This is... very late and very long. Sorry.

Once again, I apologise for an OOCness. And a huge thank you to everyone who left a review :D

Part 2

.

"Hello, John."

Two words. Two words is all it takes to send every fragile building block John has carefully restacked crashing to the ground once again, shattering them into fragments and cracking the foundation with the impact.

Because there's Sherlock, sitting in his chair, watching him expectantly. For a moment, John wonders if he hasn't simply dreamed the past two years. Maybe he was in an accident and spent the entire time in an elaborate drug-induced hallucination. It would certainly make more sense, he thinks, than what he is currently seeing.

Beside him, Mrs Hudson takes in a deep breath and lets it out as a shrill scream. In her fright, she steps backwards through the doorway. Her foot catches on the frame and she trips. John's attention is on her in an instant, reaching out and grabbing her by the arm before she can hit the ground.

"Oh," she gasps. "Oh my goodness."

John carefully leads her over to the couch and settles her there, murmuring reassurances until he's certain she's okay. It's only then that he allows himself to return his gaze to Sherlock.

Sherlock has half-risen out of his seat, focused intently on Mrs Hudson, but his eyes drift over to meet John's as soon as John turns his head. For a long moment, silence descends upon the flat. John fights the tears spring to his eyes – borne of relief, betrayal, anger? He's not sure, but he has absolutely no intentions of crying. At least not in front of Sherlock.

"Short version," Sherlock says when it becomes clear that John is not going to be the first to speak. "Not dead."

John scoffs but it comes out strangled, like he's choking. "Oh, you're going to wish you were if you don't have a damn good explanation." His words are almost whispered.

A slight frown settles on Sherlock's face, as if he's only just now starting to realise that he has miscalculated. "Well," he says after a beat, "there were thirteen options once I was up on the roof–"

"Stop."

Sherlock, miraculously, does.

"I don't–" John clears his throat. "I don't care how you did it. Why? Why did you…?" He can't even finish the sentence, but from the look of comprehension on Sherlock's face he's managed to get the point across anyway.

"Moriarty's plan was elaborate, and in order to take him and his network down for good it was necessary for me to play along, including his plans for my de–"

Or perhaps not. "Stop!" he commands, louder this time. Sherlock's mouth shuts with a click of teeth.

Two years. Two years the bastard has let him think he was dead. The suffering he's endured because of it was worse than anything he's ever experienced. Or, at least, so he'd thought. Now, though, now there's this. This betrayal. And somehow, impossibly, it's worse. Just when he starts to think he might be finally pulling his life back together, Sherlock Bloody Holmes takes his cue to rise from the dead and destroy him all over again.

What has he done to deserve this?

Even after all this time, Sherlock is still a complete and utter moron, so if he wants answers, John knows he's going to have to be straight to the point.

"I'm going to ask you a very specific question and you're going to answer it," he says, staring Sherlock straight in the eye and trying to convey just how very Not Good this all is. Of all the terrible, inconsiderate things Sherlock has done that John has put up with, this one is so much worse that it not only slides into position number one on the top ten, but transcends the list entirely to start a new one all of its own labelled 'Unforgivable?'.

"Of course," Sherlock nods, smile hopeful if a little strained. The tension is palpable.

"Can I trust you to tell me the truth?"

"I'd never lie to you unless it was completely necessary."

John stares at him. There is no tremor in his hand. What counts as 'completely necessary', he wonders. How can he tell the difference between the truth and a lie? And if he can't, then how can he possibly ever trust anything that comes out of Sherlock's mouth ever again?

"So in other words I can't," he concludes. Sherlock opens his mouth to retort but John swiftly cuts him off. "No, Sherlock, I can't. Because for some reason you think that letting me believe you were… letting me believe you were dead for two years was completely necessary." He's no longer whispering. "And if you were hiding that, what else have you lied to me about?"

"It was necessary–"

"Why?"

"There were snipers," Sherlock confesses. "Moriarty had set it all up. If I didn't jump, he was going to have you, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade killed."

John's forced to admit that, as far as excuses go, that one isn't bad. But while it might be enough to forgive Sherlock for faking his death, it does nothing for the betrayal or the two year gap. "You could have told me! Why did you wait for two bloody years?!"

"Moriarty's network was extensive. If any of them thought for even a second that I might still be alive, it would put you at risk. I couldn't let that happen."

"Who knew?" John demands quietly. Because there's no way Sherlock, for all his brilliance, would have been able to pull this off on his own. John's mind flickers back to the funeral, to the notable absence of Sherlock's parents, and the stoicism on Mycroft's face that, in hindsight, was less a man carefully concealing his emotions and more borne from indifference. A man playing his role and nothing more. "Mycroft knew, didn't he? And your parents?"

"Yes."

"Who else?"

"…Molly Hooper."

Molly Hooper. He'd trusted Molly Hooper, but he hadn't trusted John. The sting of betrayal is like a knife in John's heart. "Is that it?" he whispers.

Sherlock grimaces. "And about twenty-five people from my homeless network."

John's nails are digging into his palms so tightly that he suspects he's mere moments away from drawing blood. "Right," he says, turning away. He can feel two sets of eyes on him. "Right," he repeats, voice monotonous. "You told Molly and twenty-five people you barely know, trusted them to keep it a secret, but you didn't tell me."

"They were crucial to the plan's success; it couldn't be helped," Sherlock argues, as if that is in any way a justification.

"Why didn't you tell me?!" John yells. He no longer cares about keeping his composure. He's fairly sure he lost it a long time ago, anyway. "Why didn't you tell me afterwards? Why didn't you trust me?!"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Of course I trust you. I just couldn't risk you–"

"Couldn't risk me what? Accidentally letting it slip? Worried I wouldn't be able to pull off being completely broken if you spared me?" John seethes. Of course Sherlock would somehow make this his fault. It was always his fault. "Well guess what, Sherlock! That's the exact opposite of trust!"

"Come on, John, you have to admit that the possibility of you saying or doing something that might compromise my cover was too high to risk."

John decides it's the complete and utter aloofness Sherlock is displaying – as if he's only been gone a week and hadn't completely destroyed him – that makes him snap. In the space between one breath and the next, he's leapt forwards, all of his anger, hurt, and frustration translated into corporeality as a fist to Sherlock's face.

It's only thanks to Mrs Hudson stepping in between them and trying to calm him down that it doesn't become anything more.

"John–" Sherlock's voice is muffled by the hand holding his bleeding nose.

"No," John spits. "No, you don't get to do this. You don't get to… to destroy me the way you did and then just waltz back in here like nothing's changed. You don't get to blame me for this. Do you have any idea what you put me through? Do you?!"

Sherlock stares at him with nothing short of complete shock. Apparently this was not the welcome home he was expecting. It's enough to make John want to laugh, but he has a feeling that if he starts he probably won't be able to stop.

Running a hand through his hair, he says, "You almost killed me, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock says. And John thinks it might just be the most sincere thing Sherlock has ever said to him.

But is it enough? He doesn't know. His heart had been healing, but now it has been torn asunder all over again. And this time John doesn't know if it'll be able to recover.

"You have no idea how many times I asked you not to be dead," he says quietly, gaze fixed on the ground about a foot in front of where Sherlock is standing. "One more miracle."

"I heard you," Sherlock replies, and John looks up to see a tentative smile on his face.

Somehow, this makes it worse. He'd heard John pour his heart out and ring it dry and still chose to let him suffer.

"I'm glad you're alive," John says, "but I'm not sure if I can forgive you for this."

Sherlock's smile falls. "But I apologised." He is genuinely confused.

Even after all this, he still doesn't get it. John sighs. All the energy that was fuelling his anger has dissipated. Now all he feels is a bone-deep weariness. He needs to leave, he realises, before it comes back and he gives Sherlock a black eye to match his nose. Without another word, he turns on his heel and marches back down the stairs to the front door.

"Where are you going?!" Sherlock calls after him.

John doesn't reply.

.

.

It's nearly midnight before any coherent thought of Merlin crosses John's mind. He's lying in bed, unable to get to sleep, when he first wonders if Merlin knew. Mycroft certainly did, as well as their parents. Sherlock didn't say that he'd told Merlin, but John knows that doesn't necessarily mean he didn't know.

John rolls onto his side and stares at his mobile on the bedside table. What would he do if it turns out Merlin had known? He's not sure if he can handle another betrayal; after all, Merlin knows how important Sherlock was to him (and probably still is, if he's honest, but that's a train of thought he's not going to board just yet). Would he really keep something like this from him?

In the end, he can't say for sure. He's known Merlin for two years but the man has always been a bit of an enigma. John likes to think that Merlin is too kind-hearted to ever do such a thing as keep this a secret, especially after the effect Sherlock's death had on John, but if he's honest with himself, he can't be 100% certain. He'd thought as much about Sherlock's parents, too, and look where that'd got him.

Biting his lip, John reaches out and grabs his phone. Merlin answers on the third ring.

"You're up late," Merlin greets him as soon as the line connects. "Everything okay?"

"Did you know?" John asks, cutting straight to the chase. His tone is low and serious, and he hopes it's enough to convey that he's not in the mood for any of the vagueness or diverting of conversation that Merlin usually employs.

"Did I know what?" Merlin's voice, in response to his own, falls to match.

"About Sherlock."

There's a pause, then a careful, "What about Sherlock?"

John takes a breath. "That he's alive."

Silence.

John waits. And waits. And waits. "Merlin?"

"What?" The single world is almost inaudible.

John takes this as a definitive sign that, no, Merlin had not known. It's a heartening thought, though at the same time he can't help but feel a little guilty for springing the news on him like this.

John heaves a silent sigh, rolling onto his back to stare at the ceiling. "I went to Baker Street today and when Mrs H and I went up to the flat he was sitting in his chair waiting for us."

"He's alive," he hears Merlin breathe. His tone is heavy with relief. But then he stops and the line falls silent. John is about to ask if he's still there when Merlin's voice comes again, "He faked his death… He let us believe he was…"

There's a quality to his voice that John doesn't like. It's somewhere between disbelief, anger, and despair, and John doesn't think he could decipher the meaning behind it even if he had all of Sherlock's powers of deduction.

"I'm coming," Merlin suddenly declares, and it takes John a second to process the change of conversation.

"Merlin–"

"No. I'm coming. I'll be there soon."

"Merlin, it's the middle of the night!"

"So? If he wanted common decency shown to him then he should have shown it to you."

"At least wait until morning."

A beat of silence, then, "Fine."

And then he hangs up. John listens to the beeping for a moment before lowering the phone and staring at it. That… was not exactly how he'd envisioned that conversation going.

The time on the screen reads 12:03am. The earliest public transport between Glastonbury and London won't be operating for a few hours yet, and then it will take a few more for Merlin to arrive. If he's honest, John isn't overly enthused for the impromptu meeting, but it's nice to have someone on his side.

With a sigh and a mental shrug, John puts his phone back on the table and switches off the lamp. Might as well get a few hours sleep if nothing else.

Twenty minutes later, there's a knock on the door.

Wary – because there's no way Merlin could have gotten there so quickly – John shuffles over and opens it. To his complete and utter shock, Merlin is standing on the threshold, hair a mess and wearing clothes that don't match. It looks like he got up five minutes ago. The only thing missing is the sleepiness that comes with being woken and travelling at this time of night. Or morning. Instead, he looks caught somewhere between fury and grief.

"How the hell did you get here so fast?" John gapes.

Merlin offers him a smile that's not completely genuine as John steps aside to let him in. Merlin remains on the doorstep. "Magic."

John rolls his eyes. 'Magic' is Merlin's favourite excuse. He's far too evasive for his own good. "No, really."

But Merlin just continues smiling and doesn't offer anything more. It's then that John notices Aithusa on his shoulder, and he's not sure how he missed her before. Her feathers are ruffled, and her eyes glint with ferocity. It might just be John's imagination, but he thinks her talons look a little sharper than usual. Clearly, Merlin isn't the only one irritated.

But, then, Merlin heaves a tired sigh and runs a hand down his face. "Are you okay?" he asks.

John leans against the doorframe. In all honesty, he's not entirely sure how to answer that. "Not particularly," he settles on. Because he's not. He hasn't been for a long time.

Merlin nods like he expected as much. Anyone would. "Well," he says, "grab your torch and pitchfork. We've got business to attend to."

.

.

John tries to talk him out of it the whole way to Baker Street (they take a cab – there's no sign of a rental car), but Merlin is an immovable object once he's set his mind to something. He had offered to go alone so that John wouldn't have to see Sherlock again so soon, but that's a disaster waiting to happen. If nothing else, John needs to be there to intervene if necessary. Because if Merlin is an immovable object, Sherlock is an unstoppable force. Something is going to have to give.

Merlin practically flings himself from the cab when they arrive, pausing only to hand the driver their fee before stalking towards the front door. He looks like a lion on the hunt. Or a dragon, John's mind supplies, but he quickly shakes away the thought as ludicrous. There's no such thing as dragons.

Aithusa, on Merlin's shoulder, turns her head to stare back at him.

Merlin raises his hand to the door, and John almost calls for him to stop – if he knocks, he risks waking up Mrs Hudson, and she doesn't deserve to witness the mess that's about to go down – but to his surprise, Merlin simply turns the doorknob and the door swings open. John briefly wonders if maybe Mrs Hudson forgot to lock it, but it slips from his mind soon after as he follows Merlin inside and up the stairs to 221B.

Like with the front door, all Merlin has to do is turn the knob to get into the flat. Sherlock has never been good at remembering mundane things like that, but it seems suspicious that both doors open so easily.

