John didn't know how long he waited. There was thumping about upstairs, and then the front door had closed. Surely Sherlock would come and retrieve him. Some minutes passed, and not another word. The front door slammed shut again. Oh, no. That hadn't been Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't leave him in a hiding spot, with the Yard wanting him. He wouldn't.

He did.

The spot he had chosen was, perhaps, not very practical. Mrs. Hudson's bed was close to the ground and there wasn't much space to move about in. Not to mention, John wasn't exactly young anymore. He could still keep up with Sherlock well enough, but nobody could say that there wasn't a horrible cracking sound as he crept out from under the bed.

That little bastard.

Of course, John felt like he couldn't argue against him. The man broke him out of jail. Granted, John hadn't asked for it, hadn't particularly wanted it, but…he was grateful. Sherlock was worrying him.

He knew Sherlock.

Ever since the Fall, they had a strange dynamic. They didn't often talk about the actual occurrence – and John would bring it up in a whispered mumble, if needed. Nor did they talk about the three years that they had spent apart. John wasn't ashamed of his own years away from Sherlock at all. He had grieved over his best friend. And, of course, he was desperately curious about Sherlock's.

Either way, they were closer. They could readily tell each other's emotions without speaking a word. Indeed, they didn't often have heart-to-hearts. Neither men wanted to. What they did do was something subtle – not scooting away when the other leaned on them, a hand on the shoulder, a shared look. It was similar to what they had before the Fall…and yet so much more.

It didn't stop him from being totally pissed at Sherlock for leaving him there.

He moved up to the first floor, and took a deep breath.

It was all just really hard to process.

Had he killed a man?

Of course, John had killed men before. He was an Army doctor, and Sherlock's assistant besides. For the most part, he tried not to think about it. After all, John had loads of reasons to stay up at night. He didn't want this to become one of them. Still, though, he couldn't help but feel guilt assault him.

God, he had known him. A good doctor. A good man, really. Terribly in love with his girlfriend, passionately so. John had listened to the story of how they met a thousand times – a typical coffee shop romance, a spilled cup of tea, the meeting of the eyes, and then, according to him, they'd been swept off their feet. It made John's heart twitch with envy, just a tad.

He knew he'd never get married. Maybe, someday, if the right girl came along. However, the thought of leaving Sherlock was exponentially more painful than he was willing to admit. Sherlock felt the same way. Of that, John was certain. They worked well together, and they loved one another, and they were best mates. It'd take one hell of a woman to pull John away from that.

Either way, John had potentially killed a man in cold blood. That was more important to think about. He paced the flat for a few moments, trying to formulate a plan. If he had a straight mind, he knew he should have just let himself be taken in. There wasn't much else he'd be able to do, anyway. Unless Sherlock wanted to hiss at him again. Sherlock was worrying him.

If he was just going to wait like this, then Lestrade would just come back with more men. John had to get out. To go where, he didn't know, but he needed out.

It was warm out, yet. He could spend a bit of time out here before he needed to think of a plan.

As it would have it, his mobile rang.

John. To the pool. SH

John didn't like that idea one bit.

The pool had been a place of strange uneasiness to him. After all, it was the first place where he realized that he was stuck with Sherlock. For better or for worse, he had to make sure his arse was intact by the end of the day. Still, though, the pool was unpleasant.

He arrived half an hour later with his gun attached to his side and a brave face on. He wondered what Sherlock meant, really – the pool seemed like an odd place to be, though he had learned a long time ago not to question Sherlock's methods. His only hope was that Sherlock didn't have some stupid plan to get them both killed.

"You're not Sherlock." It was one of the stupidest things to say, really, but it was the only thing that came out of his mouth. John turned around and saw a man.

Sebastian Moran. John had just seen him the past afternoon, when they were having lunch. Life, it seemed, hadn't treated him well. Obviously a drinker and a smoker, but with a few scratches that looked like they came from a knife. Dressed in shabby clothing, but he was holding a gun that looked new enough. He stood with a slight stoop, his head bowed lightly.

His eyes were so firmly focused onto the gun clutched in the man's hand that he didn't even notice the figure between them.

Sherlock.

Sherlock was curled up in a small ball. His coat obscured most of his frame, but John could still see his head and that snatch of curly hair. Something dark and wet oozed from his head, and John's breath caught in his throat. He forced himself to look away from the body (no not body Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock) and back at Moran.

