When his Hour will come

Prequel to Paved with Love and Rocks of Salvation

The story of how John came to have Ava and how Sherlock came back into his life.

Thanks to swissmiss for editing

Knocking on the door, John crunched his hand around the little toy wrapped badly in pink wrapping paper. If there was ever a sign that he'd done the right thing, then the crumpled, sad little present was it.

After all, what sort of parent couldn't wrap a present?

The fake kind, he thought with a sigh.

Part of him expected the day to be hard. Ava had changed so much in the months that he'd had her; there had been days when he'd gotten in from work and stared at the baby, sure that she'd suddenly done something different than the day before, she'd changed so quickly. After almost a year and a half of not seeing her he couldn't even imagine what she looked like now.

Squaring his shoulders, he faced the door as the latch clicked. He could do this. He'd fought in that godforsaken desert, faced criminal masterminds and buried the love of his life.

He could face his sister and niece.

The first thing that hit him was the smell of alcohol on his sister's breath as she opened the door. Then he saw the red-rimmed eyes and unfocused look.

His mind went blank.

"John," she slurred, not entirely steady on her feet as she reached to give him a hug. "What a nice surprise."

Surprise?

Aware that he was too stiff in her arms for even Harry to ignore, he stepped back a bit and had to steady her when his movement upset her fragile balance. Over her shoulder, he could see the floor that was in desperate need of a Hoover and the banisters were streaked with a sticky, tacky substance that had drawn dust to it. The air was thick with the musty, stale smell of alcohol and cigarettes.

"I called..." he floundered, utterly lost as to what he wanted to say to her.

Harry blinked at him as she swayed. "You were coming on Ava's birthday," she replied, seeming confused.

It was like someone had punched him in the gut. Winded him to the point where he half expected to be knocked to the floor and gasping for breath.

How much had she had? After a certain amount, his sister could manage to pick a fight with a nun. Knowing that he needed to pick his words carefully, he looked around.

"Where's Clara?" he asked, trying to keep his tone gentle.

Something flickered in Harry's eyes and she looked away.

What did that mean?

"Harry?" John demanded, grabbing her by the arm. "Where is Clara?"

Harry wrenched her arm from his grip. "Out," she snapped and turned away from the door.

It would be easy to walk away. God knew he had helped Harry out enough over the past three years. No one would blame him if he chose to turn, walk back through the door and get on with his life.

But the bear in his hands seemed to anchor him to the damned house. He reluctantly followed Harry further inside as she stumbled off to the kitchen.

"Drink?" she called.

"Tea," he specified clearly, all too aware that Harry could forget that not everyone liked to start the day with a beer.

In the living room, the TV was on and a small child sat in front of it, her curling hair wild and disordered, like she'd never seen a brush. She was still in pyjamas that seemed to be the right size but also looked as if they should be in the wash.

He'd hoped that, when Ava turned, she would recognise him. Realistically he had known she wouldn't, couldn't possibly recognise the man she'd constantly called 'Dada' even when he'd gently tried to correct her.

Even as his heart had soared at the idea.

Blue eyes watched warily as he stiffly arranged himself to sit on the floor opposite her.

"Hello," he said, keeping his voice soft and gentle, letting none of the twisting rage he was feeling surface.

"Hi," the three-year-old replied in a small voice, watching him with huge eyes.

"Do you remember me?" he asked.

Ava shook her head.

Swallowing, John tried to smile reassuringly. "I have a present for you," he said, holding the damned thing out as if she needed proof.

Ava glanced at the present and then back up at him. Slowly, she stood, sucking on her thumb thoughtfully as she toddled over to him.

"What that?" she asked, curiously.

It was strange hearing such clear words from her. Thrilling in a way and heartbreaking as he was strangely reminded of grey eyes, wild black hair, and a blunt voice that seemed to have no interest in the social contract.

"Your present," he said, amazed that he could sound as if he was teasing.

Gently, as if unsure as to how to act, Ava took it, inspecting the paper and the shape of the present. And, in a way that he hadn't since Sherlock had died, John observed.

Observed the way he had been taught.

She hadn't bounded over and snatched the present up. Neither had she shrieked or demanded the present. She didn't even seem to know why she would be getting a present.

It took everything John had not to storm into the kitchen and shake some sense into Harry there and then.

Ava unwrapped the glittery pink paper with almost awed reverence, as if it might have to be used again. Trying to stay calm, John watched her tiny fingers tug at the paper until she touched the soft fur underneath.

"A bear?" she asked with wide eyes.

He'd hesitated in the shops. Never in his life had he had to worry about what to buy little girls for presents, and he'd panicked, picking the first thing he thought might be suitable. The entire ride to the house, he'd shifted and stared nervously at the present, picturing Ava's unimpressed face. It was bizarre, seeing now how amazed she seemed by a silly bear that had cost him just over a tenner.

