Our Hero returns home triumphantly, looking to the horizon, and the next great adventure.

o0o0o

It may have been true that John hated school, but he loved lessons. The lessons he loved the most were science; he could see himself as a scientist. It was so different, so apart from his upbringing that the very thought of it felt like some incredible rebellion. The rebellions of the mind were safe rebellions, ones that he could revel in without worrying about the consequences and he knew that there would be consequences if it ever got back to his mother that he wanted to be a scientist.

He would save that revelation for a time when he could afford to be cut off from the family home. At fourteen, it would be difficult for him to escape his mother's hold.

It was unusual for John to know so deeply that he wanted to do something completely against his mother's wishes. He had known before that his mother didn't approve of many things, but was something that he actively wanted to participate in that she actively frowned upon. She was anti-science in a lot of very strange specific ways. She wouldn't expect a person to pray their cancer away, but would be distrustful of anything she thought contained 'chemicals', because it was not god's natural way.

There were lots of way he wanted to refute her ideas; the notion that everything was chemicals, or the notion that the 'natural' way was a 40% infant mortality rate and a life expectancy of thirty. He knew though, that if he mentioned the idea of Neolithic man, he would end up with a huge earful of information about the ages of those who lived in the bible, and how the human race was devolving into sickness, because we didn't live as long as those righteous men. The counter argument that Jesus was a pretty young dude when he died would also not pass muster, he was fairly certain.

Mentioning to his mother anything to do with evidence of history outside of, or older than, the bible was pretty much asking for a cuff around the ear. Although she would never admit to raising a hand to her children, she definitely had ways of making people cower in her wake.

This left him, as all decisions in his life seemed to, at a crossroads beyond his control. He was left racing past the junction, looking only at brief glimpses of roads he could have travelled, choices he could have made, if only someone gave him the time to have a proper look. The latest junction he had glanced in the rear-view mirror was his GCSE Science lessons.

If he wanted to become a scientist he would need to study the sciences at A-level. If he wanted to study the sciences at A-level then he needed to get the best possible grade for his double science GCSE. He had already had the choice of doing triple science taken from him by his mother, who all but filled his options form in for him. If he hadn't signed up for religious studies as his third slot, then he suspected that she would have refused to sign the form.

It was a secret poke in the eye towards her overbearing nature when she didn't look at the curriculum beyond the title, because the actual course was about taking a critical look at the junctions between religion, philosophy and ethics. Questioning their religion in such a serious way, and talking about other religions as though the Catholic Church was not the one true religion, would have incensed his mother. Just like the rest of her life though, she had taken the topic on blind faith and assumed that nobody could talk about religion without acknowledging Jesus Christ as the one true messiah.

She had however looked very deeply at the science curriculum, ready to remove John from any topic that she found disagreeable. He had hoped, perhaps in vain, that she would value his education over her beliefs, but it was not to be. Instead she had poured over every book, every examination question and every option, checking how far she could dictate John's involvement without him failing outright. Of course she knew exactly which exams and which results he needed in order to get onto a Theology course, and science was not an inherently important part of that.

As a result he found himself outside his Biology teacher's room with dread sitting like a lead weight in his stomach. He didn't know exactly what it was his mother had said to the school, but he had been pulled out of the science lesson, so it was bad enough. Whatever incident caused his removal, his teacher had not had enough time to put together a separate task for him to complete. Instead of actually learning anything, he was given some past paper questions to get on with. With a careful message for him to come to the room at lunchtime for a quick chat.

"Hello, John." She said, soft and sweet. At least he knew that he wasn't in trouble. "Do sit down."

"Why wasn't I allowed to sit in the lesson today, Miss?" he asked, feeling the dread rising into his throat like bile, "It's just, I really, really want to do science A-levels if I can, and I can't afford to miss any lessons, since I'm not doing triple."

The teacher looked slightly taken aback, by his statements, though which part of it surprised her he couldn't tell. "Didn't your mother discuss this with you? I had assumed… well the letter made it seem as though this was a mutual choice."

"To be taken out of lessons? Sorry Miss, but that's the only part of school I do like." John admitted, feeling nervous for saying the words aloud, but at the same time feeling a sweet sort of catharsis from them. "Could you tell me what she said?" he asked, hoping that when it concerned him directly, there would be no confidentiality rules.

She paused for a moment, seeming to consider her options, seeming almost as though she was gathering herself for a fight. "Well, your mother has expressed her wish that you are not present in the lessons where I'm teaching evolution. She informed the school that it went against your family's religious beliefs, and that you need to be found alternate work. Could I ask, why aren't you studying separate sciences if you wish to complete the A-level courses?"

John shrugged in reply, he didn't have a good answer, and there was a bitter anger welling up inside him. This was his life and she was putting her own beliefs ahead of his future success and happiness. He had known she was capable of it, but never had he had it so obviously thrown in his face. This was not some whim he just needed to ride out until he could leave home. If he missed a whole chunk of the curriculum, it would redirect the path of his entire future.

"I just like science." He said, voice thickening. There was so little control he had over his own life, he wasn't even allowed to do the things he wanted to do and fuck if he wasn't devastated. "I don't care about the religion stuff. I'll come to the lessons. I just won't tell my mum. Please."

"Oh, John." She replied in a way that was part pity, part anguish, "I really can't make those decisions. I can speak to my head of department, but I can't guarantee that it will make a difference."

"But what if a question comes up in the exam? I can't not answer it."

"We can get modified papers for such situations I believe." She was flicking through her papers seemingly looking for something, but he recognise it as the same habit she had when she was thinking over something in a lesson, "I can't let you in the lessons just yet," she insisted, "but what I can do is give you a separate project to do whilst you're out of lessons. Then at lunchtime or break time I can give you access to the lesson material and you can learn it in your own time if you want to do that. Whilst we get this whole mess sorted though, is there any topic you're particularly interested in? One that you might enjoy working on?"

"I like all that crime stuff, and human body stuff." John said, not knowing what the proper terminology was.

"Forensic Pathology it is then, John." She said with a sad sort of smile, "I'll get you some guidelines together to start working on it. You'll be a crime fighting doctor before you know it."

o0o0o

John had expected that his declaration of his impending freedom, and Sherlock's subsequent assertion that caring was not an advantage, would mean his friendship with Sherlock was over, at least for now. He had hoped that Sherlock would want to be friends with him at some point in the future, but he understood that if he had been forgotten then there was little he could do to change that situation.

It therefore was a great surprise, though not an unwelcome one, when the next day Sherlock bounded downstairs towards John to using as a sounding board about a recently uncovered body found by a confused forester at Dartmouth. It was as though nothing had changed. Sherlock's movements tossed his curls back and forth as usual, his hands were as open and effusive as ever, his words were deep and lilting and he seemed to treat John in the exact same manner as he had always done.

He half wondered if Sherlock had simply forgotten their whole conversation yesterday. He almost wanted to bring it up, but then he knew what bad manners it was to look a gift horse in the mouth. Then again, not looking too carefully at a gift horse had gotten the Trojan's in rather a lot of trouble.