Even with the near lack of lighting, John can tell the flat is a bit of a mess, as it always is, with stacks of paper and all manner of unidentified things littered about the room. Clearly, Sherlock has wasted no time in settling himself back in, and he's taken full advantage of John not being there to yell at him for leaving things lying about.

John, Merlin, and Aithusa wander in silently, eyes straining against the darkness. Either Sherlock isn't here, or he's gone to bed. The latter seems ridiculous – since when does Sherlock sleep, let alone in a bed? – so it's likely the former. They've wasted their time, then.

John is partway to the hallway leading to Sherlock's room when there's a loud crash from behind him. Acting on instinct, he spins around, ready to face whatever threat has crept up on them. It's too dark to make out what has happened. In two strides he reaches the light switch and flicks it on.

Merlin is standing in the middle of the room, back to John as he stares over at the couch. Aithusa has her wings out and is crouched low, making what is almost a hissing noise. John doesn't think he's ever seen her so threatening.

He follows their gazes to the couch, where a very dazed Sherlock is sprawled, upper half draped over the couch cushions and the rest of him splayed out on the floor. Lying nearby is what looks like a sword. The coffee table has been knocked over.

What the hell happened?

"Don't sneak up on me," Merlin says seriously to the downed Sherlock. "I thought you'd have learned better by now."

Sherlock seems lost for words, which is impressive in itself. He's staring up at Merlin like he's a ghost. His eyes flicker briefly to Aithusa, and then over to John, where they linger for a moment before darting back to Merlin.

"Didn't know it was you," he explains breathlessly. John thinks this is fair enough; sneaking in at nearly one in the morning did make him feel a bit like a burglar.

Sherlock gingerly picks himself up as John moves to stand just to Merlin's right. Sherlock straightens his dressing gown in an attempt to regain any dignity lost when he was, apparently, thrown across the room (and John still doesn't quite know how that happened) before giving the three intruders an analysing once-over. He seems a little lost, though, as he turns to Merlin.

"Mycroft did mention that the two of you had become… friends during my absence, but I must confess I hadn't quite believed him," he begins. "Given the time of the night and your state of dress it's fairly safe to conclude that you came here in a rush. Likely then you only recently heard the truth. The fact that John is here with you, and knowing your usual evasiveness when it comes to Mycroft, it was probably John who told you." He pauses, a small frown of confusion on his face as he glances from Merlin to John and back. "But none of that explains why you broke your self-imposed isolation and into my flat in the middle of the night."

"Take a wild guess," Merlin says, crossing his arms.

Sherlock seems to sneer at the implication that he would ever guess anything. "From your matching hostility I'd wager it has something to do with the revelation that I'm not dead."

John resists the urge to clap sarcastically. Merlin doesn't.

"Bravo, Sherlock," he says, voice heavy with sarcasm, his clapping impossibly loud in the quiet of the flat. "You're a master of deduction!"

Sherlock looks vaguely uncomfortable, like he's recognised that he's being made fun of but doesn't quite know how to react.

"You're right on all accounts, of course," Merlin continues. "Yes, I did only just hear the news and yes we are here because of it. Well, I'm here because of it. I'm fairly certain John only tagged along to make sure I didn't kill you for real."

John feels a humourless smile tug at his lips. At this point, he can't be sure he wouldn't help.

"You selfish, egotistical cabbage-head!" Merlin suddenly snaps. "What were you thinking?!" He's more furious than John has ever seen him, and it's amazing how it's enough to make Sherlock look like he's cowering in a corner. "Surely even in your alien mind it must have occurred to you that faking your death is one of the cruellest things you could possibly do to the people who care about you!"

Sherlock stares at his brother speechlessly for a long moment. But, then, "Cabbage-head?"

John feels his temper flare. Even in the middle of an intervention, Sherlock still can't grasp the point.

"You're right," Merlin says, face flushed with anger. "It's not harsh enough, is it? I'm going to have to come up with a new one." He sighs, and when he speaks again he seems to have mostly calmed himself down. "What were you thinking, Sherlock? Why did you do this? And I don't mean why did you fake your death," he adds when Sherlock opens his mouth to respond. "I mean why didn't you tell the truth? If not me, then at least John. Don't you think, after everything, he deserved to know?"

Sherlock heaves a put-upon sigh, as if the effort of having to repeat himself is astronomical. "I didn't tell you because not even Mycroft can track you down if you decide you want to hide. How was I supposed to contact you? And as I told John yesterday, the risk of him endangering himself by letting on to the ruse was too great to warrant."

John's hands clench into fists. Still his fault, then.

Merlin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Aithusa turns sharp eyes on him and stills. "I'm going to give you some advice, Sherlock," he says at length, "and if there's only ever one thing I tell you that you actually listen to, make sure it's this." He opens his eyes and stares directly at Sherlock. "Lying might seem like the easy way out, but nothing stays a secret forever. And when the truth comes out… well, sometimes lies hurt people more than any truth ever could. If you're not careful, everything you fought to protect might just slip through your fingers."

Silence descends upon the room. Merlin stares at Sherlock, who stares right back. John stares too, and he doesn't need Sherlock's powers of deduction to know that Merlin is speaking from personal experience. What that experience might be, however, is evidently lost on all of them except the man in question. Sherlock narrows his eyes calculatingly, but for once keeps his mouth shut.

Merlin seems to deflate after that. All the fight drains away, leaving the twenty-something year old looking fifty-something. Without a word, he pulls Sherlock into a very awkward, one-sided hug. John has never seen Sherlock look so uncomfortable.

"Just… be careful, Sherlock," Merlin says, and finally pulls away. "Now give me your phone."

Sherlock stares at Merlin's hand, held out for the phone, like he doesn't understand the gesture. "Why?"

Merlin only raises a brow and it's as if Sherlock is compelled to obey. He reaches for his phone, which is on the floor – likely having been on the coffee table when it was knocked over – and presses it into Merlin's palm. Merlin taps away at it for a moment before passing it back.

"There," he says. "Now you have my number."

He doesn't wait for a reply, turning on his heel and disappearing back down the stairs, leaving Sherlock looking more lost than John has ever seen him.

John lets out a breath and moves to follow, but a tentative call of his name makes him stop and look back at Sherlock, who hasn't moved.

"I am sorry, John," he says.

John offers him a weak smile, as fragile as his heart. "Yeah, me too."

.

.

At daybreak, John joins Merlin on the first bus back to Glastonbury. He needs time to process and let the shock settle in. It had been Merlin's idea, and though John had initially argued, the combination of logic and Sarah's insistence that he take off as much time as he needs ultimately win him over. He doesn't feel like he deserves their kindness, but he's grateful for it.

The trip is spent more or less in silence. There's a heavy cloud of depression clinging to both of them, but as John watches Merlin's melancholy reflection in the glass as the latter stares out the window, he can't help but feel that Sherlock is not the only thing on his mind. John's never been much good at deducing, but he'd wager that it has something to do with Merlin's 'Sherlock'; a man who isn't coming back. It's unfair. He wishes he could fix it, but not even the most skilled doctor can resurrect the dead.

The silence continues as they trudge from the bus stop back to Merlin's place, and is only broken when Merlin lets them and Aithusa (who meets them there) in with a vaguely monotonous, "Make yourself at home."

John's stayed here enough times now that home is almost what it feels like, so he doesn't hesitate to head upstairs to put his bag in the guest room. When he retreats back downstairs, Merlin meets him in the kitchen doorway with two cups of tea. As he passes one to John, John can't help but note that he hadn't heard the kettle boil.

They take up their usual spot in the living room, with Aithusa perching on Merlin's armrest and leeching the heat from his untouched mug. The silence is pervasive, and the portrait wall judges them with countless eyes. John's gaze automatically seeks out the photo of Sherlock. It's gone.

.

.

It's nothing like any of the previous trips. They don't really do anything, despite both of them knowing the benefits of distraction. In want of anything better to do, John starts perusing Merlin's collection of books, and eventually settles on an encyclopaedia of human physiology that looks like it was pulled straight out of the sixteenth century. Most of what it has to say has no grounds in modern medicine, but while its contents might be rubbish, the book itself is probably priceless, and John is sure to handle it accordingly.

Merlin, on the other hand, doesn't appear to want to do much more than sit and think, alternating between spacing out with his head turned towards the wall, and scrutinising the stitch-count of his trousers. For the first couple of days, John leaves him to it; they could both use the time and space to reflect. But by the third day, he decides enough is enough. They need to get out of the house.

John gently closes his book and sets it down on the armrest of his chair. Merlin pays him no mind. Today he is looking out the window.

"Let's go for a walk," John suggests.

Merlin doesn't react. Possibly, he hasn't even heard. Aithusa turns to watch him.

"Merlin," John tries again.

There's a long moment of nothing before Aithusa makes a small noise, and Merlin slowly forces his attention over to John. He doesn't say anything.

"It's him, isn't it?" John asks tentatively. He doesn't need to clarify who 'he' is. "You've been thinking about him."

Merlin cracks a smile, but it's weak and hollow. "Sherlock's rubbed off on you," he says.

"Possibly," John concedes, "but I like to think I know you well enough that I don't need deduction."

Merlin sighs, running a hand down his face and leaving it there to obscure his expression.

"Let's go visit him."

Merlin's head shoots back up. "What?"

"Your friend. Let's go visit him." They're long overdue anyway.

"John…"

John stands, stretching. "Or not," he shrugs. He won't force him. "But I'm going for a walk. You're welcome to join me if you want." Sometimes, John's found, abruptness is the best way to deal with Merlin. It forces him to act instead of letting him stew in indecision. So John doesn't wait for an answer, and heads out onto the street, walking towards the centre of town – away from the Tor.

He manages about half a block before he hears Merlin chasing after him, and is quick to hide the satisfied smile it elicits before Merlin can catch a glimpse of it.

The walk is aimless and without direction, but the fresh air does them both good. John hadn't intended to go to the Tor – not after Merlin's hesitance – but somehow their feet lead them there anyway. They stand at the edge, as though some invisible barrier forbids them to go out any further. John tries to imagine what it might have looked like before the lake dried up and the tower crumbled.

A silence settles over them as they survey the Tor. It feels as though the world is holding its breath.

"His name was Arthur."

Merlin is the first to speak. John forces himself not to move, to keep his eyes fixed on the grass, as though fearing he will spook Merlin back behind whatever locked door he keeps his past behind. This is the most information he's ever gotten about Merlin's 'Sherlock'.

Merlin and Arthur, he muses. Had it been anyone else beside him, anyone other than the tragic figure of Sherrinford Merlin Holmes, John would have found the coincidence amusing. Instead, he just feels sad.

"How did he die?" he finds himself whispering. Immediately he thinks he's asked too much, and that Merlin will clam up again. But Merlin simply turns to him. John finally looks at him.

"He was murdered by someone he considered a friend," he says, and his words are a ten-tonne weight on John's heart. "It was my fault."

John doesn't think this is true – doesn't think Merlin could hurt anyone who means as much to him as Arthur does – but holds his tongue. He's not sure why.

They lapse back into silence.

Two days later he returns to London.

.

.

Things don't go back to normal. Partly because 'normal' is a word that has never really applied to John, but mostly because everything has been too shaken up to settle easily. But there is a definite return to the routine that had been implemented over the last month or so before Sherlock's return. John rises in the morning, goes to work if he has a shift, and then comes home again. On tea-days, he goes to the teahouse and spends the morning (and usually the rest of the day) with Merlin. And he continues trying to piece his life back together.

This last part is the hardest. Before Sherlock's return, he'd been doing so well. Now he has to start again almost from scratch. He's still not sure how he's going to work Sherlock into this new John Watson's life, or whether or not he can forgive him, and so for the meantime he carries on as if nothing has changed. He doesn't mention Sherlock, and neither does anyone else. It's become almost a taboo subject, just as it was for the last two years.

But that doesn't stop him from thinking about it. Nor does it take away the hurt that still lingers. And John's not the only one affected – Merlin tries to hide it, but even John can see the way the circles under his eyes darken and the way his smiles are faker than usual. He's almost surprised by the extent to which all of this has affected him; he didn't think Merlin and Sherlock were all that close. But, then, neither are John and Harry, and John's sure he would be equally upset if Harry faked her death and forgot to mention it.

Almost two weeks after John and Mrs Hudson found Sherlock in 221B, his 'resurrection' makes the front page. A week after that, John meets up with Greg at the pub. Greg talks avidly about Sherlock's return and how miraculous it is without a hint of any annoyance or hurt about the lie.

"How can you be so forgiving?" John finally snaps. "He let us believe he was dead, Greg. For two years! And you're completely fine with that?!"

Greg takes a swig of his beer. "I'm not," he says. "Well, I wasn't, at least. But knowing him, it was all logical in his mind. I know it was wrong, and you know it was wrong, but Sherlock's never been good at the whole 'social-interaction' thing. Hell, before you turned up, it would be a miracle if he acknowledged anyone at all, so I'd say he's come a long way. Besides, I prefer him as a living arsehole than a dead one."

John glares into his own drink. If he's honest with himself, he prefers Sherlock alive than dead, too, but forgiving him and moving past this is a whole different story.

As if able to read John's thoughts, Greg swivels himself around on his barstool to face John directly. "Look, mate, I'm not saying you should think what he did was right, because it's not and he definitely needs to know that, but forgiveness isn't about accepting what someone did. And maybe you don't even have to forgive him. Just don't shut him out, yeah?" He turns back to his drink. "It might be hard to believe, but he needs you."

John turns his glare to Greg, ready to point out that Sherlock obviously didn't need him for the past two years, but before he can Greg cuts him off.

"You didn't see how he was before, John. Just talk to him. He's your best friend, and you're his."