A delighted smile crossed his niece's face and she stroked the soft fur with glee. When she looked up at John, she looked so happy that he couldn't resist the urge to stroke a shaking hand over her hair and press a soft kiss to her forehead.

In doing so, he breathed in the smell of the little girl he'd looked after while Harry tried to get her life together with Clara again, and remembered long nights of just watching her sleep, in agony because if he let himself feel just how much he...how much he felt, then it would hurt all the more when he had to give her back.

But this time his fingers tightened just a bit on the dirty pyjamas before he pulled back.

"You need to give it a name," John told Ava, as she stared up at him. "All good bears need a name," he added, stroking back an errant curl.

Ava hugged the bear to her tightly. "I know," she said defensively.

His fingers spasmed as he almost reached out to hug her and never let go.

"Well?" he asked when he had himself back under control.

"Charlie," she said firmly.

"Charlie?"

"Charlie Bear. Like Pooh Bear," Ava informed him, as if he'd just asked a very silly question.

"Tea?"

He jumped at the sound of Harry's voice; he'd almost forgotten she was there. Surprised, he turned take the chipped cup that his sister held out for him. Unsurprisingly, she had nothing for herself.

It probably meant she'd had a top-up in the kitchen.

John stood and took the mug, placing it carefully on a table out of Ava's reach before he nodded his head towards the hallway. He ignored the way Harry rolled her eyes as she followed him.

"What are you doing?" he snarled as the door closed, shutting Ava away from their conversation.

"Don't start-"

"I am starting," John snapped. "Where's Clara?"

"She left." Harry seemed to sway with the force of the fierceness of her tone. "She walked out two months ago."

"Clara left?" John asked in disbelief. "Clara? What did you do?"

"Why does it have to be my fault?"

"Because it usually is!" John hissed.

Hurt crossed her face and John took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "What happened?" he asked in a softer voice.

"She found out that Ava was mine." Harry shrugged, pressing her lips together as her chin threatened to tremble. "She said she couldn't look at my betrayal every day."

John let out a breath and leaned against the wall. "Why didn't you call?" he asked, looking up at the ceiling.

Harry shook her head, tears starting to fall.

Harry sold the house, and she and John moved in together. A small flat, too far away for John to continue at the surgery but close enough that Harry didn't have to give up her job. John settled down into the new practice, and for months it seemed to be working well.

Too well.

There were times that Harry wouldn't come back. And what was worse was that John didn't miss her, didn't feel the need to scold her for leaving her child with him as if he were some live-in babysitter. Instead, he just felt relieved. And, as time went on, he started to notice that Ava went to him far more than she went to Harry.

He stopped caring about that, and Harry didn't seem that bothered either.

And then it got bad.

"I've fucked up," Harry muttered.

John struggled out of his dream and pried his eyes open to blink at his sister in confusion, then at the clock next to the bed. It was three in the morning.

Not since Sherlock had he had to deal with midnight ramblings.

"What?" he asked, sitting up and swiping a hand across his face. "What is it? Why are you in here?" he asked her, baffled.

"The woman I was seeing." Harry was in tears, and there was blood on her face. "Her husband found out and-"

John resisted the urge to thud his head back against the mattress and drag a pillow over his head to escape. "She was married?" he asked, trying (and failing) to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Harry nodded. "She...he was mad. He found us."

This time John couldn't restrain the groan. It was like a bad soap opera. "Harry..." He winced as he forced himself to sit up and face her properly. "You couldn't have gone to a B&B?"

"It's not funny," she screamed at him suddenly. "He...he was so angry," she gasped, looking as if she were seconds away from slipping into shock.

John stared at her again. The blood, the tears, and the state of her clothes.

The blood on her clothes.

"Oh God." He caught her hand. "What happened, are you all right?"

She just shook her head and leaned into him.

When the police came to the door, John was waiting. Harry had cried herself to sleep in his bed while he'd taken care of her bloody, torn hands and the wound on her shoulder.

"Does Harriet Watson live here?"

John nodded and stood to one side to let them in. "Here," he said as the two uniforms and an inspector wandered in. He held out his phone to them. "I took pictures of her injuries. I know it won't get her off but..." He shrugged. "They're certainly defensive wounds."

They eyed him with suspicion but accepted the photos without comment as he went to wake her up.

Halfway through the whole mess, he saw a sudden problem with the admittedly ridiculous plan Harry had concocted all those years ago, back when he had been struggling to get up after Sherlock had died and Harry was barely managing to hide the last month of her pregnancy from the wife she had suddenly decided she wanted back and was wooing from a distance.

She hadn't wanted to have an abortion. But to give the baby up for adoption would have required paperwork, interviews, things that would flag up clues to Clara.

As if Harry's strange dating method hadn't done.

But Harry had another idea.

"You take it," she'd said one night when they were curled up watching some awful film. "You raise it."

John had shaken his head and refused to discuss the matter.

