The Return

Disclaimer: This is a purely fan-made piece that is using the world and characters from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes and Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC's Sherlock, and is made entirely for enjoyment. No financial gain has been made in the making of this piece. All situations, plots, and other parts have been constructed by me and are my own creations

Summary: "Now John, while I agree that is an appropriate response—" Mycroft started to say, but John spun and punched him in the nose, as hard as he could.

Post-Reichenbach. A retelling of 'The Empty House'.

Author's Note: I have not seen any of season three yet—it's to be my reward when I finish this! Any discrepancies that occur are due to that. Possible out-of characterness. Un-beta'd and written by a non-British person.

Constructive Criticism is always welcomed

Published: 17 January 2014

Rating: T

John was in no mood for the dark car with tinted windows as it rolled up to the curb and stopped right next to him. He'd had three children vomit on him, half his staff out with the exact same stomach bug, two abysses that had to be lanced, patients that didn't seem to grasp that they had to change their habits if they wanted to be healthy, and far too many screaming, squirming babies that needed shots. It was also approaching the thirty-eight month mark for Sherlock and had just passed the fourteenth month mark for Mary. On top of all that, Rachel had gotten a little shirty with him that morning and John was starting to think perhaps it was too soon after Mary; he was also beginning to think they needed to have a conversation about where the relationship was going because he doubted his vision was the same as hers and it might be for the best if they both just cut their losses and that always made for a great day. If Mycroft Holmes wanted something, he was shit out of luck today.

The door opened and Anthea and one of Mycroft's hulking goons stepped out, the goon holding the door open. She smiled at him, looking slightly less distracted with her mobile than usual. "John."

He ignored her and kept walking. He was through with hopping into cars at Mycroft's demand; he had put up with it before, but now that Sherlock…now that he was alone, he wasn't going do that.

"John Watson!"

"Go tell your boss if he wants to talk to me," he snapped over his shoulder, not slowing down, "that he can call me like everyone else. I have better things to be doing than catering to his whims." He was going have a pint with Greg down pub and then he was going to go over to Rachel's and maybe have that conversation with her. He wasn't going to sit around while Mycroft dragged him off to whatever god-forsaken spot for whatever god-forsaken reason.

The burly minion caught up with him easily as the car glided in front of him, preventing him from stalking straight across the street. "Dr Watson, I'm going to have to request that you come with us."

"Telly Mycroft he can go bugger himself!" John snapped back. "I'm not going."

Anthea glanced up from her screen. "You'll want to."

He snorted. "No, I won't."

She tapped a few more things on her mobile. "I really think you will."

John's mobile buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the text message.

Please get into the car. Unknown number.

John shoved the offending piece of technology back into his pocket disgustedly before stiffly marching passed the goon and sat down on the Italian leather seats, back rigid. He didn't try to make any small talk during the drive and glared straight ahead. He thought he was passed all this.

"Am I at least allowed to talk in this place?" He snapped at the oversized crony as he got out before the other man could try to open the door for him.

The man must have heard stories about that little incident because the corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "You are."

"Good." John muttered and stomped inside.

He was led to the garden in the back. He could see a pavilion overlooking a well-tended pond over the rolling green, so he stamped over to it, fighting to hold on to his sour anger in such a lovely setting. Damn Mycroft for doing that!

"What do you want, Mycroft?" He asked crossly as he climbed the steps to the pavilion. "Because I'm not in the mood for it, whatever it is."

Mycroft looked up from his tea. "John." He gestured. "Have a seat."

"I don't think so."

Mycroft's face was unusually sombre. "I really think you want to be sitting."

John exploded. "What? What is with you all today, telling me what I want? Telling me I want to be sitting, telling me that I want to come, telling me I shouldn't be—"

"Trust me on this."

"No, thank you. I'd prefer to stand."

Much to John's surprise, Mycroft's expression got graver. "Please."

Mycroft disliked the word 'please' immensely and now he had just used it twice in the space of a day. John looked at him suspiciously. "What's going on?" When Mycroft didn't answer immediately, he leaned forwards. "I'm no genius, but I know something is up and I want to know what it is, right now."

"Oh, come now, John! Use your eyes! The answer is right in front of you!"

The earth stopped rotating and the whole world fell silent. John struggled to pull air into his tight chest and his nostrils flared with the effort. A tremor started in his hands.

Someone was talking, pointing out random little details, but the words were getting lost in the static that was filling John's ears as he turned slowly, grabbing the back of a chair for support because he wasn't sure his leg were going to hold him up for much longer. He didn't dare blink and a small part of him wondered if he'd been exposed to some sort of hallucinogen because there was no way that Sherlock bloody Holmes was sitting on the pavilion railing, rambling on like he always did, deducing like he used to.

"What kind of fucking sick joke is this, Mycroft?" John's voice shook slightly.

The…person on the rail broke off midsentence and looked at John. "It's not a joke, John," he said in a surprisingly gentle voice after moment of close scrutiny. "You know that Mycroft doesn't have a sense of humour."

"Sherlock, please do us all a favour and shut your mouth." Mycroft didn't take his eyes off of the doctor.

"I got tired of waiting for you to get to the point," he said petulantly andhe got up, just like Sherlock used to. He walked towards John, a small smile flickering on his lips—that smile how long had it been since he'd seen it so fucking familiar—the smallest hints of insecurity in those intense eyes. "Hullo John, I've mi—"

John's fist made very solid contact with the side of the person's face and he hit the ground, surprise written all over him.

"Now John, while I agree that is an appropriate response—" Mycroft started to say, but John spun and punched him in the nose, as hard as he could. Mycroft and his chair went tumbling backwards.

Then—because there was blood and it was spreading around his face and why oh why had he done that why did he make John watch that—John marched away as steadily as he could, his heart clogging his throat as it tried to claw its way out of his body and his hands shaking badly.

The person called out 'John!', sounding a little lost and very desperate, followed very quickly by the noises of a scuffle. John didn't look back.

He marched passed the dark car and ignored the brute that was holding the door open and passed the woman who looked up from her mobile with pity on her face, right down the lane to the street. He didn't care where he was going; all he knew was he needed as much distance between him and that moment as he possibly could.

His pocket started buzzing incessantly and he yanked his mobile out and resisted the urge to throw it to the ground and stomp the living hell out of it. Instead, he ignored the messages and viciously jabbed the power button before shoving it back into his pocket. Then he set a brisk pace down the street.

An hour and a few tube rides later, John found himself in a dark corner of a pub, staring at a pint. He didn't know if it was second or his seventh and he didn't care. His brain kept returning to that moment and looping it over and over again.

God. Sherlock, sitting there. God.

"You know, I started to panic a little bit when you don't show up and then I get calls from both Rachel and that pompous git about you." John lifted his eyes slightly as Greg sat down next to him. "And then your mobile's off so I have to listen to that bastard as to where you might be. I hate it when I have to do that and he's spot-on." Greg studied him for a moment. "But now I think I was right to be worried. What's wrong?"

John snorted slightly. He didn't even know where to begin. He returned to staring at the brown liquid.

"Seriously, you look terrible. What happened?"

That question was easy enough to answer. "Sherlock."

"Sherlock?" Greg sounded surprised and confused. "How—"

"He's not dead."

He got very still. "What?"

"I saw him. He was just sitting there and acting like nothing had happened, like the past thirty-eight months haven't happened, like that—that whole thing didn't happen!" John slammed his fist down on the bar and felt his throat get tight again. He buried his face in his hand. "Like he never jumped, like he never made me watch that…"

"Shit." The D.I. muttered. "Shit. He's not…he made us go through all that and he's not…the bloody bastard." He ordered something hard and slammed it back.

They both sat in silence for a moment, then Greg finally said "did he at least tell you why?"

John shook his head minutely. "I didn't stay to listen. I…I couldn't. I just punched him and Mycroft and left."