"Was my best friend," John mutters. But that feels like a bit of a lie, not that he wants to admit it. Because, damn it, he does still care, no matter how much he tells himself he doesn't want to. "A best friend wouldn't do what he did to me."

He excuses himself early that night. Greg watches him leave sadly but doesn't say anything.

.

.

A month after Sherlock's return, John goes to visit Mrs Hudson. It was already becoming something of a routine before Sherlock decided to re-grace them with his presence, and John sure as hell isn't going to stop visiting her now because of the possibility of Sherlock being there. At least he's secure in the knowledge that if he knocks on the door it's definitely going to be Mrs Hudson who answers.

"Oh, John, dear, hello!" she beams up at him, ushering him inside. "I've just put the kettle on."

John follows her amiably back to her flat, but can't help a brief glance up at 221B as he passes the stairs. The door is closed. There's no way of knowing if Sherlock is home or not.

Tea with Mrs Hudson is a pleasant affair. They sit in the living room with their drinks and a plate of cookies, watching crap telly and complaining about whatever show they happen to settle on. Mrs Hudson tells him about some piece of gossip or other that Mrs Turner happened to mention, and John tells her about the latest drama that's gone down at the clinic.

After a few hours, John rises from his chair with his usual apology and a 'thank you, but I really must head off'. Mrs Hudson, as always, is sad to see him go, but smiles and forces him to promise to catch up again soon. He does so readily, as he always does, and lets himself out into the passageway, Mrs Hudson following behind him.

She's just opening the front door when John feels eyes watching him and turns around. Sherlock is standing up on the threshold of his flat, watching them in his dressing gown. He looks as neat as always, but there's a tightness around his eyes that hints to a hidden undercurrent of melancholy. To any passer-by, he would appear fine, but John knows him better than that. Or, at least, he thinks he does.

"John," Sherlock greets awkwardly when the silence stretches on.

"Sherlock," John returns. He's about to turn and head out onto the street but Greg's words come back to him and he stills. Just don't shut him out, yeah? It might be hard to believe, but he needs you. John still thoroughly believes that Sherlock Holmes doesn't need anyone – he's proven that more than enough times – and besides he doesn't want to be needed, he wants to be wanted. But all the same he makes a show of giving Sherlock a once-over and says, "No interesting cases, I take it?"

It's more than that and they both know it.

Sherlock's mouth twitches briefly. "Not unless you count a lost tortoise."

John raises a brow. "Lost tortoise," he repeats.

"Not nearly the mystery the girl made it out to be. She left the enclosure open."

"Right."

An uncomfortable silence descends upon them. Mrs Hudson takes this as her cue to retreat back into her flat, giving John one last pat on the arm before she goes. John waits a moment longer, but when nothing else is forthcoming, he gestures vaguely to the door with a terse smile and excuses himself. Sherlock looks like he has more to say, but makes no attempt to stop him.

.

.

Two weeks later, John is still no closer to sorting out the mess that his mind has become. He's still torn, and still doesn't know what to do. Forgiveness shouldn't be this hard, he can't help but think as he takes a sip of his tea. The flavour is muted and he can't quite remember what sort of tea he ordered.

Merlin, opposite him, is absently stirring a spoonful of sugar into his own drink. He's been doing this for the past five minutes. John doesn't quite have the energy to point it out. He looks as run-down as John feels, though he's making an obvious attempt to hide it. But as John watches him stare at his tea, spinning the spoon round and round in endless circles, the smudges under his eyes are more pronounced than ever, and he looks… old.

Merlin chooses that moment to look up and they hold each other's gazes for a long moment. John goes to ask how he's doing, but Merlin pre-emptively cuts him off.

"Have you spoken to Sherlock?"

John slumps back in his seat and returns his attention the flavourless tea. "Once," he admits. At Merlin's raised eyebrow – a signal to continue – he adds, "I saw him when I was leaving Mrs Hudson's."

"How'd it go?"

"Fine, I suppose. We didn't really talk."

Merlin lifts his cup to take the first sip since they'd arrived but then aborts the action halfway through and just stares at it instead. "You haven't forgive him," he says.

"Have you?" John counters.

Merlin glances at him. "It's… hard," he starts weakly, "to forgive someone when they hurt you as badly as Sherlock hurt you. When… When you depend on them and they go and do something that makes you feel insignificant or unimportant, it can feel like… well, like there's no point to anything." He heaves a sigh and puts his cup back down and rests his head in one hand. "I'm not going to pretend I have any say in your actions or control over your feelings, and if you decide that this is something you can't forgive, then I'll stand by you in that decision. But, John, you've been given a second chance. Don't waste it."

For a moment, John feels incredibly guilty. Here he is, moping around because of Sherlock's deceit, but at least Sherlock is still alive. Merlin's 'Sherlock' isn't. And it's probably too much to hope that, whoever he was, he'll spontaneously come back to life with a 'haha tricked you!'. But at the same time he knows that it's senseless to compare suffering, and that someone else's hardships don't make your own any easier to bear.

"If you're anything like me," Merlin continues, oblivious, "you'll end up regretting the things you didn't do more than the things you did."

John knows he's right; when he'd thought about Sherlock dead, really the biggest things he thought about were the things he hadn't done, the things he hadn't said or understood. And even though the hurt still lingers, he can see he's been given the chance to do those things, to say those unsaid words.

"You're right," John sighs, rubbing his eyes wearily.

Merlin doesn't look triumphant or pleased. There's a small smile on his face, but it's more sad than anything. "I wish I wasn't."

"I just… I don't even know where to begin."

"Talk to him," Merlin suggests. "You don't have to forgive him right away, and it'll probably take a while to build back any trust, but you've got to start somewhere, right?"

"You want me to make small-talk with Sherlock Holmes," John deadpans.

Merlin scrunches up his nose. "Well, when you put it like that it does sound ridiculous." He taps his fingers on the tabletop. "I don't know, maybe invite him out somewhere. Take Mycroft with you so you'll have something to mutually complain about."

John muffles a snort with his tea. He knows Sherlock would never agree to go anywhere with Mycroft, but it's an amusing thought nonetheless.

.

.

Somehow, well and truly beyond John's comprehension, Merlin's suggestion more or less turns out to be exactly what happens. Even as his cab pulls up outside the restaurant, John still can't quite wrap his head around it.

"No Aithusa?" John asks by way of greeting as he meets Merlin on the sidewalk.

Merlin points across the street, and John turns. Aithusa is watching them from atop a streetlight. "She's not happy about it but she has to stay out here," he says, amused.

As if having heard him (she probably has), Aithusa ruffles her feathers and screeches, attracting the attention of other pedestrians. Some of them pull out their phones to take photos.

"You ready?" Merlin asks.

John fidgets with the sleeve of his suit jacket. He feels more than a little out of place; his suit is cheap and his wallet is thin. He doesn't belong in such a high-end place as this. But Merlin looks a little out of place, too; he's fidgety and clearly uncomfortable in his own formal wear. It helps a bit, though John is a tad ashamed to admit it.

He shrugs. "Let's go in anyway."

Merlin smiles and leads the way, holding the door open for him.

John has never been to this restaurant, and his first step inside only cements his belief that this is a part of society that he has no place in. He would have been quite content to continue avoiding it forever, but Mr and Mrs Holmes had been the ones to organise this get-together, and he somehow can't quite picture them in a living room eating out of take-out boxes with plastic forks.

"Do you have a reservation?" the maître d' asks, eyeing them both with mild distaste. John wonders if he can somehow smell the lower-class on him like some kind of bad cologne.

"Yes. It should be under Holmes," Merlin says with practiced ease.

"Ah, of course. If you'll follow me, sirs."

The maître d' leads them towards a table near one of the back corners. The rest of the Holmes family are already there. Sherlock and Mycroft both look bored, but Mrs Holmes has either not noticed or doesn't care and continues talking.

Mr Holmes is the first to spot them approach. He rises from his chair with a grin, and Mrs Holmes cuts herself off, joining him.

"Merlin, John," Mr Holmes greets them, shaking hands with John while Mrs Holmes pulls Merlin into a hug. "We were starting to wonder if you were still coming!"

"Sorry," Merlin says, taking a seat at the table as soon as he's released. "Traffic was terrible."

John goes to join him, but is stopped when Mrs Holmes hugs him too. He stiffens in surprise before awkwardly returning the gesture.

"So glad you could make it, John," she beams at him, and then they too are taking their seats. John is forced to sit next to Sherlock, but he finds he doesn't mind as much as he thought he would.

"Sherlock," he nods. "Mycroft."

The two eldest Holmes brothers are sporting matching expressions of poorly-concealed surprise. Their eyes dart between John and Merlin as if unable to process the fact that they're here. John feels the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. Merlin seems to perpetually have this effect on them.

"John," Sherlock says, snapping out of his stupor. He sounds confused, but not unhappy.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Mycroft asks. It's not clear if he's talking to John or Merlin, but John answers anyway.

"Your mother invited me," John explains. He nods when Merlin holds the pitcher of water questioningly above John's empty glass.

Mycroft turns his gaze on Mrs Holmes, who wears an expression of fond exasperation. "We're only here for a few days," she says. "We thought it was the perfect opportunity for a family dinner."

This only seems to make Mycroft more confused. Sherlock's confusion has given way into something more critical. No doubt he's already figuring out what Mycroft doesn't want to acknowledge.

"Don't pull that face," Merlin takes a sip of water. "He's as much a part of this family as I am, whether you like it or not."

"Exactly," Mrs Holmes agrees. She turns to John. "Which reminds me, John. You are still coming up for Christmas, aren't you?"

"Of course," John assures her. Besides, he has a feeling he doesn't show up Merlin will track him down and drag him there by force.

"And, Sherlock, you're coming too?"

Sherlock glances between John and Mrs Holmes. John can tell by his expression alone that he's already worked out what's happened in his absence. "If I must," he says, but he sounds more willing than his words let on.

"Yes," Mrs Holmes nods. "You must."

A waitress comes over then, and they all turn their attention to their menus as they decide what to order. John focuses on the prices and picks the most affordable thing he can find that he can pass off as a meal. The Holmes' are in their element, but John hasn't even heard of half the things listed. He eventually settles on some kind of potato dish that he's fairly certain is only supposed to be an appetiser. Nobody points it out, though, and he's grateful.

The conversation is light but mostly just small talk, just as John remembers it being at Christmas. He thinks he should feel more like an intruder than he does, but Mr and Mrs Holmes go out of their way to include him in the conversation, and Sherlock and Merlin both seem more interested in talking to him than anyone else. Somehow, Mycroft ends up being the one who speaks least, despite obvious attempts to subtly interrogate Merlin. But Merlin is well-practiced in the art of deflection. John thinks it's nice that it's not aimed at him, for once.

The time slips by and John, more content than he's felt in weeks, barely notices until Mr Holmes glances at his watch and says,

"We'll have to head off soon if we don't want to miss the play."

Mycroft glances at his own watch, and then summons the waiter to bring them their bill, as if one had been hiding around the corner, just waiting for the signal. It's just another example of Mycroft's true power. He could probably take over the entire world with a single hand gestured if he wanted to. John reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. He silently prays there's enough left in his account to pay for his share. It would be embarrassing to have his card declined in a place as fancy as this.

"Put those away, boys!" Mrs Holmes chastises, and John looks up to find Merlin, Sherlock, and Mycroft also preparing to pay. "We were the ones who invited you out," she continues, "and what kind of parents would be to make you pay for yourselves?"

Mr Holmes smiles in agreement.

John stares at them, but the Holmes boys all put their wallets away with matching exasperation, though Merlin is the only one who actually rolls his eyes (and gets swatted at by his mother in retaliation). But Mr and Mrs Holmes aren't John's parents; they have no obligations to pay for his meal. Mrs Holmes turns a pointed stare on him as if having read his mind, and holds it until John unwillingly relents, crumpling under the pressure. He thinks any argument he could start with her would be doomed from the beginning. It's a trait that she has unfortunately passed onto her sons.

"Right then," Mr Holmes says, slipping his credit card into the book and passing it back to the waiter. He stands, pulling his jacket back on. "Are we ready?"

They all stand at his urging, likewise putting their jackets/coats on if they had taken them off, and when the bill is paid and Mr Holmes' card returned, they exit back out onto the street.

"It was lovely seeing you, Sherlock," Mrs Holmes says, pulling Sherlock into an embrace. He allows it. She releases him, and then does the same to John. "And, John, you'll make sure he keeps his promise and comes for Christmas, won't you?"

John doesn't have the heart to tell her that he and Sherlock haven't had a proper, civil conversation for two years and instead says, "Yes, Mrs Holmes."

"Good." She tugs her coat tighter around herself. "Come along then, boys, before we're late."

John and Sherlock stand outside the restaurant, watching as she, Mr Holmes, Mycroft, and Merlin head off to their waiting cars. They can hear Mycroft's surprise when he realises Merlin is joining them, but they're too far away now to make out the words. As soon as they're gone, a blanket of awkwardness falls over John and Sherlock that neither seems to know how to remove.

John contemplates just going home like he intended, but remembers what Merlin said and stops himself, resisting the urge to sigh. Instead, he shifts just enough that he can see Sherlock in his peripheral vision. He'd noted it during dinner, but Sherlock looks rundown. He's presentable, but there's something tired about him. It's an odd thought, that he somehow looks younger than Merlin and yet still so old. Perhaps that's just a testament to how much of a mess Merlin has become. John files that observation away for later consideration.

Sherlock catches him looking and turns his gaze on him, questioning. They stare at each other for a second longer than can be considered comfortable.

"How have you been?" John asks at last, if for no other reason than to just end the silence.

Sherlock is visibly surprised by the question. For some reason this makes John annoyed. "Fine," he says.

