Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: It has been a long time, all. I know. I appreciate anyone who is still reading this, and any new readers who enjoy it! As always, thanks to the lovely WickedForGood13 and Nagaem_C, who have been my saviors on this story. My apologies for any mistakes in the French; I took quite a lot of it in school, but relied on Google Translate here, and the translation seemed fairly accurate.

Wounded With His Wounded Heart – Chapter Nine

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling fingertips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

~Elizabeth Bishop

The morning after Greg and Molly's visits, John awoke feeling relaxed and warm but very aware, as though his body knew something before his brain did. As he began to register the pale sunlight in the room and the sound of early morning London traffic, he realized that soft lips were pressing murmured phrases into his skin.

Sherlock had curled up behind him in the night, his body spooning John's, and now he was kissing every bit of John's bare torso he could reach. Sherlock must have started with John's shoulder and begun working his way down; at the moment, Sherlock was at the bottom of John's shoulder blades, kissing each vertebrae of his spine.

"Jean. Mon soldat, mon médecin. Vous me guérir et me défendre. Mon champion, ma maison. Vous êtes si courageux, et vous me faites plus courageux et plus sage. Mon écrivain, mon cœur. Je t'aime. Je ne pourrai jamais te quitter. Je te veux à mes côtés toujours, à chaque instant de chaque jour."

It took John another second or two to realize why the quiet sentences were not familiar. Sherlock was speaking in French, and although John had no idea what the whispered words meant, the loving tone behind them was unmistakable. The movement of Sherlock's mouth against his back sent desire coursing through John, leaving him trembling with arousal, while the tenderness of Sherlock's endearments made him feel impossibly safe and loved.

John reached blindly behind himself, searching for Sherlock's skin and landing on the detective's shoulder, squeezing gently and trying to find his voice.

"Sherlock," he sighed. "Come up here, love, and tell me what you were saying."

He felt Sherlock smile before his best friend worked his way back up the bed, tucking himself in behind John and nestling his head on John's shoulder, so that his mouth was near John's ear.

"Didn't take French in school, John?" Sherlock teased, his voice still soft but full of amusement.

"Latin, as you well know," John retorted, grinning. "What else would I have taken when I wanted to be a doctor?"

"Mmm," Sherlock acknowledged. He ran a warm hand up John's side and back down again, continuing the motion as he translated for John.

"John. My soldier, my doctor. You heal me and defend me. My champion, my home. You are so brave, and you make me braver and wiser. My writer, my heart. I love you. I will never leave you again. I want you by my side always, every moment of every day."

John twisted around so that he was facing Sherlock and pulled him into a deep kiss.

"I will never leave you, either, you know," he said roughly, once they stopped kissing long enough to breathe. Their foreheads were pressed together, and the crystalline brightness of Sherlock's eyes filled his vision. "I haven't actually said that, and it occurs to me that I should. I hope you know it."

"I do know it," Sherlock returned quietly. "You never did, after all. My loyal doctor, even when you thought me dead." He paused, and when he spoke again it was barely audible. "I don't deserve you, John Watson."

John shook his head. "You absolutely do," he answered, his voice just as quiet. "Don't ever doubt that, Sherlock. Your 'death' hurt me terribly, but if Stamford hadn't called out to me that day in the park, if he hadn't dragged me to meet you, I don't know that I would have had a life at all. I meant it when I said you saved me; I meant it quite literally."

Sherlock pulled back to look at John fully. A stranger would not have seen how appalled and shaken he was, but John knew him well enough to read the emotions behind the still planes of his face.

"When I came back from Afghanistan," John went on, determined to get the worst out now that he had started, "I was in that bedsit every morning and every evening, with no definitive purpose, nothing happening or likely to happen, a limp in my leg, pain in my shoulder, and a head full of nightmares. And every morning and evening, I stared at the gun in my desk drawer and wondered if I should use it."

"John," Sherlock began, but he couldn't finish. He swallowed hard, shaking his head infinitesimally.

"That was why, when you – left," John explained, hesitating a bit as he found the words, "I tried to keep going. You had given me my life back, and it seemed like the height of ungratefulness to – waste that. I couldn't stomach the idea of giving up, no matter how empty everything seemed without you. But you see, I'm not as brave as you've made me out to be."

Sherlock shook his head again before leaning in to kiss John hard. "You are," he said fiercely. "You are, John. There is a difference between fighting an enemy you can see, or fighting wounds and infections you can identify, and trying to rebuild your life against forces that are outside of your control. You had been through trauma – multiple traumas, really, both physical and mental. There should have been people to help you, and the fact that there were none is not your fault."

"Well, there was Ella, but I didn't exactly make life easy for her," John acknowledged, making a mental note that he should really thank his therapist one of these days, show his appreciation in some way.

"Not the kind of help you needed," Sherlock scoffed. "Both Mycroft and I saw that right away."

John grinned. "I just needed you, obviously," he teased. "My own personal whirlwind, with no sense of self-preservation."

"Obviously," Sherlock agreed airily, not quite able to hide his smile. "Being my blogger meant you had danger and adrenaline, but also the need for your healing skills, the ability to be useful, all wrapped up in one impossibly attractive package."