"I hope you broke something," the other man said darkly. "God. The arse. And his fucking brother. I'll bet that arrogant dick was in on it from the beginning. I send that smarmy shit a sympathy card because I was too upset about everything to go to the damn funeral! The fucker probably knew the entire damn time and just sat there and watched us. Jesus." He ordered another drink.

They both sat in silence. Greg finally glanced up from the little bit of liquor he'd been swirling at the bottom of his glass. "You should call Rachel and let her know you're alive. As for Mycroft, he can go rot in hell, him and his prat brother!"

Rachel…John hadn't even thought about her. She probably had worked herself into a tizzy, especially if she had called Greg. He didn't want to talk to her, but she, at least, deserved to know he wasn't bleeding in a gutter somewhere.

Reluctantly, he pulled out his mobile and turned it back on. It buzzed. You have: 19 new voice mails: 85 missed calls: 337 new messages. He couldn't deal with the messages, so he simply pulled up Rachel's information and texted her that he was fine (lie), nothing was wrong (lie), and he'd talk to her later (true).

He'd barely finished sending the message when his phone vibrated. Unknown number. John? was all the text said and he deleted the text and all the unasked questions and pain that it carried before turning his mobile off angrily, before Rachel could call him or Sherlock could text him again.

Greg had a look on his face that said he knew exactly who had sent that text. "Look—" he started to say and then his pocket rang. He pulled out his mobile and grimaced a little bit. "It's Rachel," he said. "Do you want me to send it to voice mail?"

"I don't care. I just…I can't talk to her right now."

He nodded slowly. "All right." He answered the phone. "Hi, Rachel, we're—no, it's off." Pause. "Look it, he's—no, I'm not going to give him my mobile. His is off for a reason. No, it's not because of you. It should be, but it isn't. Just—" Pause. "You know what? I don't care. We've both had a shit day and his has been worse than mine. He'll talk to you later." He followed John's example and turned it off before it could ring again, mouthing a rather unflattering word about John's girlfriend. John decided he'd pretend he didn't see that.

Greg sighed and ran his hand through his hair before looking over. "You know she's going to be parked outside of your flat now. If you want…you can use that pull out at my place for the night."

"I…thank you. Yes." John couldn't handle Rachel on top of dealing with the Sherlock drama right now; he simply didn't have it in him. Not tonight, not after today.

The D.I. patted his shoulder awkwardly. "Not a problem. It's the least I can do. Now," he said, getting very business-like. "I don't know about you, but I think I'm going to get completely drunk. I recommend you do the same." He waved for a new drink.

"I'm not sure that I'm not. Fucking Sherlock."

"I'll drink to that. Fuck you, Sherlock, you goddamn bloody wanker!" Greg lifted his glass and tossed it back.

John followed suit. "Fuck you for doing this to us. To me."

"Fuck Mycroft. And their entire damn family."

"Fuck them all!"

Greg looked at his empty glass. "We're going to need more alcohol."

John nodded. "Lots more. We have a lot of cursing to do."

xXxXxXxXxXx

The next morning was unpleasant. The hangover only seemed to compound the burning ache in John's chest; how could Sherlock do this to him? How could he think that it was okay? How could he think John would be fine with this all?

He called in to work and once the nausea passed, borrowed an old police tracksuit from Greg and washed the stench of alcohol out of his clothes.

While he waited, he took a deep breath, and turned on his mobile. He discovered that he blown far passed his data limit for his plan and wondered darkly how he could stick either one of the Holmes brothers with the bill. Most of the voice mails and calls belonged to Rachel—nearly all of those of worried and of increasing annoyance—and most of the texts belonged to Sherlock, the vast majority of them simple pleas for a response, for acknowledgement, for maybe even forgiveness in the form of his name. He deleted them all.

Greg looked up from his mobile when John came back into the kitchen. "Double homicide," he said. "And it seems that our usual medical examiner is sick; want to be the alternate today?" The unspoken part of 'no-one will know you're there and it'll give you something to do' hung between them.

John shrugged. "Sure; just let me get dressed." He hadn't been called into a crime scene for a while, but he appreciated the fact that Greg had managed to keep him on as the occasional consultant; it used to make him feel closer to Sherlock.

He pushed that thought away viciously.

Sergeant Donovan's face contorted slightly when she saw John, but she forced out a pitying smile and greeted him. She never understood how John could stand by Sherlock before the whole Moriarty thing and she certainly didn't understand John's conviction of Sherlock's innocence after. She also thought that grief had an obvious timeline and he wasn't on it, for Sherlock or Mary.

It was a fairly straight-forwards crime; the usual husband stabbing the wife and then turning the blade onto himself. John had just finished estimating time of death and ignoring Donovan's snide little comments she made when Greg was out of earshot when there was loud shriek.

"Sylvester!" Donovan cried the same moment Greg said "was that Anderson?"

Outside, Anderson was standing, shaking violently and white. He stared and his breathing came in short gasps. His jaw moved loosely, but couldn't seem to close.

"Sylvester! Are you—" Donovan raced up and her face changed. She screamed, stumbling back a few steps, her hand coming up over her mouth.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm glad to see the two of you have made it, especially after Anderson's rather messy divorce. Some of the thrill's gone, though, hasn't it."

Greg waved off the officers that were swarming out from every corner of the crime scene. "It's fine! Go back to what you were doing! And you!" He spun on Sherlock, who was still standing on the other side of the tape. "What are you doing here?" He didn't bother to mask the hostility and anger.

"I was in the area and heard there was a crime scene." Sherlock stated it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And I need to speak to John." His smile was decidedly shyer as he glanced behind the D.I.'s shoulder. "Hullo, John."

Greg shifted slightly, obviously trying to shield John from Sherlock's gaze. "A little late for that, don't you think?"

"You're alive!" Anderson blurted out.

"You knew about this?" Donovan managed to rip her eyes away from Sherlock to stare at Greg.

"Obviously. I see you haven't gotten any sharper these past years. And of course Lestrade knows; John told him last night after he found out." Sherlock's gaze didn't waiver from John.

"Well, dead or alive, you're a still wanted criminal!" Donovan started forwards.

He rolled his eyes and pulled a newspaper out of his pocket. "Do try to keep up with current events, Donovan." He tossed it into her chest. "It'll make you seem smarter than you really are."

She glared at him, but unrolled the paper and turned. "'Holmes Takes Down Criminal Network: Famous detective not a fraud!" Her face bore the same expression that it would have when someone insulted her grandmother. "What is this bollock!"

Sherlock ignored her, attention back on the doctor. "Remember Kitty Riley? I gave that exclusive to her up-and-coming rival."

John felt a small, vicious, vindictive stab of pleasure knowing that Kitty Riley's career had taken a fairly serious hit and he knew that Sherlock had seen caught that. The consulting detective's smile got a little less shy and a little bit warmer. John's chest ached at the sight.

"He's busy and can't talk right now," Greg snapped. "And, for that matter, neither can I. Go away."

John could see Sherlock getting ready to say something that probably would damage things further and while it was nice of Greg to try and protect him, John didn't need defending. "I'm working," he said shortly, and everyone turned to look at him.

"What about when you're done?" Sherlock looked like a hopeful puppy.

"We'll see how I feel when I get to that point." He didn't try to soften his tone. He spun sharply on his toes. "Come on, Greg. Crime scene isn't getting any fresher."

"I'll be out here!" Sherlock called out, trying for cheerful and failing miserably.

"Bloody git," the D.I. muttered as they walked back inside. "Make him stew, okay? You're the only one who can."

John snorted, but didn't say anything. He was getting to the point he couldn't decide if he wanted to be angry, hurt, or happy and he didn't like it. He also was unhappy with the little part of him that had already forgiven Sherlock and was humming merrily because his prayer had been answered.