John shoves his hands into his pockets and glares at the passing cars. "And why is it 'absolutely necessary' this time?"

Sherlock pulls a face that's somewhere between a grimace and apologetic. "I've been… stagnant."

"No clients?"

"Nothing worth looking into."

John hums in a non-committal way. "Maybe you should look anyway."

Sherlock casts him a long look. "It would be easier with an assistant."

John pointedly doesn't meet his gaze.

.

.

Sometime after the family get-together, John and Merlin start to slip from their routine. Regular messages become occasional messages, and phone calls become non-existent. The problem lies on Merlin's end, John knows, but he's not sure what that problem is, exactly. So when the time rolls around for the tea not-date, he insists on coming up to Glastonbury.

On previous trips, Merlin had taken them to his favourite local teahouse. This time, they sit in his kitchen, nursing their drinks in mismatched mugs and sharing a plate of teacake. Merlin sits hunched over in his seat, picking at his slice, and if John were to take a guess he'd say he's lost weight. It's only made more obvious by his baggy shirt, which now hangs off him more than ever, and the ever-darker smudges under his eyes.

There's something seriously wrong with his friend, but any and all attempts to help – even to just ask how he's doing – are met with a hasty but obviously false reassurance and an equally swift change of subject. In the end, John is forced to admit defeat.

When he reaches the bus stop later that evening, mind still stuck in Merlin's kitchen, it's to find that someone else has already beaten him to it. Aithusa, who has been absent all afternoon, has finally decided to show herself. She's sitting on some kind of rectangular box at the base of the bus stop sign, watching him expectantly.

"Hello," John says.

Aithusa says nothing.

"What have you been up to all afternoon?"

Nothing.

Aithusa has proven herself to be impossibly intelligent on more than one occasion, almost as if she understands exactly what is being said to her. In fact, she appears so knowing that there are times when John feels completely sane for talking to her like a person rather than a pet. This is not one of those times.

Aithusa stares up at him for a long moment, as if sizing him up. She eventually comes to a decision and hops off the box. John watches with no small amount of curiosity as she gets behind it and nudges it towards him with her beak.

"What's this?" John asks pointlessly, stooping down to pick it up. It's a simple wooden design; nothing special about it. There are small clumps of dirt clinging to it. "Wait a minute… Is this…?" He looks up, ready to question the bird, only to discover that she's gone. John quickly scans the immediate area, but there's no sign of her.

He returns his attention to the box. He can't be certain, but he thinks this might be the box Merlin buried on the Tor over a year ago. And if it is, then he really doesn't think Aithusa has any right to give it to him. How did she even get it? Did Merlin dig it up?

John checks his watch. If he goes back to Merlin's place now to return it, he'll miss the last bus and be stranded. And while he's fairly sure Merlin would be more than willing to put him up for the night, he doesn't think Sarah will tolerate many more cancelled shifts. Pursing his lips, John tucks the box under one arm and resolves to return it the next time he sees Merlin.

Something inside it shifts with the movement, hitting the wooden wall of the box with a noticeable clunk. John tries to pretend he didn't hear it.

.

.

John lasts exactly 6 hours, 23 minutes, and 48 seconds before temptation gets the better of him. The box is still sitting on his desk where he left it. He's in bed – has been for the last hour and a half. He can't sleep. All he can do is think about the box. What's in it? Why did Merlin bury it? Why did Aithusa give it to him?

John rolls onto his side so the box is well and truly out of view. He's still hyperaware of it sitting on his desk, acting innocent.

It's none of my business, he tells himself. If Merlin wants to put something in a box and bury it then he's entitled to.

Unfortunately, this particular thought reawakens his curiosity. Yes, Merlin is entitled to bury wooden boxes. But why? What's in it?

John clamps his eyes shut and hunkers down under the covers. It's none of his business.

…

With a growl of frustration, John flings back the covers and pushes himself out of bed. He pauses only long enough to turn on the lamp before he's cleared the short distance between the bed and the desk, and, in particular, the foot-long box that has been taunting him for hours.

One little peek won't hurt, surely, he tries to justify.

Biting his lip, he eases off the lid. A few clumps of dirt fall loosely onto the desk. John's not sure what he was expecting to find, but this is decidedly not it.

There's only one thing in the box. It's a little hard to tell, but John thinks it looks like the broken tip of a sword. It's hard to tell because it's almost completely covered in dried blood.

John quickly slams the lid back on the box. Before he's even completely aware of what he's doing he's already opened the wardrobe and shoved the box in the bottom corner as far as it will go, concealed now by darkness and an ugly Christmas sweater.

His hands are shaking as he crawls back into bed and switches off the lamp. Five minutes later he turns it back on.

'For safe keeping,' Merlin's voice, as empty as his expression, whispers in his mind.

John doesn't get much sleep that night. It's not his curiosity that keeps him awake.

.

.

John is leaving work when his phone rings. It's Greg. Unusual, given that they normally converse via text. Anxious but not entirely sure why, he answers.

"Are you busy?" Greg forgoes any kind of greeting.

"I'm about to head home. Why?"

"Can you come in? We could use your help."

John stops walking and frowns at the pavement. 'We' presumably means New Scotland Yard, but why would they need John Watson? "I think you've called the wrong number, Greg," he says. "Sherlock's not here."

"I'm not asking for Sherlock," Greg replies, which only confuses John more. "We need you."

John doesn't say anything for a long moment, too baffled to form a response. What could he possibly offer that Sherlock couldn't? Besides manners, of course, but he doubts Greg would call him in to have a polite conversation with a corpse.

"Can you come?" Greg asks again when John still doesn't respond.

"Uh… Yeah. Alright."

"Thanks, John. I'll text you the address."

.

.

It only takes one look at the victim's body for John to realise why they'd contacted him. Still, Sherlock's absence is almost as intrusive as if he were present. Sergeant Donovan stands off to the right, arms crossed and resting her weight on one leg as she switches her gaze between him and the corpse.

"Well?" she asks, voice hinting to impatience, and exactly how she feels about him being there (but it's practically welcoming compared to how she treats Sherlock).

"Robert Thomson," John returns. He shifts to glance back at Greg, who is standing behind him. "Former soldier in the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers."

Greg nods. His expression says, 'this is why I called you'.

John looks back down at the body. He and Thomson hadn't particularly been friends, but they'd gotten along well enough. The knowledge that he'd survived a war only to be shot in his own living room grates on John's heart. He stoops down, examining the bullet hole in Rob's head.

".338 Lapua Magnum," Donovan says. "Shot from a distance – sniper, but…" She gestures vaguely to the window. There's a hole where it passed through, the surrounding glass spider-webbed with cracks. "But there's no vantage point nearby where someone could have made such a shot."

John's blood runs cold. There is one vantage point high enough and in direct view of the window. "The sniper shot from the roof of that building there," he points. The building is at least 3 or 4km away.

Greg and Donovan stare at it, and then him.

"You can't be serious," Donovan protests. "No one could make a shot like that!"

John's mouth sets into a grim line. "Sebastian Moran could."

He can't offer much more than that, but it gives them something to start with, at least. And that feels like the end of it, until almost two weeks later.

"There's been another one," Greg tells him on the phone. He gives him the address and John heads out immediately.

It takes only seconds to identify her as Liz Carlton. She'd been a good soldier, had been proud to serve her country. John had patched her up a few times, and she'd told him about her family. She didn't deserve to be killed in a supermarket parking lot.

Like the first murder, John can only identify one location the shot could have come from, and like last time, it's much farther away than anyone except Sebastian Moran could be able to successfully shoot.

John feels unease shift in his gut. He doesn't know a whole lot about Moran – just that he'd been part of a different unit, was the best damn shot in the entire army, and dangerously smart. Smart enough not to get caught, which meant these murders were deliberately designed to attract attention. But why? John doesn't know, but from the pattern that's forming, he knows he'll have to figure it out soon.

.

.

John wakes to a furious tapping sound. For several long seconds, he lies in bed, disorientated. The tapping grows increasingly frantic the longer he does nothing about it, and his tired mind struggles to make sense of what he's hearing. Eventually, though, he wakes up enough to realise it's coming from the front door.

Cautiously, he drags himself out of bed and creeps over. The tapping stops for a second, before returning again with increased ferocity. John takes a moment to hope he's not about to make a terrible mistake and opens it.

Aithusa is sitting in the doorway. She staggers forwards as the door moves out of reach but recovers quickly. Her eyes, more panicked than John has ever seen them, look up to meet his and she lets out a loud and desperate cry that has probably woken everyone within five-hundred metres.

"Aithusa!" John tries to shush her. "What are you doing here?" He steps aside to let her in but she hops backwards, resistant.

She lets out another wail and flaps her wings. She is very clearly distressed, but John doesn't have a clue what she wants.

"Aithusa, I don't understand," he hisses quietly. "What's wrong?"

Aithusa ruffles her feathers in a clear display of frustration.

John is at something of a loss. "Does this have something to do with Merlin?" he tries, feeling something akin to panic build in his chest. "Has something happened to Merlin?"

Since that day he'd gone to Glastonbury, Merlin hasn't showed much improvement. If anything, he's only gotten worse, but nothing John tries has managed to get through to him. And Merlin is nothing if not stubbornly tight-lipped when he wants to be. If he's honest with himself, John has been expecting something like this for a while. The anniversary is barely a week away.

Aithusa nods furiously, a picture of anxious excitement.

"What is it?" John is already reaching for his keys and locking the door behind him, not even caring that he's only wearing a t-shirt and pyjama pants.

Aithusa seems pleased by this and hurries down towards the footpath.

"Aithusa, Aithusa, wait!" John calls after her.

Aithusa stops, albeit impatiently.

"Where is he? Glastonbury?"

A sharp nod, and she's off again. Again, John calls for her to stop. "It's alright for you; you can fly. I'm more than willing to help, but how am I going to get there at this time of night?"

It's hard to say if her reaction is one borne from realising she hasn't completely thought things through or from John being too stupid to understand whatever plan she's come up with. Either way, she looks mad. In any other situation, John would have fixated on just how human her reactions have been.

Aithusa suddenly takes to the air, charging straight for him. John instinctively covers his face with his arms in an attempt to protect himself from the unexpected attack. But there is no pain, no talons tearing through his flesh. He feels something grab him by the shoulders, sharp but careful, and then there's an incredible sense of weightlessness. He gasps, feeling the ground vanish from beneath his feet as the sound of heavy flapping fills his ears. The cold whip of the wind tugs harshly at his body.

He starts to lower his arms, mentally preparing himself for what he thinks he will see when he pries open his eyes. But before he gets the chance, whatever is holding him aloft tightens it grip and a feminine voice rumbles,

"Don't open your eyes."

John's not sure if he hears it with his ears or his mind or even his entire body, but he nonetheless decides to do as he's told. In all honesty, he probably doesn't want to know what's happening.

It feels like hours pass and yet simultaneously only minutes before the flapping changes beat and the wind starts to lose its bite. John feels the ground return beneath his bare feet. It's concrete, he can tell, but he suspects not the same as the footpath he'd left outside his flat. For a long moment, he simply stands there, eyes closed and not sure what to do.

After a long moment he hears Aithusa's impatient shriek.

"Can I open my eyes now?" he asks breathlessly. He takes the cry she returns as a yes and dares to take a look.

Somehow, impossibly, he's standing in front of Merlin's townhouse. Aithusa is already hopping up the steps to the front door. John just stares, stupefied. What in the hell had just happened? He looks over to Aithusa, who is scratching and pushing at the front door. He starts to wonder, once again, if he really wants to know.

He snaps out of it when Aithusa gives up on brute force and turns to him for help. Right. Merlin. John goes to knock but changes his mind at the last minute and tries the knob instead. It turns easily.

The interior of the house is dark and eerily quiet. None of this bothers Aithusa, who immediately races inside, screeching as she hurries from first the lounge room to the kitchen.

"Merlin?" John calls out tentatively. The only response is the echo of his own voice.

Aithusa returns from the kitchen, feathers fluffed up as she practically throws herself up the stairs.

"Merlin? Are you here?"

John doesn't need to ask to know the answer, nor does he need to see a very anxious looking Aithusa at the top of the stairs. Merlin isn't here. And there's only one place John can think of that he might go.

They find him in the Tower on the Tor. It's so dark that John can barely see anything, but he's certain that the figure digging furiously at the dirt on their hands and knees is Merlin.

"Where is it? Where is it? Damnit, where is it?!" John hears Merlin mutter over and over, his voice hitching with what sounds like tears. John knows what he's looking for. It's not here.

"Merlin?" he tries.

Merlin freezes, voice faltering. His dark silhouette shoots its head upwards. "…John?" he whispers.

John forces himself forwards and crouches in front of his friend. "Yes, it's me," he says. "Are you alright?" It's a stupid question. He's very clearly not alright.

Merlin fails to suppress a sob and his head falls onto John's shoulder. John can feel tears soaking through the thin material of his t-shirt. Merlin says nothing. John doesn't need to ask anything more. Instead, he wraps his arms around his broken friend and simply lets him cry. He knows there's nothing he can say to make it better.

When Merlin degrades into sniffles, John slowly pulls away and gets to his feet before offering a hand to help Merlin up.

"Come on," he says. "Let's go home."

.

.

They go back to Merlin's place. John deliberately directs them to the kitchen. He's not 100% sure what the wall of portraits means but his suspicions make him unwilling to take the risk of exposing Merlin to it when he's in such a state. Merlin wordlessly takes a seat at the island counter, Aithusa pressing herself against him while John sets about making them some tea. It's still dark out, and Merlin looks exhausted, but John doubts that any of them will be able to sleep even if they try.

