"You look tired, John."

No matter what Mycroft Holmes could have possibly said to him right then, John would have still glowered just as harshly at him. He wanted to retort that he had been with Sherlock all night, something the older brother should have also done, yet he was too tired even to do that. He'd had hardly any sleep that night. The throbbing ache in his fingers played a small part in this, however. No, it was mostly to do with Sherlock having a nightmare.

Now, Sherlock Holmes would never refer to what he experienced as a nightmare, as those were for children and cowards exclusively, both of which he passionately differentiated himself from. He just claimed he could not remember anything of the sort happening. He denied jolting up in bed and grasping John's hand so tightly it sprung him from his sleep.

"Sherlock? Sherlock what's wrong?" John had gasped as soon as he registered the look of sheer terror distorting the detective's features. He'd risen to his feet, putting his hand to the other's chest so to ease him back down, feeling Sherlock's heart punching his palm.

"My s—my s—" Sherlock slurred in response, his eyelids heavy. "My skull...breaking..."

It was such a bizarre remark that, for a couple of seconds at least, John stood there bemused. By the time he had mustered the ability to respond, Sherlock's eyes had closed completely and he had resumed a placid sleep. John hovered for a while, hand still resting over the detective's chest, not sure whether to remove it in case Sherlock jolted up again, left in tatters by fright that he, presently, refused to acknowledge. Eventually, John had settled himself back down in his chair, but still he didn't shut his eyes. Instead, he sat there watching over his dearest friend. The hours slid away from him, evaporating until the intruding vapours of morning timidly introduced themselves.

John was intending to steal an hour's kip while Sherlock was having his wound seen to, begrudgingly he would hasten to add, when Mycroft Holmes, still red at the tips of his ears from their last meeting, asked him to breakfast to discuss 'matters' as he called them. Reluctantly John agreed, and so there he was sitting opposite the older Holmes brother with an untouched plate of jam smeared toast sitting before him.

Creasing his brow, Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh. "I understand your hostility, John," he said.

"Do you?" John crossed his arms over his chest, reclining back in his seat.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, and ignored the comment. "But can we cast that aside for a moment to discuss the issue of my little brother's life?" He'd struck a chord, and its note played beautifully and clearly over John's face. Straightening himself up and broadening his shoulders, Mycroft pressed on. "I still insist that he goes into hiding..."

"Play dead you mean?" John interjected, unable to prevent himself from doing so. "A bit of a hitch in your plan there, Mycroft, because um...I'm not letting that man out of my sight."

"If you had allowed me to finish my sentence, then you would already know that I have no intention of separating you two," Mycroft said coolly, holding his nose up high.

John frowned; despite his confusion, he didn't ease up on the derisive tone. "Care to elaborate?"

"Gladly...provided I am not interrupted again," Mycroft paused for a moment, a moment in which the doctor sat in complete and utter silence to demonstrate that the other had his full attention. "You will be going into hiding with my brother. Do not be alarmed, we will be certain to contact your family members to assure them of your safety, and they too will be temporarily moved so as not to be..." he mulled over the correct term. "...disturbed."

"Where and how long will we be staying?" John asked hoarsely.

"At the house in which we grew up," Mycroft replied, opening a file that was resting in between his hands on the table and pushing a photograph towards John. "As for the length of time you will be remaining there—well, that entirely depends on how long it takes for us to track down the last of Moriarty's accomplices."

The photograph was of the front of an absolutely gorgeous house, the largest John had ever set eyes on. There were nine windows upon the face of the building, one of which was circular and belonged supposedly to the attic. Sitting at the foot of the house, almost like a carpet, was a square of perfectly cut grass, where tall red flowers that John could not name grew. Tall trees stood proud and tall in the background almost like shading to compliment the residence, and it all looked very picturesque and ideal. The doctor couldn't believe that was once the place Sherlock called home, and struggled to imagine a forlorn dark haired child running around and playing on those grounds. John's mind strayed as he wondered if Sherlock Holmes had ever run in his life out of sheer enjoyment and energy rather than chasing after a criminal.

