New Rules

AN - I will be deleting some of the stories on the fanfiction account in the next few days. All stories are on Ao3 but they are locked.

In the days since John had been home, a number of things were made clear.

The first was that Sherlock could no longer use the upper room as his workroom. Of course, that meant that he needed to put his maps and pictures somewhere, and so the living room wall had to be sacrificed.

"Oh look at him," Mrs Hudson exclaimed fondly, as she had done every day that week since she'd found John upstairs. "Is your toast all right, dear?"

John, halfway through said toast, blinked at her as he bit into his breakfast. "It's toast," he said, sounding amused. "Even he can't bugger that up," the brat added with a nod at Sherlock.

"Oh, you made him toast," Mrs Hudson said sounding as if she were one step away from aww-ing. "He was lonely without you," she added, as if telling John some grand secret. "And you," she said, turning to Sherlock suddenly. "Don't put any more holes in my bloody wall."

Behind her, John sniggered, sitting back as if to watch a play.

"He took my work wall," Sherlock complained.

"It was my room," John reminded him as he bit into the toast again. "Probably put holes in that one too," he added.

"Honestly," Mrs Hudson muttered as she wandered into the kitchen.

"She spoils you," Sherlock murmured as he studied the map of people that Mycroft had sent over after spluttering down the phone incoherently for a few ghastly minutes. Apparently, including John in a case this soon was 'ludicrous'.

Still, he hadn't come up with a better idea of how to bond.

"She spoils you," John argued. "Is that all of them?"

"Yes," Sherlock said as he stepped back and took a seat next to John, stealing some of the toast he had made earlier. "I assume you don't recognise any?"

John shook his head. "Why would I?"

That was the second thing that had been made clear. John's knowledge was frighteningly specific. Ask him about mercenaries or war lords in countries far away, then John would suddenly become an encyclopaedia. Ask him about guns, and John could rattle off a list in his sleep. Weapons, even spy networks.

It would be impressive if it wasn't so…his nineteen year old son wasn't meant to know these things.

Ask him about networks in London, though, and he could tell you only about the men and women that Anna and Sherlock himself had brought John into contact with.

Still, it would never hurt to ask.

"They're markers," Sherlock explained as he studied the people. "If one moves, it will be a signal that something is happening. We are at a critical alert-"

"Because of Kavan?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Not even the criminal world revolves solely around the Moriarty family. No, it seems more likely to be bad timing. Kavan was hardly a planner, was he?"

John said nothing but his expression seemed to agree. The sleeves of his dressing gown slipped as he scratched his hair, revealing a hint of cigarette marks that marred his arm.

It had been made abundantly clear that Sherlock couldn't ask what had happened. John's jaw would clench tight and no further contact would occur—for hours sometimes.

Still, Sherlock was starting to piece it together. Between that and the nightmares that screamed them all awake every night, he was starting to gain a clear picture.

Not exactly a pleasant one, either.

"Your phone's ringing," John said absently as he read through the paper. God only knew where that habit had come from; getting John to read anything when he'd been at school had been a nightmare most days.

Lestrade.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked as he lifted the phone to his ear.

"Look, I know that…we're still looking, Sherlock, but I have…There's a case that's got us all baffled. You know, if you want it."

Yes. God, yes. Anything to get John distracted and out of the house and to actually have a solid, real reason as to why they couldn't go his parents for yet another day. Though he'd been impressed by their lack of interference. Possibly, he should ask Mycroft about it…

Still, why look a gift horse in the mouth? More likely than not, his parents really would have John fleeing the country.

"A case?" Sherlock asked, intrigued. Across from him, John looked up, a strange look passing over his face.

"What?" Sherlock mouthed at his son while Lestrade rattled off platitudes and an address.

John shook his head and stared at his hands, flexing them a few times. It seemed easier to wait until Lestrade ended his rambling. "You don't want to come?"

The surprise was genuine and annoying. As if Sherlock hadn't waited for far too many years to have his son by his side when he worked. "Are you…you sure?" John asked eventually, one of those small smiles lingering around the edges of his mouth.

"If you're coming?" Sherlock asked, deliberately trying to misunderstand. "No, that's why I asked." He raised a demanding eyebrow and John nodded, sitting back in an almost triumphant manner. "My first proper case with you," he said thoughtfully. Something seemed to occur to him and the smile turned less shy and more…considering. "Didn't seem like it was ever gonna happen for a while," he said frankly.