The silence drags on, disturbed only by the sound of the kettle boiling and spoons clinking against teacups. Merlin remains mute as John passes him a cup of tea and sips from it absently.

John watches him, at a loss. He wants to help, and he thinks Merlin sorely needs it. He tries not to think about the bloodstained sword point still hidden in his wardrobe back in London, or the significance of Merlin desperately trying to find it. He certainly doesn't think about what might have happened if Aithusa hadn't given him the box already.

John lets his mug rest on the counter. There's little point in trying to get Merlin to acknowledge him right at this moment, so to Aithusa he says, "I'll be right back," before vacating the kitchen and heading upstairs.

It takes him less than five minutes to find a suitable bag, and that again to pack it with a few changes of clothes and other essentials. He feels vaguely awkward for rummaging through Merlin's things without permission, but he tells himself Merlin is unlikely to have the energy to do it himself. Because even if he protests, John is hell-bent on getting him out of this house and away from the Tor, even if only for a week or two. There's not really much room in John's bedsit for two, but they'll make it work somehow.

John leaves the now full bag near the front door on his way back to the kitchen. Merlin hasn't moved from his seat, but his tea is half-drunk, which John takes as a good sign.

"Are you hungry?" he asks.

Merlin doesn't look up from his mug. John takes this as a 'no'. He sighs through his nose and takes a sip of his own tea. He grimaces; it's gone lukewarm. The silence stretches on. John can't tell if it's uncomfortable or not.

"I'm sorry."

John's head shoots up at the barely audible words. Merlin casts him a quick glance before returning his gaze to his almost empty mug.

"What for?" John frowns.

Merlin looks at him properly this time. John has never been more uncertain about his age. "For… this. Me. Aithusa dragging you out here in the middle of the night."

John almost wants to whack him upside the head but thinks it might be counterproductive and doesn't. "Merlin," he says slowly, because clearly Merlin needs him to spell it out for him, "you have nothing to apologise for."

"But–"

"None of this is your fault, and even if it was I would still be here, in the middle of the night, middle of the apocalypse, whatever, because you're my friend. You do know that, right?"

Merlin's eyes shine with fresh but unfallen tears and he can't seem to meet John's gaze. He gives one shaky nod as he clutches his mug. "It's mutual," he eventually whispers.

"I know," John agrees. A pause, and then, "As soon as the sun comes up, we'll head back to London. I've already packed you a bag," he adds when Merlin opens his mouth, likely to protest. "You need a break and you are definitely not imposing."

Merlin purses his lip and then deflates. "Thank you."

.

.

The trip back to London is long and mostly silent, but ultimately uneventful. Regretfully, Merlin pays for the tickets as John left his wallet and phone in his flat, and John has been forced to borrow some ill-fitting pants and shoes as he doubts the bus driver will happily let him on in pyjama pants and barefoot. Aithusa, much to her chagrin, has been forced to fly on ahead. They nab a couple of seats towards the back, Merlin's bag on the floor between them. By the time they reach their stop, Merlin has dozed off and John is forced to reluctantly wake him.

John's bedsit is nowhere near as homey as Merlin's townhouse, but Merlin doesn't complain. There's only one bed, and John makes a mental note to borrow a camp bed from one of his old army mates even as he tells Merlin to make himself at home. Aithusa, who has beaten them there, practically drags Merlin over to the bed before he has the chance to fall asleep standing up. Merlin makes a weak protest, but John, on Aithusa's side, tells him it's fine and that he's not tired anyway (which is, at least, half true).

It crosses his mind to check his phone, and he's alarmed to find he's missed a grand total of eight calls and five text messages. Three of the calls are from unlisted numbers – Mycroft, most likely – all about three hours apart starting from just after Aithusa had… done whatever she'd done to get him to Glastonbury. He's still not sure he wants to know. There's a call from Sarah, and one from Greg, and the other three are, surprisingly, from Sherlock. John momentarily dismisses the calls and moves on to the messages.

Like with the calls, there's one each from Sarah and Greg. The both say very similar things: Where are you? and Are you okay? Confused but feeling a little guilty – he's obviously worried them with his silence – he shoots off a quick reply to both, apologising and saying that he'd forgotten his phone when he'd rushed off to help a friend. The only difference between them is that he calls Merlin by name to Greg.

The remaining messages are all from Sherlock.

-Answer your phone. –SH

-Where are you? –SH

-You're either ignoring me or you've left your phone behind. Never mind I'll come find you. –SH

It's an entirely pointless and one-sided conversation. Clearly, then, Sherlock is a little worked up. Also, he has very obviously not managed to find him. Interesting.

-Sorry, left my phone at home, he sends in reply. It feels a little… cold, but really he's not sure how else to respond. He's barely pressed send before his phone buzzes in his hand. Greg and Sarah have both replied.

-Is he okay? Greg's reads.

John glances over at Merlin, who, exhausted, has already fallen back to sleep.

-Not sure. I've got him staying with me for a bit.

Sarah's message expresses relief for John's wellbeing (which he wasn't even aware had been at any risk), and asks about what happened. He shoots back a vague explanation about a friend needing him, and she just as quickly tells him to take the day off. He's unbelievably grateful. He's not sure he's comfortable leaving Merlin alone after what happened this morning, asleep or not.

He almost doesn't manage to hit send before the screen changes to alert him to an incoming call. It's Sherlock. John turns to Aithusa, who is watching him, gestures to his phone, and steps outside before answering.

"Hey," he says, wincing at how tired he sounds.

"John!" Sherlock's voice is noticeably tinged with relief. "Are you alright? What happened?"

John's brow furrows. "Why does everyone seem to think something happened?"

"You vanished, John," Sherlock replies, as if this is a very obvious detail and John is an idiot for not having known.

"Vanished?" John repeats. His mind flickers back to the sensation of flying and the impossibly quick trip to Glastonbury.

"Yes, do keep up. Mycroft said you were talking to a bird outside at 3am and then disappeared. No one knows where you went and we couldn't find you on any CCTV footage."

Well, that explains Sarah and Greg. Sherlock sounds really worried. John, despite the annoyance (but not surprise) at learning that Mycroft has been spying on him, can't help but feel a little guilty.

"Sorry," he says, and he means it. "There was an emergency. I forgot to take my phone."

"What emergency?" Sherlock presses. "How did you evade the surveillance?"

"Merlin," is all John says. It's an answer to both questions. On the road in front of his bedsit a black, not at all subtle car pulls up. John rolls his eyes.

Sherlock makes an 'ah' sort of noise. "Is he alright?"

"He's asleep at the moment."

The car door opens, and to John's incredulousness, Mycroft himself steps out. He looks as immaculate as always, and he has his umbrella in hand.

"Look, Sherlock, I'll have to talk to you later. The government is here," John says.

Sherlock grumbles something about Mycroft and John hangs up on him.

"Mycroft," he says by way of greeting.

Mycroft glances at John's borrowed clothes and narrows his eyes. "Dr Watson." He stops about five feet away. John pointedly does not invite him in. "Eventful night."

"A bit," John agrees.

"Care to inform me how you seemed to blink out of existence for several hours? Or why my brother is now staying with you?"

John doesn't even bother to question how he knows this last part. The bag was probably evidence enough. "I really don't see how that's any of your business."

"It is a matter of national security that you so easily evaded all attempts to locate you. And, as Merlin is family, it decidedly is my business."

John can't help but concede the point, but he still has no intentions of telling Mycroft anything. He crosses his arms in a show of defiance.

"Actually," he says, "it's Merlin's business, and therefore not my place to say."

"In that case, I should like to speak to my brother."

"And I'd like you to stop spying on me but it doesn't look like either of us are going to get what we want."

Mycroft levels him with a look. But John refuses to be swayed.

"I'll let Merlin know you stopped by." It's a clear dismissal.

Mycroft's face pinches in a way that suggests he wants to protest, but ultimately turns on his heel and retreats to the waiting car. "I'll be in touch."

John doesn't doubt it.

.

.

Merlin is awake when John gets home from the grocery store (he'd reluctantly acknowledged that there was not enough food in his fridge to feed two and left Merlin under Aithusa's watchful eye). He and Aithusa are sitting opposite each other on the bed, a stack of playing cards between them. Merlin has five cards in his hand, and John is surprised to see that Aithusa is somehow managing to hold up her own in one talon. It's such an unexpected sight that for a long moment John just stands in the doorway and stares at them. He doesn't even know where the cards came from.

Aithusa lets out a short whistle.

"Go fish," Merlin says.

Aithusa's wings flare and she hisses but nonetheless reaches forward and uses her beak to pluck a card from the pile.

"Got any threes?" Merlin asks.

Aithusa hisses again, pulling a card from her hand and flinging it at him.

"Don't be such a sore loser."

If he hadn't been sure before, John now knows with absolute certainty that Aithusa is no ordinary bird. What she is, then, and how Merlin found her remains a mystery; a mystery John isn't entirely sure he wants the answers to. It's a recurring theme where she's concerned.

Merlin's eyes dart over to him and he lowers his cards. John has finally been noticed.

"Hey," John says.

"Hi," Merlin returns awkwardly.

Aithusa turns way from Merlin to look at him, but John can't read anything in her expression.

"How're you feeling?"

"Fine," Merlin says, a little too quickly. He doesn't look fine, but he does look a little better than earlier. So he decides to let it slide, just this once.

"Want some tea?" John gestures to the kitchen, already moving over to the kettle to get it boiling while he puts the groceries away. Merlin makes an affirmative kind of noise, so John pulls two mugs down from the cupboard. For a long moment the only sound is the rustling of bags and the occasional clinking of spoons against mugs.

"How long have you had it?"

John stills and looks back over his shoulder. "Had what?"

"The box."

Ah.

John heaves a mental sigh and leaves the teaspoon in his hand to rest inside its mug before shifting to give Merlin his full attention. "A couple of months," he confesses. "I'm sorry. I keep meaning to return it, but…"

But what? He keeps forgetting? Partly true. But if he's being completely honest the biggest reason is that he can't erase the image of the blood-encrusted sword tip from his mind, or Merlin's words when he'd buried it – "For safe keeping".

The implications of it are the underlying issue. Just whose blood is it? Why did it need safe keeping at all, let alone underground in a box? Merlin doesn't strike John as the type to kill someone, but what other explanation is there? And what if it's true?

John thinks it over for a moment and is surprised when he realises that he doesn't care. Sherlock, after all, kept a skull on the mantelpiece. And if Merlin has killed someone, it would surely be for a good reason. If holding the evidence for him helps keep him out of prison then all the better. Besides, John's hands aren't exactly clean either.

Merlin is eyeing him carefully. "I'm not mad," he says quietly.

"How did you know I have it?" John finds himself asking.

"When I couldn't find it, I panicked a bit – it's not really something you want to lose track of," Merlin explains in that same subdued tone. "But Aithusa reassures me that it's safe. And the only place I can think of that she'd consider safe is with you."

John turns his gaze to Aithusa. Freaky intelligence aside, he's oddly touched by the thought. 'Oddly' being the keyword. "I'll, um, give it back to you."

"Don't."

John pauses, barely two steps from the counter. "But–"

"If Aithusa wants you to have it then you'd better hang onto it. It's hers anyway."

"Your bird owns a bloody sword tip?" John asks incredulously, and it's only a few seconds after the words are out that he realises what he's just revealed.

But still Merlin doesn't even look annoyed. "She made it, and the people she made it for are long gone, so now it's hers."

"Your bird made a sword tip."

"Technically she forged it. And it was a whole sword once. Dunno what happened to the rest of it; what's in the box is all we found."

John thinks this over. Is it possible, then, that the blood had already been on it when it fell into Merlin's hands? He's getting away from the point, he realises, which is that Aithusa is the owner and creator of a blood-covered piece of broken weapon.

"But how on earth could a–" John cuts himself off. He's suspected for a while now that Aithusa is more than she seems. And there's been plenty of evidence from her and Merlin alike to back it up. He remembers the voice, remembers the feeling of flying through the air, of travelling all the way to Glastonbury in less than half an hour. He remembers all the times she'd seemed far more intelligent than any animal John has ever seen. He remembers walking into his bedsit not twenty minutes ago to see her playing Go Fish, of all things.

What had Merlin said about her that one time? 'She's not… She's smart. Smarter than a bird.' Smarter than a bird has a heavy implication. She's not… She's not what?

She's not a bird.

John emerges from his thoughts to find Merlin and Aithusa both staring at him expectantly.

"She's not a bird, is she," John says warily. It's not a question.

Merlin looks decidedly smug. To Aithusa, he says, "You owe me 50 quid."

Aithusa ruffles her feathers in outrage. "But he hasn't figured it out yet!" She freezes comically, and Merlin's expression swiftly shifts to match. Slowly, they both swivel their heads to John like a pair of deer caught in the headlights.

John feels like someone has just swept a rug out from underneath him. Surely, surely, he has not just heard Aithusa speak. But he knows he has. And this is not the first time.

He should say something, he thinks. An indeterminate amount of time has passed since Aithusa's… outburst. And they're both starting to look concerned.

"John?" Merlin hedges.

"Sorry," John starts, absently noting that he has, at some point, shifted to lean heavily against the kitchen counter, "but were you betting on me?" It's by no means what he intended to say, but at least it's something coherent.

Merlin seems surprised for a moment, before his expression turns sheepish. "I, uh, may have bet her £50 that you'd figure it out within three years."

John's not sure how he feels about this. "Right," he says. "And what, exactly, am I supposed to be figuring out?"

"You've already got half of it," Merlin encourages.

'Aithusa is not a bird' is presumably what he's talking about. Which would make the other half discovering what she actually is. He feels vaguely dizzy. "Can't you just… tell me?"