John snorted. "Did you just call yourself impossibly attractive? I might have to put that on a mug or something. Post it on the blog as another example of your charming personality."

They both broke down then, giggling into each other's shoulders for several minutes before they got themselves back under control.

"There's more than a bit of truth to it, though," John said finally, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes and running his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Just as there is more than a bit of truth to the idea that I needed you – a doctor and a soldier, someone who could handle danger and criminals as well as my neglect and abuse of my transport and my propensity not to sleep. That we share the same macabre sense of humor doesn't hurt, either."

"But you are so much more than your intellect and your cases, love," John said, nuzzling his nose. "I love your mind when you are working, but it is only one part of all the things that make you amazing."

Sherlock held him more tightly. "I am just – grateful," and he swallowed once more, struggling for words, "that my – deception did not cause you to think about – that – again. God, John, if I had known –"

"But you didn't know," John interrupted. "You didn't know, you couldn't have known." He kissed Sherlock reassuringly.

"I should have known," Sherlock berated himself angrily. "I should have known. What happened at Bart's put you through even more trauma – it could have caused you irreparable harm! A permanent mental break –"

"Stop," John commanded gently, pressing the tips of two fingers to Sherlock's lips. "Stop, love. I'm here, and so are you, and while I'm sure I will blow up at you in the not-so-distant future for taking such enormous risks on that day, right now I refuse to let you blame yourself with what-ifs. You did the best you could in circumstances that were almost impossible to deal with, and you came back to me. I asked you to stop being dead, and you did, and that is the greatest gift I could ever be given. And if nothing else, your death forced me to face up to a lot of truths I had been hiding from. I couldn't talk to Ella about you, but in between all the hours I worked, I did talk to her about other things. My parents. Harry. Why I seemed to need the army and its adrenaline rush so badly. I'm a bit of a gambler at heart, it seems – I like risk, and the focus that comes with it, and I doubt that's ever going to change. But I don't need it so badly, now; it's not the only thing keeping me sane. Talking about it all hurt like hell, and it's not something I'd want to go through again, but it was – a relief. I knew, by the end of it, that I loved you for you, and all of the tiny things about you because they were part of you, and not solely because you were my own personal adrenaline rush."

Sherlock was quiet for a long time before he spoke again. He buried his face in John's hair, and John realized that it must be easier for him to say whatever it was he wanted to say without looking into John's face.

"There was one time when I came very, very close to being caught," he started. "In my defense, I was exhausted and freezing; Moscow in the winter is enough to kill anyone, even when one isn't chasing international assassins and criminals. However, I had tracked down the man who was one of Moriarty's main suppliers in child trafficking. I had meant to simply kill him from a distance, but he caught sight of me and somehow knew who I was, even through my disguise. Word may have reached him, by then, that someone was picking off remnants of Moriarty's organization, even if he didn't realize it was Sherlock Holmes who was chasing him. In any event, we ended up facing off and fighting hand to hand, in a dank cellar with all manner of pipes and boards and tools to beat each other with."

John shuddered, wrapping his arms more closely around Sherlock's torso, although he was still careful not to put too much pressure on the detective's injuries. He laid a gentle kiss on Sherlock's breastbone, wordlessly encouraging him to continue.

"At one point he had me flat on my back on the floor and backed into a corner; I was sure he was going to bash my head in," Sherlock went on, his voice carefully blank. "I managed to kick him in the chest with both feet, which winded him for just long enough that I could get to the knife at my ankle. I stabbed him in the femoral artery."

John had to suppress another shudder; it was a quick but ugly way to die, bleeding out through the major artery in the right leg. He had seen many men die that way in Afghanistan, shot in the leg with terrible accuracy. The thought of Sherlock doing something so brutal was unbearably painful, but it told John even more about what Sherlock had been through and the kind of killer he had been required to become during his absence.

"He is responsible for several of the scars on my back, and that nasty slash on my collarbone," Sherlock continued. "I hit my head in that fight, as well, though thankfully not hard enough to leave me concussed. I hurt all over, though, and had to drag myself back to the little hovel of a hotel where I was staying. Fortunately the proprietors didn't care about their guests enough to ask questions, as long as you paid up front. I tended to the injuries with what medical supplies I had, but it was difficult to treat my own back, and the room was freezing despite the radiator. I tried to get warm and sleep, but it was mostly a fruitless attempt. I – wished for you so much, John. Every technique of compartmentalization I had, everything I had done in my Mind Palace to try and keep you, and us, safely locked away so that I was not distracted, so that I could work – it all just collapsed. It was a flood, in my head. Ultimately cathartic, I think, but incredibly painful. I missed you so terribly."

Sherlock paused, and John could suddenly feel the tears dripping into his hair. On some level, John understood that Sherlock was sharing this with him as a gift, a way to know that his own suffering had not been one-sided, a gesture of absolute trust and intimacy. He was telling John exactly how the construct of his Mind Palace had been broken down, how he had been changed as a person. John had known that Sherlock had done and seen and felt terrible things during his time away, but hearing them in Sherlock's own words was heartbreaking, as well as something of a relief. If he could tell John, if he could speak of these things at all, it meant that he could begin healing from whatever trauma still lingered.