He took his time at the scene and Greg happily helped out, asking all sorts of ridiculous questions and sending him on pointless, time-consuming little errands. Donovan ended up reading the article out loud at the scene because she got tired of everyone asking her for details and that killed a nice chunk of time as well.

Finally, John felt he had put it off long enough and he signed the last bit of paperwork. With Greg's good wishes, he headed outside.

Sherlock had obviously pacing irritably, but he stopped the moment he spotted the doctor. The hopeful and nervous way he stood by the tape as he waited for John reminded him of the only time Sherlock had actually apologising to him. It made it all the harder to hold on to his annoyance.

John nodded his thanks to the officer that lifted the tape for him to duck under before he stopped in front of Sherlock. He looked at the taller man for a moment. "Right," he finally said. "Let's get this out of the way." He started walking. Sherlock could stand to run after him for once.

"How have things been at the hospital?" Sherlock asked, catching up with disgusting ease. "I can see they've been busy; it must be hard to keep up your relationship with all the extra shifts you've been picking up."

"Don't even start. If you're going to talk, you are going to talk about the things that led up to the last three years and what the hell you've been doing in that time!"

"I know Donovan read the article to you—"

"I don't care about the article! You are going to tell me yourself and if you don't, I'll break your jaw. As it is, you're going to end up with another bruise on your face, so start talking."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. Then, quietly, he said "I had to have a back-up plan. I had found the loophole in his plot, but…there were still ways he could enact it. If I could…if I could disappear, if nobody thought to look for me, I would have a chance in stopping not only him but his whole network. I could save lives. It had to be believable. So, with Mycroft and Molly's help—"

"Molly? Molly Hooper? She knew?" John turned and stared in disbelief. That certainly explained why she'd put distance between the two of them as well as the expression she always had on her face whenever she saw him. It also explained while she obviously liked Greg's clumsy attempts to flirt with her and returned his interest, why she always put him off.

Then the anger hit. "You could trust Molly and Mycroft with this, but you couldn't trust me? What the hell, Sherlock!"

"You would've wanted to come!" Sherlock shot back, just as quickly. "And I couldn't risk you again! Besides, who would have believed in my death if you didn't?" In a more composed tone, he continued. "If you obviously thought I was gone…more people would take it as true and you would be safe. Nobody would go after you. I needed Molly because she's invisible—"

"Don't you talk about her like that and you still haven't—"

"Those were her words, not mine, and of course you don't think she is! You're the exception; you've always been the exception!" His teeth clicked shut, as if he didn't mean to say the last part out loud. After a few moments where John tried to read his face, he continued. "So with Mycroft and Molly's help, I disappeared. I went after his network all around the world. I only have his right-hand man left, and he's here in London."

"And…?" John prompted after a few moments of silence.

"And what, John?"

"For fuck's sake, Sherlock! I've spent the last thirty-eight months thinking you were dead while you were off dashing 'round the world! I could barely function those first few months! I deserve more than five sentences, especially since none of those sentences included an apology! And I don't care if you think you don't do apologises; after what you've put me through, you had better learn how fast!"

"Honestly John, you always knew that there was the potential for death. We can't be in this business and not—"

"You made me watch!"

Dead silence followed.

In a quieter voice, John said "you made me watch as you jumped off of a building. I could forgive you lying in the end, I could forgive your death, I could even forgive your suicide, but you made me watch. You wouldn't let me go someplace where I couldn't see that. You made me watch, you made me see you there…" He took a shaky breath and closed his eyes.

"John…" Sherlock said softly, hesitantly.

He opened his eyes and saw Sherlock's hand hovering awkwardly in the space between them, like it wanted to touch him but didn't know how. "What part of your grand plan would have been ruined if I didn't see that? What was so bloody important that you had to put me through that? Because that went beyond cruelty, Sherlock, way beyond!"

For the first time ever, John saw Sherlock at a loss as to what to say. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but couldn't seem to find words.

Finally, he whispered "I had underestimated what lengths he would go to destroy me. He…if they did not get word from him or they did not see my death, all three of them were ordered to open fire. And they would have. I was afraid it would come to that, which is why I planned for my death, but I had hoped it wouldn't. But he…Mrs Hudson, Lestrade…they all would have been shot and killed."

"That's two. You said three." John pointed out after a moment, not entirely sure he was ready for this.

Sherlock reached out and this time, his hand made contact, delicately brushing John's cheek until it was being gently cradled. "I couldn't survive your demise. I could survive anything else, but not that. You've always been the tougher of the two of us; I knew my death would hurt you, but you'd survive. You would learn to live again because you're strong enough. I'm not. I would have killed him with my bare hands and then I would have gone and climbed into a heroine haze that I would never leave in an attempt to stop feeling. If I could keep you alive…I would do anything." The last few words were breathed across John's mouth and that was when John realised how close Sherlock had gotten to him.

He should step back, he should be angry, he should do just about anything but stand there, but he didn't move. He wasn't even sure that he wanted to.

Sherlock rested his forehead against John's and shifted his hand so it supported the base of his skull. "And knowing you were alive keep me going," he murmured in the small space between them. "Far beyond anything else. I just had to remind myself that the sooner that I took care of his network, the sooner I could go home to my John. You could be angry at me, you could be hurt, but you would be alive. I didn't think that you would see my jump as cruelty; I wanted you to be angry because if you were angry, you wouldn't miss me as much. It would speed up your grieving process. I didn't realise how strong and unflappable your faith was in me. For that, I apologise."

John shut his eyes again against the prickles he could feel in the back of his eyeballs. He took a couple of deep breathes to steady himself and Sherlock's scent curled up in his lungs like a contented cat. He clenched his fists to stop them from shaking or from reaching out.

Sherlock spoke again, voice even softer and more intimate. "I missed you. I missed having you by my side and knowing that you had my back. I missed your sturdiness and dependability. I missed how easy you made it to think and organise my thought. I missed the ease which you dealt with people and how you could either reassure or intimidate. I missed your smile and that tick you always got when you were annoyed. I missed the happiness that your presence always brought me. I missed having you in my life. If you could forgive me, I want to have you back in it. Say that you will."

The hand at the back of John's neck tilted his head back a little more and Sherlock's breath washed over his lips again, hotter this time. "Say you'll let me back into your life."

"John?!"

He bit back a groan and didn't want to think about what the scene looked like, nor did he want to know how Rachel had found him. With casualness he didn't feel, he stepped away from Sherlock and tried to ignore the fact that the taller man let his fingers linger on the back of his neck. "Rachel," he acknowledged.

She looked at the two of them with barely contained hostility. "What the hell, John?! You've been blowing me off and then I find you getting all cosy with some bloke? Did you decide that you weren't being enough of a prick on your own and had to go find another one?"

"This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes," the doctor said when she paused to take a breath. "Sherlock, this is Rachel."

"Friend? Is that what we're calling it these days? I always knew there was something wrong—"

"Things haven't been going well at work, have they?" Sherlock broke in suddenly. "There's been some friction between you and the other secretaries—"

"Administrative assistants," Rachel corrected tightly.

He, of course, ignored her. "—And that's been due to the fact that one of the higher ups has started to employ seduction techniques on you. Despite the fact you're reluctant to get involved with someone who has the power to lead to the termination of your employment there, you're considering it. He'll treat you in a way you're more accustomed to being treated."

John started at Sherlock and Rachel's face started losing colour.

"John treats you better than anyone you've ever dated," Sherlock said and took a step forwards. "And that scares you. It scares you so much that you're willing to sabotage the relationship by cheating with that man from work so he'll break it off with you and you'll be able to tell yourself that he wasn't all that different, even though you know he's the best you'll ever see. I believe the phrase is 'out of your league' and it's never been truer than it is here. He's so far out of yours that he's not even in the same kingdom." He drew himself up neatly and looked down his nose at her. "You like being the victim so you let yourself end up in destructive situations."