"I could but I'd lose £50."

Of course. Because winning a bet is far more important than John's sanity. He can't really fault him for it, though; if their positions were reversed he can't say he wouldn't do the same. Especially if the bet was with Sherlock.

"Right," he clears his throat, trying to gather his thoughts. "Can I ask questions?"

Merlin and Aithusa share a look. They both shrug. It's a disconcerting thing to see a bird do. Or something resembling a bird. Or whatever.

"I see no problem with 'yes' or 'no' questions," Merlin says.

John thinks he can work with this. What has he figured out about Aithusa already? She has human-level intelligence, she's stronger than she looks… Or is she?

"Is this your true form?" he asks her. It feels preposterous to even entertain the notion that she can somehow change forms, that she can defy logic in such a way, but what other explanation can there be? No bird, no matter how strong, could carry him and fly at the same time, let alone such a distance.

His suspicions are confirmed when she replies, "No."

It's unnerving, hearing such a human-sounding voice from a bird's beak.

"Okay, so definitely not a bird then," he mutters.

"No," Aithusa repeats, sounding amused.

"Are you… Are you human?"

"Hmph. Absolutely not!"

John is more relieved by this than he thinks he probably should be. But while he can rule out shape-shifting humans and the problems that come from that realisation, it means he's being faced with the knowledge that humans aren't the only intelligent creatures on the planet. And that's a terrifying thought.

He glances at Merlin, who gives him an encouraging, albeit nervous, smile.

"Will I even be able to guess?"

"Yes," Aithusa and Merlin respond simultaneously. "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."

John stares at him. He thinks Sherlock has said something like that to him once or twice, but the way Merlin says it seems to imply that the impossible is entirely possible. "…Are you an alien?"

Aithusa snickers. "No." Merlin is equally amused.

Not an alien. Then… maybe something he would normally consider mythical? But that's a list a million miles long! With a sigh that sounds more like a huff, John admits, "I don't know."

Merlin sags with obvious disappointment, but Aithusa is pleased with the prospect of being fifty quid richer. Come to think of it, what does a not-bird even need money for?

"Well, you still have several months to figure it out," Merlin concedes. "If you still don't know by the end of the year, we'll just tell you."

This sounds like the easiest option for John, but he's not sure he can endure several months of not knowing.

Merlin levels him with an analysing gaze. He's kind of curled in on himself, like he's expecting John to yell at him. "Are you okay?"

"I'm not sure," John confesses. That it's a shock is an understatement. He turns back around to finish with the tea. His hands aren't shaking.

"It's a lot to take in," Merlin says sympathetically. "The last person who found out fainted."

John glances back over his shoulder but Merlin doesn't elaborate. His smile has turned sad and wistful.

"So who else knows?" John finds himself asking, passing Merlin his tea.

"Just you."

John very nearly spills tea all down his front. So this 'last person' (an old friend, perhaps?) must be dead, then.

"Myc suspects something, I think," Merlin continues, oblivious. "He'll probably never guess the truth, though."

"And you somehow expect me to?!"

"You'd better; I've got £50 riding on you!"

John gapes at him. "If Mycroft can't figure it out, what makes you think I can?"

"You're a lot more open minded than he is. You have an imagination."

John sits down heavily in the desk chair. Maybe he'll wake up to find the last 24 hours never happened. But he doesn't wake up, and he's eventually forced to accept that this is reality.

.

.

They're halfway through a late lunch of Chinese take-out when John hears a knock on the door. He looks up at Merlin, a silent question hanging in the air between them. It's not really hard to guess who it is. When all Merlin does is sigh and shrug, John gets up to answer it.

He's expecting Mycroft, or maybe even 'Anthea', and so he is wholly unprepared to find Sherlock standing on his doorstep.

"Sherlock," he says stupidly. Behind him, he hears Merlin put his take-out container down. A scuffling sound indicates that Aithusa has emerged from where she had practically crawled into her own.

"John," Sherlock returns, and there's some of that relief from their earlier conversation in his voice. "I would have come earlier, but I wasn't sure if you would…" He trails off, but John thinks he knows what he's trying to say.

I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me.

He hates the way it makes him feel guilty. Why should he be the guilty one? After all, he wasn't the one who drove a wedge between them. But it's quite clear that Sherlock was worried, and that in itself is enough for John to know that perhaps this is a little more serious and concerning from an outside perspective.

He hesitates a moment longer before opening the door a little wider and stepping aside. Sherlock shoots him a grateful smile as he enters.

Sherlock takes a moment to sweep his gaze over the place, lingering momentarily on Aithusa, before he gives his brother his full attention. From John's perspective, Merlin looks tired and rundown, but otherwise okay. At least in comparison to this morning. He wonders what Sherlock sees.

"Hey, Sherl," Merlin says.

"What happened?" Sherlock asks, looking from Merlin back to John. His brow is furrowed in obvious concern and some confusion. It's a strange expression to see on his face.

Merlin raises a brow. "Not going to deduce it?"

"There are too many unknowns. Not enough evidence."

"Well, what have you figured out?"

Sherlock gives them all another once-over. "At roughly 3am this morning, this bird–" he motions to Aithusa, who ruffles her feathers indignantly "–came here. I've seen it with you before, Merlin, so most probably the reason for it being here had something to do with you. So far, so obvious."

Merlin nods, giving Aithusa a soothing stroke as she continues to bristle.

"John went outside when the bird wouldn't come in, and then…" Sherlock's brow furrows deeper. He turns to John. "You disappeared. The CCTV cameras all malfunctioned for three seconds, and when the image returned you and the bird were both gone."

John looks over at Aithusa, surprised. From the smug way she's holding herself, it's clear that she not only knows why the cameras stopped working, but is somehow responsible for it. John stores the information away for later.

"How did you tamper with the cameras? What happened?" Sherlock presses.

"I don't know," John answers honestly. Well, mostly honestly. He knows Aithusa did something and carried him off – presumably through the air (and he files 'can fly great distances with weight' into his 'What The Hell Is Aithusa' folder) – but how she did it is well and truly beyond his comprehension.

But Sherlock isn't buying it. "Oh come on, John, surely you must know something! You were there!"

John's irritation rises. "Being present doesn't necessarily mean I know what's going on," he counters, more harshly than he intended. He's not talking about Aithusa anymore, but he doesn't need to be specific; from the look on Sherlock's face, he's gotten his point across.

"Let's skip over that for now," Merlin interrupts. "Keep going, Sherlock."

Sherlock is the epitome of dissatisfaction but acquiesces. "Wherever John went, he obviously met up with you, and you both took the first bus back here to London. John was wearing borrowed clothes so he left here in a hurry – didn't bother to bring anything with him. An emergency, then. You came back here with a bag, so you intend to stay a while. An emergency that has something to do with location, then, and of enough concern that you would choose to stay here despite the cramped conditions than go home, or even book a hotel. Maybe you want to save money, but that seems unlikely given your track record. You don't want to be alone, then."

He says all of this with all the speed and neglect for courtesy that John remembers, and it's enough to make John feel nostalgic. He's impressed, as he always has been by Sherlock's deductive reasoning, but he tries not to let it show on his face. Merlin's expression is unreadable.

"Conclusion?" he prompts in a tone that indicates he knows exactly what's coming next.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You had a relapse and you were going to kill yourself."

John thinks he already knew this. He did. He saw the way Merlin was that morning on the Tor, saw him digging desperately for a blood-soaked blade that wasn't there, had even spared a thought to consider what might have happened had Aithusa not already dug it up. But to hear it put so plainly and logically makes him freeze as if it's the first time he's realising it. Maybe, consciously, it is.

Relapse, his mind repeats.

He's not sure how he expects Merlin to react, but the soft smile and averted eyes isn't it. Merlin sighs, running a hand down Aithusa's feathers as she presses herself against his leg. She looks about as irritated as a bird can be, but who it's directed at is no longer obvious.

"You always see so much, Sherl," he says, eyes focused on Aithusa, "and yet nothing at all."

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but Merlin quickly meets his eyes and cuts him off.

"I wasn't going to do it," he says. "Maybe I wanted to, but I wasn't going to."

John's not entirely sure if he believes him. He wants to, but he remembers what he saw and doesn't think he can.

.

.

-Daniel Kent

John stares at the familiar name. Greg has provided no context, but John doesn't need any. Moran has struck again.

"Everything okay?"

John glances over at Merlin, who is poised to pull a trolley out of the bay. They'd been about to get groceries.

"Uh," John glances briefly at his phone again. "I think I might need to go, actually."

Merlin frowns, trying to read something from his expression. "Anything I can help with?"

Merlin once told him he was no good at deducing things. John hadn't bought it then and he still doesn't now. Greg didn't want to call Sherlock into this case for whatever reason, but maybe he'd accept a different Holmes.

"You any good at spotting evidence?" he asks.

Merlin's expression shifts into something just shy of amused. "I've had some practice," he says. And John decides that's close enough.

.

.

"Merlin!" Greg grins as he spots John and Merlin ducking under the police tape sectioning off the house where Moran's latest victim had met their end. He strides forward and claps Merlin on the shoulder. "Didn't realise you were still here! I thought you'd've run off by now."

Merlin smiles, and John is glad to see it's genuine. "Not yet."

"John hasn't been giving you too hard a time, has he?"

The smile grows a little as Merlin glances over at John. "He's a right mother hen."

John rolls his eyes, and opens his mouth to comment that he needs to be because Merlin has the self-preservation of a loaf of bread, but before he can, Donovan's voice cuts across,

"Who's this then?"

The three of them turn to watch her approach, and Merlin's smile becomes guarded. He's a good judge of character, John notes. "Merlin," he introduces himself, offering her a hand.

She takes it, even as her face scrunches with, "Merlin? What, like the wizard?"

"Exactly like that."

Donovan looks like she wants to comment, but blessedly keeps whatever she's thinking to herself. Instead, she asks, "I get why Watson's here, but why are you?"

"He's with me," John replies immediately. There's a warning in his tone that no one misses.

"Good for you!" and she sounds genuinely happy for him. "About time you replaced the Freak."

John still hasn't fully forgiven Sherlock, but the anger that rises in him at her callous treatment of him, and that the insinuation that he ever even could be replaced, is genuine. Surprisingly, though, Merlin beats him to the punch.

"Freak?" he raises a brow – the particular one that makes even the strongest opponent feel like a chastised child.

"Yeah," Donovan says. She looks mildly uncomfortable but not discouraged. "You know Sherlock Holmes?"

"We've met."

John suppresses a snort.

"Then you know already."

"Know what?"

Donovan looks at him like he's stupid. "That he's a freak," she insists, but when she spots the knowing and decidedly expectant looks on John and Greg's faces she loses some of her bravado.

"Well, I suppose it runs in the family," Merlin comments offhandedly. Without another word he turns and begins towards the front door of the house.

"What's his problem?" she frowns after him.

John clears his throat. "His full name is Sherrinford Merlin Holmes," he says, and immensely enjoys the way she blanches. He enjoys it even more when Aithusa chooses that moment to swoop down and perch on Merlin's shoulder. John doesn't wait for a response before trailing after him.

Any amusement at Donovan's expense evaporates as he joins Merlin in the kitchen, where Kent's body is sprawled, bullet hole in his head, just like the others. John feels like someone has reached between his ribs and squeezed his heart. There aren't many people left from his unit who have retired. And sooner or later John's name is likely to pop up on Moran's list.

He glances at Merlin, who is staring intently at the adjacent buildings through the open window. Sensing his gaze, he turns. The expression on his face is sad, and John decides in that moment what needs to be done.

.

.

John waits until he's almost certain Merlin is asleep before opening his laptop and creating a new blog post. The light catches Aithusa's attention, and she pokes her head out from under her wing to watch him.

"What?" he whispers.

She doesn't answer.

.

.

Twenty-four hours later finds John standing in the car park of the barracks where he'd first enlisted. The only light comes from a few sparse street lamps darted around, and his Browning is a hot coal pressed against his back. He has no idea if Moran has even seen the blog post, let alone understood the message he'd hidden in it. And if he did, if he will show up now. Potentially, John has set himself up as an easy target, and is about to become victim #4. A year ago he probably wouldn't have cared.

There's a near-silent click from behind him, but before John can turn he feels the barrel of a gun press against the back of his head. He goes very, very still.

"Watson," a voice says.

"Moran." A pause. "I wasn't sure if you were going to come."

"I wasn't sure you'd get the message," Moran returns.

John had recognised that there was a pattern, and probably a message. He hadn't gotten far enough to figure out what the message was, though. "Why are you taking out the vets from my unit?"

There's something like a laugh, only it's too dark to be humorous. "Maybe you're not as smart as I thought you were, Captain."

John's mind races, desperately trying to put clues he's not even fully aware of together. But no matter how hard he tries, he's no Sherlock Holmes.

"It was never about them," Moran explains.

Me, John realises. It hits him like a freight train. He's after me. They were just bait. Murdered for no reason. His sorrow is an ocean that evaporates under the heat of his fury.

Heedless of the consequences, John turns around. Moran doesn't so much as flinch, even as John levels his Browning at Moran's chest. His own gun doesn't waver, now aimed between John's eyes. They're at a stand-still.

Moran's appearance startles him – not because of any great physical change from what John remembers, but because of his eyes. Amazing, John thinks, how swapping bloodlust for emptiness can completely change a person. Moran's eyes are dead, and when John recognises himself from last year in those eyes, he can only imagine his heart is, too. Moran has endured something beyond his emotional endurance. John hadn't thought that was possible.

Some of the anger is buried under empathy. "Why not come straight for me, then? Why meet me here now?" It doesn't make any sense. Why go to such effort? "You've had plenty of opportunity to kill me."

