Sherlock was standing in front of him, John realized, blocking him from seeing Mycroft – no, blocking Mycroft from seeing him. The doctor blinked again, feeling as though the words must have been spoken out loud, not just in his head, Moriarty's voice reverberating across the years, taking on a different meaning now, but he wondered if Sherlock had even thought of it, or Mycroft.

But neither man looked at him, so the memory, the words, must have stayed locked in his mind.

He remembered the pictures of David on Sherlock's phone, the agonizingly long wait for the kidnappers to call.

He remembered Tricia being held at gunpoint, taut and white, hands up, the day after she'd found out she was pregnant with Josephine. He remembered wondering where Henry was, not knowing her partner was at work at the time, his mind playing all sorts of images of the lawyer's dead body just out of sight.

He remembered Sherlock burning the first card Sam had ever sent them, ostensibly from Venice, the ashes falling over the sink as Sherlock tried to erase any hint of his friend's survival, so as not to alert his brother.

He remembered Sherlock himself, coming in from Bart's, or so John had thought, pale and rigid, his hand wrapped in a bandage. John had put together a disjointed story about Mycroft kidnapping Sherlock for a chat, and a broken beaker earlier in the day on which Sherlock had cut himself. John knew those were linked somehow, but wasn't certain how.

He remembered asking himself, over and over, how one dealt with loving someone whom one was afraid of, and realized they'd come back to the same question, and Mycroft probably did not even realize it had ever been asked.

But then, then he remembered Tricia wresting the gun from the hit woman's hand, taking advantage of the barest of moments of distraction, disarming her and ultimately shooting her. He remembered her standing in their doorway, reminding Sherlock that she was more than capable of taking care of herself, and that he wasn't shaking her loose that easily.

He remembered Sam, agreeing without hesitation to confront Mycroft, and then in the docks only last month, putting himself in Alessandra De Luca's line of fire, but taking the shots himself before she could, not flinching, not hesitating. Not bothering to leave before the police arrived, and facing Greg Lestrade without reservation.

He remembered himself, at The Pool, seizing James Moriarty, yelling at Sherlock to run.

And Sherlock hadn't.

Why was he responsible for all of them? And since when?

I was right, John realized suddenly. Two peas in a pod. They're so bloody smart they think no one else can take care of themselves, except Mycroft just extends this to Sherlock, because he's older. Great bloody damn idiots!

And he suddenly remembered Angela MacTaggart's look when David had been allowed to speak to Mycroft on the phone, and her expression as she watched Mycroft sit with David in the bedroom at the Dorchester only a few days before, holding their son as he fell asleep.

The sound of Mycroft's voice, above the steady drone of the jet engines, that Angela hadn't given up any of her contacts or influence after she'd retired.

"Who ordered the hit on Marco De Luca?" John said, all of this flashing through his mind in the space of a suspended breath, of a slowed heart beat, causing a burning sensation in its wake, searing through all of his nerves, leaving him with a new certainty that Sherlock was wrong about this, at least in part.

He stepped around Sherlock, so he was standing beside him, acutely aware of how much taller his husband was, but also that Mycroft was still seated. And that Sherlock made an involuntary motion, as if to push John behind him again, but John put a hand lightly on his arm, not quite restraining.

"Was it you?" John demanded, when Mycroft did not answer. "Or was it Angela?"

Sherlock's gaze was redirected to Mycroft so quickly it nearly made John wince, and Mycroft was eyeing them both, expression detached and cool, but not underneath, John could see.

He was silent for another long moment and John tightened his grip the slightest bit on Sherlock's arm when he felt Sherlock was going to speak and kept his own silence, waiting.

Mycroft gave a single nod.

"I would prefer, however, if you continued operating under the illusion that it was me."

Now Sherlock did open his mouth, but John beat him to it.

"And because we will, you'll stop the surveillance, Mycroft. All of it. The agents, the cameras, the phone traces, whatever else you have – I don't care. All of it."

Mycroft appraised John slowly but John stood firm, all too aware of the tension he could feel in Sherlock's muscles under his hand.