"It's nice," John murmured numbly, his thoughts elsewhere.

"Yes, I suppose it would be to someone like you," Mycroft said, more out of ignorance than spite.

"So let me get this straight," John nudged the picture back over to its owner and then clasped his hands together. "You want Sherlock and me to go into hiding until you—kill all of Moriarty's henchmen so to speak, and then when all that's over and done with, we come back to London? Seems a bit simplistic."

"Glad you think so, John. It took me hours to simplify it down to your level," Mycroft appeared genuinely pleased with himself at this. "All I require is your cooperation and permission."

"Never needed either of those before in the past," John grumbled, referring to the numerous occasions where a long black car would sidle up next to him and a woman would step out, beckoning him inside so she could deliver him like a neatly assembled parcel into the eager hands of Mycroft Holmes.

He reflected over it for a minute or two. His family would be informed, so he needn't worry about Harry turning to the bottle for comfort. Still, what about Stamford? Lestrade, Molly, Mike, Mrs Hudson...Sarah? Were they included when Mycroft said 'family members'? John doubted it, and he felt a lump rise in his throat when he thought about all of those people he cared about thinking he was gone. All the same, what other option was there? If Sherlock were to return to Baker Street, he would be in danger and John also. If John didn't cooperate, what would happen then? Would Sherlock still go into hiding? Mycroft didn't know how long it would take for all of Moriarty's men to be traced. John could scarcely manage a couple of months without Sherlock...imagine a year or three years...his chest constricted at the notion.

"Are you..." he started but broke off, clearing his throat and pursing his lips, urging the words to come to him. "Can you guarantee that this will work?"

Mycroft looked indignant at such a remark. "Of course," was his blunt answer.

John heaved a sigh, resting his chin on the heel of his palm and gazing off elsewhere. "When we come back, what then?"

"Then you will be able to go on as things were before," Mycroft said. "Though of course your blog will have to be taken down as it's caused far too much trouble and hassle."

John narrowed his eyes yet said nothing. He would miss London...as Mike had once put it, he couldn't stand to be anywhere else. He couldn't help but question how Sherlock would cope without the city and the cases. He'd probably go insane. He kept reminding himself it wasn't permanent, and that maybe the fresh air and the quiet would do both him and Sherlock some good.

"Okay," was all John could manage, and the deal was done.

Not another word was exchanged. Mycroft just gathered his things, scraped back his chair, and left John sitting there, his breakfast now cold and forgotten.

[SH]

Something was wrong with John. He had something on his mind, Sherlock could tell. He noticed it the instant the door opened and the doctor had let himself in, not even bringing himself to meet his eye. John was just staring fixedly at the floor as he grumbled a greeting, helping himself back down in his chair. Oh, why must he be so predictable at times?

"What's the matter?" Sherlock inquired. John's cheeks flushed vibrantly with colour and he lowered his head down further still.

"Can't you work it out for yourself?" John whispered, rubbing his hands absentmindedly together. "You are the world's only consulting detective after all."

Sherlock could have worked it out within a matter of seconds if he really wanted to but, for some reason he couldn't quite grasp, he wanted to be told. He wanted to hear it from John; he didn't want to speak for him all of the time. For other people, yes, because they were idiots. John was only part idiot, and so Sherlock wanted to hear him every now and again.

John exhaled heavily, giving in. "I spoke to Mycroft..."

Sherlock tensed slightly. "About going into hiding I suppose?" John nodded. "Does he still want me to leave you?" John shook his head. "He wants you to go with me?" nod. "How predictable of my brother...what did you say?"

"I said okay," John said, finally locking eyes with the detective. Only for a brief moment, before turning them back down to the ground.

