A/N: I have seen series 3, but since this series isn't series 3 compliant, I've taken some creative liberties with Sherlock's name. Only a bit.

The cab ride home was enforced silence; whenever Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, John cut him off with a glare and a sharp gesture. Every shift in movement was rewarded with a warning look, as though John were waiting to again deny him the chance to explain.

Frustration faded quickly to uncertainty. This was too close to the anger that had been directed his way when he'd returned to London. The sudden fear that he'd regained everything he'd lost only to see it slip away again made the words stick in Sherlock's throat.

That, this time, he'd gone too far. That another threat against them neutralized meant only that there was no them anymore. That this thing that he'd been given – or stumbled into, or somehow earned, he'd tried to figure it out but had never been able to – would be taken away by the only person who had the right to do so.

Sherlock gave up on trying to speak, on trying to set things right with words that would only be stilted by the cabbie's presence. He felt a stranger's eyes on him with each abrupt movement John made, with each tiny sigh he couldn't restrain when he was cut off.

If it wouldn't have made John angrier, Sherlock might actually have opted for one of Mycroft's cars to drive them home. Perhaps even Mycroft himself. His brother being superior at him was better than this.

Almost anything would be better than this.

John clambered somewhat awkwardly out of the cab, leaving Sherlock fumbling for his wallet, uncomfortably aware of all the times he'd left John to settle the bill. The sound of the front door closing behind them echoed with an odd, lonely harmonic, only accentuating the glowering silence John had imposed on them and Mrs. Hudson's absence. The unnatural quiet felt almost physical. Cold and hollow.

"John–"

"No, Sherlock!" John snapped, rounding on him, a finger jabbing into Sherlock's chest hard enough to be felt through the thick fabric of his coat. "No! No more excuses! You cannot keep running off like that, not after everything else–"

There it was, the tiny sliver of promise that John wasn't through with this, that he expected change, wanted to see it, wanted it to happen while he was there, and Sherlock seized it along with John's good arm, catching the moment of surprise to use as his own.

"John. Do you trust me?"

"What?" John spat, trying to shrug Sherlock off, but not really, a movement that made Sherlock lighten his grip without removing it altogether.

"Do you trust me?"

"Do I trust you?" John shot back. "Why should I bloody trust you after all of that? You ran off–"

"I'm not asking if you should," Sherlock replied, keeping his voice calm in the face of John's irritation at being interrupted. "I'm asking if you do."

"Why? Because I'm an idiot for doing so? Because you want to know how soon you can pull a stunt like that again–"

"Because I trust you," Sherlock interjected. John stared at him, blue eyes raking over Sherlock's features, and the detective let them, fighting himself against putting up the masks he wanted John to see, the unfamiliarity of keeping his expression open – genuinely open – both difficult and uncomfortable.

"I'm not the one who runs off and gets himself abducted at the drop of a hat!"

"To be fair, I've only really done that twice," Sherlock said.

"Twice since I've known you!"

"Well, yes, good point," Sherlock conceded, thumb tracing the line of John's bicep, knowing it would be interpreted as a calculated movement – John's glare at his hand was proof enough – but it wasn't. Not really.

Even now, it surprised him how natural those small gestures felt. How vital they had become. Like breathing, but not boring.

"I trust you John. You know my methods. You understand them. I trusted you would know what to do at the Yard."

"Only because you set the whole bloody thing up!" John snapped.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "I trust myself too, John. This is what I do."

"If you trust me so much, why didn't you tell me what you were going to do!"

"And what would you have done then?"

"Bloody well not have let you gone!"

"Precisely," Sherlock said, forcing calmness in his voice, refusing the exasperated sigh that wanted to slip in. He knew John. He trusted John – and trusted him to react in certain ways. "But by going, I caught a murderer."

"By going you got yourself knocked on the head, kidnapped, and might have been killed! You said it yourself, Sherlock – he's a murderer!"

"I don't think so."

"You don't think he's a murderer?"

"No, John, I mean I don't think he'd have killed me."

"What? How could you possibly know?"