He wanted to not question Sherlock's motives or wishes in general, but it couldn't be helped at times. There was a lot going on and John found it hard to trust anyone. He had let himself trust the people around him to only find himself dismissed in the strangest way possible and it had thrown him off even further. Dismissed and tightly held on to at the same time was not something John could easily wrap his head around.

With his applications to medical internships, his preparation of his personal statement for UCAS and his own upcoming A-level examinations, he shouldn't have been spending so much time questioning the motivations of other people. He had seen from his own mother that he could never change someone and could certainly never force a person to change themselves. People only changed on their own. They might have needed help to do this, but it was only effective in conjunction with self-help, not apart from it.

So the same would have to be true for Sherlock, no matter how much John might have liked to believe otherwise. He would just have to be there and be a good friend during whatever Sherlock did or didn't go through. If Sherlock brought the conversation back up, if Sherlock explained that he needed John's help to work through his own feelings and emotions, then Sherlock would most definitely get it. If Sherlock remained silent then John would remain there all the same.

They both had too much work to do.

"I have some laboratory work to complete," Sherlock said suddenly, turning on his heel mid-sentence. The portable lab was still set up outside and would be for the foreseeable future, since many of the patients were completing either GCSE or A-levels. He seemed to be stepping out the door towards the mobiles, but John was certain that when they were unoccupied, the rooms were locked. "Are you coming?" Sherlock asked.

John had been almost certain that he would have been asked to stay behind, that Sherlock needed his silence. He had been wrong and dumbfounded.

He wasn't the best at reading Sherlock, he wasn't the best at reading anyone, but there had been a certain predictability to the young detective-to-be that had vanished. He wanted to say that he was busy, give some excuse about needing to work for his examinations, or start to organise and pack up his belongings before he left in a very few short weeks, but instead he was unable to say a word, or to move. His brain was weighing up his options too quickly, and knew that any potential lie he told, would be spotted by Sherlock immediately.

In the end John was forced to realise that it was only few short weeks before he left. A few short weeks and he would be leaving Sherlock behind. With the best will in the world, he knew that Sherlock could not, or perhaps would not, stay in contact with him once he left these walls; he didn't want to waste the time he had here over thinking things. The limited moments left in the institute would be spent enjoying the time they had together. Instead he nodded his head and followed.

"I received a most curious e-mail, not half an hour ago."

"Most curious?" John inquired with a raised eyebrow. Sherlock did use the strangest turns of phrase.

"I admit that the language of the letter was quite antiquated, it's had a momentary effect on me." But John didn't mind so much, he liked the way it sounded in Sherlock's voice.

"A letter" John asked again, "but you just said that it was an e-mail."

"Exactly, John. Exactly." Sherlock beamed at him with what could only be described as pride.

o0o0o

Words were blurring into insignificance in front of his face whilst he glanced over the page for the eighth time, or was it the millionth? He neither knew nor cared anymore, there was too much going on for him to absorb. It was too late in the day and he had already done so much work; tutoring, general paperwork and a good old bout of psychotherapy included. He put the book down to rub at his tired eyes, before sighing and picking it back up again.

"I know that face." An Irish lit commented from across the room.

"Jim," John said cordially, still mostly confused as to whether he had been projecting his fears and rage onto his acquaintance, or whether the things that he thought had happened had actually, well, happened. He was of the opinion that he should start finding out how a people could tell if they were dreaming. Or if a friend was suffering from DID.

"What are you working on this time?" Jim enquired, sitting across from John, glancing at the myriad of books spread across the table.

"Matrices, I know it already, but my mind has given up."

"Such is life." Jim said, harmlessly enough in reality, but it sent a bolt of terror through John's mind. Everything about Jim did that to him these days. There was nothing different about him, not the way he spoke, or looked, or any other thing, and yet John was still unsettled.

"Well, good luck with all of that." Jim said, "The last thing you've got before you get your pass out of here isn't it?"

"I didn't realise that it was public knowledge," John commented, "I had kind of wanted to tell people on my own."

"Oh," Jim laughed cordially, "It's not, but I tend to know these things. I listen well."

"Well, it's true. Just the exams to go, and then I'm off to greater climbs, or something like that at least." John was forcing himself to keep his tone light, not scared or cowed. He had to force himself to calm down; there was nothing to be scared of here.

"I look forward to seeing you again. I'm on my way out as well, possibly permanently this time. I'm just packing up the last of my things."

John's eyes widened in surprise; he had thought only a little while ago that Jim's insomnia had gotten so bad that he was contemplating long term residency, and now he was leaving all together? It took John aback.

"Why permanently?" He asked, hoping that he had managed to inject some sense of tact into the conversation.

"It's been recommended that I seek some additional assistance from outside the institution. I happen to know a lot of people who are willing to help me." And in the same way as it had been for the past few weeks, John's imagination had started to go wild.

"Well," he said, clapping his hands together once and standing, "I better be off, lots to do. But don't worry, we'll meet again soon. After all; it's only a matter of time before Sherlock gets out. Then he'll come and find you I'm certain of it."

John wanted to take it as a comment on the obvious closeness of Sherlock and John's relationship, but was struggling to see it that way. He hoped that he didn't sound too weirded out when he replied. "Yeah, hopefully."

"Oh he will, I guarantee it. He'll come and find you, and so will I. Then the real fun will begin. Good luck on the outside, Johnny-boy," Jim said with a shark smile, "You'll need it."

"Good bye, Jim." John said, a half aborted wave given in kind, mind running on overdrive.

"Please," Jim said, all teeth and power, as he walked away, "Call me, Moriarty."

It was full of meaning, deep and important, and for the life of him John couldn't fathom what it was. There was no goodbye, there was no fanfare. In the morning his room was packed up and, as if he was never there at all, and Jim was gone for good.

o0o0o

"And you're done." The invigilator announced as John put the paper down for the last time. He had been as finished as he could have been for the last ten minutes, but was hoping that he could get some inspiration on the question that he hadn't been happy with if he gave himself his full allotment of time. He had written something down at least; his tutor informed him that leaving questions blank when you have time left was the cardinal sin.

He looked over to the left, where out of the corner of his eye he had noticed
Sherlock had been sitting in a bored state of 'finishedness' for the past ten minutes at least, and probably longer as well. John had only had time to notice when he himself was as done as he could have been.

"You completed the question correctly, you know."

"Just one of them," John laughed, "That's good to know at least."

"I'm sure you completed many of them to the required standard," Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand, "I specifically wished to mention the question that you had spent much time agonising over; it was correct."

"Looking at my paper could get you disqualified, you know." John echoed Sherlock's tone with a smile.

Sherlock looked equally bored of John's summation of examination rules as he had by the exam itself, though gave a smile in return. "It hardly matters when I didn't touch my own paper for at least the last half an hour of the examination."

"How could you see from that distance anyway? You were sat right across the room from me."

Sherlock gave his standard look of exasperation, or perhaps fondness, to reproach John for, as always, missing the 'obvious'. He had probably taken care to match the sounds of writing to the shape of numbers and symbols formed in a particular order. Or the ink stains on John's hand telling a certain story. He didn't know and it didn't really matter, he was just glad that Sherlock cared enough to use that information to comfort him.