Oh.

That…that was less clear: John's opinions about Sherlock's fake suicide. There was such a wealth of issues for them to discuss that they'd barely even touched upon that one yet.

"But you do want to-"

"Yes," John said quickly, as if relieved to escape the possibility of the threatening conversation. "I'll get changed."

Probably into another jumper to hide those bloody scars.

Xxx

In hindsight, not telling Lestrade was perhaps a little…well…short-sighted.

The man was waiting at the front of a house that looked like it was being renovated. Donovan was with him, her entire countenance looked peeved for lack of a better word.

That was, until she spotted Sherlock and John. Then her jaw dropped and she staggered back in shock.

"You didn't mention me, then," John said as they neared the pair, Lestrade looking over at Sally in concern.

"It…didn't come up," Sherlock said, rather wishing that he had thought this through. "Which I realise now was…not my best moment."

The look that John gave him was withering as his son sighed and dug his hands deep into his pockets. "We are this close to Serbia," John threatened with a glare.

Possibly, it was best not to point out that Sherlock couldn't actually see the distance his son wanted to indicate. Lestrade seemed to be talking quietly to Donovan before his head snapped up and he stared at John with sheer disbelief.

"You…you're actually alive," Lestrade gaped.

John smiled without humour. "Appears so," he said in a short tone that invited no questions. "He's known for days," he added with a jabbed thumb in Sherlock's direction as he walked into the house, apparently leaving Sherlock to the wolves.

"In my defence," Sherlock said pausing at the pair. "I was understandably shocked," he glared after John. "And…slightly distracted from sending out informative messages."

Lestrade stared after John and then whirled back to Sherlock. "Is he-"

"No," Sherlock said simply. "He's as far from all right as one can be. But we have to start somewhere."

"On a crime scene?" Donovan asked doubtfully.

"He is my son," Sherlock said with a long sigh. "This is how we bond. Beers down the pub aren't exactly our thing."

Though perhaps it might be worth keeping that on the backburner, just in case.

Xxx

The remains were in an old cellar. A skeleton sitting at a desk as if conducting business.

John had stopped dead at the sight and his head was angled to the side as he stared at the corpse, baffled.

"Yeah," Lestrade said, his eyes jumping to John nearly every five seconds as if to check he was still there. "It's…got us all baffled."

"I don't doubt," Sherlock said as he crossed over to the table and pulled out his kit. A glance over at John showed that his son was staying far back, arms folded as he took in the sight.

"You doing okay?" Lestrade couldn't seem to resist asking.

"Yeah," John said. "You?"

"Good," Lestrade replied as if they were having a chat over the football game. Then: "You saw the Arsenal game?"

John blinked and stared at him. "No," he replied. "Not good?"

Lestrade shuddered. "It'll make you weep for years," he said, sounding strangely upset by it. An actual genuine smile crossed John's face as he stared at the Inspector and then back at the corpse. Accepting the pause in their conversation, Sherlock took the opportunity to inhale the scent of the clothing…was that fire damage?

"Saw the Rugby though," John said. "Six nations?"

Lestrade actually perked up. "It's going all right, isn't it?"

Oh god, not the rugby. Sherlock still had nightmares about his father's enthusiasm. "Can we return to the case?" he asked as he stood back up and held up his phone trying to get signal. "I've halfway solved it while you two have been wittering away."

"Show off," John muttered as he came closer. "Male, not an old skeleton?"

What?

Turning to look at John, Sherlock narrowed his gaze. His son met that look steadily, not looking away but not giving anything away either.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "How old?"

"I just said-"

"Precisely?"

At that, John hesitated. "Less than a year," he said shrugging. "More than a month?"

"Six months," Sherlock confirmed.

He'd been in contact with corpses then, had been starting to tell the difference between sexes. Likely had learned to recognise how old a corpse was to assess the threat level of the place he was in. The more recent, the higher the threat.

And John claimed he hadn't returned home from a war.

Examining the table, Sherlock smirked at the sight of a false compartment and nearly rolled his eyes at what he saw.

"How I Did It" by Jack the Ripper.

John snorted when he saw it. "So, a fake?"