"How…what…go to hell!" She finally shrieked a few stuttering moments later. "You don't know anything!" She turned and tried to stomp away.

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock, did you have to do that?"

The taller man snorted. "She deserved it. She knows she's with a wonderful person and she was about to throw it all away."

John sighed. "Look it, I'm going to go talk to her. I'm not through with you, so don't think you're off the hook yet, all right? I'll call you later."

"You should get rid of her," Sherlock observed sourly. "She's not worth it. She's causing you too much stress."

"I'll call you later," the doctor repeated a little more firmly. "I'll talk to you then."

As he turned, he caught Sherlock making a short, aborted gesture like he wanted to catch John's arm and stop him from going. He couldn't think about what that meant, not now. He had to talk to Rachel first.

Still, it warmed something inside of him that had been cold for far too long.

xXxXxXxXxXx

Rachel managed to make it back to her flat before the floodgate opened. She ranted, raved, railed, pointed fingers, and laid blame down like it was the law. John gritted his teeth and tried to get a word in edgewise, because he was tired. The small part of him he was desperately trying to ignore kept pointing out the sooner he dealt with Rachel, the sooner he could go back to Sherlock.

He thought he was actually doing a good job of holding his temper back and not throttling her until she made two snide comments—one about Sherlock and one about the grieving process—when he had enough. When she paused to take a breath, he interrupted her tirade about how emotionally unavailable he was and said "you know, you're right."

She blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"I said 'you're right'. I'm not ready to be in a relationship yet, not so soon after Mary. Thank you for making that clear to me. I'm sorry that I put you through all that."

She stared at him. "What are you doing?"

He continued to the door. "It's not fair to you, being held back by someone who isn't ready to appreciate what you have to offer." He glanced over his shoulder at her gobsmacked face. "I'm sorry I couldn't be what you wanted. I hope you find someone who appreciates you. Perhaps your boss will treat you in the manner you deserve."

"You're breaking up with me?!" She couldn't seem to wrap her head around it. John decided he wouldn't be surprised if, despite Sherlock's deduction, she expected him to hang around her neck like a stone until she decided to cut him loose, not the other way around.

"It's obvious that I cannot give you want you want, so I'm not going to force you to stay. Goodbye, Rachel. Best of luck." Then, before she could say anything more, he left.

He felt…lighter as he walked away. Goddamn it, Sherlock had been right; she had been causing more stress than she was worth. Fucking wanker. Fucking goddamn genius wanker.

He debated what he should do. The small part of him was gathering support and telling him to get a hold of Sherlock. Call him so John could hear his voice again. Text him because Sherlock preferred texting. Just go back to Baker Street and see if he was there and then John could see him again.

He made himself pause and take a deep breath; he was still mad at the bastard. He wasn't just going to pretend the last three years didn't happen! And he was not just going to forgive the man like that.

God, who was he kidding? He had practically already forgiven Sherlock. Even when Sherlock deserved his wrath—like now—he never could seem to stay angry at him for long. He should really work on that. Sherlock could do with some time to reflect on why John was unhappy with him.

But wasn't that what he'd been doing all night? He had actually waited for John and didn't demand to come on to the crime scene to speed things up, something the doctor wasn't sure that the man would have done before. Sherlock wasn't a patient man, and yet he had tried to give John the space he needed to come to terms with things.

Damn it, he was giving in again. He still had questions that needed answers!

John paused. Maybe he should get some of the more technical questions out of the way so Sherlock wouldn't get side-tracked with his own bloody cleverness. If John knew some of the details in advance, he could force the other man to answer other, more important things.

If he was going to do that, a visit to Molly was in order.

xXxXxXxXxXx

Molly unloaded about three years' worth of her guilt and shame on to John as well as numerous apologies, as if she thought he was never going to speak to her again if she didn't. It took him a good half an hour to convince her that he wasn't mad at her and if he was angry with anyone, it would be Sherlock, and no, it wasn't her fault. Yes, he still liked her. Yes, he understood why she had done it. No, he didn't think Greg would hold it against her.

Finally, finally, finally he managed to get her to start to explain how they had done it. It was very Sherlock, involving a dead body with a dye job, theatre prosthetics, and curlers, a little electrical current, a pint of Sherlock's own blood, and a combination of his homeless network and Mycroft's most trusted agents.

"I think…" Molly's eyes darted over to him briefly. "I think the hardest part, for him, at least, was the part where you had to get knocked about. I mean…well, really, that was the hardest part for him. He didn't like the idea of leaving you, but I think he convinced himself it was the only way to save your life and that made it easier for him to do, but he didn't like the fact that your head had to get hit." She fiddled with the file in her hands. "Mr Holmes had to point out numerous times that you'd learned from Sherlock and Sherlock regularly said that you had good observation skills, particular on the important things, so you had to get disoriented somehow. Since Sherlock was adamant about there being no drugs..." She shrugged slightly before glancing at him, a curious expression on her face. "He kept saying something about paperwork and promising never to do it again."

The prickling sensation behind his eyes was back and John blinked sharply to make it go away. It shouldn't have made his chest tight to know that Sherlock thought head trauma was preferable to a chemically-induced state, but it did, especially since the consulting detective seemed to have no compunctions about drugging John if he saw the need. To know that Sherlock actually took their agreement seriously about not doing things willy-nilly to the doctor…damn it, he was supposed to be angry with Sherlock!

When John didn't say anything, Molly filled the silence. "Anyhow…they brought the body over to me, I filled out the proper paperwork, and Mr Holmes whisked Sherlock off in the bottom of one of his cars. I haven't really heard from him since. Well, Mr Holmes would check up on me occasionally and drop vague hints about what Sherlock was doing, but I think that had more to do with the fact that he wanted to make sure that I hadn't told you anything and I'd stay motivated to stay silent than it did with anything else."

"…Thank you," he finally said, voice a little too thick for his liking. He cleared his throat slightly. "For telling me. I…appreciate knowing."

She looked at him for a moment. "He…he did it mostly for you. He really cares for you."

"I know. At least, I'm beginning to."

Her smile wasn't as sad as it might have been three years ago and before Greg had started acting on his attraction. "You should go be with him. Catch up, maybe."

"…I should. Thank you. Again."

As he was leaving, his mobile buzzed.

Come to Camden House. Use the back entrance. –SH

John looked at the message for a moment, then felt a smile bloom over his face. Still grinning like a fool, he hit 'reply'. Be there soon.—JHW

Bring your gun. –SH

He shook his head, but the smile didn't leave his face. Some things, it seemed, never changed.

xXxXxXxXxXx

Sherlock had taken one look at him and said "Oh, good. You broke up with her. That makes things so much easier."

John rolled his eyes. "Could you at least pretend not to be happy?"

"Why? You always told me that I shouldn't deny my"—Sherlock broke off for a moment. There was a pregnant pause, then Sherlock filled the silence. "I see no point in hiding my delight of the loss of someone less than worthy of your time. When are you going to move out of that horrid bedsit and back into Baker Street with me?"

"It's not a bedsit, it's a loft and who said anything about me moving?"

This pulled the detective up short. An alarmed expression appeared. "But…of course you want to move back. Don't you? I already told you I want you back into my life. It won't work if you're not in the flat with me."

John couldn't help raising an eyebrow. "It would work just fine. You just don't like the idea because it's inconvenient for you."

"It would go beyond being inconvenient! You wouldn't be able to go on cases as easily and what would I do when I needed to talk out a problem?"

"There's this wonderful new piece of technology. It's called a phone."