But once Harry got an idea in her head, she wouldn't let it go.

"What if we pretend she's yours but I take her back once Clara and I are settled? She always wanted children."

"Just tell her the truth," John had snapped. "Deal with the consequences for once in your life."

But she hadn't.

He'd thought she'd dropped it. Certainly he thought she'd never, in a million years, go through with it. That she'd steal an identity and put him on the birth certificate as the father with a made-up mother's name.

He'd hit the roof.

Lord knew what would happen if anyone ever found out. But using Ava as a reason to give Harry a reduced sentence would simply end in Harry being charged with identity fraud on top of the rest of the mess she was in. So he bit his tongue and said nothing when the child started to call him Daddy halfway through the trial.

He tried not to feel guilty for that part of him that loved it.

Harry killed herself in prison three days after Ava turned four.

It shattered him.

And then he and Ava were all alone in the world. His parents had gone, his friends would never understand. Sherlock was dead and Lestrade had drifted away from him. Even Mycroft would have been a welcome sight, and that was saying something.

He dragged himself to the funeral with Ava, not really knowing what else to do with her. Part of him flinched at the idea of bringing her to the church but he wasn't about to leave her alone. The idea of his daughter sitting there with some stranger while she struggled to understand what was going on broke his heart.

"Is Auntie Harry in heaven?" Ava asked.

John could only nod.

The card came a day later.

Such a shame about your sister. I hope her daughter doesn't meet the same fate. Do take care, Johnny – you almost ruined my project. I'd hate to almost ruin your life in return.
Jim

John moved as soon as he could, desperate to lose Moriarty's fleeting interest. There was a time when he would have gone after the man with such vigour the world would have blazed from it. But he'd lost too much to him.

He wasn't about to lose his daughter too.

It was hard. He didn't dare take a position as a doctor again, but he needed to make money somehow. The idea of taking simple, random, menial jobs seemed to be an ideal solution…until he did it and nearly screamed from sheer frustration. He didn't bother to change his name; after all, his name was hardly the rarity that 'Sherlock Holmes' was.

He changed Ava's school and then regretted not looking properly when he found out that one of the teachers was the brother of the man Harry had killed in self-defence. But the teacher wasn't teaching Ava and to move her would look suspicious if Moriarty was indeed watching.

And so life limped on.

It was a year later that life suddenly dipped and crashed again. He was working at a hotel bar, watching a function through the glass doors and enjoying a quiet moment, when a businessman sat down at one of the bar stools.

"Can I help-" His voice failed as he turned to look at the man.

Christ almighty.

Moriarty had a pleasant smile on his face, the web of scars from his last meeting with Sherlock twisting his expression slightly.

"A mocha would be divine," he said, eyes flickering over to where John's boss was sitting in a meeting.

Humiliation crawled up his spine. There he was, the man who had killed Sherlock, the man who had possibly killed Harry, and John was about to turn and make him a fucking coffee.

All for the tiny five-year-old who was currently in school and would probably come home complaining about her spellings.

The five-year-old who needed to eat tonight and every night after that.

Moriarty quirked an amusedly sinister brow and his smile deepened.

Closing his eyes, John turned to the coffee machine and started pouring the milk and preparing the coffee. He made all his movements as concise as possible, never sparing any effort, even as his blood froze at the idea of turning his back to the madman.

"How's your niece?" Moriarty asked, as if they were old friends.

John ignored him over the blast of steam that heated the milk.

"John," the voice singsonged, "don't be rude."

He could kill him. Whip around, smash a saucer, and ram a shard through his eye. Or beat him to death with any number of objects on the bar. He could do it before anyone could stop him.

He wouldn't though.

Ava.

"Daughter," he corrected, staring at the stainless steel machine. "I have a daughter,"

There was no fucking point in hiding anything really, was there?

"Hmm..." Moriarty seemed amused. "How did you manage that?"

"You know how," John said through gritted teeth as the coffee poured.

"Well, yes," Moriarty conceded. "I also know it wasn't you who managed it. It doesn't really feel like a John Watson master plan."

John added the milk, hoping it was hot enough to burn the man's throat.

"And how has life been, John?" Moriarty asked, as if they were old pals meeting up for a chat. "Have you bumped into any old friends lately?"

John turned back to him, trying not to flinch at the sight of the madman. Instead, he kept the coffee in his hands perfectly steady and placed it on the bar. "£2.75," he said tightly.

Moriarty's gaze briefly flickered to the coffee. "I don't see a biscuit."

John dug his nails into his hand to stop himself from dumping the damned thing over the evil man's head. With stilted motions, he ducked down and retrieved a packaged shortcake and placed it on the side.

Cruelly amused eyes watched his movement as Moriarty leaned close on the bar. "And what's the magic word, Johnny boy?"

It was torture. "£2.75, please," John gritted out, staring over the man's shoulder.