Lestrade frowned, glanced over, and then a cheeky smile crossed his face as he took it in. "Been years since I've had one of these," he exclaimed, bending in close.

"One of these?" John asked.

"Oh yeah," Lestrade said. "Get some Jack the Ripper nut every so often. Usually when there's a film using it. Some good ones too," he said, standing up. "Ever seen Into Hell?"

John nodded. "The one with the prostitutes…" he trailed off and then frowned. "I don't need to sound that excited about that," he said sheepishly as Lestrade exchanged an amused look with Sherlock.

"The clothing is from a museum. It's been sold in fire damage and the corpse is six months old," Sherlock started to pack away his things. "Clear fake."

"Lot of effort," John muttered.

Lestrade still seemed more tickled than anything else. "You'd be amazed," he said. "I'll tell you a few stories next time," he said to John. John, whose shoulders were at ease and who looked relaxed for the first time in days.

Lestrade might have some uses after all.

Xxx

Mind the gap the doorbell told them as John pressed.

"Seriously?" his son asked. "I mean, he seemed…weird when he came around to the flat yesterday, but this is taking it a bit far."

"Be nice to Mr Shilpaire," Sherlock scolded.

"Right," John nodded seriously, "Being mean is your job."

This…this was becoming familiar. This almost-amused attitude that was directed at Sherlock. "I may not be able to ground you, but I can still make your life difficult."

"Yeah," John agreed as a shadow appeared through the frosted pane. "If only I hadn't become immune to all of that years ago. Hello," he said in a completely different tone of voice as the door opened. "Nice to see you again."

There was a nod from the train obsessed client. "Yeah, hi. This way," he said, leading through his house that was part made of walls, part formed from miniature train tracks. "My girlfriend is a big fan," he added as he led them through the house.

"Girlfriend," Sherlock scoffed and then checked himself when Mr Shilpaire looked back, clearly offended. John levelled a 'I'm so disappointed' gaze at him, and what exactly was he meant to do with that when he knew John was simply putting on act and was secretly laughing at him?

Caught, he simply smiled in what he hoped was something akin to an apologetic manner. "You said you had something of interest?" Sherlock asked, hoping to move the conversation on.

"Yeah," the client replied, edging to his desk. "Well, see, I like trains-"

John glanced at the living room they had entered with some wariness and then an odd smile crossed his lips as if he were fond of the idea.

"And I work on the underground," their client continued. "I wipe the security footage and…" he started one of the recordings. "Look, this man gets on the last carriage at Westminster-"

Sherlock sighed and watched, more interested in John's odd…almost admiration at the simple interest.

"And then the carriage is empty at St James' Park."

What?

Suddenly intrigued, Sherlock bent closer, watching as the clips played back again.

"The train never stops," the client summed up. "And a man vanishes. Good, innit?"

Sherlock raised his gaze back to John.

Xxx

"Well?" Sherlock asked as they left the house. "How would you have done it?"

"Wouldn't," John said, frowning up at the falling February snow. "Why get caught on a security camera to disappear after that distance?"

A good question. "Perhaps he didn't intend to disappear?"

"Then how do people get onto a moving train and all of them disappear?" John asked.

Indeed. "You ask better questions now," Sherlock observed. "It's…helpful."

Suddenly, a grin split John's face. "So…you don't think someone obsessed with trains can have a girlfriend. I'm pretty sure that's stereotyping."

"It is not," Sherlock muttered, spinning on his heel. "It's…statistics."

"Nah," John said, keeping up with him. "That's definitely stereotyping."

"Shut up."

Xxx

Sherlock woke to screams.

It was the same pattern as it had been the past few nights. He got up, pulled on a dressing gown and filled a glass of water as he left his room. Up the stairs, then knock on John's door.

It took ages, always did, before John let him in. Sweat-soaked and pale-faced, he'd accept the water and sit in silence staring at nothing in the darkness but allowing Sherlock to sit close.

He'd usually slip back into sleep before dawn and Sherlock would slip back downstairs at that point to sleep or work or just stare out the window with building impotent fury.

Every single night.

Xxx

They had to face them at some point.

"There're terrorists in London," John muttered as they sat in the taxi, staring out of the window and watching London's streets pass them by.