"It's not the same!" Sherlock looked a little panicked for a moment before he took a deep breath and changed tactics. "Baker Street is a better location then your…loft…is in and not only would you save on rent, you'd save on cab fare. It's larger and has a tub that has a better water heater than your current place has. It's also has better restaurants, both in price and quality. Also, if you move back in, you would have Mrs Hudson to help with the menial daily tasks and you would be able to monitor my health and habits."

John narrowed his eyes slightly. Sherlock was going to play on his protective, nurturing instincts? Oh, it was on. He wasn't the only one who knew the other's weak points.

"Yes, but in my loft, I don't have to worry about anything I eat," he said. "There are no body parts to give me a nasty shock in the morning when I'm not ready for it. I don't have to bleach my kettle or the tub every time I come home because I don't know what you've done with either one. I rarely run out of milk. I don't have to re-hide my gun every thirty-six hours and I get enough sleep on a regular basis. I can bring my girlfriends home and don't have to worry whether she'll still be my girlfriend by the time the night's over. I can watch whatever movie I want and not have a running commentary on what's wrong with it and not have it be spoiled within the first fifteen minutes. I never have to worry that my flatmate's overprotective and overbearing older sibling who works for the government will bug my place or possibly bury me in a shallow grave because I didn't do something up to his standards. Plus, I don't have to unclog the toilet and drains and find all sorts of unpleasant things my flatmate has tried to dispose of inappropriately."

"I…can work on that last point," Sherlock said stiffly. "Talk to Molly about…different disposal methods."

The doctor cocked his eyebrow slightly. "Oh?" He was starting to feel a little fuzzy around the middle; Sherlock must have missed him more than he thought the taller man had, to make a concession like that right away, with no immediate logic and wheedling.

Sherlock nodded shortly. "I…also could be willing to make sure that no more experiments shall ever be conducted in your kettle."

Holy crap. Sherlock was even offering concessions, without prompting. He must have missed John like he missed his violin.

"And I…could be convinced to pay for a daily delivery service of milk."

Scratch that, Sherlock had missed him more than sleeping, air, eating, and baiting Mycroft, all put together.

And damn it, how was John supposed to say 'no' to such a desperate expression?

"I want all of that in writing."

Sherlock's frame instantly relaxed. "Of course," he agreed quickly.

John grinned. He'd forgotten how good getting the upper hand felt.

Sherlock looked at him for a moment. "…You strung me on," he said slowly, beginning to look affronted. "You manipulated me."

John shrugged. "I did; I think it's a fair trade considering how many times you manipulated me."

"I never—"

"Please Sherlock, you think I didn't know that whenever you didn't want to go and do something you'd tell people that you had put your 'best man' on the job so I'd do it?" When he opened his mouth to protest, John cut him off. "You only called me that when you wanted me to do all the tedious stuff that you couldn't be troubled to do."

"You were—and are—my best man."

"I won that title by default."

"Never," Sherlock argued swiftly. "You got that title because I could rely on you to do what needed to do and you'd do it well. While your deducing skills are not on par with mine, you do have an eye for detail and it has served me admirably. You also have learned a few things and while you don't always apply what you know, you certainly make more use of the knowledge than the majority of the population."

John blinked at the onslaught of praise. "Right. Ta." Then—because Sherlock's gaze was getting a little too focused and intense—he asked "was there a reason we're still standing out there instead of at Baker Street?"

"I always have a reason," Sherlock said, ignoring the doctor's sarcastic muttering of 'of course you do'. "Did you see the Ronald Adair's murder?"

"I read about it, yeah." John decided against mentioning that he had thought it sounded like something Sherlock would have been interested in and had read everything he could get his hands on. Sherlock didn't need to know how much he still dictated even though he had been 'dead'. "Why?"

The detective hummed, appearing to be pleased with the knowledge. "The man who shot him will be coming here tonight to kill me."

John felt his spine stiffening. "He can bloody well try!" He was not about to lose Sherlock again.

Sherlock looked over with such a warm, fond smile that he felt his face start to heat up.

"He won't succeed, of course," the taller man said after a few moments, still looking at John like he —not Sherlock—was the amazing one. "I've set a trap to catch him, using myself as bait."

"What?!"

"Oh, don't worry. Come, I'll show you!" Sherlock grabbed John's arm and pulled him into Camden House, reminding John of a child at their birthday.

Two flights of stairs later, Sherlock eased them both into a darkened room. He guided them both towards a window. "See?" He breathed.

John could see their flat and despite the shades being drawn, he could see a blurry silhouette of someone moving around inside who had the exact profile of Sherlock. "What…?"

Sherlock drew him away from the window and into a dark corner. "Amazing what one can do with a little bit of robotics and wax," he mouthed into John's ear. "Perfect bait. Once he comes…we'll let him take the shot, and then we'll apprehend him."

"We need to call Greg to tell him what you're doing," the doctor said, trying desperately to ignore how close Sherlock was.

"Already have Scotland Yard notified and placed strategically all around. Now, we wait."

"Shouldn't we be down a floor or two and over a few windows? If we're going to catch a shooter…"

It probably should bother him that he could feel the detective's smile. "If he was using a regular gun, then you would be completely correct. But if you remember from the Adair's murder how the shot seemed to be impossible. He'll be using the same gun. I'll explain it all later. Now, we must be quiet."

It was a long wait, but John was almost too distracted to notice. Sherlock was right there, warm and real and breathing against his head and he never realised how good the other man smelled, how much Sherlock smelled of danger and adventure and home. He couldn't help swaying under the guise of adjusting his stance, just so he could brush against the thin man and reassure himself that it was all true.

He heard the faint sound the same moment Sherlock stiffened. He didn't need the puff of breath against his cheek to tell him that the murderer was here. Adrenaline started top pump through his veins.

The door opened just enough for a burly shadow to slip inside. Once the door was eased close, the man crept across the room to the window next to the one they had been looking out of. He assembled something quickly and with a military-like precision there before carefully sliding the window open a bit. He neatly pushed most of whatever it was out of the window before looking down and adjusting it a few times.

John's heart was thumping so loudly he found it hard to believe the other man didn't know that he was in the same room. He itched to tackle the burly man and stop him from doing…whatever it was that he was doing, but since Sherlock hadn't given him the go-ahead, he made himself wait. Sherlock probably had a reason. Hopefully, it went beyond looking for the moment with the greatest dramatic impact.

The wait dragged on. Even though the military part of John knew the man was waiting for the perfect moment and thus the perfect shot, he wished it would happen sooner versus later. His nerves were strung tight and it took far too much concentration to stay still and breathe quietly.

When the shot came, it was muffled and popping right before the sound of shattering glass. Silencer, John's brain supplied as he tensed up, waiting for Sherlock's signal.

Sherlock didn't move until the man pulled his contraption back into the room. Then, he stepped out from behind John and turned on a powerful torch. The man spun sharply.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said, voice slightly gleeful. "Moriarty's right-hand man and man who attempted to fill his—"

Moran didn't quite roar, but he made a deep, ugly noise reminiscing of one before charging forwards. For as stocky as he was, he was fast. John barely managed to get Sherlock out of the way before Moran barrelled into him.

"John!"

John ignored Sherlock as he was slammed into the wall behind him, trying to concentrate on pummelling the larger man's ears and face in an attempt to disorient him. He grunted painfully upon impact, his gun bruising his back terribly, but he managed to get his knee in Moran's gut.

Moran made a pained noise, then grabbed the front of John's jacket and flung him across the room before racing towards the door.

John staggered to his feet as Sherlock started towards him. "Fine, I'm fine. Go after him! Go!" He snarled as the detective hesitated.

Sherlock dashed after the colonel.

It took John a few moments to get his stride back, but he burst out of Camden House with his gun out (he wasn't about to be caught off guard like that again), glancing around frantically. There was a ruckus coming from the alley, but there were a slew of police cars in the way, so he darted around to a side way he occasionally used.