The pleased smirk made John dig his nails into his clenched palms, so hard he wouldn't be surprised to find blood.

"You know, I was thinking of having a reunion," Moriarty said as he took out his wallet. "A catch-up of sorts."

"I haven't seen anyone," John muttered through clenched teeth.

"Are you sure?"

"I haven't got a fucking clue what Mycroft is up to," John snapped quietly.

Moriarty paused and narrowed his eyes, looking curious for the first time. Then he laughed.

"That's not who I meant."

"Then who-"

"Deduce it," Moriarty's voice lashed out like a fine and expensive whip as he tossed a twenty on the bar.

"Enjoy the tip." He smiled before standing and taking the coffee. "If you want more then I suggest you meet me back here tonight. Around ten shall we say?"

He turned the corner without waiting for a reply.

John picked Ava up in a daze.

Moriarty had to be lying.

Had to be.

Except why would a man like Moriarty bother with John if Sherlock was dead?

If he was dead...John almost laughed at how insane that sounded. He'd been there, he'd seen the fall, the injuries. There was no way...

No possible way...

John had no intention of going; he had Ava and he couldn't just leave in the middle of the night.

That was until the text came through.

You should have taken the tip for a babysitter. Outside the building in ten minutes, Mr Watson. I'll be explosively angry if you stand me up again.

Even the dropping of his well-earned title made him burn with impotent fury. But he recognised the badly veiled threat and shook with the hated, helpless feeling that was burning through him, even as he stiffly stood, feeling like a puppet dancing on strings.

He checked on Ava on his way out and left the lights on, doubting he would be long.

Outside was cold, the icy wind and frosted air heralding the start of autumn. The kids that had been hanging around at the bottom of the tower block were no longer chatting in the cold but had, he hoped, gone off to find warmer pastures.

It made it eerily quiet though, the silence adding to the menacing figure of Moriarty standing by a car.

"I'm not getting in," John said, pausing at the building's entrance.

"Oh, I think you are, John. Unless you want to play," Moriarty said as he gestured towards the car.

"I'm not leaving my daughter-"

"Someone will watch her." Moriarty opened the door. "And, unlike Mycroft Holmes, I am very thorough in my surveillance."

John glanced between the car and the flat window.

"I'm getting bored," Moriarty warned in a teasing tone, as if they were friends on a night out.

He refused to let his shoulders slump in defeat as he walked towards Moriarty.

"I have a job for you," Moriarty began once John was settled inside.

John turned to look at the darkened windows, clamping down on the frustration when he saw that his reflection in the window was as clear as a mirror. Moriarty would be able to see every expression whether he was facing him or not.

"What?" John asked after a few moments, turning back as the car started to move.

"No protestations?" Moriarty asked with false concern.

"What would be the point?"

Moriarty tutted. "It's part of the fun, John. Indulge me."

Fixing his gaze upon the car seat, John felt his throat burn. "I won't do anything you tell me to," he said dully.

"Oh..." Moriarty was practically pouting. "Well. We'll work on it."

Nodding to himself, John's hands twitched, aching for a gun. "Where are we going?"

"To the hotel. I told you. But apparently you need to be escorted like a naughty child."

"Why?" John asked.

"Because it's where I'm staying. If I'm paying the exorbitant room rates then I may as well get my money's worth."

John couldn't help the slightly panicked, darting look he gave Moriarty as his mind raced with the implications.

"Don't be vulgar." Moriarty shook his head from where he was leaning in the corner, looking for all the world like a man at home with his surroundings. "I simply need you to beg to work tonight."

"Why?" John asked, unable to look away.

Moriarty had a faraway look in his eyes. "I want to...encourage someone. Nudge them in my direction. You're going to help."

"I'm not helping you pull someone down into your world," John snapped.

Moriarty moved like a snake, sudden and deadly, catching John by the chin. "You have little say in the matter, John. You will do what I tell you to," he snarled as he threw John's chin away from him as if he'd been contaminated.

Regaining his balance before it looked like he'd lost it, John watched Moriarty reposition himself again and stare openly at John.

"What do I have to do?"

"I'll tell you as we go," Moriarty said. "It bores me deeply to watch you moralise."

John scrubbed a hand across his mouth, suddenly feeling sick to his stomach.

"Is he alive?" he asked after a few minutes of enduring Moriarty's stare.

Moriarty simply made a deeply tired and bored sound, as if deathly disappointed John had even bothered to ask. "You know he is."

And everything in John just went numb for the rest of the evening. Even as he carried out Moriarty's strict instructions to slip a vial of something into the poor woman's drink.

For two blessed weeks after that, he heard nothing from Moriarty. Nothing whatsoever. The man was clearly using a pseudonym for his stay, and John couldn't ask without it looking suspicious.

As always, Moriarty seemed to strike when he least expected it.

"Beg to work tomorrow, John," Moriarty's smooth voice instructed when John answered the phone.