John lifted his head and moved up the bed just enough that he could capture Sherlock's lips. He kept the kiss soft, just intending to give comfort, but suddenly Sherlock was over him, kissing him desperately, aggressively, tears still lingering on his face. His large hands were everywhere, cradling John's face, running down his arms, sliding up his rib cage and chest, while his lips traced down John's jaw and over his collarbone. John was completely overwhelmed, everything he'd been carefully holding back rushing to the surface and making him gasp with the force of his own arousal.

"Please," Sherlock murmured, his own longing shockingly clear and unadorned in his voice. "Please, John. I want you. I want everything. I want to know this is real."

John clenched his hands in the sheets, trying to keep a grip on the last shreds of his rational thought. "You're still injured," he panted. "We should –"

"We'll be careful," Sherlock promised, his lips brushing over a nipple and causing John to gasp again and arch beneath him. "I promise, I will tell you the minute anything really hurts. Please, John."

John swallowed. He'd sworn to himself that if he ever had a chance at this, he would take it with both hands, and here Sherlock was, offering all of himself and worshiping John with mouth and hands as though it was as necessary as breathing to him.

"Carefully, then," John agreed, finding his voice, hoarse though it was. "You tell me the moment something pains you too much, Sherlock."

"Agreed," Sherlock answered, and then John was lost in feeling again, as if he was part of the flood Sherlock had described, while Sherlock traced his tongue around John's nipples, found that one oddly sensitive place on John's right side, traced his fingernails up and over John's pectorals, found the pulse point on John's neck that sent arousal shivering down his body, and kissed him over and over again, so intensely and yet so tenderly that John found his eyes burning with unshed tears, even while he moaned and cried out.

"I love you," he said against Sherlock's mouth, his voice breaking over the words. "God, I love you."

Sherlock smiled, still kissing John. "I love you."

"Hang on," John said, and he wriggled out of his pants, kicking them unceremoniously off the bed. Sherlock sat back on his heels and surveyed him, his eyes going from John's head to his toes and back again. When he met John's gaze (and John was blushing faintly, though he knew that Sherlock clearly approved of what he saw), there was something very like awe in his eyes.

"You are – indescribable, John Watson," Sherlock breathed, his eyes shining, shaking his head in both fondness and perplexity. "Magnificent." He lay back down, on his side, his uninjured forearm holding him up and one leg draped loosely over John's two. "It will be easiest this way, for the moment." He kissed John again, deeply, and at the same time ran the tips of his fingers over John's erection, from base to tip. It was just light enough to be teasing, but with just enough pressure to be agonizing, and John moaned again, his eyes falling closed, as Sherlock swirled his fingertips through the liquid collecting at the head of John's cock.

"God, Sherlock, please," John pleaded, the muscles in his forearms standing out as he gripped the bed and at his pillow so that he wasn't grabbing some part of Sherlock and inadvertently hurting him.

Sherlock wrapped his entire hand around John's cock, and John cried out, his hips jerking at the sensation and the sight of Sherlock stroking him. As he rocked helplessly into Sherlock's fist, overtaken with the warmth and friction of it and the feel of Sherlock surrounding him, he realized that he was struggling to articulate words, still, endearments and commands all jumbling up together.

"Oh – love – yes – like that, exactly like that – I love you – don't stop –"

Sherlock was watching him avidly, his eyes drinking in every motion and reaction and twitch of muscle, and just when John felt himself reaching the brink of orgasm, Sherlock leaned into him, tracing his tongue around the shell of John's ear before breathing, "So beautiful. My John."

The deep tones of Sherlock's voice, combined with the warm heat of his breath and tongue and the slick heat of his fist, sent John's orgasm rushing through him, his vision going white as his whole body tensed and he spilled over Sherlock's fingers. He had no idea whether he made any sound in those last few moments; when he was aware of the world again, Sherlock's face was next to his, pressing kisses to his lips and nose and chin, and his fingers stroking through John's hair.

"That was – amazing, Sherlock," John said, when he found his voice again. "I don't – I don't have words for how it felt."

John turned over, catching Sherlock's mouth with his own, and he realized that Sherlock was trembling, emotion and arousal sending little shudders through his limbs even as he wrapped his arms around John and met his kisses.

With the new knowledge of Sherlock's sexual history still fresh in his mind, John put everything he had into conveying his love for the mind and body underneath his hands. He worked his way down Sherlock's torso, pressing gentle kisses to every scar and bruise, making Sherlock gasp and goosebumps ripple over his skin. John sucked at Sherlock's nipples until they were hard and Sherlock moaned; he moved downward and mouthed at Sherlock's hipbones, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock's pubic hair and then continuing down, running his tongue along Sherlock's inner thighs and into the sensitive spot on the inside of the knees, making Sherlock groan and writhe with arousal. The litany of sounds coming out of Sherlock's mouth was glorious; it was beyond anything John could have imagined, to hear that beautiful voice breaking with desire, pleading wordlessly with John for more.