Sherlock wasn't exactly surprised; he would never demote himself to that. He was—relieved. Relieved and bizarrely disappointed. He was confused as to what to dub what he was feeling, he wasn't even sure it had a name. He was tempted to ask John to help him out, yet he couldn't bring himself to.

"Why did you do that?"

John frowned deeply. "Why did I do what?"

"Why did you do that?" Sherlock repeated. "Sentiment? I don't quite understand." He leaned his pale eyes towards John.

John noted, sadly, that Sherlock had latched onto the term 'sentiment', like how a child would deem all light as day and all dark as night. "Not everything is sentiment, Sherlock," John told him softly. "I mean, it is partially involved I suppose, but there are many things contributing to my decision."

Sherlock blinked. "Such as?"

John shrugged, heat crawling up the nape of his neck up into his cheeks and ears. "I don't know! Lots of things!"

"Such as?"

John buried his face into his hands. "You're hopeless..."

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock bewilderedly apologised, not entirely sure of the reason why.

"No, don't apologise. I just...I need to simplify it a bit. I don't know what made me make my decision. I just know that I said okay for a reason. I think...I think I just couldn't bear to lose you again..." the rawness of these words had left him feeling exposed, and he inhaled sharply and shakily.

Sherlock observed the other closely. He still didn't quite grasp what was being said; though he was aware he should feel touched or moved by it. In a way, he supposed he was.

"Thank you?"

John restrained the laugh that frothed in his mouth, clasping a hand over it to act as a second barrier. "You don't have to thank me either," he added when he noticed Sherlock was glowering at him.

"I think I do. You're leaving a lot behind, John. I'm leaving nothing behind..."

The laughs were washed icily away and John suddenly felt very heavy indeed as he sat there, studying his friend's expressionless face. The features were all straight, not an inch out of place to indicate exactly what the detective was feeling at that given time. The pair lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, neither knowing exactly what to say to make the situation easier or lighter.

"What about Mrs Hudson? And Lestrade?" John tried meekly.

"They'll both be informed," Sherlock said flatly. "Lestrade is someone my brother will come to depend on and Mrs Hudson—well, let's just say a bit of sentiment on Mycroft's part will also keep her involved. He may even ask her to come with us."

"You know where we're going then?" John couldn't deny feeling a little better knowing that Lestrade and Mrs Hudson were going to be aware, though he still felt horrifically guilty about Sarah.

"Of course. We'll be leaving in two days, knowing Mycroft. Soon as possible but still enough time to get everything organized." He swept his eyes swiftly over John. "You look tired, John."

"Observant as ever," John stifled an ill-timed yawn.

"You need sleep," he quirked an eyebrow. "Why didn't you sleep?"

John wasn't sure if Sherlock genuinely didn't know or whether he was feigning ignorance. Either way, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance.

"Doesn't matter," he groaned, easing himself up onto his feet. "I'm going to try to steal an hour then, if you don't need me for anything."

"Why would I need you?"

"No reason at all."

[SH]

The wind was wickedly cold. It rushed at him, weaving itself cunningly into his skin so that the chill would graze against his bones. Every element that life had to offer was amplified until it was practically screaming. His heart was fluttering nervously within the chambers of his chest. It was as though it knew what was going to happen. The world seemed so distant; he felt the misery of never going to those places again steal over him. Tears skated down his cheeks as he thought of never experiencing again...never waking up again to see the morning, never holding his violin again, never tasting one of Mrs Hudson's mince pies again that he secretly looked forward to, never finishing a book again, never feeling that swell of excitement when Lestrade called with a new case, never glancing up from where he sat to see John struggling with the shopping through the door...Sherlock didn't think it possible to miss so many things.

One small step forwards and all control would be surrendered. That was what was most frightening to him. Giving that one thing over, the one thing he had always ensured was his own...was daunting. He wasn't even thinking about whether or not it would hurt when he met the ground that lay below him like an already dug grave.

