Anote: Apologies for being so sporadic with posting chapters. My work-life balanced is not balanced at all!

Chapter 20

The flat slept, and Sherlock roamed the quiet rooms with a deep sense of satisfaction to be the one on guard. This way and that he flitted, silent as a tall ghost wrapped up as he was from head to toe, in a warm comfy sheet.

True there was a pack of security agencies crowding the sidewalks, but here in their rooms, he reigned over their peaceful domestic situation. Indeed, it was a pleasure to feel useful and needed, and not the one who had to be vigilantly babysat as though he would totter off and get lost, if not watched constantly.

He smiled smugly to himself as he caught sight of John's sleeping face.

The doctor had made a terrible mistake earlier, when he decided to keep him company by sleeping on some cushions on the sitting room floor. An hour later he had woken with such an awful crick in his neck, that Sherlock had to lift him bodily and lay him flat on the sofa. In a small way that incident had made Sherlock feel better. Other people who supposedly had it more together than he did, were in fact, prone to conclusively bungle matters too!

Since then, as he had been doing every half and hour, Sherlock circled the rooms; peeking in first at Greg who was vibrating the windows with his loud snores and then across to John, who was now comfortably curled up on the sofa. Absently, he reached down to smooth the covers over one shoulder that had become exposed to the chilly night.

All were deep in sleep, and no slight noise would rouse them now. It was time to do some exploring without any worried mother hens, anxiously clucking about him.

With one cautious eye on his flat mate and one on Lestrade, he gently eased John's weapon from where it had been left under one of the pillows on the ground. The doctor had lost track of it as he had been distracted by the agonising pain in his neck, as well as the way the detective had picked him up in one smooth motion, as though he weighed nothing at all. Quickly realising what was the matter, Sherlock had sought to unlock the muscles before they truly cramped up, ignoring John's strenuous and some what obscene protests that he didn't need a massage.

Once again, Sherlock brought his elbow up to his face to examine it.

What was John complaining about? It wasn't that pointy?! It was a perfectly useful instrument to deliver a precision massage.

Sherlock dropped his elbow and then gingerly held the gun by the handle, using only his thumb and index finger. Quickly but carefully he walked into their small kitchen and held it up and away to the light, to ensure the safety was on.

He wasn't a complete moron, thank you very much!

Gently, he then laid the piece on the table as he anxiously glanced about him, subconsciously afraid that he would be caught in the act of doing something he shouldn't, even though he was doing nothing wrong at all. Everyone was still sleeping however, and he turned back to examine the weapon. Tentatively he touched the barrel, but drew back sharply as though he had touched a steaming hot surface. Clearly, he wasn't as comfortable with guns as John was. He wondered how long his flat mate had it on his person. Sherlock had only noticed it when the other man stripped to shower.

Screwing up his courage, he steadied his nerve and picked it up in a steady motion. He was a private detective, surely he had cause to defend his life and limb in dangerous situations.

His palms tingled as they clenched around the rough grip, and he noted how his index finger rested professionally against the length of the barrel.

Muscle memory, perhaps?

Excitedly he pointed the gun at his reflection in the mirror above the fire place, hoping for a mental breakthrough.

Would't it be fun to get his memories back and spring it on John in the morning, oh so casual like over toast and marmalade? He could just imagine the shocked "O" of surprise on the doctor's expressive countenance.

Grinning mischievously, Sherlock's eyes connected with his those of his reflection, and he stood there waiting.

Memory unfortunately didn't return but something else did, and the smile slid off his face. Fear, complete and undiluted slammed into him, making him tremble as goosebumps raised across his arms and across his body. He had been here before; alone, fighting for his life against a faceless foe.

Dear God above, he had been here before!

Had he shot to kill?

His hand was shaking so hard at the thought, he had to lower his arm.

He glanced across to stare at the peaceful curve of John's face. Perhaps the good doctor was right to try and shield him from the past. Without proper context, these little bits and pieces were rattling him to his very core.

Sherlock covered his face with one hand, fighting for composure; trying to turn the tide of his thoughts in another direction. If threatened in this current pitiable state of affairs, could he really defend himself? Could he point a gun at someone and shoot? Suppose it was John or Molly that was in trouble?!

Yes, surely he could!

Again he hefted the weapon, but this time he pointed it straight into the air. He could do a warning shot first. That should be enough to get an attacker's attention, and if that didn't suffice, a shot to the foot or a shoulder shouldn't be so difficult.

Working out a plan of action had calmed him down considerably, and he saluted his reflection in the mirror. He might not be all together himself, but he felt a bit more ready for Moriarty or whichever idiot had taken an abrupt dislike to his detecting.

Wait? Do I have a gun of my own?

He turned around automatically to ask his flatmate, forgetting for a moment that he was asleep. However, another random thought suddenly crossed his mind that there was also a high ranking member of the New Scotland Yard, sleeping in the next room. With his heart pounding hard in his throat, Sherlock began to dart madly around the flat, looking for a suitable hiding place for John's gun. He didn't know why, but he felt strongly that his partner didn't have a permit for his weapon.

Best to err on the side of caution.

He could just imagine Mycroft's exasperated expression if John was arrested. Worse yet, Mycroft wouldn't let him stay at Baker Street alone without supervision!

Truly panicked now he turned around comically on one spot, before diving headlong towards the sofa. As softly as he could manage, he slipped one hand under John's pillow and raised his head. Quickly, he tucked the gun beneath and lowered his friend back into place.

Perfect.

John settled with a contended snuffle and Sherlock gave him a lopsided look of fond amusement. The older man looked considerably younger when he slept. He didn't look like the type at all to be carrying a concealed weapon without a permit. Sherlock froze though when John's eyes suddenly popped open. They stared at each for a long moment before the man's eyes rolled up in his head and he was asleep once more.

Sherlock slowly let out the breath he was holding, laughing softly to himself. How would he explain to John why he was on his knees, leaning over him while he slept? It made him feel terribly pleased though, that the other man had felt so safe in his presence to drop back to sleep immediately. He had not flinched at all to find his flatmate looming over him, like a spectre.

Still smiling Sherlock made to climb to his feet, but not before John's mobile chirped loudly in the quiet room. Without even thinking, he launched himself over the furniture, trying to reach the confounded device before a second notification hit. (He was certainly getting a lot of exercise at this unusual hour of the morning.)

Sherlock hadn't meant to read the message but there was no password. John had unlocked his device after their little adventure in the pub, when he and Sherlock had been separated. This way, Sherlock could answer his phone in an emergency, but now he wasn't sure that he wanted to be using John's phone at all.

The detective was highly displeased all over again to know that Molly was texting John at this time of night, and various uncharitable thoughts noisily marched through his mind, as he tried to figure out how he felt about this. It was an innocent enough message letting John know she had arrived safely to her home. But that was no comfort at all when Sherlock's own mobile in the pocket of his robe, remained convincingly silent.

But what exactly had he found here?

A secret, nestled in the palm of his hand?

It made him pause and wonder what other secrets were out there. His life was so fantastical in some respects, it was almost not entirely believable.

The detective slid down to the floor in front the sofa, and crossed his legs under him.

'What else?' he mumbled to himself, as his thumb gently caressed the phone casing, hovering right over the icon that would take him deep into John's messages and emails.