Sherlock twined his fingers in John's hair and tugged, and John gladly moved back up the bed, pressing their mouths together again with abandon. Sherlock's tongue stroked the length of John's, still tenderly but more than a little desperate, and when they both stopped to breathe Sherlock leaned his forehead into John's.

"Please, John. I want you so much. We'll have time now; there will be more time. I promise."

Without breaking their embrace, John managed to get a hand between them, and Sherlock threw his head back with a cry as John touched him. John could feel how tense he was, how close, and he did his best to keep a rhythm with his strokes, even as he kissed down Sherlock's neck and swirled his tongue over the notches in Sherlock's collarbone. Sherlock was panting, pushing into John's fist, small desperate noises escaping him.

"Gorgeous," John said hoarsely. "You are so gorgeous, Sherlock. I love you. Let go for me, love." He twisted his wrist, adding just that much more friction, and that was all it took; Sherlock's entire body arched, his mouth opening soundlessly as he came, pearly white streaks painting his abdomen. John found himself holding his breath as he watched; he was certain he had never seen anything so utterly captivating.

When Sherlock collapsed back to the bed, spent, John gathered him into his arms, putting his arms under Sherlock's shoulders and resting on top of the detective, not caring in the slightest about the mess. He nuzzled his nose into Sherlock's neck, ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls, and kissed him, tactfully ignoring the tears he could see glittering in the corners of Sherlock's eyes.

"All right?" he whispered.

"So much more than all right," Sherlock answered, smiling, though his voice was thick. "Perfect. Incomparable."

"'Incomparable' seems about right," John agreed warmly, kissing Sherlock again. "I'll be right back, love. I just want to get something to clean us up with." He gave Sherlock's shoulders a gentle squeeze in reassurance before sliding out of bed and retrieving a pair of warm flannels from the bathroom. He cleaned himself off as well as he could, then took the second flannel back to the bedroom and did the same for Sherlock, leaving both flannels in the bathroom sink before sliding back into bed. Sherlock immediately curled on top of John, putting an arm and a leg over him and pulling him close, and John got an arm under Sherlock's neck so that he could run a hand up and down Sherlock's back.

They were both asleep in moments.

Hours later, John woke fully alert, realizing that Sherlock was still on top of him, but clearly awake and as tightly wound as one of the strings on his violin. His face was tucked into John's neck, and before John could ask what was wrong, he felt Sherlock press a finger against his lips.

"John," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, "there's someone in the flat. When I get up, grab your gun as quietly as you can."

John nodded to show he understood, his heart rate increasing even while he stayed completely still. The light from the window indicated that it was early afternoon now, so fortunately they could move about without turning on lights. Sherlock eased himself up, moving as silently as a cat, and pulled on his dressing gown. He slipped his hand into the nightstand drawer on his side of the bed, emerging with a Gen 4 Glock that John hadn't seen before. John rolled over, also carefully, and found his own robe before retrieving his own Sig Sauer from his drawer; he'd put it there as a precaution ever since they had come home to Baker Street.

Sherlock crept to the door, still silent, and John realized how terrifying his partner was like this: intent, soundless, and very, very deadly. His hands were steady and sure on the gun, utterly different from that night at the pool with Moriarty. John thought, a trifle hysterically, that he couldn't decide whether he was appalled or completely turned on by it, even while his heart twisted painfully as he realized what that change had cost Sherlock. In the meantime, his own combat-trained brain was covering Sherlock's back as they slipped into the hall, checking for signs of more than one intruder.

Sherlock reached the doorway to kitchen first, taking in the living room beyond, and John felt the tension run out of him before he saw it, Sherlock's shoulders and spine relaxing and the gun dropping to his side, even as he let out a soft "Oh" of surprise.

Coming up on Sherlock's right, John stared as a regal woman rose from the armchair that was generally his, turning to face them. She had dark gray curls that came just past her chin, a full mouth, and eyes that were a vivid gray-green – they lacked the blue hues of Sherlock's, but were clearly just as prone to color changes. She was absolutely lovely, despite – possibly because of – her age and the experience that rested on her face and in her keenly intelligent eyes. John's eyebrows lifted as he realized that he was looking at Mrs. Holmes, at the woman who had somehow produced both Mycroft and Sherlock. She was also not a tall woman; Sherlock and Mycroft must have gotten their height from their father. John didn't say anything, however, since Sherlock and his mother seemed temporarily frozen, staring at each other.

"Sherlock."

"Mother."

Sherlock let out a quiet sigh and ran a hand over his face. "That wasn't a very wise idea, you know."

"I realize you've been living a life that required you to shoot first and ask questions later, Sherlock, but I did hope you would recognize your own mother," the woman answered, a half smile turning up her mouth in a way so identical to Sherlock that it sent John's brain reeling for a moment.

"And what if I hadn't?" Sherlock demanded, all imperiousness and exasperation once again. "I could have shot you, Mummy."

Mrs. Holmes nodded, accepting the possibility and apologizing all in one small motion, then stepped closer to her son. "I am very glad you didn't. Hello, Dr. Watson," she added, looking toward John.

Sherlock's head whipped around to John, the detective having apparently forgotten about John's presence for once in his life. "Forgive me, John. John Watson, Victoria Holmes," he said, nodding first toward John and then toward his mother as he introduced them.

