A/N: Welcome to a new story; thanks for clicking!

This is set 3 years after Sherlock reappears, 6 years post-Reichenbach. Some key events will be covered in flashbacks (which will be regular occurrences).

Hm, what else? Not a JohnLock, John and Mary are already married as we commence our story, and with a 15-month-old son.

I'll be aiming for weekly updates; school is a little busy the next few weeks, but never underestimate the power of procrastination and the allure of writing about these characters.

Disclaimer: I own nothing and make no money. Just playing with others' characters for my own twisted amusement.

Continuum

Chapter 1

There were few absolutes in life, John Watson thought, sighing resignedly. Death, taxes, and Mycroft Holmes' bloody power complex, his utter inability to just call John like a normal person if he had a question for the doctor. To Mycroft's credit, it had been the better part of six years since he had enlisted this sort of tactic, and John would have been more willing to forgive the unexpected maneuver were he not eager to use his hour lunch break to the fullest at the café down the street.

"I don't suppose I could grab a bite before we…" the dark-suited man holding open the door exhibited no reaction, just stared John down until he acquiesced and climbed into the back of the car beside Mycroft's latest PA. "No, okay. The British government waits for no man's stomach. Right."

"Ahem." He started and looked around. The young man, PDA in one hand, was offering him a wrapped sandwich with the other, not looking up. Well, if nothing else, Mycroft was growing more considerate with time and age. Still making amends for the events that had severed any good will between the two men for three years, John supposed.

And in the three years since, he had respected John's space and, as far as John knew, his family's privacy to a reasonable degree. Which made him optimistic that maybe this was something very important, something John would be thankful Mycroft brought to his attention. Something that wouldn't frustrate him to no end, but somehow make him feel obliged to do the man's bidding.

He needn't have raised his hopes.

"John," the angular man smiled thinly, gesturing him to a seat in his impressive office. "I trust you are well. Mary and young Daniel?"

"Good, yeah."

"And your holidays in Kent?"

He had to forcibly bite back the sigh that time. They'd only just returned three days ago from two weeks with Mary's family. "They were fine. Want to say what's really on your mind?"

The tight smile widened. "Would you believe, John, I did bring you here to ask about your holidays?"

"Mm…no."

"Did Sherlock join you in Kent?"

He waited for a punch line that never came. "Why should he?" Mycroft shook his head and gave a mild shrug. "You obviously know he didn't, so…"

"He disappeared, John."

A weight settled briefly in the pit of his stomach, before logic dispelled it. "I've seen him since we returned, he came 'round for dinner."

"And I saw him this very morning. But I… lost track of him, shall we say?... the day after you departed and he did not turn up again until two days ahead of your return."

That was… unlike Sherlock. Easily seventy-five percent of his time was spent on Baker Street or at Scotland Yard or St Bart's. To not appear in any of those places for nearly two weeks… "Did he take a case somewhere? He's gone to Belarus just to interview a convict, for Christ's sake."

"It's possible; though if he traveled, he did not book a ticket in his own name."

John sat, pensive, for half a minute before he forced himself to stop. Holding up a hand, he shook his head. "Look, I'm not going to gossip and speculate behind his back. If he doesn't want to tell you or me what he's up to, he's a grown man and that's his business and your problem." Pulling himself out of the overstuffed armchair, he shrugged unhelpfully. "I need to get back to work."

"Sit, John."

He was already halfway to the door. "I'll grab a cab if I have to."

"He was clean by the time you met him."

That gave him pause, his hand resting on the door knob. Biting back a curse, he turned and stared at the older man. "Come again?"

"You never knew him when he struggled with certain… unsavory habits."

His mouth opened and closed three times, unable to put to words any of the million thoughts racing through his head. True, he hadn't known the consulting detective when he partook in anything more recreational than a cigarette; but as Mycroft had been willing to bribe a complete stranger just to check up on his brother, the problem must have been serious. "So… is this what it was like? All disappearing and secrecy?"

"Not at all," Mycroft conceded bluntly. "He was a wreck, obvious and foolhardy about it. How do you think he came into partnership with DI Lestrade?" In truth, John supposed he had never really thought about it, just envisioned Sherlock strolling into a crime scene one day and never leaving. "Arresting a genius of a junkie was a windfall for Lestrade's career, it's why he's tolerated Sherlock all these years, since he got himself back together."

John suspected that Mycroft underestimated the genuine affection and friendship between the two men, but now was hardly the time to split hairs. "So if he isn't acting like-"

"He's older; smarter. Far more self control now, if you can believe it of my rash little brother."

"Well, what do you expect me to do about it?" Mycroft raised a brow. "No. I'm not looking through his socks and under his skull; I don't even live with him anymore."

"No, but you are more finely attuned to his peculiar preferences." More finely attuned than Mycroft's henchmen, John supposed sullenly.

"Look," John placed his palms flat on Mycroft's desk and leaned in towards him, "Sherlock and I are in a good place right now. It's taken some time, but we have a system, know our boundaries and this," he shook his head, "this is none of my business and, frankly, none of yours."

