John vaults after him, carefully avoiding the other weakened steps and reaches Sherlock in record time. He pulls pieces of wood and plaster off the unmoving form, trying to get the dust out of his eyes and mouth, panicking despite all his training. If Sherlock's head had connected with the marble… He lets out a long breath of relief when he sees that Sherlock is not dead, just momentarily stunned.

Sherlock coughs several times and carefully gets up with some help from John. He winces when he stands and John can see his right ankle is hurt, but Sherlock ignores it stoically.

"All right?" John asks, hiding his fear, and Sherlock nods.

"He's outside. He could get anywhere in these woods, and in rain this heavy the footprints won't last. We have to follow him now!"

Yes, a bruised and bloodied back and a sprained (at least) ankle are just the things for chasing after a madman in what has become a full-on thunderstorm. But he knows they will do it anyway. It's what they are for.

John starts running after the man's trail, which leads into the mess of briars and saplings that have taken over most of what used to be grass. It's pouring, he can barely see anything between the rain and the uncanny darkness, except for brief flashes of lightning and the accompanying thunder, so loud and near that John thinks they could easily be struck at any moment. But the man has slipped in the mud a lot so John still manages to follow, as does Sherlock, close on John's heels but limping. They tear through the undergrowth as the wind and rain whip around them, and it seems they are gaining on him but it's hard to be certain.

Shots ring out, going wide, and John fires back even though he has no hope of hitting anything. John's back is throbbing but he pushes on, at last catching a glimpse of a shape up ahead. Just for a second. He wipes the water from his eyes and fires another shot, which is returned immediately. He thinks it's missed entirely, but he hears Sherlock gasp behind him. He turns and looks and sees the bullet has grazed Sherlock's left thigh – a flesh wound, but enough to stop him running.

He's shot Sherlock. Now he's going to pay. John will make him, John will give him ten times whatever he's done. He feels thirst for revenge rising up from his belly, a terrible and ferocious thing that he can't entirely control.

"It's nothing, John! Keep after him. I'll catch up. You're the only chance now. "

John goes on reluctantly, torn between helping Sherlock and tearing his assailant to shreds. He speeds up as the brambles give way to old oak forest, dark as night in this weather. There's a shadow up ahead, darting from the cover of tree to tree, and John pushes himself to go faster, hoping for a clear shot. The wind howls above the canopy and the huge trees around them creak alarmingly. The man seems to be out of rounds and John doesn't intend to give him time to reload. He has him in range, but the killer is clever about keeping himself protected by fat tree trunks.

Suddenly a flash of lightening illuminates the sky above them, deafening thunder sounding at the same instant, near enough to physically feel it. The murderer is taken by surprise and stumbles for a moment, just long enough for John to use the light to aim and fire. He doesn't startle - he's quite used to loud bangs and flashes of light very close to him.

A thunderstorm crackles with electricity the same way a war zone does, and what has he to fear from thunder and lightening after bombs and shells and the screams of his comrades? A thunderstorm is almost comforting, disorienting those not used to the chaos while he remains still in the centre of it.

His bullet finds its mark in the Achilles' tendon of the criminal, felling him neatly. John approaches him warily, in case he has another weapon. He doesn't but takes a swing at John with a stout tree branch he's managed to grab. John avoids the blow easily.

"Don't," he says with hard eyes. "Don't. Believe me, after what you've done you don't want to give me any more excuses to kill you than I already have."

The man freezes and John wrests the branch from his hands and bludgeons him hard in the back of the head. He falls, out cold.

He was young, younger than John had thought – no more than 25, the age John had been when he joined the service. How could he have cultivated so much hatred in so short a time? John had been so close to killing him, wanted to. Would have had he still been a threat. But he has enough power over that awful part of himself to stop it from killing in cold blood. Even for Sherlock.

John lets out a long sigh and realises he is shaking. He also realises he doesn't know if it's from fear, pain, or fury. He can't possibly drag the man anywhere, but he'll be out long enough for the police to take care of him. John has few qualms about leaving him in the cold rain, all things considered. He might be young but he murdered at least four people – John's pity only extends so far.

He stumbles back the way he came, his back screaming louder with every stiff step. Sherlock has managed to reach the edge of the forest.

"Oh, thank God," he says, sinking to the ground against a nearby tree, his body having finally caught up with what's happened to him now that the adrenaline is used up, swelling pinching nerves along his spine. No amount of willpower will make his legs carry him further.

"The police are on their way but might be an hour. You didn't call them earlier?"

"I was afraid if he had you, they might accidentally get you killed."

"And the suspect?"

"Wounded and unconscious, few hundred metres that way. He'll live. I propped him against a tree so he wouldn't drown."

"Can you make it back to the house?"

"Not on my own. You?"

"Probably not. Best just to wait here." Sherlock is barely able to stand, with injuries to both legs. He's bound some cloth from his shirt around his thigh wound, and his ankle is definitely sprained badly but not broken. Both their faces are covered with scratches from where thorns tore at their flesh as they ran, and Sherlock is doubtless mottled in developing bruises underneath his clothes.

