn't sure if he ever felt this vulnerable in his entire life, physically and emotionally. "You know how it felt," he snapped.

"I want to hear you say it," Culverton whispered.

Sherlock's breath quivered, and it was difficult to keep his voice steady. "It-hurt."

"Tell me more."

"I didn't expect it."

"You thought he cared about you more."

He does care about me, a stubborn voice said. No, he doesn't, answered another. Sherlock let out a sigh in frustration. The auditory hallucinations from the drugs were not helping.

"Are you in love with him?" Culverton asked. "I wouldn't be surprised. I saw the way you were looking at him. It was quite sweet, really. Until you had a psychotic breakdown and he punched you in the face, that is."

Sherlock's jaw hurt from clenching it so tightly. He closed his eyes, feeling two tears escape the corners of his eyes. He cursed inwardly. He was completely broken. If someone told him a year ago, or even six months ago, that he would cry in front of a serial killer because he was in love with John, he would have scoffed. How far he had fallen.

"Lovely," Culverton marvelled. "Just lovely."

His face burned from humiliation, his body ached from John's blows and the drugs, and would ending it all really be that bad? He used to dream of being enveloped in John's arms, being held close after kisses. He never imagined John hurting him. But John was not in a good place, he remembered. He was depressed and it was because Sherlock's foolishness killed Mary. Sherlock didn't blame John, but it still hurt.

"Say it," Culverton urged. "Say how you feel about him."

Sherlock let out a small, shuddering gasp. He was so pathetic, crying in a hospital bed, obeying the will of his soon-to-be killer. "I love John."

"Say it again."

"I love John," his voice shook.

"Look at me."

Sherlock's head rolled on the pillow and he reluctantly looked up at Culverton.

Culverton unfastened his cuff links, getting ready. "Again."

"I love John," he said, voice rough and weak. His eyes burned from his tears. He fantasized about confessing his love before, but never like this. It was never supposed to be like this. "I love John," his voice broke with a sob, and he bit his lip and turned his face away again, weeping.

"This is the best night of my life," Culverton whispered, fingers twitching in anticipation. "None of the others were as fun as you."

Sherlock forced himself to stop crying, looking back at Culverton with quivering lips and wet cheeks.

"I'm getting impatient," Culverton said, and he raised his hands.

This is it, Sherlock thought with a spike of fear.

He placed one gloved hand over Sherlock's mouth, and the other over his nose, and pressed down hard. Sherlock's instincts flared and his hands flew to Culverton's hands, gripping them, his legs starting to kick and flail under the sheet. The latex was smothering him, his throat was so tight it hurt, and his chest was on fire. This was worse than he thought. His lungs were screaming for air as Culverton spoke to him.

"Bet you never thought you'd go out like this," he murmured, his eyes dancing with glee. "Did you think he would be there when you died? Did you think you'd die in his arms?"

The heart monitor was going wild, and Culverton's words would have stung more if Sherlock's brain weren't focused on trying to keep him alive.

"Thank you for this, Mr. Holmes," Culverton

Sherlock was panicking, writhing in the bed.

"Maintain eye contact," he commanded.

Sherlock struggled to look up at him.

"I like to watch it happen," he whispered.

All of the strength was being sucked out of Sherlock's limbs, and his hands fell weakly away from Culverton's hands and onto the bed. His vision was going black, his eyes closing on their own accord, the heart monitor giving one long, monotone beep.

Then, Culverton's hands were off him and Sherlock immediately started gasping for air. The heart monitor kicked up again as he gulped for oxygen. He never enjoyed breathing this much in his life. Sherlock put his hand over his heaving chest, heart pounding painfully, head fuzzy from lack of oxygen. It took his impaired brain a moment to register John grabbing Culverton.

"What were you doing?!" John asked furiously, eyes fierce, teeth bared, vein popping out of his forehead.

John, Sherlock collapsed back onto the pillow, unaware that he had even sat up. John came. He was right. John did care.

"He's in distress!" Culverton lied. "I was helping him."

John threw Culverton at the police officer standing in the doorway. "Restrain him now. Do it!" he barked.

Sherlock was taking in long breaths, relief coursing through his veins. John saved him. He was here.

"Sherlock, what was he doing to you?" John asked him.

Ah, right. The case. He had to prove Culverton was guilty. "Suffocating me," he voice came out weakly, "overdosing me." Speaking was difficult. He cleared his throat. He pointed to the direction of the IV drip, closing his eyes for a moment. Suffocation takes quite a toll on the body, doesn't it?

"Saline?" John asked in confusion.

He sat up on his elbow. "Yeah, saline. Got one of the nurses to switch the bags. She loves my blog," he said playfully. Maybe he was a little delirious from the suffocation. But he couldn't hide his pleasure of John being here, even if things were still so terribly wrong.