John found his voice and offered a hand. "I'm so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Holmes."

"And I you, John," she answered with a smile. "Please, call me Victoria. My apologies for barging in on the two of you like this, but I really did feel it was high time. Just when were you going to tell me that you were alive, Sherlock?"

Sherlock had the grace to look a little alarmed at this. "Didn't Mycroft tell you? He was supposed to tell you, Mother," he said anxiously.

"He did tell me, once you came home – and I know how much you wanted to get back to your doctor – but you left me thinking you were dead for two years. I thought I had lost you as well as your father," Mrs. Holmes reproved him gently, her voice wavering just a fraction. "Of course I would want to see for myself that you were all right." She reached out and folded her arms around her son, holding him tightly, and Sherlock accepted the embrace without any of his usual hesitation, fitting his tall frame around his mother even more easily than he did with Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm sorry, Mummy," he murmured. "I really am all right. Mostly." He pulled back from her just a little, looking her in the eyes. "I should have come to see you myself, before now. But for God's sake, don't break into the flat again without warning us first! We keep the guns near at hand for a reason."

"I know. Point taken," Victoria said. Her serious expression turned mischievous in the next moment, her eyes dancing. "It was such fun using my lock-picking skills again, though! I haven't tried to beat you at it in ages."

Sherlock fought to hold back his smile as his eyes narrowed, but John could see the mirth in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. "You wouldn't dare."

"I absolutely would," Victoria challenged, lifting her eyebrows. "Name the day."

John couldn't keep in his amusement any longer, and he collapsed into giggles. Both Sherlock and Victoria turned to him with curious expressions.

"I'm sorry," John apologized, his shoulders shaking. "It's just – you two are adorable. Victoria – you taught him how to pick locks?"

The curiosity on both Sherlock and Victoria's faces turned to almost identical looks of affronted indignation, which only made John laugh harder.

"We take our lock-picking very seriously, I'll have you know," Victoria told him.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I taught Mother how to pick locks, when I was a teenager. We practiced by trying to beat each other on different kinds of locks, seeing who could get them open the fastest."

"Of course you did," John chuckled, shaking his head. "Sorry. My mistake. Would you like some tea, Victoria?"

"That would be lovely," she replied, beaming at him.

John went into the kitchen as the hum of Sherlock and Victoria's voices resumed behind him, putting the kettle on and pulling cups from the cupboard. Sherlock slipped into the room as the kettle began to boil, putting his arms around John from behind. John turned the kettle off and leaned back against him.

"Sherlock, your mother is . . . amazing. Much like her son," John said, turning his face toward Sherlock's with a smile.

"She is," Sherlock agreed, a softer smile flitting across his features. "I've no idea how she contended with both Mycroft and myself, but somehow she did. She is amazingly intelligent, herself, and was always devising puzzles for us, teaching us, giving us new books, trying to keep us entertained and interested."

Sherlock paused. "Father died when I was fourteen," he said quietly. "Mycroft was already working his way up the governmental ladder, and I know he helped her with some of the legal matters and the funeral service, but I was – numb. I would stay with her, read with her, show up for meals, but I couldn't speak. Willoughby was the only one who could manage to get a sentence or two out of me, perhaps because he reminded me of Father. He was the one who bought me a book on lock-picking, and when Mother saw me reading it, she got me a set of lock picks. I started working on every lock in the house. She came to watch me and observe how I did it, and one day I offered to teach her. It was the first thing I'd managed to say to her. She cried – but then she made me show her how," Sherlock finished with a shaky laugh.

John turned around in Sherlock's arms and kissed him deeply. "I am so glad that both your mother and Willoughby were there for you," he murmured. "Just as I'm glad that Mycroft was there, and Greg was there for you later, and Mrs. Hudson. You have a world of people who care about you, Sherlock."

"Evidently," Sherlock said, kissing John in return and smiling a bit self-deprecatingly. "I'm not quite sure how that happened."

John laughed and kissed him again. "Come on. The tea will be cold."

They returned to the living room with the tea tray, and Victoria looked up from her phone, where she had apparently been returning a text message.

"Oh, thank you so much, my darlings," she said, smiling as John handed her a cup of tea. "Sherlock, what is being done about the papers?"

"Mycroft is supposed to be handling it, Mother; in fact, I'm surprised he hasn't called yet," Sherlock answered. "But I would imagine it will involve a press conference of some kind, probably with Lestrade and some other government officials who are very much not Mycroft. Heaven forbid he be seen in public and at something as plebian as a press conference," Sherlock said sardonically. "But the difficult part has been done, really; they've already cleared me of any wrongdoing. Now they just have to welcome me back to the land of the living," he finished.

"Now, Sherlock, you know you hate the press as much as your brother," Mrs. Holmes chided him. "And he has plenty of good reasons to want to keep his name and face out of the papers."

"Ah, but what kind of a brother would I be if I admitted that?" Sherlock returned, just as his mobile rang. He picked it up from the table, answering without so much as a glance at the screen. "Brother dear. Are you done planning this torturous press conference that you won't be attending?"