Moran peered his head up from him and looked at him under a heavy brow. The effect was chilling. "You're right there, mate. Not Sherlock in the slightest. Hell, let's be honest, is Sher-lock even Sherlock anymore? He's softened up a bit since I last saw him up on that rooftop. Then again, he was crying there, too." There was a light Scottish tip with every word that he spoke. John tried to deduce him. Investigate him. Something.

"He wasn't crying. He doesn't." John mumbled back to him, feeling more and more like a fool. The witty one-liners were Sherlock's duty. Shooting was John's. With that thought, he flicked the safety off his own revolver.

"Nah. I saw him with my own eyes. Even though they were mainly focused on you, doctor. Had to be. Old Boss said that if Sherlock didn't take the shortest route possible, then I was to shoot you dead. Though I imagine you all knew that by now. But he was cryin', mate." Moran sneered at him, his own hands tightening on his gun.

They weren't focused on John. Rather, at Sherlock.

John needed to stop that immediately. It was his first priority.

"Yeah. Fine. Why wait for me, then? If Sherlock's who you're after, then why the hell am I here?" John spluttered out, blinking harshly. "What the hell was all of this for?"

Moran gave him a smile that reminded John sickeningly of a rather large cat. "Oh? I can't pretend to know everythin', you know, Boss was the brains of this entire trick. He said to me that last night, he was saying, that in case something didn't go to plan, I was to follow his instructions. A follow-up, he said. And lookie here, Sherly-Curly's not dead. So I followed the plan." His smile grew. "My Boss is mad, mate, you understand? Even I don't know what he's up to. But God, it was damned fun."

"Was mad." John mumbled quietly under his breath, though he didn't make it loud enough for Moran to hear. Didn't need him to get a reason to do anything rash. "Plan, you said? That's all this was? A plan?"

"Right. You get to know, well enough. Technically, I should have just shot you and not explained. But you're a good enough man, I suppose, and I'm not a monster. Well, not usually." The grin vanished from the man's face. "It was simple enough. Get you to agree to lunch, slip a bit of slow-acting sedative into your drink. When it finally affected you, I'd get the victim ready. You did kill the man, John, in the end. You were barely lucid, bless your little heart. And you saw me, the man you saw in Afghanistan. Your little stress disorder was always worse in your sleep, wasn't it? Just a few suggestions." The smile returned. "Please, Captain Watson, shoot the enemy. Colonel Moran needs assistance, but first, you've got to eliminate the enemy. Captain Watson!"

John felt sick to his core. Indeed, he didn't say anything for a few moments.

"You shot him well enough and then tried to patch me up. O'course, I wasn't hurt none. But you were starting to get a little bit more aware, so I decided to get out of there right quick. You didn't notice a thing. It was all very nice, really. I was to get you in jail, and make Sherlock believe that you killed a man." Moran drawled, taking a step forward.

"Why the hell would you do that? That didn't do anything for you. All it would've done was-"

"Shatter Sherlock to little bits and pieces, yeah. Y'see, Boss wanted Sherlock to die according to his rules. The little game they were playing, yeah? And if Sherlock was alive after that, then Boss figured Sherlock must've cheated. So Boss wanted Sherlock to suffer, and, well. People get so attached to their pets. You get in jail, Sherlock's a ruined man, I shoot him or let him shoot himself."

John twitched at the last few words. His gun withdrew out of his holster and he pointed it at Moran. "Sherlock wouldn't have done anything like that. He's not some kid who gets upset when his Mummy's gone. He would be able to handle himself right fine, and if it weren't for me cocking about, he'd be able to get around you, too."

There was a laugh. It was cut off by a harsh cough, and John hated how the sound reverberated through the pool. "You really believe that, don't you? God, bless you. Sherlock would've been crushed if he thought that his little friend was really a big scary psychopath all along. Y'see, you made Sherlock feel wanted. Everyone else just needs Sherlock Holmes. Who the hell else actually wants his stupid arse about? With you gone, he would've been all bloody alone. Isn't that sad, Johnny boy?"

"Shut up." John responded to him, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. That was too painful to think about. Of course he knew what he meant to Sherlock, but he didn't want to think that he was life or death for the man. He was in the Army. Death wasn't a scary topic to him. "Just…Moran, for God's sake, let us go. You don't think we've been through enough?"