It was pointless to ask how he had got the number or to remind him that John needed to find a babysitter.

"I can't do it again. You said it was a one-off-" John started.

"I implied. But she's proving very...resistant. I need my favourite bartender." Moriarty's smile was tangible in the hiss of his words. "Besides, I'm doing you a favour...paying you for your services...unless you don't want the money."

It broke his heart that he couldn't afford to even turn that down at the moment. "You know I do," he replied, not even bothering to pretend he had any pride left.

"Besides, London is boring me. I need to start enjoying myself here again."

"Meaning?" John said, heart thudding suddenly.

"Don't be coy. You appear to be the one thing from Sherlock's life that Holmes Senior isn't watching. Know what that suggests to me?"

John didn't reply.

"You're going to be the one thing that brings him back," Moriarty continued, ignoring John's desperate silence.

His heart started building up a staccato rhythm. "There must be someone else..." he pleaded.

"Afraid?" Moriarty mocked.

"I..." John swallowed, desperate to get some moisture into his mouth.

"Don't think about it. I'm sure it's hurting your head. I do promise though, this will be the last time I demand you beg to work."

"It has to be the last time," John muttered to the dialling tone.

John tried to prepare Ava as best he could. As much as Moriarty insisted that his network would keep an eye on Ava, John couldn't help but take extra precautions. Especially as she'd woken up alone last time.

It helped assuage his guilt somewhat that his brave little girl seemed to be bouncing with glee at the idea. There was a certain way that she held herself, as if he'd just announced that she was old enough to start wearing make-up.

Which would not be happening for a very, very long time.

"Stacy Webber doesn't get to stay home on her own and she's nine," Ava announced while he searched for his keys.

John paused.

It sounded as if Stacy Webber (and what was the fascination that small children seemed to have about referring to everyone by their full name?) was about to be told first thing tomorrow at the playground how babyish Ava now considered her to be.

It was on the tip of his tongue to scold her, but he knew his daughter, who was in so many ways like Harry. She'd dig her heels in the second you made a big deal about something.

"You can't tell anyone," he said after a moment, keeping his voice even and steady. "It has to be our secret."

Ava seemed to brighten at the idea. She loved secrets, even if she was unable to keep her mouth shut half the time. Then she scowled, clearly realising that she wouldn't be able to boast to anyone about it.

"No one?" she questioned as if he might relent.

God, he was about to leave a five-year-old on her own. Again.

His eyes slid over to the phone. He could do it. Walk over, call social services. Kill Moriarty with anything in arm's reach, with his bare hands if he had to.

But he wasn't foolish enough to believe that Moriarty didn't have an extensive network. That the minute John turned to him with murder in his eyes Moriarty wouldn't call the thousand and one people under his command to get to Ava to punish John.

Kneeling down made his leg sing with tightness but he ignored it. Ava watched without comment as he ensured they were at eye level with each other.

"What we're doing is a bit not good." He couldn't help but smile at the phrase, even if the thought of Sherlock made him want to break something at the moment. "Okay? I'm not supposed to leave you on your own."

"I'm just gonna sleep," Ava muttered, sulking.

The cooker was off, wasn't it? At the switch. And the knives in a drawer that still had child-proof tabs on it? All the electrics that could be off were off-

John tried to push the panicked list away as he smoothed a hand over her hair. "I know, but I'd get told off," he said, trying to make it sound a bit light-hearted.

And failing, in his opinion.

"By who?" Ava demanded, looking outraged at the idea that someone could tell him off.

Jesus, if anyone found out what he was leaving to do, abandoning a five-year- old to her own devices for the night would be the least of the crimes drawn up against him.

"Lots of people," he settled for saying.

Five days later the woman he'd drugged or poisoned was on the news as a missing person. He stared at the television, feeling as if he'd been turned to stone.

Ava, however, was on a different train of thought.

"You should get the world's best detective in."

No, John thought. No, he shouldn't.

He should be doing everything he could to keep Sherlock out of it. Instead he had a feeling he was being dangled on piece of string, tempting Sherlock to take a bite.

"Daddy?"

"Yes?" he asked, blinking as he realised he hadn't answered her previously.

"Does the world's best detective ever figure out the side-kick's secret?" she asked, looking at him expectantly.

"No," was all John could say as he picked her up. The temptation to hold her as tight as he could and never let go was so strong that he simply buried his head in her hair as she rested her face on his bad shoulder.

Completely unsure as to who was getting more comfort from the hug, he tried to focus on the slight ache her weight was putting on his shoulder, which he needed to clear his mind somehow.

"Why?" Ava asked, her voice muffled by his clothes.

"Because..." John took a deep breath as tears threatened. "Because..."

Because it would have ruined me if he hadn't returned it and ruined him if he had.

It was midnight when Moriarty called again. John rolled out of bed to answer the phone before he realised that there was no longer a Harry to be calling with drunken ramblings and that Sherlock was off somewhere pretending to be dead.