Sherlock listened for a moment, then gave a long-suffering sigh. "I am aware that you can't be there, Mycroft. Don't state the obvious; it's tiresome. Lestrade and John will be there, along with the minions you will send. I will be fine."

Victoria reached over and calmly plucked the mobile out of her son's hand, to Sherlock's open-mouthed disbelief. "Don't worry, Mycroft dear. I will be there as well."

This produced something approaching an actual squawk through the mobile, which immediately had John bent double in a silent fit of laughter.

"Nonsense, darling," Victoria soothed her elder son. "No one knows who I am and there's no reason they should, but I will be another pair of eyes in the crowd. I would like to see Sherlock get the credit he is due, for once. The least Scotland Yard and the government can do is apologize while he's standing in front of them."

There was another string of syllables that sounded like indignation, and even Sherlock cracked a smile at that, while John had tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks.

"Oh, honestly, Mycroft," Victoria scolded. "The two of you have just accomplished something enormous, together, and Sherlock can take the public credit for it and get his standing back in the eyes of the public at the same time. Don't be petty. We'll be there tomorrow." And she hung up the phone with a decisive press of her finger.

John caved, then, laughing until he couldn't breathe and wiping the tears from his cheeks. "Oh, that was priceless. Whenever I need to do an end-run around Mycroft, Victoria, I'm calling you. I'd no idea you were the one person he would actually listen to."

Victoria smiled at him, a bit wicked and gleeful. "I generally try to stay out of the lives of both my boys," she said, her tone deceptively demure, "but every now and then they each need a bit of a telling off. Mycroft does get on his high horse sometimes, and Sherlock can be stubborn beyond all reason. I've had years of practice."

"Yes, thank you, Mummy," Sherlock said, clearly somewhere between annoyed and embarrassed by his mother's comments. "What is it, exactly, that Mycroft has planned?"

Victoria's eyes lit up with enthusiasm as she leaned forward. "Ah, yes. Here's what's going to happen..."

John wound his way through the tables at The Beehive Pub, looking for Greg's familiar head of silver hair. John was glad he and Greg had decided to meet for drinks, tonight; it would be good to go over what was going to happen at the press conference with someone else. Victoria had been very thorough in explaining, and John knew everything should go smoothly, but years of living with Sherlock and then thinking him dead had taught John to prepare for the worst and most unlikely of possibilities.

John finally caught sight of Greg sitting at a back corner table, and raised his hand as he worked his way over. Greg slid a pint across the table toward him and grinned a greeting.

"Thanks, mate," John nodded, returning the grin as he took a swig of the lager. "Appreciate it."

"Well, I figured a celebratory drink was in order," Greg said warmly. "Sherlock's back, bless him, and there's no better reason in the world to have a toast."

The two men lifted their glasses and drank together, and Greg studied John for a minute or two, which made John's cheeks redden in spite of himself.

"You look good, John. Happy. Content. Not that I didn't know how you felt about him, after," Greg said gently, "but I'd know it now, if I didn't then."

John nodded, tracing a finger around the rim of his glass. "He came back, Greg," he said, his voice so quiet that Greg had to lean in to hear him over the noise of the pub. "I pleaded with him not to be dead, and he isn't. How many people get that kind of miracle? I swore that if I ever saw him again, if I could do it all over again, I would tell him everything. Give him everything. Not be the idiot he so often accused me of being."

Greg snorted. "He never thought you were an idiot, mate, no matter how many times he said it. I knew it that first day. Do you know how many times he had brought someone to one of my crime scenes, before you? Exactly none. He was fascinated by you, for reasons that are still somewhat beyond me – even if you did shoot that crazy cabbie."

"Shhh!" John hissed, unable to completely quell his laughter, his eyes wide with surprise. "You aren't supposed to know about that."

"Well, I'm not an idiot either, despite all of Sherlock's protests to the contrary," Greg retorted. "Why do you think he keeps me around?"

"Saving his life might have something to do with it," John said, suddenly solemn again. "That was part of the reason I wanted to come tonight, actually. He told me about that, how you saved him and then helped him stay clean. I can't thank you enough for that, Greg. I never would have met him, if not for you."

Greg shook his head, a small smile turning up his mouth. "You don't have to thank me for that. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful that you two found each other, because I've never seen anything like the way he's changed since he met you. But he's my family, too. Like he said yesterday, it's what we do."

John smiled in return, picking up his glass again. "To family, then."

"To family," Greg agreed, tipping his pint against John's and taking another drink.

"So everything is all set for tomorrow?" John asked, after they had sat in silence for a minute or two. "I don't mind telling you that I'm nervous as all hell, Greg. This is the first public thing he's done since he's been back, and if by some chance he's overlooked some crazy Moriarty disciple –"

Greg's sharp nod was decisive, his face sober and reassuring. "It will be fine, John. I will be there, Mackenzie will be there, and you know Mycroft's promised a small army of his people will be guarding the perimeter of the room. This is part of why we're doing it at Scotland Yard, too. We'll be in the building, with all of its security, and the press crowd is going to be very small. There was no way we were going to allow this to be a public event, not with the potential risk and with government representatives present."

John breathed out. "Okay. That's good. Victoria told us all this after talking with Mycroft, but it's good to hear it from you."