"I don't suppose I can press upon you to accept that this is for your own protection?" he asked, his voice sounding professional, but John heard a hint of irritation in it. Not his normal, almost indulgent irritation, but true annoyance, because this was actually causing him problems.

He was actually worried that one of them might say something about Angela MacTaggart's involvement.

"And Elizabeth Heath?" Sherlock asked suddenly, redirecting the thread of the conversation. "And the kidnappers?"

Mycroft's lips twitched into a frown.

"Also Angela," he said with a sharp nod. "I did say she used to work with me, yes? Heath used to work for Angela. She came to me after Angela retired. After we'd recovered David, Angela contacted Heath and gave her what information both of us had obtained. And she did a very good job of keeping me almost completely out of the picture until after it was all taken care of. Unfortunately, by that time, Alessandra had already slipped off of our radar and made it back here." He gave a small shrug, as though to dismiss her actions. "Without her grandfather's promise to keep her out of England, she had no reason to stay away, and plenty of reason to come back."

"But she thought it was you," Sherlock pointed out. "Which is why she went after me."

"And she was wrong," Mycroft said bluntly. "So were you. So was Interpol. Although, to be fair, Agent Waters – or whatever his name is now – did a fair job getting you the information you needed to catch her. You know some quite well connected people, I must admit, Sherlock."

"Yes, impressive isn't it?" Sherlock sneered.

"The levels at which you're connected? Working alone –"

"Without you, you mean," Sherlock interrupted. "Without your help, without your influence." He shook John's hand off and crossed his arms. "And impressive that I have friends, isn't it? Bit of a change from oh, I don't know, our entire lives? What is it that bothers you so much about this, Mycroft? That I can do the work on my own merits, or that I can manage to get on with some of these people? Or is simply that I don't need you all of the time?"

"No, of course not," Mycroft sighed.

"To which question?" Sherlock snapped.

"To all of them, of course."

"It's what they do to prisoners, you know," Sherlock said suddenly and John blinked, seeing his own confusion mirrored in his brother-in-law's face.

"What is?" Mycroft asked. John wished he could figure out how to get Sherlock sitting down again. Him towering over both of them felt a little too much like a stand off, which was probably precisely what he wanted, but not, John thought, all that helpful to getting anything resolved.

But Mycroft was bearing up under it, and doing a fairly decent job of not being a total pompous ass. At least in the last couple of minutes.

"Cameras. Guards. Monitored phone conversations. Intercepting the mail. Watching Internet activity. Setting schedules. Assigning tasks. If we were in prison, we may have more privacy, since at least then we'd know where the cameras were at all times. We wouldn't have to check for them on a regular basis in our own flat. And, presumably, we'd have a release date, some distant but set future time in which this constant watching would stop."

With this, he threw himself back into his chair, letting out an abrupt sigh, and Mycroft sat very still for a moment.

"It's not at all –"

"No, you think it's not the same, since you do not live with it," Sherlock said flatly, but John could see the banked fire still in his eyes. He took his seat on the arm of Sherlock's chair again, and was somewhat surprised when Sherlock laced his fingers through John's rubbing the back of John's hand with his thumb. "Let it go, Mycroft. I will take your cases. I will chase down the criminals you can't apprehend, let alone comprehend. I will conveniently ignore what John just made you disclose. But. Let. This. Go."

John held his breath, biting his lower lip without realizing it. Sherlock's eyes were locked with Mycroft's, and he was certain he could feel the electricity sparking between them, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, making goosebumps prickle on his arms.

He'd seen this kind of visual standoff before, in Afghanistan, but between men with guns, neither willing to shoot, neither willing to stand down. The tense space of heartbeats as both sides waited for a retreat or an attack.

Sometimes, it ended badly, if someone was startled, or trigger-happy.

He could see Mycroft weighing his options. All it would take was one phone call on a hidden cell phone to an Interpol agent who could run the lead up the ladder, all the way to the headquarters in France, and so much would be dragged out, so much that did not need to be. John wasn't a big believer in vigilante justice, particularly given what had happened up the block from them. And not all of the parties involved were out the picture, not even the most dangerous ones, because Mycroft and Angela were still alive and well.

But in the middle of this was a ten-year-old boy.