Mycroft sniffed. "I worry about him. I would have thought you do as well."

"You have a half-cocked hunch based on nothing more than annoyance that Sherlock managed to slip out from under your nose for more than ten minutes once since he…" he trailed off and knew Mycroft was filling in the gap with came back from the dead.

With a mild sigh, the stiff man withdrew a file folder from the top drawer of his desk. Sliding it over to John, he rested his elbows on the desk and his chin on his intertwined fingertips. "Go on," he encouraged the doctor. Eyes narrowed in confusion, a mild bout of dread creeping into his gut, John opened it. It was gibberish at first, a load of numbers and random locations. "Sherlock delights in playing games with me," Mycroft reminded him. "Always has. He knows when he is being watched, he sees everything, you know that. But there are days when he dodges my eyes and ears until he turns up at Scotland Yard, or at your residence an hour later. And then there are days," he nodded down at the folder, "where he disappears and does not want to be found. For hours, sometimes overnight, returning to Baker Street just before dawn."

That was… less reassuring. "It's still a huge leap to drugs."

"Perhaps. But it is the one possible explanation that gives me most cause for worry; and would be most detrimental to him, were it true."

"Maybe he has a girlfriend." Mycroft's eyes narrowed, not amused. John sighed again, knowing that one way or another, he'd end up helping Mycroft snoop in on Sherlock. "Look, I'll ask him about running off, it's not like he doesn't know you're watching him anyway. But I'm not digging through the flat and I'm not going to throw accusations in his face. He deserves more than that from me and you."

X-X

The intercom beeped, startling John. Any other day of the week and Sheila would have been out the door already at fifteen minutes past the hour, but it was Friday; she stayed late to make sure the paperwork was in order and avoid any potential calls interrupting her weekend and creating a stressful Monday morning. Scratching a few more notes on the chart of his last patient of the day, John tapped the button on his phone with his pen, not looking up. "Hm?"

"There's one more to see you." He opened his mouth to tell her it was after hours, but she preempted him. "He insists. Says it's urgent."

"Send him to A&E then," John murmured back, "we aren't exactly emergency care here." Some people- hated the hospital so much, they'd wait until the last minute and only go so far as the closest surgery for a problem that would have been easier treated weeks earlier.

A full minute passed, Sheila was obviously arguing with the man. When she finally paged back, her voice was resigned and frustrated. "I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, he's really very insistent. And a bit belligerent," she added under her breath.

He sighed. "Send him in before you get in a row." He continued at his file as even, heavy footsteps approached his office door. As the door opened, he leaned down to slide the paperwork into the appropriate folder in the cabinet. "R, r, r," he skimmed through the alphabet, "what seems to be the problem?" he called up over his desk.

"I have been reliably informed," a cool, quiet voice that was horridly familiar, a voice at once from his dreams and his nightmares, "that I am dead."

John Watson jerked suddenly, smacking his head on the front of his sturdy wooden desk. Clutching the spot he can already tell will sport an impressive bruise and goose egg later, he withdrew quickly from the file drawer and gaped at the doorway to his office.

Tall, somehow taller and larger than life, he was there. Cool grey-blue eyes under a cocked-brow expression, he was working his leather gloves off his hands finger by finger. He sported a coat similar to his trademark garment, slightly different and not quite bulky enough to hide the physical toll 'death' had taken on his already lean body.

For a minute, maybe two, John Watson stared at the ghost of Sherlock Holmes, standing there three years later, same expression, same damn purple scarf, his thoughts racing a kilometer a minute as to the hows and the whys… and then he just stopped, cleared his head, stood smoothly and side-stepped his former flat-mate.

"I have a date," he mumbled, and left before Sheila could ask him about his last-minute mystery patient.

X-X

He sat in his small flat for half an hour, unmoving, eyes wide open and staring at the floor but seeing nothing. Had he finally gone 'round the bend? No, Sheila had witnessed it, too. It was him, down to the last tousled curl on his head. Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh. Three years later, three years since he had plummeted from the rooftop of St Bart's, three years… Christ, three years since they'd buried him in the cold ground.

Alive. Well, if anyone could have done it, it was obviously Sherlock. He'd asked- begged- at his graveside to discover that final miracle, that the great Sherlock Holmes had pulled off the cleverest trick of them all. But three years? How was he to forgive that duration of time? What possible explanation could excuse the agony he'd been put through?

Explanation. He hadn't even asked for one. Simply walked out. Sherlock had not protested, probably foresaw the reaction. Of course he had a good explanation… surely. Sentiment may not have been his strong suit, but he could not have been so oblivious to it as to not foresee the emotional consequences his death would render upon himself, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Myc…

Mycroft?

John swore and clambered to his feet, snatching his phone from the dining table, shooting off a quick text to Mary apologizing and canceling their date, and was out the door seconds later and calling for a cab.