"So, what now?" John questioned, feeling a little overwhelmed at the prospect of being finished and the lack of certainty that lay ahead of him. His life had been so purely regimented for so long, and now the rest of the world was open to him.

Sherlock looked at him, trying to puzzle though the many layers that the question was asking. John was scared for a moment that Sherlock was going to outright ask what John meant by the question, because he didn't know the answer, and if he could put the answer into words he wouldn't want to give it. In the end Sherlock simply asked, "Dinner, I believe."

"Think that you could get a pass to my cafeteria for good behaviour?"

Sherlock smiled at him, "I believe that requires good behaviour on my part, and we are all aware that good behaviour is not a trait that I exhibit easily."

It was funny how a single raise of an eyebrow could have John's pulse raising and a blush rising up his neck in a few seconds, especially in conjunction with the threat of bad behaviour. He tried to appreciate instead that Sherlock in spite of their looming separation, was talking with John so intimately and not pulling away as he had threatened to do when John first told him about it.

"My dad sent me some chocolate bourbons. Maybe we can have a post dinner snack in place of actually having dinner together."

"Excellent," Sherlock said, and turned in the direction of the dining rooms, slowly taking a few steps so as to make it clear that he expected John to join him.

The warmth bled through Sherlock's side, and John thought that maybe he shouldn't stand so close that he could smell the faint hints of cologne that Sherlock wore. But he couldn't bring himself to be away from Sherlock side for a moment longer than he had to be. It was all coming too soon.

o0o0o

"I admit, though the name suggests otherwise, this does not taste remarkably of chocolate."

"Of course not." John said with a raise of his eyebrow, "They're asda's finest bourbons. You're lucky they taste of biscuits. Have you never had one before? I'm pretty sure they're a stable of every Sunday school, youth group and play time."

Sherlock didn't respond immediately, instead looking at the biscuit thoughtfully as though it too could deliver its secrets through observation alone. "I was never much one for… those sorts of things. I preferred my own company. It was…" he paused, lowering his hand, not taking a bite. "it was preferable."

John knew that preferable in this case meant 'safe', safer than getting too close to someone who could hurt him if they got too close. Alone was safer than involving friends in his strange family of absent parents and abusive uncles. That was, if such strangers could even be trusted in the first place.

"Well, consider this a chance to catch up on an otherwise underwhelming experience."

"A gift I shall be eternally grateful for I'm certain, John."

There would be no better opening than that. John got up from his spot on the bed, "Um… Talking of gifts." John said, shuffling into the closet to retrieve the present.

"I was wondering when you would give this to me." Sherlock remarked.

"I should have known," John smiled softly, "and here I thought I was so sneaky."

"Oh rest assured, I have deliberately deleted any detail pertaining to the contents of the box you have in your hands. I shall be as surprised as I can possibly be." Shuffling in place like an excited child.

"Thank you?" John questioned whilst walking towards Sherlock, depositing the surprisingly large and heavy box in Sherlock's hands. The material must have been incredibly thick, and he regretted having put off the present giving so long that it was almost summer. "Anyway, here you go."

John awkwardly shoved the box into Sherlock's waiting lap, wrung his hands once and sat down on the opposite side of the bed, his back facing Sherlock so that he couldn't see his reaction.

Behind him was nothing but Sherlock's soft breathing. A rustle of paper. The thud of the cardboard box being dropped to the floor. John could feel the bed jump underneath him as Sherlock stood up, and it was the last straw, John had to see his reaction. Sherlock was midway through putting the coat on, the long heavy material swinging wildly as pulled it over his shoulders. He popped the collar up as a wind breaker.

Any thought John had in his head about how this would look didn't even come close to the image that was being cut by Sherlock in that moment. The dark of it complemented his hair and extenuated the ice paleness of the skin.

"It fits you then." John said, not sure of what else to say. His mouth had gone dry and his mind was full of fluff at the sight of his friend.

"Beautifully, John. Thank you."

"We've made it, haven't we?" He said, then at the pained look on Sherlock's face, hurried to clarify, "I mean, with the A-levels and… stuff."

Sherlock's face relaxed, schooling his emotion, although his body remained tense. "Indeed we have, John. Look how far we've come."

Sherlock didn't mention John's imminent departure. He didn't mention John's inability to afford such a gift, he didn't mention where the two of them would be going in life, or ask him to stay. The two of them just stood, silently. Eventually, small step by small step they came together and wrapped themselves in each other. John was enfolded deep inside Sherlock's coat like a child. The two of them holding on against the dying of the light. The morning would bring a lot of changes, and neither of them were ready.

o0o0o

Though they had spent many hours talking, laying side by side in the darkness of John's room, by the morning Sherlock had gone. John wanted to smack himself for being surprised by Sherlock's absence like a spurned love. There was nothing the two of them had actually done. John had no right to feel Sherlock's absence like a knife to his chest. It didn't stop it from hurting though.

John would be picked up by his father at six o'clock, after he'd finished work. It left John the whole day to pack everything he had gotten during his time here into two suitcases. His whole life; his whole independent existence could be packed into such a small space, and yet still the task was hugely overwhelming. He should have done it weeks ago, and but every time he had tried he could only look at the empty suitcase before him and then find something else incredibly vital to do.

Up until this point he had the pressure of examinations as an excuse to avoid the work he needed to do, but now there was nothing left. He had some exit paperwork and then he would have to be done. In a few precious hours his life would be removed from the place he had allowed himself to call home. He would be away from the people he had allowed himself to call friends, and all he could feel, for that moment in time, was numb.

He wouldn't even be back here for day sessions. That thought kept popping into his head; there were other groups and therapists he was attached to outside of here and he would be going to see them. He would be cut off from the people here so quickly. It would be an instantaneous severance. He knew what it was like to lose a limb and he was certain that this separation was on a par with it.

His clothes were washed and ironed, lying flat on his bed and his prosthetics were next to them. His books were placed in neat piles on the floor, and various soaps and brushes were lined up on his bedside cabinet. The process of folding them all neatly and pressing them carefully into the corners of his suitcase was like mediation.

Fold. Place. Fold. Place.

It was only the last few oddly shaped things that he needed to pack; to be wrapped up in socks and put wherever they would best fit. The exception was one small box. The box which was still so beautiful, and contained the gift that had been so precious to him.

Opening the box hadn't been a part of his plan; he was supposed to be packing things away not making everything even more disorganised. The stethoscope was still as brightly polished as they day he had received it. He didn't read the small engraving, on the side, but he traced the ridges and furrows of it with a single fingertip. His tight grip held onto the cold steel for a second too long, and found that he couldn't let go.

It was only as he felt the water drop onto the back of his hands that he realised how hard he was sobbing.

o0o0o

On a normal day John ran into Sherlock at least six times, before and after every meal. He always made an effort to check up on John, and John in turn often stayed in places where he could be easily found. This pattern had not been broken without forewarning for the best part of a year and yet on his last day; the day where he wished to see Sherlock more than anyone, was the day where he was completely hidden from the world.