John could see that knowledge in both Sherlock's face and Mycroft's eyes.

Sometimes, the standoffs in Afghanistan had not ended badly, but with a retreat, both parties or just one, the moment before the tension should have snapped and caused fatalities.

"Is that really what you want?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes," Sherlock hissed, but there was an element of a sigh in it, born from years of long frustration. Sibling rivalry, John thought. About ten steps up. "It is, Mycroft. From you, it's all I have ever wanted."

The admission seemed to startle Mycroft and John wondered how a man quite so brilliant could be quite so stupid. He glanced at Sherlock – he could wonder the same thing there.

None so blind as those who would not see, he thought. He remembered that from somewhere. And why do we not want to see the people we love for who they are?

Too frightening, perhaps. Or just too hard, being so close. Or both.

"Very well," Mycroft said evenly, nodding.

John felt as though someone had pulled a plug in him and fought against slumping in relief. The tension drained out of his muscles, out of the air, although Sherlock was still sitting utterly still, eyes fixed on his brother.

"Then no one will hear anything about Angela from us," Sherlock said. Mycroft nodded, a minute, fleeting expression of relief on his face.

Without a word from either of them, through some unspoken consensus, Mycroft stood, gathering his umbrella. Sherlock stayed seated, his back straight, but followed his brother's movements with his eyes, turning his head slightly as Mycroft moved toward the door.

"Good night, Sherlock, John," he said. "I shall be seeing you both soon, I'm sure. However, when I see you, I assure you, you will both also see me."

At this, Sherlock's lips twitched and his grey eyes glinted for a moment, picking up the evening sunlight that found its way through the windows. John made himself get up and open the door for Mycroft, who slipped out easily, gracefully, as though nothing of consequence had just happened.

"Good night, Mycroft," John said as his brother-in-law stepped into the landing. "Thank you for coming."

Mycroft said nothing to this and John closed the door, bolting it firmly behind him, then pressed his head against the wood, his heart hammering so he could feel it in his neck. He closed his eyes, waiting until he heard the front door opening and shutting again, knowing he'd have to go down shortly and throw those locks as well.

Then he exhaled deeply, turned and sank to the floor, knocking his head once back against the door.

"You," he said, opening his eyes and fixing Sherlock with what he knew would be an ineffective glare. "Are an idiot."

Sherlock hadn't so much as moved from his chair, but cocked an eyebrow at John, his expression taking on a hint of amusement.

"Coincidentally, I was about to say the same about you. When were you planning on telling me that you'd talked to Mycroft and Angela?"

John didn't bothering asking precisely what gave that away – he'd suspected something in the conversation might tip Sherlock off, but was rather hoping it wouldn't happen. No such luck.

"I was hoping not to, actually," he admitted.

At this, Sherlock snorted.

"Really, John," he said and John started to laugh. "Are you going to tell me what happened in this conversation?"

"Mmm, no, I don't think so. Not just yet," John replied and Sherlock looked somewhat taken aback, then miffed. "You owe me."

"I owe you?" Sherlock enquired coolly, but John knew it was feigned. He reached up, knocking a loose fist once against the door.

"My idea to have him here for a talk, wasn't it?" he asked. "And now we don't have to worry about the surveillance. And maybe he'll let up treating you like his baby brother and start admitting you're a grown man who only occasionally does mad, stupid, life threatening things like chase after armed drugs dealers on your own, without back up. And you were a right bastard to me earlier."

"No more than you deserve," Sherlock observed, tapping his lips absently with an index finger, regarding John levelly, with a trace of amusement.

John heaved himself to his feet, shaking his head.

"Sherlock, for putting up with you, I definitely deserve more than that. Besides, since when do you not finish something you've started?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he pushed himself to his feet.

"Quite right, John, thank you," he said. "I still have quite a bit more work to do on that hand before I'm satisfied with the results. Shouldn't let time waste, after all, should I? You were right: I do owe you. May have completely forgotten had you not reminded me."

John groaned and Sherlock laughed, but paused to kiss him on the way by, even though, strictly speaking, where John was standing was not entirely on the way from the living room into the kitchen.