He slowed down once he was in the alley. He could hear Donovan shouting and Greg yelling as well. He couldn't hear Sherlock, which was sending a cold stabbing fear through him. Then he ducked behind a bin as Moran started to come in to view.

He peered out and the world came screeching to a halt.

Moran was backing up and one of his thick hands was wrapped around Sherlock's scarf, strangling the tall man. His other hand was holding a gun right below Sherlock's ear. His mouth was moving, but John couldn't hear a word he was snarling above the static that had filled his ears.

Things moved in slow motion. His gun came up smoothly as he stepped out. The motion caught Moran's attention and he started to turn his head, gun shifting away from Sherlock.

Two shots rang out.

Sherlock was jerked backwards as Moran fell. He made a strangled, garbled noise as he clawed off his scarf. "John!" He wheezed.

"You okay, Sherlock?" John asked as he kicked the gun away from Moran's hand and aimed at Moran's twisted, furious face.

"Jesus!" Greg skidded to a stop near John. "What the hell were you thinking! You could have hit that bloody moron instead!"

"John's…crack…shot," Sherlock rasped out. He looked up at the doctor and beamed, like John was the most amazing thing ever. "Always…coming…rescue." His smile faded. "Bleeding…!"

"It just grazed me. I'm fine, Sherlock. I'm not the one who was being strangled."

"Only strangled…at the very…end. Bleeding."

"I'm fine. Don't you have a few things you would like to tell Greg and the colonel before he's packed off?"

He could see Sherlock's face rearrange itself into something not so panicked out of the corner of his eye and knew that the issue would be dropped for the moment in the face of Sherlock's need to gloat over the criminal.

Donovan inclined her head in John's direction. "Good shot."

"Thank you." John didn't let his gun waver. If Moran so much as twitched, he was going to get another bullet, this time in a place significantly harder to recover from.

"Didn't expect to meet…a better shot than you, did you?" Sherlock asked, not sounding quite as winded as he smirked at the colonel. He turned to Greg. "So…murder of Ronald Adair and thirty-two others, attempted murder of me…can we add assault to the list?"

"I'm sure we'll find plenty of things to charge Mr Moran here with." The DI's smile was grim.

The ambulance arrived about then and things became a blur of activity around John, who, now that the adrenaline was fading, was discovering that his side throbbed. He looked for Greg so he could give his statement and then go find a nice, quiet place to sleep off the painkillers he planned on taking.

Sherlock kept sending the medics over to John for some reason and one finally managed to sit him down and cleaned and bandaged his wound. John told himself that he did it to get Sherlock to stop interrupting him every five minutes with a new one.

Finally, Donovan took off with Moran to a secure hospital and Sherlock shooed Greg and John and another officer that John wasn't as familiar with carrying a large duffle bag into 221B.

"I made some tea," Mrs Hudson smiled as they entered. "And Sherlock, no more bullets in my walls, please. Especially not ones aimed at your head. I don't fancy getting the blood out of the floor and renting always becomes so much harder if someone's been murdered here."

"I make no promises," Sherlock said.

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes affectionately. "Of course you don't. Your lovely robot's been quite destroyed, I'm afraid."

"I'll make a new one. I have some improvements—"

Greg coughed, not so discreetly.

The tall man blinked, looking mildly aggravated for a moment, then realised that he had an audience that was waiting on his grand deductions and reveals. His posture changed and he swept up to the living room majestically.

John brought up the rear, shaking his head slightly. Some things really never did change.

Mrs Hudson fluttered around him briefly, pressing a mug into his hands and smiling. "I hope you're planning to move back in," she said. "It'll be so nice to have you both here again!"

"John will be moving back in tomorrow," Sherlock said at the same time John said "Thank you, I hope to do so soon."

"John, we already agreed—" The faint panic lines were almost complete overshadowed by the tall man's annoyance.

"Sherlock, I still have a few months left on my lease; I'm not paying rent in two places. We'll discuss it later." John gestured as he settled into his old armchair, which had been covered with a sheet. "After we deal with this."

The consulting detective scowled again and for a moment, appeared as if he was going to argue the point. John stared him down and he thought he heard Greg snicker a little in the background.

"Oh, fine." Sherlock flounced over to the couch and flopped down in a pile of cushion covers and dust. "Gregson, did you get the gun from Camden House?"

"I did." The unfamiliar officer stepped up and, after pulling on a pair of gloves, pulled out a strange contraption out of the black bag he had been carrying over his shoulder. He glanced over at John. "Tobias Gregson. I'm the ballistic specialist."

John smiled slightly. "John Watson. Friend and former live-in nursemaid."

Sherlock scowled ferociously and Greg snickered louder. Officer Gregson looked slightly bemused and returned to the object in his hands. "All right. So, this is what the Colonel was using. It's rather ingenious, actually."

"An extendable gun arm?" Greg leaned forwards and studied it.

"One that can be bent in all sorts of fascinating angles." Sherlock could never leave the explanations to others for very long before he had to butt in. "Which is how he was able to shoot Adair from seemingly thin air."

"Sorry, he does that," John murmured to the ballistics expert, who was starting to look a little put out. "He can't not be the clever soul who reveals it all to us normal folk."

"It's also how he could avoid any powder burns or GSR to be on his hands." Sherlock, it seemed, was starting to hit his stride. "Imagine what that would mean for crime lords and mercenaries—a device that enabled one to shoot accurately around corners and obstacles and wouldn't leave tell-tale evidence on the shooter!" The consulting detective's eyes almost glazed over at what it would do for crime and—more importantly, probably, in his mind—what it would mean for solving said crimes.

John saw him file that bit away for later perusal. "We're lucky that the Colonel had a petty, greedy streak," Sherlock said. "It's what kept him from being able to successfully take Moriarity's place. He killed Adair purely because the man was going to reveal that he was cheating at cards at some gentlemen's club. He's a very reliable and competent hit man and an excellent second-in-command, but he lacks that…spark which would have made him a true mastermind."

The doctor settled back in his chair and curled his fingers around his cooling mug, watching Sherlock carry on. Despite the slightly stale and dusty scent of the flat, he felt like he was home, for the first time in a very long while. It was wonderful and even though exhaustion was weighing him down, he fought to stay awake. This was what his life had been missing—the rush, Sherlock being clever and brilliant and dramatic, Greg's expression of awe and annoyance, all the things that had vanished three years ago that made him full and fulfilled. He didn't want to miss a moment.

Exhaustion must have won out because the next thing John knew, there was sunlight in his eyes, a blanket tucked gently around him and a pillow behind his back, and Sherlock staring at him intently from his perch on the couch. His neck and shoulder ached and his side throbbed. The rest of him just felt stiff and old.

"'Morning," he muttered as he trying stretching a little. "Why're you staring?"

"Data." Sherlock didn't move.

"Right." John didn't know what time it was, but it was too early to be dealing with Sherlock's brain when it got like this, but to be fair, it was always too early to deal with that. "'Sthere tea and bread here?"

"Mrs Hudson left some for us." The tall man's head had swivelled so it could follow John's movements. "If I can't find a loophole, we'll try subletting."

The tea was cold and bitter, so he dumped it out and silently said thanks for Mrs Hudson; there was a brand-new electric kettle on the counter so he could brew more. "Sorry, what?"

"Do keep up. Subletting. I'm sure we could find someone. Approximately how fast can you pack a standard 45k cubic centimetre box?"

"A what? Sherlock, are you on about me moving?"

He could feel the scathing look. "Obviously. I'm not waiting a few months for you to move back. You're coming back today. We'll bring back your essentials right after you finish your tea and I'll get Mycroft to bring 'round the rest later this week. While we're waiting for my brother to get your things here, I'll go over your lease and find a loophole. Then you won't be paying two rents. If that doesn't work, we'll sublet that bedsit."