"There are always terrorists in London," Sherlock replied as he turned his phone over between his fingers. "That's hardly a good excuse."

An almost smile appeared on John's face but vanished quick as lightning. "They've known for ages though, right? Probably old news by now."

He had not raised a moron. Slightly disgusted, Sherlock blinked at John who was doing an excellent job of ignoring him. "Mycroft told them this morning."

Finally. John's head whipped around in horror. "What? But you said-"

"He claimed he had," Sherlock said, shifting in his head. "On the other hand, they weren't nagging on our door an hour later so perhaps I should have-" he broke off and clenched his jaw. "Either way. They're aware and you haven't had to deal with them before you were ready."

The sneered breath made Sherlock want to say something but he bit his tongue as he had for the past week. Soon he wouldn't have anything left to clamp down on. How people did this on a regular basis, he had no idea. It was insufferable.

"They know now," Sherlock said quietly, choosing to look away. "Deal with them now or later but…you will simply delay the inevitable."

John said nothing for a few streets. Then: "How did they take it?" he asked, as if nervous.

"Relieved," Sherlock said, shifting again. "They…Mycroft and I didn't tell them a lot when I arrived. They will have questions." Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see John wince and close his eyes.

"I told them that I believed you to be dead. That when I was captured they confirmed your identity and an assassin left seven days before Mycroft came for me."

"What?" John said, his attention suddenly snapping to Sherlock. "What do you mean-"

"We're here," Sherlock said and it was petty to feel childish triumph that now John had to wait for the answer to one of his questions. He reached for the door and eased out, trying to avoid staring at the spot in the street where he had spent what felt like hours hovered over smears of blood and trying not to get his hopes up.

The house next door hadn't replaced its wooden gate yet and god only knew what had happened with the street over.

There was a sudden, strange urge to pull John as close as possible and check that he was unharmed. Possibly because John had kept him at arm's length since the moment he'd agreed to stay. When he turned, John was looking up at the house with trepidation.

"Are Bridget and Phoebe-"

"One at a time," Sherlock said quietly. "Mycroft felt it might be best."

He could swear disappointment crossed John's face. The taxi was paid for and had driven off by the time John edged a single step towards the house.

"They're pleased." Did he really have to say this? Exactly what was going on in John's head?

His mother was probably going to suggest they return to that psychologist. And it was irritating that Sherlock couldn't think of any reason to go against it. Even more worrying, he could think of more reasons to do it.

John probably would not agree.

Striding forward, Sherlock walked up the steps and pulled out a key. There was always the danger that John wouldn't follow, but Sherlock still unlocked the door before turning back to shoot a pointed look at his son.

As if marching to his death, John climbed the steps and followed Sherlock in.

Mycroft was waiting in the living room, sitting in the chair he usually claimed as his own as he pretended to read the newspaper. His mother was no-where to be seen but his father had stood and was staring at the doorway with such intent that Sherlock swallowed back the urge to sigh.

John was likely to bolt from that look.

To his surprise, John edged into the room, every part of him showing how much effort it was taking him to remain calm and actually in the room.

Relief crossed his father's face, almost as if he had suspected this was another one of their lies. The speed at which tears welled up was alarming and his father let out a long relieved sigh.

"Hello," he said quietly, a smile blooming across his face.

"Hi," John said, still standing by the doorway. His hands were deep in the pockets of the puffa jacket that he wore and his shoulders hunched high up by his ears.

His father looked as he was about to say something and then glanced at Mycroft who had put down his paper and was quietly watching. Biting something back, the man smiled. "Shall I take your coat?" he asked.

That damned hesitation crossed John's face before he slowly nodded. Awkwardly, he edged out of the jacket and then glanced into the hall. "I'll hang it up," he said firmly. "Dad?"

Stirring himself, Sherlock removed his own coat and scarf and handed it to John as he tried to remember the last time they had been this civilised. It was unnerving.

"How is he?" his father asked as John vanished.

Sherlock strode over and reached for Mycroft's paper, taking it from him. "Like a baby bird," Sherlock muttered. "He'll fly if spooked."

"Why-" His father broke off as John returned. He opened his mouth a few times as if to work out what to say and Sherlock glanced at his brother who hadn't said a word about his theft. Mycroft met his gaze steadily and then drew in a long breath.