John is completely unable to get up now, so Sherlock lowers himself carefully down next to him, with their backs to the enormous tree. At least it provides a little shelter from the downpour.

"You look –" Sherlock begins breathily, but John cuts him off sharply.

"I don't want to hear it right now, okay, Sherlock? There is a very long list of names I could think to call you at the moment, but I won't because you would probably like it."

There's that justified anger at Sherlock back again. John knew he could rely on it to show up when they were out of danger. And now's as good a time as any to have it out. Plus, Sherlock can't get away.

Sherlock looks hurt. "I have just as much reason to be angry with you as you do with me."

"Oh, not even close!" John spits. He's spent too much of the day suppressing things and he's done. "You come out here alone, not telling anyone, to what? Confront someone you think might actually be an equal? And what if he had been? He was clever enough for a gormless twat, but what if he had really been your match? Would we be sitting here now?"

"You did the same th—"

"No, it is not the same thing! I came here to make sure you didn't die, because you didn't leave me any other option. I wouldn't have had to come here alone if you'd brought me with you in the first place, called for back up, gave anyone even the slightest hint of what you were up to! Tell me, what is it with you and sneaking off by yourself, especially with the really smart, really dangerous ones? Do you need to prove that you can handle the worst ones by yourself? Do you need quality time with another psychopath that badly? Or are you really, honestly trying to get yourself killed? Because I'd hope that you can come up with one or two things worth living for! Tell me because I really would like to know."

He can see Sherlock is startled by the viciousness of his attack. He never, ever calls Sherlock a psychopath, not even as an endearment. But at the moment he doesn't care – something has to be done to get this through Sherlock's head.

Sherlock's nostrils flare and his eyes scan, unfocused, not getting it. "Are you angry because I got you injured?"

"No, I'm angry because you got yourself injured, nearly killed, and I almost had to watch! I'm not sure which is worse really, the thought of watching you die or the thought that it might have happened while I was sound asleep in our bed! I woke up and you were gone, Sherlock. Just gone. And it could have been forever."

Sherlock looks at him helplessly. "I'm sorry," he says at last, pushing closer into John's side in that way he has when he knows John is angry and is trying to gauge by feel whether he's been forgiven.

John sighs, worst of his rage spent. "You're sorry, but you keep doing it because you don't understand why you need to be sorry for it."

This is not Sherlock's area, he knows it, but he has to make him understand somehow. How do you explain to someone that their version of caring for you hurts more than indifference sometimes?

He pauses, trying to think how on earth to go about this. "Look, you told me last night that you are careful with me, right? You try to protect me, you don't like it when I'm hurt. Why is that?"

"Because… because it's wrong," Sherlock says, frustrated at his inability to communicate. "You're mine and you shouldn't be hurt. It's not right. It's cold and dark when you're hurt. Like now."

"Okay. And what's it like when I'm in danger or badly hurt? I know you hate feelings but you do have them. Tell me."

Sherlock swallows. "I suppose the appropriate word would be angry. And… afraid…" he adds reluctantly.

"Afraid of what?" John coaxes, trying not to sound too much like he's talking to a child.

"That you'll be gone. That you will be gone forever and I will have to keep on without you."

That may be the most ardently devoted thing Sherlock has ever said to him, and he says it like a fact, like the distance from the earth to the moon. John has to fight the urge to let this conversation go completely, to just curve into Sherlock and put his head to his heart and rest. But the need to never go through another day like this is stronger.

John squeezes his arm through his soaked coat. "Now, do you think it might just be possible that it's similar for me when you're in danger, when you are hurt?"

Sherlock considers this gravely. "But it's not the same," he concludes.

"Why not?"

"Because you're—"

"Yours?" John finishes for him. "I am. Unreservedly, hopelessly, and permanently yours. But as much as you need me, I need you. As horrible as the thought of my death is for you, yours is at least as bad for me. Maybe you can tolerate the thought of you being gone and me having to continue on without you, but I can't. That's the trick of the thing, Sherlock… if I'm yours, you're going to have to be mine."

Mine. A word he thinks a hundred times day, but never has the nerve to say because that's not how this works. But it needs to be how this works.

Sherlock looks stunned, as if he's never considered that before, then wary. John can see in his eyes that dread of being possessed, controlled, of having his freedom, his self taken away from him. Of having to transform into someone he can't possibly be.

"What… what does that mean?" Sherlock asks carefully.

"It means accepting that I care about you at least as much as you do me, that it hurts me to see you hurt. And that your death would be the end of me, too. It means valuing your safety as much you value mine, not doing things that purposely harm your body or your mind if there is another way. It means not keeping important things to yourself until they end up hurting us both. It means weighing more than just odds when you weigh the risks of something."

Sherlock frowns. "What I do… what we do… is inherently dangerous. You can't keep me in a bubble, John."

"I don't want to. I don't want to tame you or cage you. I want you wild and free and impossible like you are. But just because I accept, hell, love the danger doesn't mean I'm okay with things bordering on self-abuse and suicide for no real reason. I just want us to stick to necessary danger. It's not like we've a shortage of it."