John had assumed that regularly scheduled therapy and meetings would have meant that Sherlock couldn't remain hidden forever, but he knew better than to underestimate the abilities of Mr Holmes. He wanted to say goodbye, to try and explain things that he could barely explain to himself.

It was coming too close to the time he was due to leave. His bags were packed with military precision and his paperwork was in order. He had little to say to Mike, except to thank him and receive Mike's promise that he would come and sit in on a few of his early therapy sessions to mediate the transfer to John's new psychiatrist.

"You won't have anything to worry about," Mike insisted, "We're going to make this transition as easy for you as possible."

"I don't know about having nothing to worry about." John tried to smile, but he was aware that it would look strained.

"Any specific worries?" Mike asked him. Though John was no longer his direct concern, he still seemed to genuinely care about John's future wellbeing. John didn't know whether he should have expected it at this point, but he was always deeply surprised at how much individuals could care about others.

"No," John shook his head, "Nothing specific at all, just general sort of uncertainty about the future. But I think that's a good thing; it'll keep me on my toes. Everyone's a little anxious about the future aren't they?"

"Most of the time, yes, myself included." Mike admitted, "That you can recognise that is a huge step for you."

"What will happen if I don't like my new therapist?" John had to ask.

"Well, I don't think that likely, but I will always be here to talk to if you need me. I will stay with you through this transition however long that takes. I promise."

"Okay," There was little he could do to express his weight of gratitude expect with the tiniest of insignificant words, "Thank you."

"Any time, John."

o0o0o

Sherlock wasn't there.

He hadn't expected a huge show of emotion or anything like that, but he had expected something. A cold handshake would have been better than this nothingness that Sherlock had left him with. He and his things were now waiting by the front door, hoping for something, anything, that would give him hope for the future, but his father was already on his way and would be only ten or fifteen minutes.

The minutes trickled away in silence until Mrs Hudson arrived. "Your dad's just came through the front gate, dear." She said as softly as always, "He's just parking. He should be here in a second."

Any hope John had left was falling through his fingers, when a voice called out across the hall.

"John!" he could hardly believe his ears.

"Molly?" Even in that one word John could tell the way her voice had been underused.

She opened her mouth several times, as if trying to say something else. She seemed as surprised by her outburst as John. She was smiling, though tears were forming tracks down her face.

She made a few strange clicks in the back of her throat. Words starting to form, but not able to push past her lips, "It's okay, Molly." John insisted, crying himself now, "Thank you, for being here."

Molly opened her mouth again, but even without her problems she was crying too much for words to come easily. Instead she held her hands out palms up and John didn't hesitate to copy her gesture. She held her hands over his and then grabbed them, her gentle grip was warm and secure.

"I'll see you around." He said, not a promise he could keep, but he hoped that it would be true.

She smile at him once more, "bye."

As his father came through the door, Molly let go and stood back.

"Are you ready, John?" he grabbed, one of John's suitcases and waited for John to do the same.

"As I'll ever be."

He wanted to say 'no', because the one person he wanted to see right now more than any other was nowhere to be seen; it felt like the sort of moment that could make or break them. That was always how it worked in stories; everything was decided in dramatic partings such as these.

But that wasn't how life worked, and there was no dramatic parting, no profound words or lasting promises. There were quiet words and small smiles. There were two suitcases and a waiting car, nothing that would change the world. Just sad silence and a deleted friendship.

On the other side of a closed door, where John wouldn't see, was the other half of a friendship broken. In his life he had been taught that if no one heard him cry, then nothing had happened.

o0o0o

Living with his dad was remarkable easy, they were working through their issues, and the main part of their agreement was to talk. They would talk about anything and everything. Mutual communication, or lack thereof had been the problem throughout John's life, so if anything was bothering either of them, then they would talk about it. They would find a way to understand the things that had been so difficult to explain to each other in the past. There was obviously still tension, but they were working to relieve it.

He had a space of his own, sufficiently far away from the old neighbourhood that he could ignore the ghosts that live there, both the living and the dead. It was a fresh start with fresh faces and he could be whoever he wanted to be. He was through with the lies and the masks, and people still accepted him for that.

Not every bridge had been mended though. Some, like Carl, could now never be fixed. He hadn't heard from his mother. He hadn't heard from his sister either, though his father assured him that she was well. Most importantly, he hadn't heard from Sherlock.

He hadn't tried to contact Sherlock either, he had to admit to himself. He couldn't lay all the blame at Sherlock's feet when there was absolutely no reason to think that Sherlock had to be the one to make first contact. Even with John's strong desire to see Sherlock again, he still hadn't picked up the phone. In the end he could only really blame himself for the things that happened or didn't happen between them; he was the only one he had control over.

The number remained undialed.

John was spending his months shadowing a cardiologist near to his house, and completing general interning work at the hospital. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to go into cardiology, but he knew he had time to make a proper decision. He was thinking about working in acute trauma, a sort of debt repaid to the people who had saved his own life.

The hospital had been a fascinating place to work. Even if he didn't become a doctor, he was learning of so many other ways he could be a part of that world. Whilst doctors drove much of what happened in the hospitals, there was so much more that happened, unseen to many.

There were many noble professions to be had in the medical world. It felt like options were opening up before his eyes. The experience of interning had told him that no matter what he ended up doing, he could be happy doing it. He might think of a different path, he might have different dreams and ambitions, but he would be happy in himself. Every day that the phone didn't ring, he tried to remember that.

o0o0o

"John!" his father called from the kitchen, "There's a letter for you!"

John almost laughed at his enthusiasm, they both knew what the letter would be. John knew that he could have looked at the results at midnight online, but he didn't have to fight for places through clearing if his results weren't good enough, and he rather liked the idea of opening the letter.

The letter was on the kitchen table, the bills and junk put to one side. It sat, pride of place, next to the jam and butter, possibly the most wonderful and terrifying thing he had seen in his whole life. Such an innocuous little letter, and yet it contained a multitude of possible pathways that John's life could take. The Schrödinger's cat of potential outcomes, they could only collapse into one outcome upon reading.

"Do you want me to open it for you?" his dad asked.

"No," John finally picked the envelope up, "No, I can do it."

He prised the top open carefully, to avoid tearing the paper that was inside, before pulling out the little bundle of results. He could see that his dad was desperate to know what the results were, but John couldn't speak about them just yet. He was drowning, every breath struggled against the pressure crushing against this chest.

"Are you okay, John?" his dad asked tentatively.

"Yeah," he gasped out eventually, "Yeah, I'm good. As, all As."

"That's fantastic." He said, reaching over the other side of the table to pull John into an awkwardly angled hug, his tie trailing in the butter.

"Yeah." Was all John could think to say in response.

o0o0o

John sat in front of the interviewers, with palms sweating. He was desperately trying to resist the urge to dry them on the front of his trousers. Everything was sticky, ill-fitting and uncomfortable, even though he knew that they had fit perfectly this morning. He lived and died in the jumper he was wearing, and yet it had become stiff and itchy within the past few hours.