And that there was only other person it could be.

"Wakey, wakey," Moriarty sang.

John sat up, eyes fixed on the door, and glanced over at his sleeping daughter to make sure she hadn't stirred from the noise.

But Ava was sleeping like an angel.

Somehow he got his breath under control. "Yes?" he managed to ask in a cool and steady tone.

"Ever the soldier," Moriarty mused. "Tell me, John, do you want a chance to make up for what you did?"

What he'd done?

Oh God, had he killed her? Doubling over, John restrained the urge to be sick and braced himself with a hand against the wall. "Like you're going to let me-"

"There's a woman on...B...B...oh, what is the name of that street again...?" The playful laugh grated John's already shredded nerves.

"Baker Street?" he asked, shaking his head at the pathetic game.

"I do hope it isn't someone you know."

John hesitated. "There's no way Mycroft would allow you within a hundred feet of Mrs Hudson or the flat," he snapped, hating that his voice stumbled on the last word.

"I was never meant to be able to get within a hundred feet of you." Moriarty sounded like the cat that had finally caught his squirming mouse. "And yet here we are."

"I don't believe you," John said after a moment.

"Can you take the chance though?"

John twisted to look at Ava. "Why are you doing this?" he asked, staring at the ceiling. "He hasn't come back."

"I need something done," Moriarty said, ignoring John's point. "I'm helping you balance, John; you helped me kill, now help me save. You were an army doctor; you should be brilliant juggling the two."

Kill.

God.

But Ava-

"I can't leave-"

"If you mention the child again I'm going to scream!" the voice thundered down the phone, making John jump and see the artificial lights of the swimming pool again. "Go."

It wasn't Mrs Hudson, he'd been right. But still she looked at him with such trembling gratitude that John felt something stir within him, something that he hadn't felt in a long time.

Thank fucking Christ he'd done something useful again.

Then he was chasing the shadowed form down, flying through London and pretending that Sherlock was behind him, ahead of him, next to him.

The man ducked into an alley and John followed warily.

An arm clapped around his neck, cutting off the air and making him gasp. A quick jab with his elbow in the right spot had the man loosening his grip with a muttered gasp just as John managed to step on his toe.

Hard.

The attacker flinched again and John had enough give this time to make it worth smacking his head back into his attacker's face. His vision greyed for a moment from the pain, enough to remind him that head butts were not to be used when you weren't sure of the angle, but the arm around him disappeared and John was able to dart forward and turn to face the attacker.

It was still too bloody dark to see a god-damned thing. He couldn't see his attacker's face, or if he was bleeding.

John hoped he was.

The man lunged again, silent as the night, and caught John's shoulder before ramming an elbow into his gut. Winded, John could feel himself falling back. He yanked at his attacker to take him with him, kicking out at the man's legs as he fell.

Then he rolled the moment the pavement slammed into his back. He couldn't allow himself to even flinch for a second because if the man managed to get on top of him, John was done for. A wild punch caught him in the face as they rolled and John tasted blood.

He could happily pretend it was from the broken nose of his attacker rather than from his own cut lip.

But John hadn't judged the width of the alley properly and ended up being slammed into the wall as they rolled. His reflexes had him curling up as his attacker tried to punch and then kick at him.

It was only blind luck that allowed John to slam a boot into the attacker's knee at an awkward angle, causing him to cry out in surprised pain and crash down once more.

John stood and immediately regretted it as everything ached and his vision, compromised from the dark anyway, swam. He staggered slightly.

Then the wall was hard against his back and hands gripped his neck. His attacker literally trying to squeeze the life out of him.

Sherlock.

Ava.

John spat, and imagined Sherlock nodding in amusement at that.

The attacker's hands went slack in shock and John's hand fumbled for something, anything, to help him.

The bottle on the ground would work fine.

And this time, when his attacker lunged again, John slammed the bottle into the side of his head, shattering the glass over his own hand as it cracked over his attacker's ear.

The attacker screamed in pain. Even as he staggered back, John still had the presence of mind to ensure that he went down.

And stayed down.

So, balling up his bleeding hand, he punched.

Hard.

And knocked the man out.

Then stumbled backwards, leaning against the wall and trying to get his breath back as his knees gave out and he slid down, a mass of pain and aches.

Panting.

After what felt like an age, there was the quiet sound of expensive footwear crunching over glass. Unhurried and calm, the footsteps continued, and stopped by John's attacker.

Then swivelled in his direction.

"Still missing the battlefields, Doctor Watson?" Mycroft asked without inflection.

John forgot to breathe for a moment and then let out a shaken laugh.

"Couldn't resist," he replied, not trusting himself to stand. Instead he watched as Mycroft looked back down at his attacker. "Still trying to rule the world?"

"Do behave," Mycroft sighed. "You were lucky; we've been following this man for many days. He has been especially hard to pin down."