"Victoria?" Greg questioned, arching a brow. "You met Sherlock's mum?"

"Yeah, she came by the flat today," John said, shaking his head. "Nearly scared the life out of us, actually, since she picked the lock to get in. She's – wow. She's so much like Sherlock, and so different at the same time."

Greg hooted with laughter. "Of course she picked the lock. Why am I not surprised? She's a knockout, too; no need to wonder where Sherlock got that from," Greg said with a grin. "But you're right. I only met her the once, at the hospital with Sherlock, but she's an amazing woman."

"She's going to be there tomorrow; you'll probably get the chance to speak with her if you like," John informed him.

"That'd be nice," Greg said reflectively. "It's been a long time."

"Is Molly okay?" John questioned. "I know she said to leave her alone, and we will, but I wanted to make sure she was all right. Neither of us expected her to react quite like that."

"She didn't either, to tell you the truth," Greg admitted. "It's a lot to take in, and I think she'd been trying to hold herself together about Sherlock for so long that everything came flooding out once she knew he was okay. But she'll be all right, with a little time."

"I'm really happy for the two of you, Greg," John said sincerely. "I know how long you've cared about Molly, and it's wonderful that you're together."

Greg was startled. "What do you mean, you know how long?"

"Oh, come on," John said teasingly, nudging Greg's forearm with his own. "You think I didn't see how you looked at her, at that disaster of a Christmas party? Molly came in the door in that dress and you couldn't take your eyes off of her."

It was Greg's turn to blush a bit, sipping at his pint to cover it. "I . . . didn't realize it was that obvious, I guess. I was still sorting things with the ex-wife, and it seemed like terrible timing all around, but . . . yeah. I always wanted to ask Molls out, after that; it just took me a while to feel like I could. Like I had my life together and could offer her something."

"You two are good together. Enjoy it; God knows you've earned some happiness, Greg."

"You, too, John. You, too."

"In conclusion, we would like make it absolutely clear that Mr. Holmes' public disgrace a year ago was entirely falsified and orchestrated by the deceased James Moriarty, and that Mr. Holmes has been of invaluable assistance to the British Intelligence community during his time away," said Mycroft's minion, whose name John had already forgotten at this point in the press conference.

He wanted so much for this to be over.

It was a small room, and a very small number of people present, not more than thirty. There were armed guards at every exit, and everyone had been thoroughly screened before they were allowed to enter, along with all of their equipment.

Sherlock, Greg, and Mackenzie occupied the platform at the front of the room, along with Mycroft's representative and John himself. Victoria was in the audience, doing an admirable job of pretending to take notes while watching every flicker of movement. John wouldn't put it past her to have a weapon somewhere on her person; he was certain Mycroft would never interfere with his mother's precautions, whatever they might be. If there was any kind of threat, John was certain that Victoria would spot it, perhaps before he himself did. If for some reason either of them missed any danger signals, John knew that Anthea would spot them; she was almost invisible in the back of the room, but John saw her and was immensely comforted by her presence.

Greg had started the ball rolling by giving an account of The Fall and all of the proof that had been gathered against Moriarty, as well as all of the work that the Yard (Anderson, really, though Greg couldn't say it) had done to review Sherlock's cases and prove his legitimacy as a brilliant consulting detective. The SIS man had then taken over, spinning the tale that Sherlock had been deliberately brought into Intelligence after his "death" and used as an asset.

Sherlock was going to speak, and then the questions would start, and John was dreading it. He hoped Greg could keep a handle on how many questions were asked and how personal they got. The one saving grace was that Mycroft had not allowed any of the tabloids credentials for the room; only about ten major broadsheet papers from England, Scotland, and Northern Ireland were allowed in, along with the BBC and ITV television channels and the wire services.

Mr. MI6 had finished deflecting questions about what Sherlock had been doing during his time away, giving suitably vague but impressive answers, and Greg then introduced Sherlock. The detective was, outwardly at least, remarkably composed, and John's heart swelled as he looked at Sherlock, knowing how cross and distracted and nervous he had been as they had gotten ready to come to the Yard. None of it was showing now, and it made John incredibly proud to know that he was loved and allowed in, somehow, by this astonishing man who hid so much of himself from the world.

"I would just like to say a few words, and then I will take questions," Sherlock started. "I am thankful for the support of MI5 and MI6, and of course the support of the Yard and Detective Inspector Lestrade, who has been my longtime colleague and friend." Sherlock paused, looking toward John for a fraction of a moment and giving him the tiniest of smiles. "I would also like to thank Philip Anderson, who was instrumental in proving my innocence, honesty, and professionalism when it came to my consulting for New Scotland Yard. Without him, it would have taken much longer to clear my name here at home. Finally, I would just like to say that I am very grateful to be home, and grateful to my family and friends for welcoming me back with open arms. It has been a very long year."

"Mr. Holmes? Mr. Holmes!"

Hands went up thick and fast, and Greg, doing his best to control the chaos, called on a woman in the front row.

"Mr. Holmes, will you be resuming your consulting here in London?"

"I plan to be available to private clients within about a week, yes, and hopefully to resume work with the Yard in the near future."