"Good morning, Mr Watson." A middle aged man greeted, John had known the name of all the lecturers from his research, but the name had completely disappeared on meeting him.

"Good morning." John willed himself not to stutter.

"We'll obviously be asking all of the standard questions shortly." The man continued, "However, we noticed that you completed both your AS levels and A-levels within the year. You briefly mention this as a part of your personal statement. Could you expand upon why you had chosen to complete the courses in one year instead of two? It's quite the challenge."

Talk about yourself, be humble, be boastful, what did he just ask?

"In one year?" John said, repeating the question to ensure he was talking about the right thing.

"Indeed," an elderly woman confirmed.

John didn't know how much truth was too much truth, obviously he couldn't lie; everything was on record, but how much of the truth did he really need to highlight?

"I was in an accident." He started slowly, swallowing deeply around his nervousness, "and I had to spend a lot of time in physical and mental therapy. I had been a year behind as a result, so I didn't really have much of a choice. I needed to get them done within the year."

"Still a choice, however." The woman commented, "and not an easy one."

"Obviously self-discipline is needed for such a task. Could you explain to us how you prepared for your examinations?" the other man asked.

The rest of the interview melted into one blur from there. John answered as simply and as honestly as he could manage, interpreting little lines on paper like an academic Rorschach test and trying to remember what he had written on his own personal statement.

"Thank you. I believe that's all we have for you today."

"You'll be hearing from us soon, Mr Watson."

John didn't really remember getting up out of his seat. He didn't really remember shaking hands with the interviewers. He didn't really remember leaving for his tour of the various facilities around campus, but he felt good about it.

Today was a good day.

o0o0o

"Hello," his dad answered the phone that was hanging on the wall between the kitchen and living room.

John had almost jumped up to get it himself. Even though he knew that he wouldn't hear from the university via phone, any form of communication became a potentially earth shattering event. John had taken to eavesdropping on phone calls even after he knew they had nothing to do with his application. He had started to eavesdrop on phone calls of complete strangers on the street, just in case they were suddenly in charge of relaying news about his application.

As ever, it was not a phone call from the university, but it was an important one.

"Slow down, love." His dad was trying to send calming tones on the other side of the phone, "say that again, Clara who?"

John sat bolt upright at that, a hush had fallen over the room. He picked up the remote to turning off the cheesy seasonal special that had been playing in the background. He hauled himself up on his good leg and hobbled his way over to where his father was standing. John lent heavily on the wall in front of him, silently asking what was going on. His dad put his hand up in a 'hold on' gesture.

"Well, where are you now?"

The voice on the other side of the phone was frantic, John couldn't hear much of what was being said, but it was far removed from anything calm. Panic started flooding him in sympathy, although he knew that it would help no one to get distraught.

"Head inside the coffee shop and stay there, I'm coming to get you. I will be as quick as I can be, just stay there."

John didn't ask if he should come along. He was probably welcome from a technical standpoint, but realistically he knew that he was the last person needed right now.

"Is she going to be alright?" John asked as his dad threw on his jack and grabbed his keys.

"I don't know," he shook his head, "I really don't know, John." He gave him a quick one armed hug, "I'll be back as soon as I can be."

John wanted to turn the TV on again, play some mindless cartoons but he couldn't make himself do anything other than sit in the dark and wait. After some time the click of the door handle echoed through the house, but John didn't move to greet them.

"We're back," his dad called through the hall, shuffling quietly back into the living room, a dejected and distraught Harriet following him. "I'll get us a drink," he said patting her on the shoulder, "Do you want one, John?" John nodded minutely, not wanting to make any disturbance.

Harry placed herself carefully on the farthest space away from John. She didn't meet his eyes, though he was sure she could feel him looking. He tried to not look pitying, knowing how much he hated that himself, but it was hard to toe the line between sympathy and pity.

The silence remained unbroken, John's awareness of it pulsing in waves. Three tumblers of amber liquid were placed carefully on the table and Harry immediately snatched hers up, knocking back half of it in one swallow. It was a practiced motion judging by the lack of a flinch. John on the other hand took a cautious sip, letting the alcohol evaporate on his lips with a shudder.

Harriet sat staring at the whiskey, watching it roll around the inside of the glass, "What the fuck is wrong with her?" she muttered bitterly, John didn't answer. He could hazard a guess as to what she was talking about, but voicing any assumptions he had would make it about him and it really wasn't.

"I want to marry her, you know?" a different her this time, "and mum won't even… I couldn't leave her alone, and I thought that maybe she'd have time to think and I thought…." Her voice cracked at she fell silent. She sighed, putting the glass down and placing her head in her hands. "I don't know what I thought."

"You thought being there for her would help. We all think we can change people, love. It's not a bad thing to have hope." Their dad consoled.

"It's just so stupid." Harry sobbed gently, "I should be fucking happy right now, Clara wants to go out and put a fucking rock on my finger and all I feel is terrified that she'll turn up with a shotgun."

Their father was quiet, "We could invite her over, if you like?"

Harry and John both turned to him evident on Harry's face that she was thinking the exact same thing as, John. "I mean invite Clara over," he clarified slightly defensively, "she'd be welcome to stay for the holidays."

Harriet shook her head, "She's with her parents for the holidays. They're fucking thrilled to bits. Damn hippies." She joked, though it fell flat. Each one of them took another drink from their glasses, John still not sure why people enjoyed the taste of it.

"There's a different church that I was looking into." His father said, breaking the brittle silence that permeated the room, "I was thinking we could go to midnight mass, go out and enjoy the peace."

"Are you serious?" Harry questioned, frustration permeating every syllable, free of anger, but full of exhaustion. John bit his tongue, he couldn't think of a single thing that would be okay to say.

"Like I said," their father continued to explain, "it's a different church. A different sort of church, I looked into it. It's even got a LTCG group thingy."

"LGBT." John whispered, and then immediately regretted speaking, as the attention was drawn straight back to him. He still wasn't used to his father being so open about such things; he had been such a silent and absent figure their entire lives, even though he had been physically present.

"Yeah," he said, face slightly sheepish, although not showing it to Harry, "that one. I believe it's called something unbelievably cutesy like; 'Gay for God'." John choked on the swig he'd just taken.

"Are you serious?" Harry said, eyes wide with shock or surprise, probably both in equal measure.

"I was always more Church of England anyway." He finished with a shrug, "I was looking into places where the two of you could just be happy. I thought we could go, look at the decorations, have a bit of a sing song? What do you think?"

"The two of us?" Harry questioned, and John was thinking the same thing, "But I didn't even tell you. I still haven't told you."

"Well, if you end up married to this Clara girl then telling me would rather be a moot point. I don't know," he sighed again, "I had my hunches. I always had my hunches, but I'm very bad at knowing what to do with them."

"Alright," she said, wiping her face and downing the rest of her drink, "we'll go sing carols, but I swear I'll choke if I have to say a single 'Hail Mary'."

