This was not supposed to happen.

Sherlock wandered his way through the streets of London. Nothing around him was getting in; he was completely focused on the alley. It had only been an hour ago, one dark, chill hour.

The images consumed him again: John slumped against a brick wall with crimson trailing between his fingers, the color drained from his face. The assailant ran off, leaving Sherlock dumbfounded in his wake. The sight made Sherlock's breath catch in his lungs and sent a chill down his spine. Even now, as he recalled it, he still felt that chill snaking under his skin. His heart clenched in his chest.

John.

His mobile chimed. Sherlock walked on, ignoring it. Lestrade had already lectured him about going off on his own. He didn't need any more reminders right now. He knew it was his own fault. If he hadn't dragged John along, if he had really just thought about what he was doing, none of this would of happened.

But it had. He had caused John pain, and he felt guilty. He did not want to go to the hospital, because he did not want to admit to his guilt. Going to the hospital would make it real.

Sherlock stopped walking. It was already real.

John had become part of a crime scene, and he had helped to create it. No matter how much he tried to rid himself of the horrible images in his mind, he could not ignore the fact that he was the cause. To make it worse, he had left the scene after the ambulance arrived. He had left John, because he could not handle the emotions coursing through him.

He hailed a cab. He would not leave John alone again. As much as he wanted to run from the guilt, he would not abandon him again this night.

"Sherlock, for God's sake, I'm all right," John said as his flatmate helped him out of his coat. They had just taken the slow climb up to their flat after a long and silent cab ride. Sherlock had not spoken a word, and John had not felt the need to push him until now.

"You were stabbed, John, and if it hadn't been for my miscalculation, you would not have been." After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock added three quiet words. "I was careless."

"What miscalculation?" John asked as he sat on the sofa. His hand strayed to the spot bellow his heart where the blade had slashed through his skin to grate against bone before finding a gap between the ribs. The wound had looked vicious enough, but it was neither deep nor serious.

Sherlock stood at the window, gazing down at the street below. "I should not have lowered my guard. I should have better anticipated his movements."

"Sherlock–"

"I'm sorry, John." He did not turn. He had avoided eye contact with John since his arrival at the hospital. "My error caused you to get hurt, and I am sorry."

Silence fell over the room, broken only by the lazy tap of rain beginning to beat against the window. Sherlock watched it strike the pane with blank eyes, eyes that relived the scene in the alley. Eyes that watched a knife plunge into his doctor...

"Sherlock, it's ok."

Sherlock turned. The John before him was not the John slumped in the alley. The John before him was not losing blood and turning pale, fading before his eyes. This John was very much alive and smiling warmly.

"It's ok," John said again, softly. "I know the risks of gallivanting after murder suspects in the streets at night. It wasn't your fault."

Those words. Though he wanted to deny John's words, Sherlock's mind was finally being cleared of the alley and its cold and grim memory. In its place, he felt warmth and normalcy. He stared at John, those four, simple words echoing inside his head: It wasn't your fault.

How could he get away with this? They both knew Sherlock had led them down that alley, which was an obvious trap. It was very much his fault. Yet, when John said those four words, they were the irrevocable truth.

John's brow furrowed. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock averted his eyes. "Yes, I suppose I should be thankful you weren't hurt more seriously."

"That goes for both of us," John added.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, I guess I'll get back to work." He walked toward the kitchen.

"Sherlock," John said. "It really wasn't your fault."

Sherlock did not look back, but, for the first time since the incident, he smiled. "Thank you, John."