John glanced towards the opposite end of the alleyway, a thought starting to blossom. In the end he couldn't decide whether this had been part of Moriarty's plan or whether Mycroft was an unexpected factor.

Either way, he needed to get home.

Now.

"Well," he said, standing himself up and refusing to sway in front of a Holmes. "Lovely to see you again, I'm sure, but I really must be off,"

Mycroft snapped his attention away from the attacker's face. "To the closest hospital I assume."

"Yeah." John nodded, knowing Mycroft wouldn't believe him. And, indeed, Mycroft studied him with a long-suffering frown.

"You haven't changed a bit, have you, Doctor Watson? Still desperate for the thrill of the chase, the pain and danger of it all?"

John made sure his back was to the light, limiting what Mycroft could observe and feeling a daft glee at finally being able to fool one of the Holmes brothers.

"Nor have you, Mycroft. Still fighting Sherlock's battles behind his back?"

The look of shock on Mycroft's face would be one he would treasure for years to come as he turned and limped out of the alley.

Ava was not impressed with him in the morning when he finally dragged himself out of bed. And she made it perfectly clear by the way she glared at him when he came out of his room.

"You shouldn't fight," she scolded him. "Boys always fight and it's silly,"

It wasn't silly when you won. Especially when you were fighting after being out of commission for more years than you cared to remember.

Later, when her eyes started to widen as he winced and the colours started to settle in on the bruises, she became quiet. Frightened. He let her curl into him, grimacing at the pressure it put on his ribs and shoulder, but unwilling to move her for anything.

There were days when he couldn't believe how much he loved her. How fiercely something inside him kicked when she leaned into him and stared up at him as if he could fix the whole world if he wanted to.

And there were days when he wanted to bundle them both on a plane and try running for their lives.

But he hadn't the money.

And the hotel didn't want an employee who looked as if he'd gone a few rounds in a pub brawl.

When she fell asleep, he cried as silently as he could.

The doorbell rang while he was preparing dinner. His right hand was still tightly bandaged and his movements were slow and sluggish, especially when compared to a five-year-old who seemed to have buckets of energy. It exhausted him just to look at her at the moment.

"Can I answer it?" Ava pleaded, almost dancing with eagerness.

John glanced at the door. Normally he'd have refused point blank but the chain was on, and the idea of getting all the way to the door to fob off some door-to-door saleperson didn't seem that appealing.

"Make sure the chain's on properly before you do," he told her.

From the angle of the kitchen he could see Ava peering around the wedge of the door, but not much else. Sighing, he poured the egg mixture over the vegetables, refusing to think longingly of the steak he'd seen on a nearby stall when they'd been buying the veg.

"What do you want?" Ava asked without even a hint of tact.

There were times when he swore she had a psychic link to Sherlock. Or maybe it was just the fact that Sherlock had been as rude as a child; he wasn't sure.

"Ava!" he called. "Manners."

Steeling himself, he started to move over to the door because he was bound to have to interrupt the conversation she'd end up having with the callers anyway. Or end up apologising for his daughter.

"...and I know your uncle."

John's heart stopped.

Dear God.

He knew that voice. Better than he knew his own.

He'd loved that voice.

"You're going to be the one thing that brings him back."

There was a roaring din echoing in his ears and everything swayed. It was as if he'd let go of the shore line and couldn't make it back to safety. Nothing felt right, nothing felt tangible.

Dimly he was aware that Ava was now staring at him with a confused look on her tiny face and that Mycroft was speaking.

Mycroft and Sherlock.

Together?

Hell had to have frozen over.

The image of Mycroft watching him stonily as he wept at Sherlock's grave suddenly incensed him.

He'd known. It wasn't just a possible theory anymore, nor the potential vitriolic spite of Moriarty.

The bastards had told him Sherlock was dead, and then run off to save the world.

Without him.

Without conscious thought or effort his body moved, forgetting the beating he'd had just days before. He slammed the door and bolted it with every possible thing he could.

Then he sat against it.

Then he remembered the bloody omelette was still frying.

It was the early hours of the morning when John felt confident enough to go and slump into one of the old chairs opposite. Sherlock's voice had stopped at some point after midnight as he had threatened everything under the sun to get John to move away from the door.

It actually surprised him when, five minutes later, the door clicked open and Sherlock entered.

"I did tell you," Sherlock said, sounding almost sulky. "I'm far more stubborn than you are, John."

John burst out laughing. Huge gasps of laughter that bordered on being hysterical. Everything felt painful and rock heavy. It was as if all he'd tried to do for the past five years was claw his way to the surface, to freedom, only to be dragged back down by Sherlock and everything he touched.

He was so tired of fighting, of struggling. As his laughter threatened to turn to huge, wracking sobs he drew in his breath and clamped his mouth shut, burying his face in his hands as he struggled for composure.