The mass wasn't for hours, enough time for Harry to talk on the phone with Clara, start sobbing again, cheer up a little, sit down and talk with their dad, start sobbing again, calm down once more and then finally fall asleep in front of the TV watching re-runs of old Doctor Who specials.

This whole time John had stayed out of it, he didn't feel like he would be welcome. There were things that Harry needed to work through, and it didn't include John. He instead started to turn his thoughts inward, not that this was unusual for him. The things that he thought and felt about Harry's situation were so complicated. He knew that one day he would need to resolve them, but for now they circled around; frustration with his mother, anger at Harry's hypocrisy, pain and sympathy for Harry's situation and deep seated jealousy.

The jealousy had bombarded him from all angles, and it made him feel sick with guilt. He was jealous that his father was now giving his attention to his sister once more. He was jealous that Harry had stood up to their mother with barely any repercussion. He was jealous that Harry got to have someone with her who she loved and wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Every single thought and feeling that surrounded them and their childhood and lives hit him full force.

He hated himself for it, because above all else Harry was his sister. If she needed support then, no matter what their collective pasts were, he should have been there for her. Caring for someone, caring for family didn't have to come with terms and conditions.

With that in mind, eventually he went back into the living room and sat with her. Waking her up was not what he wanted to do, but he wanted her to know that he was there if she did stir. He adjusted his straps on his leg carefully, slower than he had needed to in forever simply for something to do.

"It's about half an hour walk from here." His dad said, whispering, "Will you be alright with that? I've had a drink so I don't want to drive. We'll need to leave in about ten minutes."

"Not a problem," John whispered in return, standing to get a heat pack for his knee.

o0o0o

The walk was quiet, the night was crisp and clear. All three were bundled up in layers of jackets and scarfs. John popped up the coat collar against the wind, and was immediately reminded of absent friends. The cheekbones highlighted by the shadows of the coat. John had so much more than he'd had in years in terms of family and security, but that ache of missing his something more was undeniable, and he didn't know how to let it go.

Tired and chilled, the three arrived at the correct church, with plenty of time to find a seat in the bustling pews. The vicar himself was a good humoured man, who gave a ridiculous sermon about Disneyland, celebration and quiet anticipation. John found it strange that a congregation was encouraged to laugh, even though the time of year called for it.

He watched the people sitting in the ancient church, bathed in the warm glow of candlelight. The soft singing of 'Silent Night' punctuated only by the chime of church bells as midnight rang in the new day. When the song finished, the vicar stood again and said to everyone.

"The peace of the lord be always with you."

The congregation then chimed back, "and also with you."

"Now that it has chimed midnight, I invite you all to share with one another, a sign of peace. Merry Christmas."

The church became a quiet buzz of movement as friends and family all hugged and kissed each other, the phrases, "peace be with you," "peace of the lord," and simply, "Merry Christmas" echoed around the church. His father gave both him and Harry hugs, before shaking hands with the people from the pew in front. John knew it would be easy to leave it at that, but it was Christmas, so instead he turned to Harry expectantly, and placed his arms around her, hoping not to be rejected.

"Merry fucking Christmas," John whispered as she held him close in return. The whiskey fumes tickled his throat, but she was warm and real.

A small hiccupping laugh fought its way through Harriet's lips, "Merry fucking Christmas." She agreed.

o0o0o

John would have been embarrassed that his father had found him crying like a child on the floor of the kitchen, if he hadn't already seen much worse. It was stupid; there was no reason for him to be crying at all. However, sitting here beating himself up about crying hadn't actually stopped it from happening.

"John?" his father had said, stooping low to try and help him up, but John was having too much trouble getting his muscles to cooperate. Instead his father was forced to join him on the floor. John tried to make a half-hearted gesture towards the paper that had been abandoned on the floor.

There was a crinkle as the letter from the university was picked up and quickly read by curious eyes.

"Oh, John" he said, wrapping his arms around John's still shaking body, "Congratulations."

o0o0o

"Hey, John." Sarah, a fellow intern, called from across the hall.

"Morning," John replied with a shy wave, he was always intimidated by her for reasons he couldn't explain. She wasn't his boss, but he always felt like she was.

"There's a phone call for you. Someone called Mycroft? It sounds pretty urgent."

John's pulse leapt in his throat, his mouth was instantly dry. He had no idea what Mycroft could want, but he knew that he couldn't keep the man waiting a moment longer. He sprinted the best he could without kicking a waiting patient, before picking up the receiver.

"Congratulations, John." Mycroft's smooth and collected voice came through the phone before John could even say hello. "I understand that you have a very busy decade ahead of you."

"Thank you." John managed to spit out between deep breaths.

"Are you still attending your psychotherapy sessions?" he drawled.

John was taken aback by this, "What?"

"Just answer the question please, John."

"Of course I am." John answered hesitantly, "Twice a week."

"And Dr Stamford? Do you still converse with him?"

It took John a second to work out who Mycroft meant, John had always just known him as Mike "I… sometimes."

"Thank you, John. Please wait one moment."

John took the phone away from his ear, staring at it for a moment as though he could glean its secrets through appearance alone. Mycroft hadn't attempted to contact him even once in the months since he was discharged, there were a million reasons swirling around in his mind as to why he could be calling, and none of them sounded particularly good.

There was a crackle and John pressed the phone tightly to his ear as quickly as possible.

"John?"

His heart stuck in his throat. There was nothing coming out of his mouth; he hadn't heard that voice in so long.

"Hello?" Sherlock said, clear panic building in his voice, "John, are you there?"

"Yes!" he yelped, desperate for Sherlock to talk to him. "Yes, I'm here."

"Good, that's… good." Sherlock stuttered, over such pointless phrases "Um, How… are you?"

John's heart was in his throat, joy and amusement, "I'm great, but you don't have to make small talk. It's all fine. Is everything alright with you?"

"Did Mycroft tell you anything?" Sherlock inquired, not addressing John's question directly.

John shook his head, silently, before realising how stupid that was. "No," he admitted, "he didn't. Has something happened?"

"I suppose."

There was a long pause on the other end. John wasn't going to be the first one to break the quiet. The two of them both together had kept this silence for such a long time, but John felt, perhaps wrongly, that he was the one with the most to lose in their friendship.

"I'm being discharged."

"When?" John jumped in immediately, scenes from films filled his mind, and he turned to face the window as if expecting Sherlock to be standing outside.

"Not for a good few months. There will be some final evaluations, and preparations, but I'm good to go, apparently."

"Your memories?" John inquired, knowing they were one of the biggest problems Sherlock still faced.

"Still completely perfect," he boasted in turn, though he must have been aware of what John really meant. "Anyway, what I really needed to say was, my exit from the institute comes with certain stipulations, as could only be expected. Regular drug screenings, continued cognitive therapy and so on. One of the most important things is having a sober partner, someone who I can rely on at any time of the day or night to hold me accountable for my actions."

"Who you could then studiously ignore." John joked.