John was frowning. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock could have laughed at that, if it didn't require more oxygen. Was he okay? He felt like someone beat him with a baseball bat every day for weeks. "No, of course I'm not okay. Malnourished, double kidney failure, and frankly, I've been off my tits for weeks." He swallowed. And you despise me. The adrenaline was fading, and reality was returning. Focus. "What kind of doctor are you?" Sherlock asked, and it sounded light and teasing, but his ribs ached, and it felt like a genuine question. He settled back on the pillows. He was tired. "I got my confession, though."

"I don't recall making any confession," Culverton said. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, we found three potential recording devices in your coat."

Sherlock felt himself smile. "People always give up after the number three. Must be comforting." He looked at John.

"What?" he asked.

Sherlock smiled a little wider.

"What, what is it?" he asked, growing impatient.

Sherlock simply stared at him.

Then, something clicked in John's eyes, and he looked exasperated. "You cock."

Sherlock remembered the last time John called him that. It was when they were in the train car, right after he returned from the dead, right after John said, Yes, of course I forgive you. His heart clenched. "Yeah."

"You utter, utter cock."

Sherlock turned his face away, stretching, pretending to look disinterested. "Heard you the first time," he mumbled.

John walked over to his old cane, unscrewed the handle, and found the recording device. "Am I that predictable?" he asked.

Sherlock turned his head back. "No. I'm just a cock." No, I just know you better than anyone ever has or will, including Mary.

They stared at each other. John looked caught between being angry and amused.

Sherlock wished his anger would go away. He sighed deeply, his lungs finally feeling normal. He looked over at the police officer. "Well, are you going to take him away?"

The officer seemed to snap back to reality and took a devastated Culverton Smith away.

Mission accomplished. Sherlock closed his eyes, aware that John was still standing there. He remembered when John punched the chief superintendent in the face for insulting him. Now, he had to be knocking at Death's door for John to come help him. He desperately hoped John would want to rebuild their friendship after this, because if he didn't…

But you wanted this, Culverton had said to Sherlock as he prepared to murder him.

Sherlock shivered. He didn't know what he wanted anymore. He just didn't know.

He could hear footsteps approach the bed. "Sherlock?" John asked. "Do you…Are you in pain?"

More than you could know. He got quite dramatic when in a sour mood. "I think that goes without saying." He didn't open his eyes.

"Anything I could do?"

Don't leave me. "I imagine not. Everything must heal."

"And you'll stop doing drugs," John said firmly.

The glimpse of old, protective John made him feel nostalgic. "Obviously. The case is over." And you're back.

"You know that's not how it works," he said. "You're probably going to go through hell with withdrawal."

"I'm aware," he said woodenly, dreading it. "But I don't want to use anymore."

"All right. Good." He heard John sigh. "Do you want to rest?"

Oh no. "I'm quite tired."

"Yeah, I bet. Well, I'll just go-"

No! "Wait," Sherlock opened his eyes.

John looked at him, eyebrow raised.

He had no idea what to say. Well, no, he had a million things to say, but he knew John wanted to hear none of them. He had to lie. "I'm thirsty from the suffocation. Would you get me a water bottle from the machine down the hall?"

To his surprise, John's features actually softened by a fraction. "Oh, right. Yeah, sure. I'll be right back."

"Thank you," flashed him a grin.

John left the room.

Sherlock put his face in his hands. I love John, he had cried to a serial killer barely ten minutes ago. He lifted his head. He couldn't lose his composure now. John was coming back. The tears stinging his eyes didn't care. He wiped at his eyes roughly, then wiped the tears on the back of his hand onto the sheet.

John came back inside with a water bottle in his hand. "Here you go," he held it out to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it and unscrewed the cap, drinking it quickly. Drinking was something to do other than crying. The water did feel nice, though.

He heard John give a small snort. "You really are thirsty." He cleared his throat. "I'm going to go now-"

Sherlock looked at him, lips frozen. He swallowed the water in his mouth.

"-and pick up Rosie," John finished.

Oh, right. Of course. He didn't need John to tell him that he and Rosie had been spending most days apart since Mary's death. This was a good sign, though. "That's nice," Sherlock said, lowering the bottle.

John cleared his throat again, looking a little uncomfortable, and perhaps guilty. "Yeah, um, yeah." He looked at Sherlock, and his shoulders lowered with a sigh. "Just try not to get yourself killed while I'm gone, okay?"

Sherlock nodded, looking down at his lap. He was selfish. He wanted John to stay here with him instead of with his daughter. That wasn't right.

"See you later," John said awkwardly, and walked out of the room.

Sherlock put the bottle on the floor next to the bed, turned on his side, and let his tears loose. His sobs drowned out the beeping heart monitor.