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Chapter Text

"The greatest fear dogs know is the fear that you will not come back when you go out the door without them."
― Stanley Coren

When Mycroft Holmes came first in his exams, earning himself a place as the youngest-ever entrant in one of the country's most elite and prestigious secondary schools, his proud mother told him to name whatever he liked as a treat. She would never have made such a rash offer to her younger son (who, at three, was already demanding cadavers on which to experiment), but she expected Mycroft would request a new piano, or perhaps the expensive set of British political anthologies he had had his eye on for some time.

She was gobsmacked when her sensible, languid son instead asked for a puppy.

Mrs. Holmes could be forgiven for her lack of foresight. While the wish for a puppy might seem synonymous with boyhood, Mycroft was certainly not an ordinary boy. Along with his prodigious intelligence, he was endowed with a frightening emotional precocity. He had no friends; other children (including his own brother) bored him. He was careful with his diction, had a massive vocabulary, despised slang, and spoke like a seasoned solicitor, making it easy to forget he was only a child. He liked to dress well and abhorred getting dirty – at ten, he resembled nothing so much as a small accountant. He preferred reading to sports and, indeed, shunned physical activity as much as possible. He was a child who habitually moaned about being forced to accompany his parents and small brother on short Sunday strolls; he hardly seemed the type of boy to demand a rough-and-tumble puppy to play with.

In truth, Mycroft was not interested in the antics of a clumsy puppy. He had recently, however, become very interested in the history of the Kennel Club and dog showing. Already aspiring (at age ten) one day to move in circles of power among the elite, an intelligent interest in purebred dogs promised to be a dignified, correct, and worthy hobby, and one not requiring a disinterested owner to engage overmuch in "legwork" (there were trainers and handlers for that sort of thing).

Mrs. Holmes protested. She had enough to do, she declared, between trying to keep up with her hyperactive younger son, Sherlock, as well as seeing to the education of both very gifted boys. To Mycroft's argument that he would take on the whole of the responsibility for the hypothetical animal, Mummy had expressed considerable doubt, observing that a boy who abhorred sports and active play of any kind was hardly likely to offer the kind of robust lifestyle and vigorous exercise a sporting breed requires. But while she might have prevailed against her young son's rapidly progressing skills in debate with an inarguable "because-I-said-so," she could not prevail against her easygoing husband's amicable remark that a deal was a deal: she had promised the lad whatever reward he chose, and wouldn't it be nice to have a family dog 'round the home, anyway?

Mrs. Holmes conceded defeat and, shortly after Mycroft's summer holidays began, they brought home Tam O'Shanter of Knightscroft, a three-month-old male Irish Setter with an impeccable bloodline and a pedigree as long as young Mycroft's arm. When Mycroft expressed an admiration for the elegant, lanky beauty and deep, rich color of Irish Setters, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had consulted the advice of a well-known breeder who helped Mycroft choose a puppy that showed promise not only of great physical beauty, strength, and size, but a tractable, genial nature and signs of intelligence. Even at this early age, Tam O'Shanter proved to be brave, friendly, gracious, and unusually dignified for a setter pup, displaying an affable yet somewhat detached approach to people that was not unlike Mycroft's own. It was as though the puppy was aware of his prodigious pedigree, and while friendly, was not overly emotional as many puppies are, carrying himself in a right royal fashion that suited the cool, polite and aloof Mycroft to a tee. The pup seemed a perfect fit for its new young owner.

Unfortunately, the one thing Mycroft failed to take into account was the fact that, while anyone can be a dog's owner, a dog chooses his own master. From the moment they brought him home, Tam O'Shanter's choice was as immediate as it was clear – and, ultimately, irrevocable: he was Sherlock's dog.

To Mycroft's infinite disgust, Tam O'Shanter, while perfectly friendly with Mycroft and his parents, attached himself to the three-year-old boy with the sort of fierce devotion and utter adoration that inspires the legendary dog stories favored by any child that has ever coveted a canine of his or her own. The puppy could not bear to have Sherlock out of his sight; he would sit by the hour, eager and alert, looking up into the little boy's face as he played with his chemistry set or practiced his violin, watching it with never fading attention, studying it, following with the keenest interest each fleeting expression, every movement or shift in feature, his heart shining out of his soft brown eyes with profound worship. He would follow Sherlock wherever the boy went, from the moment the boy woke to the moment he was put to bed, and did all he could to remain with Sherlock while the child slept.

Sherlock, for his part, was delighted with this attention. Neither he nor Mycroft had had the pleasure of childhood friendships. Their keen intellects set them apart from other children, making them objects of suspicion, jealousy and disdain. Mycroft coped by turning to his books and looking down on lesser intellects with haughtiness, considering himself above them. Sherlock tried to follow his big brother's example, but had rather a harder time of it…while Mycroft was content with his own company and possessed of the ability to blend in (or at least not stand out too much), Sherlock secretly desired friends, but his restless energy and outspoken behavior made him even more off-putting than his elder brother.

