John's words hit Sherlock hard, like a cold slap to the face. Not in terms of cruelty, but in terms of the sheer love and kindness that both he and Mary had for the detective that didn't expect anyone to be his best friend. A long time ago, when John jumped on Moriarty, Sherlock had been so shocked and floored he'd paced back and forth for a minute, scratching his head with a loaded gun.

But now, years later, he had a flash of John jumping in front of him to take a bullet, instead of Mary. He gripped the sock he was holding tighter and a choking breath escaped him as he shook his head. He would have really gone off the deep end if that happened. Not that he wanted Mary to die. The feelings were conflicting and made him feel a little worse. He didn't want any of them to die, and certainly not for him, a man who hardly deserved anything, much less their friendship.

"I should have played with her, like she asked," Sherlock looked up at John, his normally icy blue eyes, wet and reddened.