"My boss is dead!" Moran shouted it at him with such a cruel and despicable villainy that John took a step back. The last word was cut off with a laugh, and for a good few seconds, Moran just laughed again. "You've not think I've had a bad time? Sure, I didn't like the little bugger. Nobody did. But God, can you just imagine how it feels, John? Yours just stopped off a building. Mine had to go and blow his bloody head off. You got to feel his pulse, I just had to look at his brains splattered against the pavement. Don't you dare talk to me about what you've been through, Watson."

It was at that moment that John felt just a touch of sympathy for him. Not enough to not shoot him, of course, but certainly enough to feel like it was a horrible situation. To hell with geniuses. To hell with the men who implanted themselves in lives and couldn't extricate themselves. To hell with being the sidekick.

"You could still let us go. Nobody's got to be killed, Moran, and you know that if you kill Sherlock, I'll kill you."

"I could kill you first. You're a good doctor, John, you've saved my life on the battlefield. But I'm not a nice man."

"Maybe not. Neither's Sherlock, though, and look at all he's done for everyone." John murmured back, thrilled beyond belief that he was having a proper conversation with someone who was pointing a gun at his best friend. "Look, Moran, just head off. I'll clean it all up, properly, and then-"

"Don't you think that it's a little too late for tha-" Moran shouted back at him, with the strange madness that John had seen in Moriarty's eyes once upon a time, and Moran pointed his gun at John. In the same moment, John pulled the trigger.

He toppled into the pool.

"Sherlock." John fell to his knees, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. Already he was shrugging off his windbreaker and placing it against Sherlock's head. The wound was bleeding sluggishly, by that point, though John needed to get some stitches in it. "Sherlock, mate, you there?"

"Thanks." Sherlock gasped out, one pale hand going to grasp John's wrist. "What you said. Back there. Defending me. Not calling me…weak, or…yes. That was very good."

"Yeah. Right. Good. We're heading back to the flat."

oOo

"John, be gentle."

"Sherlock, for God's sake, I'm trying, but if you won't stop wriggling-"

"I'd stop wriggling if you actually went quicker, John!"

John huffed out a groan and settled next to Sherlock again. He was slowly stitching up Sherlock's skull, chewing the inside of his cheek as he did so. It was a nasty wound, to be sure, but John didn't want to alarm Sherlock any. "So back there, eh? You heard everything?"

"I did." Sherlock repeated, dropping quickly back into seriousness. "About what you thought would happen if you turned out to be the murderer, about Moran's plan, about you actually killing the man. Everything."

For a few moments more, John remained silent. He paused and flexed his fingers before continuing on. "And?"

"I cannot put you at fault, really. I doubt we'll tell the Yard the entire story, of course, but I'll have Mycroft fix it up." Sherlock smiled. "I could have Mycroft fix it from the beginning, you know. But I suppose you've instilled a damned morality into me, John. I wouldn't want to let a guilty man go free, just as I don't want to let an innocent man go to jail. It's a tricky business, but it will be solved."

While John was certainly pleased by that bit of information (because, frankly, his heart was already heavy with the thought that he'd killed two people in one day), that wasn't what he meant. He told Sherlock that.

"Ah. I imagine you mean what you said about how I would react if you were the murderer. I would be distressed. To what degree, I cannot say." Sherlock mused, tilting his head so John could get a better angle. "But I can say this for certain: I would much rather lose a limb than be without my blogger for even a day." When John finished, Sherlock (in the most casual way possible) leaned back against John's shoulder and rested. John raised a hand to card through Sherlock's curls. "Based on that, my dear friend, how do you think I'd react if I had to go without you permanently?"

"You're a tosser." John mumbled under his breath, although he felt that, if he were a softer man, he would have started to cry. "A proper tosser. Don't go talking like that." For a second, and it was almost invisible, but he could see a flash of displeasure cross over Sherlock's face. Sherlock wanted John to say something sentimental, too. "Likewise, mate. I've been without you before." John took a deep breath and shut his eyes – Christ, he could write love poems to his girlfriends, but when it came to Sherlock? "Without you? It's like the world's just in black and white. With you around, it's like the world's in brilliant colour."

Sherlock smiled up at him and relaxed against his shoulder. "Goodnight, my dear Watson."

John looked down at him and gently hit his shoulder. "Thanks, Holmes."