Moran shrugs. His smile is as sharp as jagged glass. "I was trying to send a message. Not my fault you didn't figure it out and Holmes was too caught up in himself to pay attention."

So Sherlock is involved in this somehow too? John still doesn't understand.

"I wanted both of you to suffer before I finished the job."

Moran has always been sadistic, but there's something about him now that makes John think this is more than just bloodlust. The man who thrived on having nothing to lose is gone. In his place stands a man who's lost everything. It draws a parallel in John's mind he's not sure he wants to acknowledge.

"What did you lose?" he asks. What made you like this?

Moran's responding grin is hollow. "Same as you," he says.

The puzzle clicks into place. "Moriarty," John realises.

It had never really occurred to him that Moriarty might've had people who cared about him. He'd been psychotic and sociopathic; it was hard to picture someone like that having a family, let alone friends. But, then, wasn't it more or less the same with Sherlock? (Although Sherlock isn't psychotic or sociopathic – John suspects he's just autistic and undiagnosed.) And John had (does?) considered him his best friend.

And, ah, John realises, he and Moran are in the same boat, aren't they? Both chasing after a genius who has no qualms about leaving them behind. Almost without realising it, John lowers his gun.

"You, too, huh?" he chuckles. It's a dead kind of sound. "Did he tell you he was going to do it?"

Moran's gun doesn't move. His voice is completely monotonous when he replies, "No."

John isn't surprised. Moriarty might have been a criminal mastermind, might have even deliberately chosen that lifestyle in response to some deeper desire to die, but John doubts even he had really known he would end up killing himself on that roof. His empathy for Moran grows.

"I take it you're going to kill me now, then." He hadn't allowed Sherlock to tell him the full story, but he'd gotten the gist of it; Sherlock dies, or John, Mrs Hudson, and Greg take his place. And given that Sherlock's not dead after all… John is just grateful Moran targeted him and not them.

"Orders are orders," Moran says. There's no indication of how he feels about it.

John frowns. "Then why am I still alive?"

"Do you want to die?"

"I did."

Moran considers him for a moment. "And now?"

John flaps his gun hand weakly, glancing off to the side. "I came to terms with it, got help, tried to get on with my life… Sherlock was my best friend, but I can't let my life end because his did. Or I thought it did. You know what I mean."

Moran nods along to his words, but then repositions the gun, which had dipped slightly. "You know, Watson," he says. "We're a lot alike, you and me. Except for one thing."

Moran moves before John can react. The gun jolts upwards and fires with a deafening bang. John's heart thunders in his chest, adrenaline pumping through him. Moran's body is a crumpled heap on the asphalt, a puddle of blood pooling beneath the hole in his head.

"Yeah," John says shakily. "We really aren't that different."

He doesn't leave until he's called a paramedic to collect the body. Merlin meets him at the entrance of the car park. Neither of them say anything.

.

.

John fishes his ringing phone out of his pocket as he approaches the scene of Kent's murder. There are fewer police cars today. He hopes one of them is Greg's. The caller ID shows that it's Sherlock. John stares at it a moment before answering.

"Hello," he says, ducking under the police tape. No one tries to stop him.

"John," Sherlock sounds mildly worried. "Where are you?"

It's strange, John thinks, that it sounds like Sherlock's voice has doubled. But then he enters the kitchen and realises why. Sherlock is standing in the middle of the room, phone pressed to his ear as he stares out the window. Greg is there, too. They both turn to him as he steps over the threshold.

"I'm here," John replies needlessly, and hangs up. He momentarily ignores the way Sherlock sets about deducing his life story from his clothes in favour of addressing Greg. "I wondered when you were going to call him in."

"I didn't. He invited himself." Greg looks concerned. John must look as bad, as lost, as he feels. "You alright, mate?"

"Yeah." John looks down at where the body had been. There's still blood on the linoleum. "Went and had a chat with Moran this morning."

Sherlock and Greg both tense, but Greg is the only one vocal in his reaction.

"What?!"

"He's dead," John shrugs. He glances at Sherlock. "The murders were to get our attention – he was the sniper working for Moriarty."

Sherlock, if possible, tenses further. "Your blog post," he mutters. He looks annoyed.

John nods, knowing he doesn't need to explain it.

"What happened?" Greg asks warily.

"He killed himself."

"Why would he kill himself?" Sherlock asks, baffled. He might be a master of deduction, but he still needs a GPS to navigate emotions.

John looks at him, really looks at him, and for a moment he's Moran looking at Moriarty. "What's left to live for when you lose everything?"

Sherlock still doesn't understand, but John sees Greg's expression shift as he puts the pieces together. John doesn't elaborate.

.

.

Moran stays on John's mind all through the next week. How easily their positions could have been reversed. Really, there's only two differences between them: John has other friends who support him, and Sherlock was never really gone. He feels worse for it, knowing that he'd once begged to have Sherlock back, only avoid him when that wish was granted. And that Moran, who had likely wished the same, had killed himself to bridge the distance. Still, though, his soul hurts in a way that logic and guilt just can't solve. He wants to forgive, but he just… can't.

"What would you do, if you were me?" he asks aloud.

"About what?" Aithusa eyes him. Merlin is taking a shower. They're more or less alone.

John, lying on his back on his bed, stares vacantly up at the ceiling. "About Sherlock."

Aithusa shifts slightly before settling again. She's silent for so long John begins to suspect she won't answer at all. But, then, "How did you feel when you thought he was dead?"

"…Empty."

"And how would you feel if he died tomorrow?"

He doesn't even want to think about it. "Worse," he confesses.

"Then I think you already know what to do."

John tilts his head to look at where she's resting at the foot of his bed. "You've been spending too much time with Merlin."

"I've known him my entire life," she says. "It was bound to happen eventually."

John considers this for a moment. "How did you meet?"

"He hatched me."

John adds 'hatched from egg' to the 'What The Hell Is Aithusa' folder. It does nothing to help him figure it out.

Merlin emerges from the bathroom then, hair still damp. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah," John pushes himself up. "Let's go."

Mrs Hudson has invited them over for tea. John grabs Merlin's bag as he heads out the door; Merlin has decided that he'll be heading home today. John tries not to think about it.

They take a cab to Baker St, and Mrs Hudson cheerily welcomes them into her flat. They're only marginally surprised to find Sherlock is already there, looking vaguely bored. He perks up when he spots them.

"Hey, Sherl," Merlin says, and makes a beeline for the armchair, leaving the only vacant spot on the couch next to Sherlock. John suspects this is entirely deliberate. If not for Aithusa's words earlier, he might have been annoyed.

Sherlock smiles at him as he sits down, before his eyes dart down to the bag John sets to the side. "You're leaving."

"Who's leaving?" Mrs Hudson walks over with a tray of tea and biscuits, which she places down on the coffee table.

"Merlin is."

Merlin shrugs. "Can't mooch off John forever." Or hide, his eyes say when he meets John's gaze.

"What a shame," Mrs Hudson sighs, offering a biscuit and an affectionate pat to Aithusa, who preens under the attention. "We miss you when you're not here."

Sherlock looks from Merlin to John, as if he completely understands the silent conversation passing between them.

"You never did mention where you live," Mrs Hudson continues conversationally, sitting down herself and distributing the tea.

Merlin is very big on privacy, and has always been particularly keen to make sure his brothers especially don't intrude on him in a place where his soul is laid bare. Having been to his house, John can understand this perfectly, even if the clues are little more than gibberish to him. So he fully expects the non-question to remain unanswered.

But Merlin scrutinises Sherlock, and then turns briefly to John. John has no idea what he's thinking, or what he's trying to read from them. Whatever it is, he must find it, as he looks Sherlock dead in the eye and says,

"Glastonbury."

Mrs Hudson straightens, setting down a cup with a sharp clack. "Glastonbury?!" she cries, aghast. "That far?!"

Merlin is still watching Sherlock. "It has… sentimental value for me."

Sherlock is analysing him.

"Goodness," Mrs Hudson flusters, oblivious to the tension around her. "And you make that trip every month? You know, dear, you're welcome to take flat C if you'd like to live closer. Glastonbury!"

Merlin breaks his staring contest with Sherlock to acknowledge her. He seems… surprised. "Thank you, but I'm not sure I could leave..."

It's a sentence half finished, but John knows how its ends. He doesn't want to leave Arthur. There might not be a body there (which John still doesn't fully understand), but for Merlin his spirit, his memory, is, and he fully understands his reluctance. It's the same reason why John couldn't accept the offer to move to Glastonbury. It's not easy to let go.

"Well, the offer stands," Mrs Hudson assures him, and the conversation drifts to other things.

When it's time to go, John is the last to leave, only for Mrs Hudson to stop him with a gentle touch to his arm.

"How are you doing, John?" she asks quietly, conscious of Merlin and Sherlock conversing on the street only a half dozen feet away.

"I'm alright, Mrs Hudson," he replies truthfully. He's not great, but he's working at it.

"You know you're always welcome here, too," she says earnestly. "To visit or to stay. Sherlock would love for you to move back in, even if he won't admit it."

If only it were that simple. "I appreciate it," John says, and moves to join Sherlock and Merlin. They see Merlin off, and then John calls a cab

He tries to ignore how empty his flat feels when he arrives home alone, and pretends he doesn't miss the warmth of Baker St.

.

.

The bedsit is too quiet. Merlin had only been there for a couple of weeks, but it was long enough for John to readjust to having someone else around. Now that it's just him again, he feels loneliness creep up on him. It's an echo of the loneliness that had driven him away from Baker St to begin with; the same loneliness that has shadowed him for two and a half years. John considers Merlin one of his closest friends, and his presence is a balm, but it's not the cure, just as John knows he's not a replacement for Arthur.

That's the trouble with people, he thinks. They're irreplaceable.

Why does it have to be so hard? He knows he misses Sherlock, and okay he admits that Sherlock was and still is the best friend he's ever had. He knows that he wants to forgive him. But it still hurts. The very reasons he wants to forgive are also the reasons stopping him. This isn't just some stupid argument. Sherlock has taken all the trust and love that John had to give and had responded to it by twisting and manipulating it until it shattered. Intentionally or not.

And Sherlock is sorry, hadn't meant to hurt him like that. John can see that. He recognises the way Sherlock has been trying to bridge the gap. And he's tired of having regrets.

It's this thought that solidifies a decision in his mind. Snatching his keys off the desk and a jacket off the chair, John steps out into the drizzly afternoon and heads for the Tube, already pecking out a text on his phone.

.

.

The grave is gone. John's not sure when it was removed but it doesn't really matter. He still remembers where it was. The grass hasn't recovered from its disturbance. Neither has he.

He doesn't move as he hears footsteps approach, doesn't look up as Sherlock stands silently beside him. John is the one who asked him here, and by unspoken agreement, John will be the first to speak.

"When I watched them bury you, all I had were regrets." He can still see the tombstone if he shuts his eyes. "I should have done this. I should have said that. I should have done something to stop you from jumping."

"John–"

"Let me finish."

Sherlock, blessedly, does.

"All I wanted was a second chance. And then I got one, and I've been wasting it." He shifts his gaze to meet Sherlock's, who is watching him intently. "You hurt me, Sherlock. Worse than anyone ever has. And I know you're sorry," he adds when Sherlock goes to speak again, "but forgiveness isn't easy for me. Especially after something like this." He looks down at the grass again, and the tombstone that now only exists in his mind. "Maybe I'll never fully forgive you. But I don't want to have any more regrets."

"I understand," Sherlock says, and the way it sounds like John has kicked his puppy makes his attention shoot back up. "I won't bother you in future."

John just stares at him, wonders how it's possible to have the name Holmes and be so utterly and completely wrong. Either Sherlock really is inept with emotions, or this is an imposter. "You're a clotpole." And oh god Merlin's starting to rub off on him.

Sherlock's face scrunches up as if 'clotpole' is the most heinous thing he's ever been called.

"Do I really have to spell it out for you?" John sighs, equally exasperated and embarrassed. "I'm not saying I want to cut ties with you, I'm saying I want to fix things." Unbelievable. "I thought you were supposed to be smart."

"I am smart," Sherlock replies, indignant, but there's relief in his eyes.

John's missed this, he realises. Some of the weight slips from his shoulders. "Alright then, genius, you can start by telling me how you did manage to jump off a building and live."

.

.

It's not a quick fix. In fact, it takes over two months before John is comfortable enough to spend the night in his old room at Baker St instead of dishing out more money on a cab. And then it starts happening more frequently. He starts leaving things there, like a change of clothes and a spare toothbrush. Three months after that, his lease on the bedsit runs out. They ask him if he wants to renew it. John, who hasn't been back to it for a week, says no.

Mrs Hudson makes celebratory cupcakes. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't need to. John can tell.

If he's honest, John doesn't really know what proper forgiveness is supposed to feel like. But as he glances at Sherlock, who is browsing through the many requests he's received, looking decidedly bored, he thinks maybe he's halfway there. He doesn't regret it.

.

.

As much as he appreciates having Sherlock back in his life, John still holds an attachment to Merlin. It's hard not to when Merlin had literally saved his life. Sherlock seems to understand this, at least enough that the tea not-dates remain a private affair. Miraculously, they even remain Mycroft-free, though when he offhandedly mentions it one day, he learns that this is only because Merlin contacts him regularly enough that, as if God himself has intervened, he doesn't feel the need to spy on them. John starts to wonder if the world is ending.

"I'm happy for you," Merlin says one day as they finish their tea. "I know it wasn't easy for you, but you've been happier since you started patching things up with Sherlock."

John's felt happier, too. It's something he wouldn't have thought possible not so long ago, and he takes a moment to really appreciate how far he's come. Merlin, on the other hand, is the same as ever; a worn-out soul in a young body. John wishes not for the first time that he could just take all the pain away.