"Because if the Woman wanted us dead, we would have been. Wales might have killed us, but it might not have – and it didn't. That wasn't the point. We were drugged and flown to the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, John. It would have been just as easy to dump bodies instead of living people."

"Don't you dare–"

"You've thought of it, too," Sherlock interjected, but gently. "And it's not what happened."

"But still," John insisted. "To defend himself, he might have killed you–"

"It was a possibility," Sherlock admitted, "but an extremely small one. John, this is who I am. I can't stop being this – no more than I'd want you to stop being you."

John shook his head, nostrils flaring, eyes darting away to the empty space behind them, and Sherlock felt the panic flare again. He steeled himself, trying – and failing, he knew – to maintain outward calm, not to think about the fact that the door was right behind him.

But John met his eyes again, shifting unconsciously into his military stance, muscles in his jaw tightening. Resolving to get his way, readying himself against an argument, against obstinacy.

"You're not going to do that again, Sherlock. Do you understand?"

"John–"

"Not to me. Not to me. Whatever idiot schemes you come up with, you bloody well tell me, understand? Whatever it is, I need to know. I can't– I will chase you down and run after you and do whatever you want me to do, but no more of this. No more me not knowing, no more me scrambling to figure out what the fuck you've done and how to get you out of it! It's not– it's not negotiable, Sherlock. Say no and you won't ever get to sleep in your bed again."

"What?" Sherlock asked, nonplussed. "It's my bed."

"It's a lot more confortable than my bed," John snapped. "So if you want to be a giant git about chasing after murderers, you can sleep upstairs."

Sherlock fought down the smile on his lips, knowing John could read it in his eyes, and nodded.

"You can't tell Lestrade," the detective said. "Or Amanda."

"What, you don't trust them?"

"They can arrest me," Sherlock pointed out. "You can't."

"So that's where the trust me in comes from, is it?" John asked, raising his eyebrows, and there was a hint of mixed humour and seriousness in his tone. Sherlock shook his head, tracing his thumb over the contour of John's ear into short blond hair.

"No," he said.

"You haven't answered my question," John pointed out.

"It wasn't a question," Sherlock replied, but relented at the pointed way John raised his eyebrows. "Yes. All right."

"'I, Sherlock William Scott Holmes, promise to tell you, John Watson, whenever I plan on doing something completely bloody stupid that no normal, sane person would ever dream of doing.'"

"How did–" Sherlock began, cutting himself off at John's triumphant smirk.

"Mycroft can be amazingly forthcoming with certain things. He was surprisingly willing to give me your birth certificate."

"Fine," Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes at John's cheeky grin. "I promise."

"Nope," John contradicted. "Say it." Sherlock arched an eyebrow but John held firm with his very best captain's glower. Sherlock resisted shifting, aware that the expression worked better on him now than it ought to.

"I, Sherlock William Scott Holmes, promise to tell you, John Hamish Watson, whenever I plan on doing something completely bloody stupid that no normal, sane person would ever dream of doing," he echoed obediently. "You wouldn't like me normal and sane."

"I never said I would," John replied, fingers closed over the detective's hand, turning his head just enough to press a kiss into Sherlock's palm. He laced their fingers together, thumb skimming over the inside of Sherlock's wrist.

"Come on," John said, a familiar fondness slipping back into his voice, matching the glint in his eyes. "Let's go upstairs."

He helped John with his jacket and sling before twining their fingers together and leading him into the bedroom. John watched him with darkening blue eyes as Sherlock undressed him slowly, focussing on the movements, smoothing his hands over bare skin as it was exposed.

He wished he could lie John down on his back, like he had that first time after Wales, but the injury made that position uncomfortable even if John wasn't moving. He wished they could forego the sling, too, but they're tried that once. In the midst of everything, John hadn't remembered not to use his dominant hand.

Sherlock dispensed of his own clothing quickly, ignoring John's smirk as he took the time to drape it over a chair – wrinkles were always tedious to deal with – before he crawled onto the bed, stretching out alongside John, almost touching, not quite. He leaned in, brushing their lips together, coaxing John's lips open gently with his tongue.