"That would be the important thing. It has to be someone I could never ignore. I had to think for some time about the situation. There was no-one I could think of who fit the bill, my brother would be almost impossibly overbearing, and as you might imagine, there aren't all that many people on the outside who I would consider as trustworthy, or sober. But then it came to me: John is all of those things and more."

John's hands were shaking he tried to not gasp suddenly when he realised he was holding his breath. He still didn't speak, he had to make sure that he couldn't misunderstand.

"Would you be willing to volunteer? You would be entitled to free residence in London, or if you wanted to live apart then I'm sure Mycroft could get you a personal car. I understand that you probably already have arrangements for university accommodation starting September, there would really be no obligation on you I simply…"

"Yes." John cut through Sherlock's rambling explanations, "To everything, just yes. Details can wait."

"Okay." Snapping back to his 'of course I had anticipated this,' voice, "We shall make arrangements."

"We shall," in the background there were murmurs that Sherlock replied to with a variety of colourful words.

"I'll speak to you soon." He said eventually, with a put upon sigh.

"Phone me whenever you need to. I'll be there."

"I will. And John." Sherlock stopped before he could hang up.

"Yes?"

"Happy birthday."

The words hit John hard; it marked the second birthday of Sherlock's that he had missed, but he knew now, that he would never need to miss another.

"Thanks."

o0o0o

John had been feeling a little emotionally raw.

A little was quite the understatement. Everything in the world which could have brought about a strong emotion in John seemed to have happened on the very same day. He was starting on his dream at university, he was moving out of his home to live on his own, he was reuniting with the closest friend he had had in his entire life. Needless to say, group therapy had been the last thing on his mind, though that was possibly a good reason to go.

"You mentioned that you've your spare things into your father's home now. Has that been an easy transition for you?"

Harriet had shrugged at that, using her normal brand of bitter humour to deflect any real answers, "If I didn't move my things out mum probably would have burned them to get rid of the lesbian germs anyway."

John had flinched at that. It was a side effect of his upbringing perhaps, but the words 'gay' and 'lesbian' and 'homosexual' had never been used in any other context than negative ones. He tried to embrace that side of his life as just another part of him like, 'blond' or 'vertically challenged' but it was hard to say. Harriet had no problem saying it, in a positive or negative way.

It wasn't difficult to see how his father had flinched as well,

"What about you, Hamish?" she had asked, "How are you feeling about Harry's move?"

"Good, obviously. It's a shame that any of this had to happen at all, but I can't say I'm sad to have some of their childhood photographs back, and that we can continue to be together as a family. I had assumed I'd never have everyone together again. So, yes; I'm glad it can feel like home. I just wish it was easier…"

"If we were straight you mean?" Harriet asked, though not as accusing as she could have been.

"No," their dad consoled immediately, "of course not. I wouldn't wish for you to be any other way than how you are. But I wish your mother, and me – I can't exclude myself – had had an easier time with this. I wish we had been more accepting."

"Do you feel a struggle when talking about sexuality, Hamish?" the therapist probed.

"I've got to be honest; it's hard for me. When I was born homosexuality wasn't even legal, my parents weren't exactly the kind of people happy with the change. You make your own opinions when you grow up, of course you do, but there's always that part of your mind that wants to believe that your parents didn't lie to you. But I do know better than they did, and the rest we can work out."

"That's all that matters, isn't it?" Harry had said.

"The rest we can work out." John agreed

The rest would always be worked out, as long as they did it together.

o0o0o

The Baker Street building was really conveniently located for the centre of London. It was quite a way from Bart's itself, but the Hammersmith and City would take him directly there. It was an easy walk to the edge of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens; John could see himself going running in the morning.

But in reality he could have been anywhere, what mattered was who he was here with. He stepped out of the car onto the street and had to remind himself to breathe. This would be the first time John had seen Sherlock since this time last year. It would have seemed too strange, too incomplete, to visit him in the intervening months. He wanted to know that when he saw Sherlock next, he wouldn't have to say goodbye.

Only now, it barely seemed real to have him standing there. He cut a sharp figure as always, though his face was a little less gaunt, his eyes were bright and hair was what John would have jovially termed, 'artistic' rather than truly dishevelled.

What was more important than any of that, was the coat that Sherlock wore. His coat. The one that John had gotten for him, or at least chosen for him. It didn't look like something that had been worn once for the sake of appearances, but something that was worn regularly. To John, the late September weather seemed mild and pleasant, but Sherlock's slight frame had always let in the cold.

They didn't speak, instead John walked forward to wrap his arms around Sherlock as tightly as possible, Sherlock holding him tightly in kind.

"Welcome home." John whispered, barely knowing if he had been heard or not.

"It's good to be home."

A cough from behind them reminded John that his father was still illegally parked on a double yellow line and that they needed to move things into the hall as soon as possible. John didn't care though, he was home too.

o0o0o

Sherlock was deep in papers by the time John had brought up his last box of text books. He was struggling to open the door with hands full, a rucksack over his shoulders and his shiny new running blade under his arm. John knew not to expect any offer of help from Sherlock, especially when there were interesting puzzles to solve.

Sherlock had already had people interested in hiring him as a private detective for domestic incidences. He had turned anything other than official police consultation down, however.

John dropped the box in the middle of the living room. Sherlock had left enough of his things everywhere that he refused to feel guilty about not cleaning it up immediately.

"Why don't you just start a business doing this? Not that a degree isn't good, but why Chemistry?"

"I can observe everything in the world to my heart's content, John. Anatomy I can learn from a text book, but there will come a time where being able to use these machines without some incompetent ruining my test will prove vital."

John smiled at that; those who had degrees in forensic science and years upon years of working at crime scenes, would never match up to the expectation that Sherlock had of how a mystery should be solved. The arrogance was staggering, but part of John thought that it was well deserved.

"What are you working on, anyway?" he asked dropping himself down in to the chair with a large thump.

"String of small time criminals disappearing, almost certainly murdered. I'm not sure what other name to give Carl's murderer, but he's certainly getting a workout." He said casually, flicking though pages at an alarming rate.

"I'm sorry, what?" John spluttered, "Carl's what?"

"I thought I'd mentioned it." Sherlock said absently, not looking up from his papers. "I got a profile on Carl's murderer. There were some indicators to link him to a new crime boss."

"No," John said, suddenly transported back to sleepless nights inside the 'home', of Sherlock's brilliance and John's own fear and depression. He had almost forgotten about Carl, he didn't even know how that had happened, or if he should feel as guilty about it as he did.

"The young man in question has no name." Sherlock said, glancing at John for just a second. "Not one that anyone is willing to speak, but he's developing an MO. There's some sort of familial relation to a large crime syndicate, but after some sort of struggle it appeared that he took over the running of the business, or at least has placed himself in the position to do so."

"Why on earth how do you know this stuff?" John sat, feeling shocked. How had Sherlock managed to get access to such information and secure such contacts from within a closed facility?

"Just because he doesn't want people to know who he is, it doesn't mean that there weren't those who aren't willing to talk in rumours, legends if you will." Sherlock had taken on a story-telling tone, "The person in question seems to be cultivating a fairy-tale, one that's just interesting enough to make people sit up and pay attention. One that blurs the lines between reality and fantasy so that people are too on edge to cross him. It allows him to operate without being seen and have everyone under his charge fearing him if they step a toe out of line."