"Have you put much thought into moving?" he asks.

Merlin purses his lips. It's answer enough.

"You're always better when you leave Glastonbury. Maybe it's time to leave for good."

"I can't!" Merlin sighs, frustrated. He runs a hand through his hair and leaves it there, resting his elbow on the table. "It's… I just can't."

"Why not?"

"It… It feels too much like turning my back on him."

Arthur has always been a minefield. If he doesn't tread carefully, he could do more harm than good. But at the same time, he thinks it might be time to stop walking on eggshells – for Merlin, too. It might be time to dig up the mines.

"He's not there, Merlin." He still doesn't really get it, but he's weaned enough information to know that Arthur's body is no longer there, if it ever was at all.

Merlin sags. "But what if his spirit is?" The question is asked so quietly John barely catches it.

"Do you think he'd want you to stay, even if it made you suffer?"

"You didn't leave London," Merlin deflects.

"How long have you been mourning?"

Merlin looks him dead in the eye. "Over a thousand years." It doesn't sound like a joke, but there's nothing else it could be.

"If I mourned for a thousand years and still didn't feel any better, maybe I would have."

"It's not about how I feel," Merlin says to his cup.

John frowns. "What else could it possibly be about?"

"Coins," Merlin grumbles, like the word itself could be used as a curse. "Fate."

John has no idea what coins and fate have to do with anything, but, "The thing about fate is that no matter what you do it'll still happen, so you might as well do what you want."

Merlin looks at him like he's said something utterly profound. "Wish Kilgharrah was still around to hear that."

.

.

"I've only died once."

John stares at the wall opposite his bed. His phone is pressed tightly against his ear to better hear the quiet words. It's 3am. Merlin hadn't even given him a chance to say hello.

"Properly, anyway," he continues. There's a strange quality to his voice that John can't identify and doesn't know if he likes. Merlin doesn't sound tired. "Probably because there's only one way I can. It's funny, you know, how it felt like I was betraying him, but I still felt so free."

John's free hand clenches the blanket still half-draped over him. He wants to say something, but it's like he's forgotten how to talk.

"I thought it'd worked, too. Aithusa… Aithusa was so mad but I didn't care because I was free. I was an idiot to think it would be that easy. It's like you said, John. Fate finds a way."

"Merlin…" John tries, but if Merlin hears him over whatever this is, he ignores him.

"It was still an escape though, for a little while. I was a weird kid, which was inevitable. They might have called me Sherrinford but in the end I'm still Merlin. I figured that out pretty quick once Aithusa found me."

John holds his breath. He doesn't know why.

"But those few years when I got to just be Sherrinford… that was as freeing as dying. I can't go back to that. I'll never be able to escape who I am. But maybe it's okay to be Sherrinford, too."

"Merlin, I don't understand." He's scared, he realises. He's scared of what Merlin is trying to tell him, scared he won't understand something important. Scared Merlin might relapse again.

"You were right, John," Merlin says. John has never heard him sound like this. And he realises that quality he's hearing isn't depression, it's excitement. It's the sound of relief, of shackles John hadn't even realised were there being unlocked. "You were right. I can't stop living just because he did."

Those were words John had said to Moran. He'd had a feeling when Merlin had met him afterwards that he'd been there the whole time. This just confirms it. Interestingly, he's not mad. Merlin is like Moran, too, after all.

"I'm going to leave Glastonbury. Permanently."

John sits up straighter, not entirely sure he's heard that properly. "What?"

"I'm not leaving him behind," Merlin says. "Here's not here anymore anyway. If Fate's as insistent as Kilgharrah always said, he'll find me when it's time."

This entire conversation is so far beyond John's comprehension Merlin might as well be speaking another language, the fact that it's 3am notwithstanding. But he does understand the most important part. He feels lighter, Merlin's mood showering him in its relief. John didn't realise how worried he'd been until the tension drains away.

"I'll help you pack," he offers. "Do you know where you want to go?"

"Is 221C still available?"

.

.

When Merlin eventually hangs up, John climbs out of bed and crouches down to grab the wooden box hidden under a loose floorboard. As he stares at it – not daring to open it – he thinks he knows now who the blood belongs to. His mind races.

.

.

Merlin surveys the lounge room, hands on his hips and a distinctly sad look on his face. John watches him silently, an empty cardboard box in his hands. From what he can tell, Merlin has lived in this house for years; possibly it's the only place he's lived in at all since moving out of his parents' house. Suddenly shifting away – not just from the house but also Glastonbury and everything it symbolises – is likely one of the hardest things Merlin has ever done.

"You okay?" John asks.

Merlin doesn't look at him. "Yeah. Just… I'm going to miss this place."

"We don't have to do this." He hates to even offer an escape. He knows this is exactly what Merlin needs if he's ever going to move past his loss. But he also knows that despite all the strength he exudes, Merlin can be as fragile as glass.

"No," Merlin very nearly cuts him off, and John feels guilty for the relief he feels. "No, you were right. The only thing here for me now are memories, and it's not like I can't take those with me. Getting away will do me good. Besides, it's not like it's goodbye."

John walks further into the room and places the box down on one of the armchairs. "Are you going to rent it out?"

Merlin's arms drop to his sides and he moves to the TV, crouching down to start unplugging the DVD player. "I think it'd be a good idea," he says. "I can put the money towards rent and I'll feel better knowing this old house isn't sitting vacant."

"When do the furniture removalists come?"

"Thursday, I think."

John's brows rise. That doesn't given them a lot of time. Only three days to box up all of Merlin's many belongings. As if sensing his dubiousness at such a task, Merlin stands and grimaces.

"Maybe we'd better split up," he says.

John stares at him, not quite understanding.

"If you want to tackle this room, I'll go make a start in the kitchen."

The kitchen is a far bigger job than the lounge room, and though John feels like he should be doing more, he nonetheless acquiesces.

"Anything that's not furniture can get put in a box. Don't worry about trying to group things. It'll all get unpacked eventually anyway," Merlin says as he heads back towards the hallway.

"What about the pictures?" John asks, gesturing vaguely to the wall in question.

Merlin pauses, turning to look at his vast collection. With a wistful smile, he shifts his gaze to John. "Box the ones that fit. The bigger ones I'll just wrap in a blanket later."

It feels sacrilegious to touch any of the photos let alone pull them down, so when Merlin disappears further into the house, John decides to start instead where Merlin left off. All that's left in the TV cabinet now are a small collection of DVDs and VHS tapes, and a VHS player. It doesn't take long to add these to the box, and he moves on to the bookshelf.

He's noted before how impressive Merlin's book collection is. They're almost all of the non-fiction variety, but for some it's hard to tell; many of them are written in languages John doesn't even recognise let alone understand. He pulls each one down with care, noting that more than a few are probably older than the house they're kept in. He needs to get another box before he's made it through the second shelf, but within half an hour the bookshelf is incredibly bare.

Eventually, John runs out of things to box and is forced to turn his attention to the wall of photos. Feeling like he's committing a heinous crime, he reaches out and lifts a black and white photo of a group of soldiers from its place. The patch of wall where it had been is considerably darker than the space around it. The photo has been there a while.

John stares into the smiling faces of the men in the photo. A small date scrawled at the bottom places them as soldiers from WWII. Could one of them be a relative of Merlin's? John makes to place the photo in a new box but freezes at the last second. He recognises one of the faces.

Standing just left of the centre of the photo, with the arm of the man next to him thrown around his shoulder, is Merlin. There's a smile on his face as he stares into the camera, and a strain in his eyes that John attributes to the horrors of war, but it's a real smile.

But surely this can't be Merlin. Merlin is younger than Sherlock; not nearly old enough to have even been alive in the '40s let alone actively involved in the war. The only explanation is that one of Merlin's relatives bears an uncanny resemblance to him. But even as he decides to believe this, he can't help the feeling that it's not the right answer.

John lifts his gaze to the rest of the photos, but there are only a handful of other group shots, and none of them contain anyone who looks anything like Merlin. He stares back down at the photo in his hands.

"1941. Bobby got shot a week after this was taken," a hand snakes around and points to a short figure, barely an adult, at the edge of the photo.

John startles badly, his head shooting up. Merlin is looking over his shoulder at the photo. A box labelled 'Pots & Pans' is balanced crudely against his hip. He doesn't look mad at the intrusion on his privacy, just sad or wistful. John apologises anyway.

Merlin shrugs, the box clattering at the movement. "I hung it on the wall. People are going to see it."

It's hard to argue with that logic. Before John can stop himself, he points out the figure that looks like Merlin and says incredulously, "The resemblance between you is uncanny. Relative?"

Merlin hums in a knowing sort of way. "Does look an awful lot like me," is all he says before vacating the room and putting the box out in the hallway. It doesn't escape John's notice that he hasn't actually answered the question.

As cryptic as ever, he shakes his head, and continues boxing the photos. He feels less guilty for taking the time to look at them now.

As he takes the largest one – the golden knight – down from its prominent position, he pays it particular attention. If this is a memory wall, the way John's gut is always insistent it is, then this must be a stylised portrait of someone Merlin doesn't have a picture of. Given the size of it, and how well it's painted, it has to be someone important. More important than anyone else displayed there. As John sets it down to lean against the wall, he wonders if maybe this is Arthur.

And then he reaches the one of the dragon. The one portrait that contradicts his assumption about the wall. He stares at it, and then a thought strikes him. He freezes. Stares at it. Mind churning, processing, comparing.

Barely even realising he's still holding the picture, John races out of the room to the kitchen, sliding to a stop just inside the room. Merlin stands from where he's been crouched by a cupboard with blatant concern. Aithusa stops dragging a bag of rice across the floor. They glance from the painting to John's face. Waiting.

John looks down at Aithusa, breathless. "You're a dragon."

Merlin's face splits into the smuggest grin John has ever seen, and he holds out a hand in Aithusa's direction.

Aithusa hisses, flies up to the bench, and stomps over to a jar of spare change, were she proceeds to pull out £50.

.

.

Merlin refuses any assistance in unpacking beyond John and a reluctant Sherlock helping to cart boxes inside. John offers more than once, but every time is met with a grin and, "Don't worry; Aithusa and I can take care of it."

Mrs Hudson makes a point of bringing Merlin tea and scones at least once a day, but beyond that no one sees much of him for nearly a week.

John has just walked into the entranceway after a shift on Tuesday evening when Merlin sticks his head out and says,

"Perfect timing! Want to be my first official visitor?"

"Finished unpacking, then?" John replies, following Merlin into 221C.

"Just got rid of the last box," Merlin confirms.

John's first thought as he steps into the room is that there must be some mistake. This can't be 221C. The few times he's been in here, it'd been full of mould, and the wallpaper had been fading and peeling. He expects to find a rundown flat poorly masked by mismatched furniture and a wall full of photos.

The mismatched furniture is the only part of his vision that proves correct. There's not a speck of mould to be seen, and the wallpaper, while not looking new, is unmarred and much brighter than it had been. In fact, the whole place feels brighter, like Merlin has somehow managed to drag the sunlight more fully into the room.

The photo wall is no longer a photo wall. Instead, the pictures have been spaced out – likely throughout the entire flat, John assumes when he notices several absences. The medieval-styled paintings have been grouped together on the far wall, however, with the golden knight – Arthur? – most prominent above the fireplace.

In all, the space has a different feel to the townhouse in Glastonbury. The townhouse was cosy and homey but depressing, like sadness clung to every fibre of it. 221C, in comparison, is like a breath of fresh air. It feels… hopeful, welcoming.

"What do you think?" Merlin's question cuts through his stupor.

"It's like a completely different place," John replies, turning on the spot and still unsure if his eyes are tricking him. "How'd you fix the wallpaper?"

Merlin chuckles. "I'm no stranger to cleaning."

"Surely it took more than cleaning to fix that."

Merlin glances over to Aithusa, perched on the back of the armchair. "I confess, I cheated a little."

John narrows his eyes. "Cheated how?"

Merlin gives him one of his silly little grins and says, "Magic."

John thinks he should have expected this. "No, really," he presses, just like he always does. And, just like he always does, Merlin simply smiles.

"Tea?" he asks, heading for the kitchen.

John supposes he'll never know the answer.

.

.

It's funny, John thinks, how quickly things can change. As he sits in his armchair, newspaper on his lap and tea at his side, he wonders how it's possible to be so lucky, to lose everything only to gain so much. Sherlock is sitting opposite him, tapping away on his laptop. Merlin is sprawled on the couch across the room, teasing his dragon with a piece of ham. They've started a betting pool for how long it will take Sherlock to figure out what she really is. John would have suggested betting on Mrs Hudson, too, if he wasn't half convinced she already knows.

Merlin catches his eye and grins at him. John has never seen him so carefree.

A ring of the doorbell downstairs catches their attention, and John looks to Sherlock.

"Single ring," John says.

"Maximum pressure," Sherlock agrees.

"Client."

And oh, John thinks, he has missed this.

Sure enough, there's the sound of Mrs Hudson answering the door, and then footsteps on the stairs before, a moment later, there's a knock on the door.

"Come in," John calls.

The door swings open. There's a man with golden hair on the threshold. If not for the casual jacket and jeans he's wearing, John would have thought he'd stepped right out of Merlin's painting.

The man focuses intently on John and Sherlock, not even noticing Merlin, who sits up stiffly, as white as a sheet. John silently shares the sentiment.

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" the man asks.

Sherlock narrows his eyes. If he remembers the painting from the one time he's been in Merlin's flat, he doesn't show it. "I am."

"My name is Arthur," the man says. "I want you to help me find someone."