"How's golf?" John asked as if eager to fill the silence.

How's golf?!

But his father nodded. "It's…a nightmare in this weather. They keep threatening snow."

"Ah," John said and then looked around as if searching for something else.

Never in his life had Sherlock been so eager for his mother's ability with small talk. "Is mother in the kitchen?" he asked.

"Yes," his father said suddenly. "Yes, I'll go get her."

And then he vanished down the hall.

"There's telling them not to ask questions and then there's this," Sherlock muttered at Mycroft. Annoyingly, his brother glanced at John and then said nothing, as if accepting the criticism.

Then they stood in silence.

It was not what John needed but perhaps this was Sherlock's own fault. In trying to soothe his son and give him time to adjust, Sherlock had avoided the questions and yet now…it was as if the questions hanging between them all were merging to become a wall that none of them could cross.

"John," his mother said as she came rushing into the room. "I was baking," she added, flinging a flour stained apron to one side in a manner that was so unlike his mother that Sherlock found himself raising an eyebrow. "Let me see…oh," she breathed as she came to a stop in front of John. "Look how tanned you are."

A small smile crossed John's face. "Hi Grandma," he said as she pulled him into a hug. John closed his eyes and leaned deeply into the hold as if breathing in the feeling of being in her arms.

Sherlock was not jealous.

"And you've grown," she added, pulling back. "I told you not to get taller than me."

The smile turned into a grin. "I tried," John said with a rueful shrug. He looked as if he was about to say something else when she brushed his hair back and then seemed to give up. Instead, John shook himself and drew in a breath. "What are you making?"

"Oh…some biscuits. Shortbread and cookies and chocolate chip fairy cakes for you."

To Sherlock's amazement, John suddenly pulled her close again and buried his face in her shoulder. To his side, his father hesitated and then muttered something under his breath and walked over to place a hand on the back of John's neck.

It made John tense, there was no denying it but then he relaxed into the touch and his fingers clenched around his grandparents.

"We need to talk," Sherlock said to Mycroft, nodding to the study door. His father nodded at them and then turned his full attention to John.

Xxx

Inside the study, Mycroft folded his arms as Sherlock closed the door. "I told them to avoid questions-"

Sherlock waved him off. "That's not what I wished to speak about," he said and then hesitated. "Well…not the first thing I wanted to talk to you about."

"Then what-"

"He's having nightmares," Sherlock said.

As if that wasn't enough, Mycroft waited and slowly began to frown in confusion. "Sherlock-"

He collapsed into the chair, head over his knees and hands over his hair. He couldn't do this, he needed to stay strong for his son. To help him.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said gently, sounding…well….stunned. "Have you slept?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

He remained stubbornly silent, knowing that Mycroft would sense any lie. "He wakes screaming," Sherlock whispered to his knees. "He wakes screaming and then shuts down the moment I ask what's wrong."

"And he hasn't said anything?"

No. Sherlock shook his head as he sat back up and tried to draw in a long calming breath. "He knew Kavan Moriarty enough to know anecdotes. He lost his virginity to the woman who saved him that night and the one who probably took him from you. He was in Afghanistan and has almost walked out the door between seven to eighteen times. There are cigarette burns on his arms, scars that he doesn't want me to see…" Sherlock trailed off and tipped his face to glare at the ceiling.

"He came," Mycroft said quietly. "I'm amazed he did."

"As am I," Sherlock admitted. "Lestrade does better with him than I do."

Mycroft was glaring at him when Sherlock tipped his head back down. "You did better than I did," Mycroft said eventually. "And we are the ones that have to push."

The thought terrified him and Mycroft could probably see it. "I can't lose him a second time," Sherlock murmured.

"If he were going to go, he'd have gone," Mycroft said gently. "The longer he's home the more he will remember this is where he is meant to be."

"Or, the more he will believe that he doesn't fit in anymore and that he's bringing trouble down upon us," Sherlock corrected. "I'm not entirely sure where this martyr complex sprung from, but it's irritating beyond belief."

Mycroft said nothing but stared into the fireplace as he leaned against the desk in what was probably the least stiff posture Sherlock had seen him in.

For the first time that he could remember, they remained silent, simply being in the same room with one another and it helped. Having someone understand and not compete to come up with a solution to a puzzle that was far too complex for a clever answer.