He kept them there until John's lips were swollen, until a flush coloured his cheeks across the bridge of his nose. Sherlock moved down, kissing everywhere, filling the room with the scent of vanilla and the sound of John's moans.

A murmured instruction and steadying hands on his waist helped John brace himself, one-armed, against the headboard. Sherlock kissed down the length of his spine, running his hands in the opposite direction. The scent of vanilla grew stronger again, and the quiet groan John gave caught, reflected, in Sherlock chest when he sat back on his heels, pulling John along with him.

John moaned again, head dropping back, and Sherlock kissed the injured shoulder, lips and the tip of his tongue flickering over the scars. Hands on John's hips kept him still, let Sherlock do the work, until they were both sharing warm breath, quiet gasps. Sherlock interlaced his fingers with John's, shuddering as he let himself go moments before John did.

For a moment, he couldn't move – not just euphoric shock, but a now-familiar surprise. Surprise that he enjoyed this, that John did, that something he'd never really wanted before made sense with John's body. With John.

They lay down together, Sherlock removing the sling and adjusting the pillows as the doctor's eyes drifted shut, expression sated and blissful. Sherlock waited until John was asleep before pressing a light kiss between John's eyebrows, where the two deep lines he often wore were erased by sleep.

He didn't succumb. Not yet. That night he would, he knew, and he'd sleep for a solid twelve hours before waking to pester John about having gone to work without leaving breakfast, and John would pretend to be annoyed but really wouldn't be. Things would go back to normal – what passed for normal between them – and Sherlock felt something settle in his chest at the realization.

This, all of this, could be taken away from him. It had been once before. He'd let it – although he hadn't had much of a choice.

There was only one choice now. He'd made it. John had made it. In the silence of their bedroom, patterned only by John's deep, steady breathing, Sherlock smiled slightly, tracing light and absent designs on John's back.

Mary sighed, lacing her fingers together, elbows resting on her desk to bracket the file in front of her.

Irene Adler.

She knew that name, although not from personal experience. Not directly.

It had first come to her attention via Jim Moriarty – not that he had told her, because by that time, the mad obsession with Sherlock Holmes had eaten away at most of what remained of his sanity. If he'd had any to begin with. More information had come from John's blog and her own subsequent research. Very little of what she uncovered had surprised her, and it surprised Mary even less that Adler was still alive.

She'd proven herself adept at faking her death once before. At least once.

And now she was back, possibly in London, although it didn't pay to make assumptions. Mary's contacts in the Met kept her well informed, and it hadn't been too difficult to piece together the woman behind the abductions to Wales.

But she still had no idea why.

It was… annoying.

Obviously the target had been Mycroft Holmes, but Mary had no illusions about the difficulty of getting information that he had. He was on alert for her – as well as for Adler, she was sure – and getting past his defences would be risky at best.

She had her own eyes on Sherlock and John, for her own reasons. Undoubtedly, Mycroft did, too. Brotherly love and all that.

With another sigh, Mary flipped the file closed and pushed it away. She might have guessed that someone who had associated herself with Jim would cause problems. She wondered if she would have to go after Adler herself, or if Sherlock could resolve the situation.

Given what she knew about Sherlock and Adler, that was a tenuous prospect. Mary had never pushed John too hard for information – she knew that would have looked suspicious – but Sherlock and Adler had had… something. Lust? Infatuation? Fascination? Mutually assured destruction?

She wasn't sure there was a word for it, but it had been there.

Well, she told herself, maybe not anymore.

Now there was John – and Adler had taken him away.

Hell hath no fury, she thought, and didn't bother finishing the sentence, because it got the sex wrong.

She put the file somewhere easily accessible – not that she was at risk of forgetting the name and the potential problem – and turned her attention to more productive work.

John awoke, aware of the warm, empty space beside him before he opened his eyes. Sherlock was up, but hadn't been gone long.

He shuffled from under the duvet and into some clothing, foregoing the sling for now. He knew he shouldn't, but the freedom was a relief, and if he was careful he'd be all right for a bit.

He padded into the living room to find Sherlock sat in his chair, dressed in his comfortingly odd combination of suit and dressing gown. When John settled across from him, Sherlock rose, bending down for a swift kiss, and vanished into the kitchen, only to reappear a few minutes later with a cup of tea.