X-X

The image of Sherlock interacting with a small child would never look quite natural, John had concluded fifteen months prior when the man had to be practically dragged to visit the newborn after they had brought Daniel home from hospital. He'd refused to hold the infant until he was nearly two months old and less "fragile-looking," and still generally preferred his distance.

Of course, John could in no way conjure a mental image of Sherlock as a child, so it was unsurprising that he should be so awkward with kids as an adult. Even at just over a year old, the detective regarded Daniel with an air that seemed to suggest that he was just waiting for the child to grow into some sort of useful role in life, rather than the needy, fussy, squalling thing that whined if kept up too late and needed others to provide all basic comforts.

John wasn't foolish enough to think that Sherlock hadn't already picked up on his reluctant unease as he made stiff small talk with Mary through tea and regarded Daniel through narrowed eyes whenever the toddler tried to climb onto the sofa beside him or, for that matter, even came too near. He offered a 'thank you' after the thought when Mary was already almost out the door with the tea tray, earning a bemused smile over her shoulder.

Daniel trailed after her; it would be time for his nap now anyway and then Mary would begin prepping for dinner, giving John and Sherlock time alone to talk. He hadn't shared details of his conversation with Mycroft with his wife, but had told her of the abduction off the street in front of the surgery where he worked. It was the same clinic where Sarah had hired him, though much of the building had undergone a recent renovation, and Sarah herself had moved on as well, married now.

"Any good cases lately then?"

A soft huff answered him. "Dull. As usual. Lestrade might be getting thicker with age, in mind and body."

"Be nice." Sherlock gave him a light smirk and then became serious again, studying him over his clasped hands, eyes piercing and taking in every little detail in that uncanny way of his. "Look… I don't really know how to-"

"Didn't take Mycroft long, did it?"

Shit. So much for an ill-contrived attempt at subtlety. "Well, you know what he's like."

"Overbearing. Condescending. Insufferable." John paused, frowned, looked pointedly at the other man. "Oh, shut up."

"Far be it from me to defend Mycroft, you can't really blame him, can you?"

"I find things proceed much quicker if I blame him without reservation and move on."

A silence that bordered on terse settled between the two men, before John uncomfortably cleared his throat. "So more secrets then?"

Sherlock's eyes widened in mild surprise. "'Secret' implies withholding information which you might have a reasonable expectation to access. Mycroft wonders what I'm up to when I fail to sit, shake, and roll over on command. Do you, John?"

"No!" he protested, feeling the conversation quickly slipping between his fingers. "I just thought th-"

"Do not think, observe."

"I don't know you anymore!" he exclaimed finally, then instantly wanted to take the words back. Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion or curiosity, he did not seem particularly bothered or offended at the assertion. "Obviously I didn't mean…"

"Things will never be the same," Sherlock conceded. "Just me and you against the world…" he glanced pointedly towards the door through which Mary and Daniel had disappeared. "And that's… fine. All fine."

John grinned lopsidedly. "When we lived together, you could never be bothered to do the shopping and had to have me fetch your mobile when it was in the pocket of the shirt you were wearing."

"You miss that?"

"God, no," he laughed, but then sobered quickly and regarded his friend closely. "The last six years have changed you, Sherlock; have changed me, too. But your brother is still living in the same controlling bubble, is all. He'll throw his fit and move on."

It was painfully obvious, now that he'd talked and thought it out; John wasn't sure how Mycroft had convinced him to confront Sherlock in the first place, looking back. The fact was simply that Sherlock was far more independent now, and it was hardly unexpected; he'd spent three years on his own without having John to fetch the milk or Mycroft to help him gain access to secret places.

Three years he had still never spoken of in significant detail. Not to John, certainly not to Mycroft, and it grated on the government official to no end. As the fact that his brother still had aspects of his life unknown to him still grated on him. Ah well; if Mycroft asked about it again, John would tell him to sod right off. Hell, maybe Sherlock did have a girlfriend, boyfriend… something. It didn't matter.

And anyway, John took Sherlock's advice and observed. Observed the way he was his same old self deep down, as much as he tried to be socially proper through dinner for Mary's sake. Observed the way his eyes would suddenly light up and he'd fire off a text, probably to Lestrade, and then resume the conversation where he'd left it minutes prior to pursue some sudden line of mental inquiry.

And he observed the way Sherlock betrayed his professed discomfort with children by picking up Daniel when he was tired and cranky, his mother occupied with cleaning up from dinner and John with a phone call from a patient; whatever low words he murmured to the toddler, John could not hear as he watched out the corner of his eye, but they comforted the boy who twined one hand through Sherlock's curly hair and rested his head on the tall man's shoulder.

He had not known Sherlock long before he knew he would trust his life in the man's hands. His instincts had proven wise, unbeknownst to him at the time, when Sherlock had given up everything to protect his closest friends. And today, he knew unequivocally, without the slightest shadow of a doubt, that he would trust the lives of his wife and son with him as well.

Yes, Mycroft Holmes could sod off indeed.

X-X

A/N: Thanks for reading!