Sherlock still looks unconvinced, though John can see he is wavering. "I can't change who I am, John. You can't ask me to."

"I'm not! I don't want you to. I…" he catches himself. "I…want you as you are. I'm just asking you to think about changing some of the things you do."

He'd nearly said the word, which would have ruined everything. He wants to say it, but Sherlock wouldn't hear it, wouldn't understand it the way he meant it. Sherlock understands ownership and loyalty and desire, those are the greatest things that can be aspired to for him. John can work with that, can speak that language.

"What's the difference?"

"Plenty. You've already done it, haven't you? You stop in the middle of cases to let me eat. You let yourself be distracted by me. You go to bed sometimes when you're not tired just so we can be together. You even made me breakfast that one time. You made room in your life for me. Has any of that made you someone else?"

"No… but this is more fundamental."

"I changed nearly every single thing about my life when I moved in with you. Am I fundamentally different person because of it?"

"Of course not, just…it's who I am…"

"I'd hate to think that nearly dying all the time, in and of itself, is a vital piece of your identity. All I'm asking is that when you're about to do something extraordinarily risky or harmful – whether it's walking into a trap or shooting up cocaine – that you ask yourself if it's actually necessary, really worth it. Worth maybe losing all this. Take a second and remember that you're mine too, and what it would be like for me if you're gone. And then if you really have to jump, have to risk it all… at least let me jump with you."

"And…what if I don't?" His tone is defiant. "What if I just continue on the way I have done and ignore this completely? What will you do? Will that be the end of all this, then?"

"I'll die inside every time I think you might," John tells him simply. "I can't pretend I won't. But it won't change the fact of us. It's too late for that. I'm not ordering, I'm not threatening, I'm just…asking. Either way, I'll still be yours."

Sherlock could not be bound by ultimatums or manipulation; that was the surest way to lose him. And as much as walking away might be best for John if this keeps up, he knows he can't. Or that he doesn't want to try, and aren't those really the same things?

Sherlock closes his eyes for a long time and John can see them darting back and forth beneath his delicate lids. Clearly this is all new territory for him, he needs time to work it through. The last thing John wants to make him feel is trapped, he just can't let this pointless recklessness go on any longer without at least trying to prevent it. Without at least asking.

At last, having rearranged the necessary space in his brain for this new concept, Sherlock dips his head and rests it against John's temple. "Okay, John," he murmurs.

"Okay?"

"I'm yours, too. I'll try to remember that. I can't promise about the danger because I don't… I don't always realise what I'm doing, what it looks like to other people. But I'll try. And you can keep me as long as you like."

John feels something loosen in his chest, a weight he hadn't even known was there lifting for the first time since he's lived with Sherlock. He turns his head carefully, trying not to jar his spine, and kisses Sherlock's dripping face on every single scratch, and finally on the lips. He tastes of rainwater and blood and a hint of illicit tobacco that John won't mention right now.

"I've never belonged to anyone before," Sherlock observes. "A few people wanted me to, but it's not…not what I do."

John know Sherlock is right. He never even really belonged to his own family, much less a lover or a friend. But now he was John's, in words and fact alike. The one thing like him in the universe, and he belongs to one man only.

"Good or not good?" John hazards.

"Good...so far. I thought it would be like being chained up or held down, but doesn't seem to be. It's more like having a centre of gravity that can bring me back even if I go very far away."

"Yes," says John. "That's exactly what it's like.

They huddle closer together in the cold. It's less stormy than it was but the rain is still coming down hard and the leaves above are dripping on them.

"Now can I tell you what you look like?" Sherlock asks.

"Yes."

"You look like our flat when there's a fire in the fireplace and all the lamps are on, and I look in the window at night from on the street before I come in."

John is home for Sherlock. That's all he ever needs to know about how Sherlock feels, really. And of course he has no home other than with his consulting detective.

"Glad you're happy then," John tells him.

"It's not all me, you know," Sherlock says, settling against John gingerly. "The light. It's you on your own, too, and me and you together. It's not just a reflection; wouldn't exist without you."

"It wouldn't exist without your head wound," John says dryly, to hide his pleasure at that.

"Literalist."

"Recalcitrant maniac."

"Stubborn imbecilic grunt."

"Irrationally ridiculous sociopathic berk."

"Mine."

"And mine."

"Yes," agrees Sherlock, shifting his coat so it partially covers John too. John feels a happiness so deep, despite the incredible pain spreading out into every part of his body and the bone shattering chill, that he feels like he can barely speak and yet that he can't hold it in either. He strokes Sherlock's hand and dares to whisper almost inaudibly, "Oh, my very, very dark thing. So dark it's blinding."

Sherlock makes a soft sound into John's hair, and they wait in silence for the police, soaked, freezing, bleeding, together.

It's enough. All of it. It's mad and exhilarating and frightening and confusing, but it's also completely perfect for a moment, and enough for at least two lifetimes.