"It's a loft and you better start calling that if you want to make it sound appealing to others," John said, trying for annoyed and probably failing spectacularly. There was something wonderful about Sherlock applying his massive intellect to finding a way to get John back into Baker Street as soon as possible.

"That is an excellent point." Sherlock sounded thoughtful. "Wording is exceptionally important in real estate listings." He lapsed into silence, probably figuring out the best way to describe the loft.

The toast was cold, but edible, so John ate a few pieces, bringing two over for Sherlock to pretend to ignore and eat when he thought John wouldn't notice.

As the tea brewed, John shook out two painkillers from the bottle. Now that he had eaten something, he could do something about the aches and pains. He turned around and nearly yelped, because Sherlock was right there. "Jesus! Some warning next time!"

"You're hurting."

"I slept in a chair. Of course I'm sore. I'm not that young anymore." John slapped away the tall man's fingers as they tried to prod at his side. "Stop that."

"Your bullet wound is causing you more pain than the chair did."

"My bullet wound is not hurting. The place where I got grazed—"

"It did more than graze you!"

The doctor took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It would do no good to get annoyed at Sherlock, especially since it was obvious the younger man was concerned. "Sherlock, I've been shot before. I know what it's like. Trust me when I say that last night, it only grazed me. Does it hurt? Yes. Is it the same agony as when I got shot? No. I'll be fine. I just need to take it easy and not over do it."

"Don't use your 'Reassuring Doctor' face on me," Sherlock said waspishly. "I'm not the patient here."

Reassuring Doctor face? John wondered, but decided he'd try to figure out that expression later, preferably when he was alone and had a mirror. "But I'm the doctor here and I'm not the one who routinely ignores my body; I'm fairly in touch with mine, actually, and I know my limits. I'm fine."

Sherlock was still standing too close and really, John just wanted to get at his tea—which was probably getting bitter—and to take his pills so his shoulder and neck would stop aching. And maybe get the edge of the counter out of the small of his back. That'd also be nice.

"John," Sherlock said quietly, and leaned forwards, letting his forehead rest against John's and his hands gripped the edge of the counter on either side of the doctor. "I don't like seeing you in pain. It's my fault you got shot; had I planned for Colonel Moran's response better, you wouldn't have gotten hurt."

"That's a load of bollock and you know it." John really should be yelling at the idiot, but it seemed wrong to be loud at this moment. "Even you can't anticipate everything. No argument. I knew what I was doing and I would do it again in a heartbeat. I'm fine and here, which is more than he can say, now isn't it. You were smart enough to know how to lure him out and how to ensure ways to that would make it so even if all those murder charges don't stick—which they might not—he's still going to be going away for a long time, and frankly, I'm sure your brother has already arranged for him to have an 'accident' in prison."

Sherlock snorted softly and leaned a little harder on John's forehead, tilting his head up. "This is one point I think I'll let Mycroft has his fun."

Sherlock's face was a little blurry from being so close, so John let his eyes fall shut. The pills were uncomfortable in his hand, but he didn't want to move.

The consulting detective exhaled sharply through his nose. "John," he murmured. "I missed you," he said, as if the repetition of the phrase would convey what he wanted. "The last thirty-eight months have been empty and bleak and I don't plan on continuing on longer than I have to without you; how fast can you pack a standard 45k cm3 box?"

John snickered a little before he could stop himself. "You and your one-track mind," he grumbled affectionately. "You're lucky I missed you, too."

"You really should answer my question because than we can allot the proper amount of time to the task," Sherlock huffed, breath warm.

John cracked open an eye to glare at the blurry face. "Since when do you allot time for anything? And what's with this 'we' business?" He shut his eye again. "I'd be the one doing all the moving and you'd just dictate things, if you bothered to leave the flat at all. And you'd try to rearrange my socks and ties again."

He didn't have to look at the younger man to know he was smiling. Sherlock shuffled closer, toes nudging John's feet slightly apart. "Like I said," he breathed, mouth now close enough that the doctor could almost taste the few bites of toast the tall man had eaten. "We would get a few important things."

"Prat."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed appreciatively and brushed his nose gently against John's. "Missed—"

Someone cleared their throat.

Both John and Sherlock looked over. Mycroft stood near the kitchen door, eyebrow raised. If John didn't know better, he'd say that the elder Holmes was looking mildly amused and not completely annoyed. "Am I interrupting?"

"Yes! Go away!" Sherlock snapped at the same time John sighed and said "Mycroft, what do you want?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, unintentionally drawing attention to the tape that was holding his broken nose in place and the fact that, despite his make-up, the area was an ugly blackish purple. "I thought I would stop in, considering the previous night's events."

"You've seen the results, now go away." Sherlock glared harder.

"I heard that the good doctor out-shot the Colonel. A rather impressive feat, Doctor Watson."

"Ta." Now that he wasn't being distracted by Sherlock, John rediscovered counter in his back (uncomfortable), the painkillers in his hand (sticky), and his body (sore). He lightly pushed on Sherlock's arm and had to yank his nose back so it wouldn't suffer a similar fate to Mycroft's as Sherlock's head jerked around to stare at him. "I have to take my medicine."

The look on his friend's face was hard to read as he slowly stepped back and allowed John to go to his tea. It was slightly bitter, but since it was warm and not too horrible, he added milk and sugar to one mug and sugar to the other. "Cuppa, Mycroft?"

"No!" Sherlock snapped. "John, if you feed it, it will never go away!"

"Thank you, Doctor Watson, but no. I'm only here for a moment to give you this and to tell you that your things should be arriving any moment now." Mycroft held out a bland-looking folder and he had to jerk it out of the way as Sherlock made a grab for it. "Sherlock, please. Act your age. And since this is for your benefit as much as it is for your doctor's, I suggest that you behave."

"What do you mean, 'my things'?" John asked, as soon as he'd finished chasing down the pills with his tea. He padded passed his irate friend and took the folder. He flipped it open, read a few lines, and then blinked. "My loft is about to be turned into an office building so I'm being evicted?"

"Unfortunately." Mycroft, somehow, managed to look mildly smug with a broken nose. "So your deposit should be appearing in your account soon and if you're interested, I'm sure you could negotiate a better lease out of the company for failing to give you proper notice."

"John is going to be living here!" Sherlock all but snarled; still, John noticed that he scooted a little bit closer so he could read the paper in John's hand.

"Naturally, which is why I have requested that his things to be brought here. Unless, of course, he'd rather them brought elsewhere…?" The elder Holmes lifted his eyebrow questioningly.

John shook his head. "Do I even get a say in all this?" He asked in mock annoyance. Then, before Sherlock could have another crisis, he added "yes, I'll be moving back here; really nowhere else I'd rather be."

"I thought as much."

"Oh, and Mycroft. Do you happen to happen to know a good solicitor? One that's not too expensive?"

"Why do you need a solicitor?" Sherlock broke in, panic appearing around the corners of his eyes again.

"First off, with you alive, I'm going to have people shooting at me again so I need to make sure that my will is up-to-date. Secondly, I told you I'd want it in writing. It's probably best if I make it legally-binding."

"Really John, that is completely unnecessary," Sherlock said petulantly.

Mycroft looked intrigued, but cautious. "What, may I ask, are you looking to have be legally binding that my brother objects to?"

"None of your business," the younger Holmes snapped waspishly.

"He promised me that if I moved back, he wouldn't do any experiments in or on my kettle, he would dispose of his experiments and leftover body parts properly, and he would pay for—and arrange for—a daily milk delivery service."

Sherlock's expression got even more put-out while Mycroft did a poor job of concealing his amusement. "A wise decision, insisting on the formalities. In fact," he smiled benignly, "I know an excellent solicitor who would do both things for free as a personal favour to me. I shall get you his card and make arrangements for an appointment."

"Don't you have a war to start somewhere?" Sherlock asked crossly. "Or some issue like health care to address?"