"And why on earth would he have been interested in Carl?" John asked, cutting through Sherlock propensity for expounding like the Brothers Grimm.

"I'm not entirely sure, but the suggestion seems to be that Carl's father had been involved in some small time petty crime. Statistically speaking, he had owed some money, the details are sketchy. Anyway, the belief is that this new boss did away with Carl to 'balance the debt'. It was a show of power, one designed to remind people that, no matter where they were on the food chain, he was watching. No matter what rung of the ladder, he could and would get involved if needed. It was a way to say 'watch your back'"

Was it true? John questioned, taking a moment to process the details Sherlock had shared, or was it just a delusional fantasy of a bored mind? The machinations of a mind that couldn't deal with a solution being as commonplace as domestic violence?

A fleeting thought, a stuttering second, and Jim's last words came to mind. Was that simply John's delusion in turn? They lived in a world of people deluding themselves every moment of the day, at least John was aware of his own delusions. Most of the time.

o0o0o

This was the first full weekend at Baker Street, and though John should have spent it unpacking boxes and sorting through his things, or catching up on his recommended reading, the majority of that morning had actually been spent drinking tea and half-heartedly perusing the newspapers. Being eighteen, he didn't know of anyone else who actually ordered in the newspaper on a regular basis, but Sherlock had insisted upon it. He was a big fan of 'sensational literature', particularly when it included unsolved mysteries.

John on the other hand enjoyed the mindlessness of flicking through looking for the most ridiculous stories he could find, simply for entertainment value. This Saturday however he wasn't finding as much enjoyment out of the unbelievable ramblings of Ms Higgins of Farrow Lane.

"You're thinking about something." Sherlock interjected from across the table, it seemed as though he too was thinking too much about something, but that was hardly new territory for the young detective.

John quirked up the corner of his mouth, "Astute."

Sherlock's silence simply said, 'go on then' and John had to concede, standing to make a fresh cup of tea to distract himself from thinking too deeply.

"I'm thinking about whether I should try and go to this church tomorrow."

"Your experiences with religious institutions seem to have been debilitating and negative. It would serve you no rational benefit to go." Sherlock pointed out simply.

He stood to join John in the kitchen, ostensibly to observe his tea making routine, but they both knew that Sherlock would not be making anything other than a mess in the kitchen any time soon.

"That's true," John answered, watching the kettle boil absentmindedly, "but it's not a rational thing. Consolation maybe? Fix some of the associations by making new memories. I haven't thought about it too much."

Sherlock scrunched up his nose a little, "I dislike things being irrational."

"You were a drug addict." John countered.

Sherlock's face was stuck part way between amused and stunned, obviously he wasn't used to having his issues talked about in such a casual day to day tone.

"Fair point." He conceded.

"Anyway, I haven't made a decision yet. You're right; I'm not going to let myself get hurt again, but that doesn't mean no."

Sherlock looked at him with deep curiosity, "How do you make a decision like that?"

"Poorly, generally. I guess you eventually have to reach a decision one way or another, so in the end you just learn how to decide."

They lapsed into silence as Sherlock considered this.

"People hurt people all the time. Love is one of the most motivating factors for terrible acts the whole world over. Yet despite it being so irrational, people constantly seek people. People seek love. Why are we slaves to something so nonsensical?"

John shrugged, "As you said, it doesn't make sense. Perhaps that's why people want it; to try to understand why it's so important, even though it's illogical"

Sherlock stared at John, the gaze going deep into John's soul as he tried to hold Sherlock's eyes in turn. He could see the light of some decision being made in those eyes, and he barely noticed Sherlock's hand creep over to gently brush against his own where it rested on the side.

"I can't guarantee I will want any more than this, and I cannot promise you that I will be anything other than myself, which I am assured is completely obnoxious most of the time, but I'm trying to understand that irrational part of myself, too. Even though I know it might cause more damage. I was hoping, I mean of course if you are amenable, I would very much like to kiss you now."

He wasn't even aware when he had done it, but John's hands were tracing along the edge of Sherlock's hair, catching the long knotted scar at the base of his neck with the tips of his fingers. With his other hand he trailed down Sherlock's arm, from the shoulder to the place where a mottled patchwork of faded needle scars, all old but angry, still lingered. With his eyes he scanned a scar, running along the line of his eyebrow, thin and silver, small and barely visible.

He caught on the back of his own arm the remnants of his fall into the river, he felt the weight shift from one leg to the other, and could feel the little bumps on the inside of his mouth where he had all but bitten through the skin there.

He saw all of these and marvelled. They were a hot mess of scars and pain, and yet somehow they were still alive.

"Yeah," John replied, feeling in awe of their survival, "I think I'd like that."

Maybe there would be a day where Sherlock deprioritised him, perhaps there would be a day where that memory room was too full to hold things like kisses, and when Jim decided to surface again, if this threat was more than in John's head, he would inevitably become a priority whether John liked it or not, but here in this moment clinging to the each other, this was perfect.

Pressing their lips together, quick and soft, John felt the call of being alive. And in this room, in this home, he could see a world that he filled himself with a new kind of family, with love and friendship and Sherlock. Where maybe they couldn't fix each other, because that wasn't how the world worked, but where they could give each other the space and the support needed to fix themselves.

When people went through healing, through any sort of recovery, the mind eventually reached the point where it would turn around and say 'I'm fixed now.' It says this over and over. Every day is a look back on the previous days and the realisation that something that happened yesterday was an indicator that something small was still wrong, but today everything is 'fixed'. And the next day you look back on your own delusion and say, 'well, now I'm fixed.'

Every day you realise how much better you are, and you think 'this has got to be it. There is no way that I can get any better than I am now.' Until eventually, after weeks, or after months, the realisation comes that there is no such state as 'fixed'. Everyone, through every problem is in a state of improvement. The mind and the body are not as easy to fix as inanimate objects. They are animate. They are alive, and in the process of living they carry the weight of everything that has happened to them.

A twisted ankle can remind the owner of the injury years down the line, and the mind will battle monsters at dark time.

But that did not negate the progress or the healing.

'Today, I am fixed.' John thought in his head, the understanding that he could deal with the weight of such love, and not be crushed under it was overwhelming.

It was not true, because there was be still much to be done, but one day he wouldn't need to think it. One day he wouldn't need to affirm to himself. One day he would get out of bed and think only about the day ahead, and not the progress he had made in the past. It was not today, but it would happen.

It would happen.

o0o0o

And that's all she wrote, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for reading along and reviewing, I know how patient some of you have been through this whole messy process.

Headcannon note (can you have headcannon on a fanfiction?) I really love the idea that after this point they basically just follow the original series, that John and Sherlock get their degrees and fight crimes across London in swishy jackets.

I also love the idea of the confrontation with Moriarty and the sentence 'Jim? Jim from the hospital? Did I make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose that was rather the point." And Sherlock being all like 0_o