A cold glass was pressed against his hands.

He downed it without even looking, mostly disappointed when it turned out to be nothing more than tap water.

"I realise it must be a shock..."

John snorted, rubbing his fingers into his temple to prevent the threatening migraine.

Sherlock was silent.

That, in John's memory, was rarely ever a good thing because when Sherlock shut up it meant he didn't want people to know what he was thinking.

"What?" John asked, sounding desperately tired, even to his own ears.

"You're not shocked." Sherlock said distantly. "You're not in denial or demanding an explanation. You're not even angry..." He hissed suddenly. "You knew."

"That you were alive?" John sat back, trying to steady his too heavy head. "Yes."

Sherlock flinched in annoyance. "How?"

"Can you not figure it out?" John asked, feeling nothing as Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the bait. Knowing him as he did John could almost see Sherlock twisting everything over in his mind and scratching it all down to raw information to dissect.

And coming up with nothing.

"There was nothing that would have indicated I was alive," Sherlock said after a few minutes. "The funeral and arrangements were flawless. For a time they even fooled..." He trailed off as if unwilling to finish.

John closed his eyes, wanting nothing more than to hide from this conversation in his dreams. He almost managed it when a single cold finger dipped under his collar, pulling his jumper from his throat and shoulder.

Startled, John opened his eyes to see Sherlock a lot closer than he'd thought he would be. Sherlock's eyes were almost silver in the dim light of early morning, and seemed to glow with an unholy light.

"Mycroft said you'd had a tussle."

John snorted. "I'd hate to see what he calls a real fight,"

Sherlock's eyes trickled over him, searching and analysing, then stopping on his bandaged hand before returning to his face.

"Going to give me a blow-by-blow description?" John asked mockingly, hating the tone as it left his mouth.

Slowly, Sherlock shook his head, stepping back to safer ground. "Why bother? You were there."

"So was your brother," John muttered. "Now the two of you can discuss it in all its glorious detail."

The muscle in Sherlock's jaw jumped fractionally. "Indeed," he said. "You did not go to a hospital."

John shook his head.

A strong hand grasped his unharmed one. "Get up. You'll do yourself no favours if you fall asleep in the chair."

Knowing he was right and that there was no damned way he'd make it out of the chair without Sherlock's help, John took the offer and staggered to his feet, surprised at how Sherlock rearranged himself to bear the brunt of John's weight.

Sherlock hesitated in the doorway of the bedroom, but then continued on to John's bed. A brief twist of his head showed John that his daughter had managed to fall asleep minus Charlie-Bear.

Feeling suddenly guilty and almost drunk on the lack of sleep, John twisted out of Sherlock's grasp and made over to his little girl. Gingerly, he sat on the side of the bed and stared at her.

Calming.

Sherlock said nothing.

Slowly, John could feel himself starting to wake a little more as he watched Ava scrunch her nose up in her sleep. He needed to get through this, needed to find some way of navigating the options left to him to keep her safe.

"You have a child," Sherlock said quietly.

"Obviously," John replied in a passable imitation of the man sitting on his bed as his good hand stroked Ava's hair gently.

"I know who the mother is."

John stared at the pillow, wondering how everyone seemed to know with a single glance that he hadn't fathered Ava.

"Then you know there is nothing more to be said on the matter." He made his tone firm.

Amazingly, Sherlock seemed to drop it.

For now.

"You're still angry?"

It was an almighty effort to not scream at him. "Five years, Sherlock. Five whole years."

"I'm aware of that," Sherlock said, sounding unaffected.

John turned to him, unable to see Sherlock clearly without the light on. "Is it done with then? The cat and mouse game you play with each other?"

"No." The answer was simple and expected. Moriarty had shown no indication of being finished with Sherlock. In fact, he'd seemed as if he was warming up for round two...

...or whatever round they were now up to since Sherlock had been gone.

But Sherlock seemed to know frighteningly little about John's life recently.

It was unnerving.

"Then why are you back?" he asked eventually, giving him a wide opening to ask about Moriarty, to indulge his obsession.

Sherlock took a long, deep breath and John braced himself for the onslaught.

"You should go to sleep, John."

That had not been what he'd expected to hear. Blinking in confusion and hating how off-balance he felt, he simply settled for glaring.

"You're on my bed," he muttered, unable to help the petulant tone that he'd clearly gained from the little girl sleeping in the bed next to him.

Sherlock stood, hovering in case John needed help. Ignoring him, John stood and walked over to his own bed.

A wave of dizziness hit as he leaned over. His legs buckled and the world swam and tilted.

But cold hands caught him, blessedly cool against his hot skin. It was all he could do not to moan at the contact.

Somehow, Sherlock managed to roll him under the covers and into bed.

"I'm sorry," he heard Sherlock whisper.

John fell asleep before he could remember to be shocked at hearing those words come finally tumbling out of Sherlock's mouth.