The world toppled over like a backdrop on stage losing its balance, revealing its artificiality. Everyone would have paused in the audience, and the illusion would be torn. That's what it was like...falling forwards. There was that silence. He couldn't hear anything, not even his own breath, or his own heartbeats. Even when he met the ground, there was not a sound to be heard. Then, all of a sudden, there was a faint noise that gradually gathered strength and volume.

"Oh...Jesus no... God no..."

Just that over and over again, until it became like thunder and then—

-Sherlock heard his own breathing again that came out like gasps, and his eyes sprung open. He could not stop shaking.

[SH]

John couldn't sleep, and this left him feeling aggravated as he lay uncomfortably on his back, waiting to drift off. He was so exhausted and worn out, he'd expected to shut down the instant his head settled against the pillow, but it was rather the opposite. Being back in his own hospital room felt...wrong. The murmur of the hospital, the brightness of the afternoon...it all seemed to intensify to the extent where he let out a loud moan of exasperation and sat up.

"Bloody hell," he growled. "No doubt I'll have another sleepless night too..."

There was a light knock on the door. Immediately, his mind bounded over to Mycroft, and he felt the urge to yell 'Get lost' as loud as he could. Still, he didn't want to risk it being a timid nurse who had already been verbally assaulted by the sharp tongues of the Holmes brothers, or even if it was Lestrade paying him a visit, so instead he called for whoever it was to come in. John honestly did not expect Mrs Hudson, looking the most frail and dishevelled, he'd ever seen her. Instinctively, he bolted up onto his feet.

Her eyes brimmed instantly with tears, and her chin was quivering a little. John's heart felt awfully heavy and he reached out to touch her shoulder, which felt unhealthily thin under his hand. She covered it with her own, and gave a faint watery smile.

Right before Sherlock was announced missing, Mrs Hudson had received a call. It had been from a man that she had been seeing recently, a man whom she had not yet named. He'd asked her to meet him immediately, and that he'd left his wife, so he desperately needed to meet with her. She'd done just that, popping out hoping she could bring him back with her, assuming that was what he wanted from her. She had waited for him for forty minutes at Hyde's Park, and was about to give up when her phone rang. She had answered to hear a voice telling her to remain where she was or else, and she had glimpsed down to see a red dot hovering over her chest. After that, Mrs Hudson claimed not to recall much, at least not with much clarity. However, the short of it was that she had been ordered to slowly enter a car, and not to draw attention to herself. Only Mrs Hudson currently knew the remainder of the story.

"Are you okay?" John asked, leading her over to the bed to ease her down on as she was trembling so badly.

Bringing forth a tissue to dab at her cheeks, she waved a dismissive hand at him. "Excuse my face for a minute, dear. I'm sorry." She sniffed and, whilst beaming at him, clasped his hand. "I really should be the one asking you that."

"I'm fine, honestly," John said as brightly as possible. "Just a couple of broken bones. No harm done. Sherlock came off worse than me." He tensed before he could stop himself, finding it almost unreal that he'd been holding the man not long ago believing with every ounce of his being that he was going to lose him. He felt battered with remorse for casting that terrible memory aside and for feeling the slightest bit resentful towards the detective for disturbing his sleep. His bloody sleep! He'd have been so grateful for that a couple of days previous when the world was dismal and Sherlock was absent.

"I've brought some of your things," the landlady hiccoughed damply. "This is the last chance I get to see the pair of you before you bugger off to wherever it is you're going." John grinned at this, glad to hear some of the strength return to her voice. "I have to leave in a minute or two but I wanted to say goodbye. You two have become like...sons to me. I guess this is how mothers feel when they send their children off to school for the first time..."

"I don't think it's exactly the same but I see where you're coming from. You will be sorely missed; I can tell you that now."

"I'm sure Sherlock can't wait to see the back of me..."

"Come on now, you know that's not true at all. He just has a funny way of—showing that he cares."