"Thanks," John said, careful to accept it with his right hand. Sherlock settled down again, tangling their feet together, sipping his own tea thoughtfully.

"Want to tell me about the watches?" John asked, not missing the sudden gleam in Sherlock's grey eyes, the proud smirk that tugged at his lips.

"That was rather clever, wasn't it?" he asked, expression brightening.

"If you give Jennifer Wilson her proper credit," John snorted.

"She was clever too," Sherlock admitted with a one-shouldered shrug. "I modified her system to be useful in the event that I wanted to be found unmurdered."

"You're not going to tell me you have a system for when you want to be found murdered, are you?" John sighed.

"You're already seen it," Sherlock replied.

"That," John said, jabbing an accusing finger at him, "is not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"No, it's really not. Remember, jokes aren't your strong suit."

Sherlock gave him a mock glare but subsided with a small shake of his head.

"Were you ever planning on telling me about the watches? Or how you highjacked programmes into my phone?"

"You know now," Sherlock pointed out.

"I'm adding an addendum," John sighed. "You also have to tell me about stuff like this in advance." Sherlock's nose wrinkled but he acquiesced with a faint glare. Silence lapsed between them, familiar and comfortable, but John could feel his own questions creeping up, pressuring to be asked.

"Sherlock– why?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow quizzically. John sighed, setting his tea aside, interlacing his fingers and leaning forward carefully, mindful of his shoulder.

"We caught Hinton and the fake Sarraf–"

"Chada."

"Chada," John agreed. "And I understand why Sarraf was killed, but why Douglas? Why this whole thing with the tunnels and the body switching and the puzzles? If– if she wanted them out of the way, there had to be an easier way than this. It doesn't make sense."

"No," Sherlock murmured. "It doesn't."

"Then why is she doing this? What does she want?"

Sherlock shook his head, eyes darting away briefly.

"I don't know, John."

"What does Mycroft know?" John pressed. "What did Douglas know, or what did he do? There has to be some link. Doesn't there?"

"It seems likely," Sherlock agreed. "But Mycroft doesn't know what he knows, John. Without that starting point, we have very little to go on. What did Douglas do? He seems to have met Mycroft once or twice, in passing, but if they'd had any sort of relationship, my brother would be a lot less forthcoming with this investigation, and would be trying to keep us out of it."

"Mycroft doesn't know," John sighed. "That'd be a first."

"Or so he'd like you to think," Sherlock murmured against the rim of his tea cup. John smirked, the expression short lived. He rubbed his hands together slowly, unable to meet Sherlock's gaze briefly.

"Have you thought… Have you thought that this might really be about you?" he asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied bluntly. He set his tea cup aside, a gentle clink of porcelain against wood. "Yes, John, I have. I think it's very possible, but I don't know why, no more than I know why Mycroft was targeted. I never met Douglas before he died – nor his wife or children, nor Hinton. If he knew or did something I need to know about, I have no idea what it is."

John nodded slowly, unhappy with the admission, but he couldn't expect Sherlock to conjure up information he didn't have.

"So what now?" John asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock said, eyes dropping away again. He was silent for a moment, and John pursed his lips against his immediate questions, waiting. Sherlock was still, breathing almost imperceptible, eyelashes barely flickering.

"John," he said, voice careful, meeting John's gaze again, "I don't know where this is going to go."

John kept himself from answering again, nodding slowly.

"I don't know how far this will go," Sherlock continued, muscles in his throat working as he swallowed, refusing to look away. Carefully, John sat forward, wrapping his left hand around Sherlock's right.

"All the way to the end, Sherlock."

"John–"

"I mean it. Both of us. No dramatic set ups, no heroic self-sacrifice. We're in this together, all the way to the end. Whatever's going on, we'll see it through. And win. Okay?"

Grey eyes raked over his face and John let them, keeping still under the scrutiny, letting Sherlock see whatever he needed to. His partner's expression was unreadable for a long moment, then relaxed by degrees as long fingers tightened around his.

"Not okay," Sherlock said. "Perfect."