John woke up handcuffed to a hospital bed with a headache, a couple very sore ribs, and a feeling of despair. It was only the handcuffs that were hard to justify and even then it only took a moment to think it through with a mind foggy on pain medication. Of course he was cuffed. That's what people did to criminals who murdered their girlfriends. He smiled, unable to keep the laugh from his lips. At some point in his life he must have reallypissed God off. He opened his eyes at his own hysterics, trying to bite his lips closed as he wished not only to stop laughing but not to cry.

"Ay, there we go. John?"

John sobered quickly at the familiar voice, his hand jumping in its metal tie. It'd been years. "God, you got old," he muttered, trying to cover for his behavior via the least effective means possible.

Lestrade laughed, crossing over to his bed past a pulled curtain that separated John's side from his neighbor's. "Good to see you too." He stood at his side, that weary smile of hard days gone by more inflected with the worry of others on their way. "You know, Kevlar's only good at stopping bullets. It can't do much for you if you smash your noggin on the floor when you're knocked back. Oh and, uh... sorry about the... well. You know. Mycroft said you might need to be restrained so you can blame him for this, not me. Just... following orders."

"Restrained? You tell him John says go fuck yourself." John winced, speaking faster than his mind could keep up, saying stupid things. "No.. sorry. Don't... tell him that."

"Well, I might do anyway. I'll just tell him it's from me." Lestrade smiled as he pulled up a chair, taking a seat on the arm to keep on even level. "So... you want a friend to visit or you want to get talking to the Detective Inspector out of the way first?"

John swallowed, his mouth dry beyond belief. He closed his eyes, still feeling tears far too close to the surface to be okay with. He took a few breaths, thinking of his training. Soldiers don't cry on the battle field. "I killed her. I.. shot her. It wasn't self defense but she was going to shoot someone else-oh God, she did." He tried to pull his hand to his mouth but clanged against the bed's rack. He used the other hand.

Lestrade grabbed a large, plastic cup of water sitting to the side and handed it to him. "You didn't kill her. And that part of the story's already been explained. You don't have to answer any questions, really. I just... This isn't the interrogation part of the job, John. This is the breaking it to the family part."

Sherlock. John took a long sip from the straw of the cup, pleased with the cool water and the way it shocked his senses. He had hesitated too long. Mary got her shot off. He'd failed to save him. Again.

It hurt like dying. Again. Worse because he'd been right there. Had he not hit his head, he might even have been able to hold him, apologize, tell him thank you for trying.

"It wasn't you who did the shooting but... it is Mary, John. Don't even need ballistics to determine who done it. Completely different model from yours, matched the smashed up slug that dented up that vest of yours. I'm.. real sorry, John."

John stared at him, the jug of water feeling heavier in his hand. "Sh-... Sherlock?"

Lestrade shook his head, standing from his perch to walk across the room. "Now this I can't believe you managed to hide from us. I mean... how?" He pulled the cloth divider down its track, revealing not all but most of the other occupant, his pale skin against the white bedding, dark curls across the pillow, machines showing good readings and plenty of morphine pumping into his veins.

"Guess that's the good news. It was him who called me. Swear to you, I thought he was speaking from the other side till we pulled up and.. well, Christ, John. Never been so scared to have a dead man die before. He'll be asleep a while. Just out of surgery. Going to be just fine, though. Impossible bastard."

John slumped against his pillow, eyes glued to the peacefully resting face in the other bed.

And he feinted.

Thus concludes Pantomime. Thank you very much for reading, especially those who have reviewed—many hearts for all. I intend to write more in this timeline but do not have any solid ideas as of yet. I hope you're not too terribly confused or upset but, of course, Mary Morstan dies before Sherlock's return in the short stories so for me, she had to be gone for him to really come home.

Please let me know what you thought in the review section. It helps me get an idea if there's any desire for more in this series.

~Niko