Mrs Hudson let out a tiny shard of a giggle. "You're telling me!" then her features softened. "Take care of him, John. He can be a bit of a clot sometimes."

"You're telling me," John returned.

Initially, he'd been comforted by the fact that she was going to be aware of what was happening, and that she wouldn't be fed the false information that something had happened to them. Now, he felt the weight in not only his chest but in his entire being as he thought about how dearly he would miss Mrs Hudson.

She touched his cheek dotingly the way his grandmother used to do and he felt like a child all over again. "You look after yourself too, Doctor," she said.

"Take care, Mrs Hudson."

[SH]

The scissors whispered scathingly as he cut away more of his hair, watching absentmindedly as it spiralled down like a wilted petal into the bathroom sink. He had never so much as trimmed his own hair in his life, but when the nurse had tried to do it for him he just couldn't shake the feeling that a stranger was touching him so intimately and, after delivering a persuasive argument (or as John would call it, throwing a temper tantrum), she conceded to allow him to do it himself, under her supervision, of course.

Sherlock paid no heed as she grimaced. In fact, he was half tempted to tease her, and hack away even more ruthlessly at his hair, yet he refrained in case she tried to take over again.

It was Mycroft's suggestion, that he cut his hair. He also recommended that Sherlock abandon his usual attire at least until he and John were at the location, and had asked Mrs Hudson to go pick him up some conspicuous, less-Sherlock-clothes. The landlady had never been handed so many pound notes in her life and held them almost like a nervous, inexperienced person would hold a newborn child.

"It's an idiotic notion, Mycroft," Sherlock had said initially, glowering from his position on the bed, arms crossed petulantly over his chest. "Why don't you just bundle me up in scarves and a pair of sunglasses? Or better yet, why don't you buy me a Halloween mask? It'd be much cheaper, and less of a waste of everyone's time."

Mycroft let out an aggravating chuckle. "Oh, it is appealing, dear brother. But no, this should just about do it. You're in a dire need of a haircut anyway. Mummy would be appalled if she saw how long and unkempt it is."

That was that. Sherlock had reluctantly surrendered and followed instruction without another word, although he didn't entirely abandon the filthy looks and sour expression.

"What did you do to your hair?" was the first thing John said as he let himself into the detective's room later on that day.

Sherlock glanced up from his book, casting the doctor a momentary sideways glimpse before returning back to the page. "It was against my will."

It was the shortest John had ever seen it, and, while it was perhaps a bit too brutal a cut, it wasn't terrible. It just didn't look like Sherlock. Sherlock noticed him staring and exhaled heavily, closing his book.

"I forgot how mediocre things like hair and appearances can make such an impression on a mind such as yours," he said, not in a spiteful manner but nonetheless it made John blush. "I don't care how it looks, John."

"No, it looks fine," John mumbled, rubbing his hands together to distract himself. He didn't know why, but what Sherlock had said stung a little. He had always liked to fancy that the detective saw him as someone...as someone that was at least somewhat superior compared to the usual person, and he felt he had somehow disappointed him by reacting in such a way.

"It looks daft doesn't it?" Sherlock added after an elongated pause that they had found themselves enveloped by. He didn't look up; he studied his hands, as though engraving their very appearance into his skull.

John snorted. "I wouldn't say that," he said, smiling to himself.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "What would you say then?"

John considered this for a moment. "I would say...that it may take some getting used to." He drew himself closer to the detective, planting himself down on the edge of the bed. For some reason, he felt the urge just to touch Sherlock. Just touch him. Ruffle his hair or pat his knee, but everything just screeched inappropriate down his ear, so his hands remained stationary clasped in his lap.

A brief explanation and apology for my prolonged absence; I've been going through a lot of personal stuff and writing this story or any fanfiction material at all, just didn't appeal to me. In all honesty I was seriously contemplating abandoning this story altogether. However, I have decided to finish it. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy this chapter despite its short length.