Notes: I posted this story on Archive of Our Own as well, so if you also hang out there, this might look familiar to you. This is my first work in this fandom, so I would really, really appreciate if you could give me some feedback. I plan to write further chapters for this if anybody is interested.

John Watson lay wide awake in the middle of the night. It was becoming a bad habit of his. Mary was sleeping peacefully next to him. Or maybe she was just pretending to be asleep, he thought bitterly. He took a deep breath. He had known from the start that forgiving her would not be an easy process, but he caught himself time and again having these nasty thoughts, and he was, quite frankly, tired of it.

The events of the last months were tumbling through his head in a tangled mess. Sherlock's return, the wedding, Sherlock getting shot, Sherlock shooting Magnussen, Sherlock getting on the plane. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. He was probably chasing down some lead or other on Moriarty right now, putting himself in harm's way yet again.

John had never considered himself a thoughtful person. Sure, he had to reflect on their cases when he was still writing the blog, but he never really dwelt on the past. His therapist would probably have something to say about his preference for burying the things that happen to him rather than examining them. Similarly, he never really felt the need to think about his feelings. Things just were the way they were.

But somehow, tonight seemed to be the exception. Maybe it was because it was 3 in the morning and he had the distinct impression that he hadn't slept a second this night. Or maybe he was just too fucking tired to keep his usual walls up, but tonight his head swam with flashbacks of everything that had happened in the past few months.

He thought back to his wedding day, how nervous he had been, how much he wanted everything to be just perfect. How, in the end, there had been an attempted murder at this wedding and still everything had turned out to be perfect. Well, everything except the bride.

He remembered finding Sherlock in that crack house, his shock and disappointment, and maybe a tiny twinge of guilt. He got married and in spite of all his assertions to the contrary, he knew that it would irrevocably change their relationship. He had probably even known on some level that Sherlock would cope with it badly, but he had never expected this.

He saw the moment when Sherlock took the gun from him in perfect clarity, the second when time stopped and he aimed the gun at Magnussen's head. On the first day they met, John killed a man to protect Sherlock. But that had been very different from this. He was, at the time, fairly certain that he wouldn't get caught, that there would, at least, be no legal consequences for his actions. Sherlock knew that he was giving away his freedom and with it the chance to continue his work. Until that moment , John would have sworn, under oath and in front of a jury if need be, that his work was the single most important thing in Sherlock's life and nothing would ever take precedence over it.

He remembered vividly saying goodbye to Sherlock on the airfield. How Sherlock seemed close to tears but still made an effort to lighten the mood, for his benefit. Sherlock's little speech about sharing a secret with him that he had been keeping for a long time and how he chickened out in the end.

And through it all, he heard one voice clearly, speaking to him with an unmistakable smugness.

You see, John, but you do not observe.

John Watson was standing in the freezing cold in front of Baker Street 221B and wondering, not for the first time, what the hell he was doing. It was still early and the street was completely deserted. Faced with the cold reality of the door his decision to come and speak with Sherlock seemed stupid and irrational. Even if his realization turned out to be correct, there really was nothing to talk about. He was married. He was going to be a father. So why was he standing in front of his best friend's flat at 4 in the morning? Why was his heart pounding in his chest as if he had run all the way here?

He stared at the knocker, which was slightly askew, and couldn't help but smile. He decided to go in, because he knew that if he didn't do it now, he would never again pluck up the courage to do it and he would always wonder.

When he opened the door to the flat itself and stood in the living room, he felt eerily calm.

Sherlock was staring at the living room wall with a frown on his face. It was covered with newspaper snippets and other information about Moriarty and had little bits of thread connecting different pieces. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like the work of a crazy conspiracy theorist.

He looked over at John and did not seem at all surprised to see him standing in his living room at this hour. John assumed that he probably had no idea what time of day it was, anyway.

"I just can't figure out how he did it. I do realize the irony in that."

John took a deep breath. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. No, it was most certainly a terrible idea.

"I need to talk to you."

"John, as always, you are wasting valuable time. Clearly, we are already talking."

John paused for a moment, unsure what he wanted to say. He wasn't good at this sort of thing.

"On the airfield, you said that there is something you always wanted to tell me but never did."

That finally got Sherlock's attention away from the wall. He raised an eyebrow and gave him one of his piercing stares that always made John feel as he was trying to deduce the color of his soul, but he didn't reply.

"Say it now."

"It was a joke."

"No, it wasn't."

Clearly, this would be even more difficult than John had expected. He sighed, closed his eyes for a moment and pinched his nose wearily. He was way too tired for this conversation.

"Fine. We will do it your way. Always your way." With that, he grabbed a surprised Sherlock by the shoulders and shoved him down to sit on the couch. He kept his hands firmly planted on his shoulders and leaned down right into his personal space. He hovered with his face a mere inch away from Sherlock's as they locked eyes.

"What the hell, John."

John didn't reply, but instead continued to stare into his friend's eyes as if he was searching for something there. When he finally did reply, it was in the cold, analytical tone with which Sherlock usually rattled off his deductions.

"Your pupils are dilating. Your cheeks are flushed. Your heartbeat has increased considerably in the last seconds. Your breathing is becoming more and more uneven. Tell me, what does this mean, detective?"

"It means I'm getting angry."

"No, it doesn't. Try again."

"I ..." Suddenly, Sherlock seemed unable to look him in the eyes any longer. His gaze drifted to the floor, to the window, anywhere but John. He made a move to try and get up, but John gently pushed him down again.

"Detective, deduce thyself."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at that and almost seemed his usual self again for a moment.

"Seriously, John?"

"Fine, maybe that was a little over the top. But it doesn't change the facts. What did you want to tell me on the airfield?"

"What does it matter now? You're with Mary. You're having a baby."

"It matters to me."

"No good will come of this, John."

"Tell me."

Sherlock finally looked him in the eyes again. It seemed for a moment that he was going to speak but then his expression changed and he forcefully pushed John's hands off his shoulders and stormed out of the flat.

John sat down heavily on the table and stared at the empty doorway. The expression had been there only for a split second, but it reminded John of the Baskerville case. If he were asked to describe it, he would have called it mortal fear.