The buzzer announced the arrival of John's things, sparing Mycroft from getting into another sniping match with his younger brother. John did manage to thank the government official before he slipped off, but it was a hurried affair as Sherlock was starting to dive into the boxes of John's things and trying to direct the movers.

Mrs Hudson had come out at the beginning of the racket, but upon seeing Mycroft and the boxes, correctly assumed it was a Holmes' thing and she'd be best served if she stayed out of the way. She disappeared into her flat and John had yet to see her emerge.

"John, your collection of jumpers and plaid shirts has gotten even more alarming!" Sherlock called from the back of John's wardrobe. He stuck his head and waved about one of the offending shirts. "This is an abomination! Whatever possessed you to buy it?"

"I didn't buy it," John said shortly. "It was a gift from Mary's father."

The consulting detective froze for a moment. "…Oh," he said before he disappeared back inside the wardrobe, unusually quiet.

John went back to organising his sock drawer, hands moving slower. Judging Sherlock's reaction, he knew who Mary was. His suspicion was confirmed when there were no more comments about his new shirts.

A small part of him wanted to go over to Sherlock and pat his shoulder, so the man would know that he didn't hold the thoughtless comment against him, but another part—the part of him that was still mourning Mary—said it was none of Sherlock's damn business. Mary and her world belonged solely to John; Sherlock had no part in it.

The tall man emerged from the wardrobe and flitted over by John. He was overly causal as he picked up the box the held a few photo frames and books and started to place them next to the digital clock after each picture got a moment of intense scrutiny. First was the picture of John's family at Warwick Castle, one happy memory from his childhood. Next were the pictures of John's units from when he had deployed both time. The fourth picture got the most attention from Sherlock; it was of John and Mary from their honeymoon.

"What happened to her?" Sherlock's voice was gentler than usual as he glanced over, almost shyly.

"Aneurysm," John said, a touch abruptly.

"…Ah." Sherlock looked like he wanted to say more, but was holding back by sheer force of will. He positioned the photo in the place of the most prominence before glancing into the box again. He paused.

John knew why. "Look it, it doesn't…I didn't have anything else. There weren't a lot of options to pick from." His drawer of undergarments was suddenly very fascinating to him.

Sherlock slowly dragged his eyes away from the small black frame and up to the doctor. Finally, he said "of all the pictures, this was the best you could do?"

"Would you have preferred the one of you in the hat? Or I could have gotten the one of you with the shock blanket," John snapped, feeling vulnerable.

Sherlock glanced down and a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I would have objected voraciously to either of those." He studied the faded newspaper photograph again. "That was from that case…what did you call it again?"

"The Geek Interpreter."

"Ah yes, that was it. Ridiculously inaccurate costumes. Ninjas have forever been ruined by popular culture." He carefully placed the frame next to the others.

"It goes next to the one of Mary and me," the doctor said quietly and he didn't meet the hard, scrutinising look he could feel. Even Sherlock—emotions idiot as he tried to be—couldn't miss the implication of the fact that the small yellow picture was in the most prominent place on his bedside table.

After a moment, the younger man turned back to the box and pulled out the last few items from the box. He glanced at the titles, muttering to himself. John heard 'butler did it', 'unrealistic drivel', and 'utter rubbish', among other things.

The consulting detective looked at the last title and lifted an eyebrow. "Really John, Pride and Prejudice?" His tone was light and slightly mocking, obviously thinking he'd found a safe topic. "Not really your style."

"It isn't." John reached over and took the books, a little bit sharply. "You won't understand."

He should have known better than to issue a challenge like that.

Grey eyes narrowed and then Sherlock was off. "The doctor I know would not be reading regency-era classics about matchmaking and society, yet here it is. Possession of deceased wife, maybe? Doubtful. It's a cheap mass market and in poor shape; if it was the wife's, there wouldn't be fresh coffee stains and pollen on the edge of the pages. You would have placed in a safe place so it wouldn't come to harm and if something had been spilled on it, it would have been cleaned off with much more care. So, bought and bought second-hand, judging the remains of the price tag on the corner and the fact that it seems to have seen some scribbling on the cover of an enthusiastic child. Why? Favourite book of deceased wife? More likely, but probably not If it was a favourite, you would have bought a nicer copy—it's the sort of things that people like to do when things remind them of the dead—and she would have owned her own version." He snatched the book back and flipped it open. "Judging the mix of bleaching and water stains on the pages, you've been reading this outside. Since the two things don't occur on the same pages, it can be said that you've read it outside more than once, more often than you have indoors. The book smells of exhaust, the Tube, grass, and flowers, particularly lilies—" He broke off. "…Oh." He said. "She was a literature teacher, wasn't she?"

John didn't say anything and continued to stare stonily off to the right.

Sherlock carefully took the books out of John's hands and put them on the bedside table. "You were correct," he murmured quietly. "I didn't understand. I don't understand it all. Why?"

"Because it makes me feel better!" John snapped. "Because it makes me feel closer to Mary!"

The corners of Sherlock's mouth pulled downwards. "It's not logical. The dead can't hear."

"It's not supposed to be logical!"

"I know." Sherlock was silent for a moment. "I don't see how it would help with the grieving process. The flowers I understand—"

"No, you don't," John muttered.

"—But the reading at the gravesite I don't. She's not there."

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "It's…people don't just vanish when they die."

The other man furrowed his brows. "Are you talking about the concept of a soul? There's no scientific proof of that."

"It's not about science, Sherlock. It's about comfort. I feel better when I think Mary being there and honestly, there are people who are so…much that I think there has to be something left of them around when their bodies die."

His frown grew more pronounced. "So much?"

John tightened his jaw and looked away.

"…Ah. People like me, you mean." He could imagine Sherlock tilting his head and looking at him, trying to take him apart. "Did you read classics at my graveside as well?"

"We're not having this conversation."

"You did. Not classics, though. No…you would have read something that reminded you of me." He sounded slightly surprised and a bit flattered. "And you brought flowers as well. I'm not really interested in flowers—"

"They were poisonous."

John could hear Sherlock being pulled up short. "You brought me poisonous flowers and read crimes to me?"

The silence stretched out when the doctor refused to answer that. There was a rustle, and he went stiff with defensive shock when long arms awkwardly wrapped around him. Sherlock hugged him uncomfortably, like he wasn't quite sure what the acceptable protocol was. "That was…nice of you. It was completely illogical and ridiculous, but I…like the idea of toxic bouquets and crimes being read at my grave. It is a much more acceptable form of remembrance."

"Yeah, all right," John mumbled, feeling a little self-conscious as Sherlock didn't let go. The consulting detective wasn't known for his apologies, but John appreciated the effort. He had the feeling he was the only person that Sherlock had ever really seriously apologised to (or at least, attempted to).

Long fingers slipped over his chin and up and turned his head so he was looking at Sherlock. Sherlock leaned in, eyes intent. "John," he murmured, tilting his head slightly.

Sherlock was looking at him like he was the amazing one and they were so close—

Sherlock's trousers started buzzing.

John knew he should probably be mortified by the fact that he could feel another chap's mobile go off, but the situation was so absurd he found himself giggling instead. A moment later, Sherlock joined him, his forehead once again against John's.

"Good to know you're happy to see me," John chuckled as he stepped away, grateful for the break in the tension.

"I'm always happy to see you," Sherlock said lightly as he fished out the mobile. "It goes without saying." His thumb danced over the screen to unlock it.

The doctor shook his head slightly and went back to putting away his clothes. A small, delighted sound caused him to look up.

Sherlock's eyes were positively manic. "Lestrade has a case for us!" He crowed and rocketed towards the door. "Come, John! We have a crime scene to see!"

John grinned and grabbed his coat and gun as he hurried after Sherlock.

It was good to be home again.

x Fin x