That brought an almost immediate follow-up directed toward Greg. "Detective Inspector, is there any question about Mr. Holmes returning to work with you at Scotland Yard?"

"None at all," Greg responded promptly. "It'll take us a little bit to get his paperwork through, though; bringing the dead back to life isn't easy work."

That brought a laugh from the room, making John sigh internally in relief, and Greg called next on an older man in the second row.

"Dr. Watson, if I may," he said, and John straightened up, unconsciously aligning his body into military posture. "We've all noticed you're here, and yet you haven't said anything at all. Did you know Mr. Holmes was alive during this past year?"

"No, I didn't, though I'm very happy to be proven wrong," John answered, smiling at Sherlock.

The reporter looked like he might ask something else, but John was not eager to answer more questions, and thankfully, Greg saw it and called on a young woman before the older reporter could speak again. The young lady was sitting a few seats down from Victoria.

"Mr. Holmes, will you resume your residence at the iconic 221B Baker Street?"

Sherlock's eyebrows went up, amused. "Iconic, is it? Our landlady will be pleased to know it has gained so much value."

Amid chuckles from the reporters, Sherlock nodded. "Yes. I've no desire to be anywhere else."

"And will Dr. Watson be returning with you?"

Sherlock looked at John, and John cleared his throat. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Already done."

It was the most either of them would say for now, John knew, and as it was a murmur went through the room. The speculation was going to be rampant, but John found that he really didn't care. For one, the speculation was basically true, now, and for another, neither he nor Sherlock were the type to parade their relationship in front of everyone.

There were several more questions, and then Greg broke up the press conference, directing everyone out the doors at the back. Anthea, John noticed, stood with the guards at the door, watching each person as they left. John gravitated toward Sherlock when he stood up, and the two of them went to join Victoria down in the seats.

"Well, I'm glad that was relatively uneventful," John sighed.

"As am I, my dear," Victoria nodded. "Mycroft did his work well."

"Which I will definitely not be telling him," Sherlock said archly, earning a glare from his mother that he returned with a smirk.

Greg and Mackenzie joined them, then, having seen the crowd of reporters out of the room and dismissed those guards who were from the Yard.

"I hate press conferences," Greg groaned. "Reporters are bloody vultures, the lot of them."

"You handled them very professionally, Detective Inspector," Victoria said, smiling at him, and Greg started in surprise at seeing her.

"Mrs. Holmes – Victoria," he corrected himself. "It's so nice to see you again."

"Very nice to see you, Greg," Victoria answered. "And who is your companion?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Greg apologized, turning to McKenzie. "Sergeant Audra McKenzie, this is Victoria Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson," he said, nodding to each of them in turn.

"I would imagine you're quite aware of who we are already," Sherlock said with a smile as he held out a hand.

McKenzie laughed. "Quite aware, yes, but it's a pleasure to meet you all," she said, returning the handshake and then shaking John and Victoria's hands in turn.

"Detective Inspector, might I have a word?" Victoria requested, once again taking Greg by surprise.

"Of course," he said, and Victoria drew him away to the side of the room, leaving Sherlock and John with Sergeant McKenzie.

"Thank you for looking out for him, making sure he was safe," Sherlock said swiftly, once Greg was out of earshot.

McKenzie smiled. "It's my job, among other things, Mr. Holmes. I was glad to do it. He's a good detective and a good man, and he didn't deserve to be dragged through the mud the way he was."

Sherlock looked slightly stricken, though he covered it well, but John saw it and laid a hand on his arm.

"It wasn't your fault," John reminded him firmly, his voice low, and McKenzie looked startled.

"Not at all," she agreed. "You saved him, Mr. Holmes. I was just your rear guard."

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you."

Over against the wall, Victoria was giving Greg her own thanks.

"I've never had a chance to thank you for all you've done for Sherlock," she said quietly. "After the hospital, that last time – you gave him something to keep himself occupied, something to work for. You watched him when Mycroft and I couldn't. I stay out of public life for the most part, Greg, for a lot of reasons, but I wanted to thank you in person."

"It's nice to see you when we're not both out of our heads with worry about him," Greg said with a smile. "And I'll tell you what I told John yesterday: you don't have to thank me. It's what family does, and Sherlock is family to me. Ever since he showed up at my crime scene that first time, God help me."

Victoria laughed. "Welcome to the family, then."

As Greg and Victoria rejoined them, John said, "It was kind of you to mention Anderson up there. Do you think it will do any good?"

"I don't know, but I thought he deserved the acknowledgement, and Lestrade couldn't say anything without being dragged in front of his superiors," Sherlock pointed out.

"I'm going to be dragged in front of them anyway for not 'keeping you under control,' Greg retorted. "Serves them right, though. I don't know that they'll give Anderson his job back, but at least now he gets the credit for clearing you."

"We'll see about that," Victoria said. "Perhaps Mycroft can arrange something."

John felt Sherlock's hand slide into his, and he squeezed it gently. "Ready to go home?" he asked, looking up into Sherlock's face. He could see that Sherlock was tired; he was still healing, and these sorts of public, formal interactions exhausted him when they weren't part of a case.

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, by all means, John. Let's go home."