The puppy gave Sherlock the companionship the boy craved on his terms: Sherlock wanted to be adored and admired, the puppy adored and admired him; Sherlock wanted faithfulness and devotion, the puppy was loyal to a fault and trusting almost to the point of stupidity, following Sherlock into all manner of ridiculous adventures in direct opposition to his own instincts towards self-preservation; Sherlock wanted someone to listen to his long-winded, rapid-fire "observations," the puppy never grew tired of listening to Sherlock, sitting enthralled long after the rest of the family's patience was outstripped by Sherlock's prattling, his floppy ears pricked, head tilted to the side, worshipful brown eyes alight with the eagerness to understand.

Though Mycroft was disappointed and (secretly) hurt by this turn of events, he did what he usually did in such situations: he affected an attitude of superiority, pretending (and sometimes almost believing) that it all mattered very little to him – that he was above such things. And when Sherlock, newly enamored with tales of pirates sailing the high seas, renamed the puppy "Redbeard," Mycroft hid his bitter resentment behind a show of scorn for his younger brother's childishness.

Shortly before Mycroft left for school, Mummy had come into his room one night after he had gone to bed to talk to him. Sherlock had already been in bed for two hours (a small miracle at which the household had not yet stopped marveling – getting Sherlock into bed and keeping him there had been an hours-long operation before Mummy had finally given in to her boy's pleas and demands that Redbeard be allowed to sleep with him). Sherlock still didn't go straight to sleep – the family could hear him whispering to the puppy when they passed the bedroom door for as much as an hour after the light was put out – but he was definitely sleeping longer and more consistently, with fewer nightmares and restless episodes. And the improved rest was showing in Sherlock's behavior and ability to concentrate during the day: his attention span was better, he could sit still for longer periods, and he was less apt to melt down when he didn't get his way.

It was this that Mummy wanted to talk to Mycroft about while she sat on his bed, telling him how sorry she was that his hopes for a puppy of his own hadn't worked out as they had planned, but that she hoped Mycroft could be pleased along with his parents about how much happier, calmer and more focused Sherlock was now that Redbeard had come into their lives.

Mycroft, who was rather fond of his little brother, agreed, and assured his mother that, in truth, he was really too old for puppies. He acknowledged that he would have little time for such things from now on, and that it was best for all concerned that Tam O'Shanter – that is, Redbeard – be Sherlock's dog.

Deep down, though, he could not help feeling jealous of the affection and camaraderie Sherlock shared with this puppy, and wondering what it would be like to have something or someone as loyal to him, just for being himself, as Redbeard was to Sherlock.

When Mycroft Holmes came first in his secondary school exams, earning himself a place as the youngest-ever entrant in one of the country's most elite and prestigious universities, his proud mother felt another treat was in order. This one she chose herself, however: a six-week holiday traveling in America for the whole family.

Ten-year-old Sherlock had been delighted at first, regarding the whole thing as a glorious adventure – until he heard his father on the telephone making arrangements for their travel.

"But what about Redbeard?" Sherlock demanded imperiously.

Mycroft, who had been in the room at the time, looked down at the pair. The dog in question, firmly attached to Sherlock's side as always, with Sherlock's hand carelessly resting on the back of his neck, looked up and waved his plumy tale at the sound of his own name on his young master's lips. As predicted by the breeder who had helped in his selection, Redbeard had grown into a stunningly handsome specimen of the breed, with a deep chest, slender waist, and an abundant, fiery coat that gleamed like burnished copper in the sunshine. He could easily have been a champion if Sherlock had not insisted that dog shows would bore the animal – and him. Not that a layman would know it to see the brute as he was now, Mycroft thought critically. As their mother had predicted, Redbeard's primary care – bathing, grooming and feeding – had fallen to her. As much as he loved his pet, Sherlock could not be bothered with attending to his long-haired coat. (Indeed, the boy barely remembered to feed the animal or provide him with fresh water. Mycroft supposed this was to be expected, seeing as how Sherlock often forgot to come in for meals himself when he was otherwise engaged with conducting experiments or exploring the woods for specimens – the boy often seemed to resent the time meals took up when he could be doing something more interesting.) Mrs. Holmes had a difficult time keeping up with her younger son and his pet, and like his youthful master, Redbeard often bore a distinctly tattered appearance, the feathers along his legs, tail and stomach as tangled as Sherlock's curls, his collar a battered reflection of Sherlock's thrown-together play clothes.

"Obviously the dog can't come with us to America, Sherlock," Mycroft sniffed, using his best shut-up-and-let-the-smart-people-talk tone that he had cultivated especially for his baby brother (it never failed to cause Sherlock to glower darkly at him from beneath furrowed brows). "Traveling abroad with an animal requires all sorts of tedious, complicated procedures, not to mention the fact that it's quite costly, and many hotels won't even welcome dogs."

"Then I'm not going, either!" Sherlock declared angrily, crossing his arms and lowering his brows. Sensing his distress, the beast at his side whined a bit.

"Now, Sherlock, be reasonable," Mr. Holmes said coaxingly. "We've chosen a lovely kennel for Redbeard where they'll take care of him beautifully. He'll be safe as houses, and looking out for you when we get back."

In the end, that was how it commenced: the Holmes' had kenneled Redbeard and set off on their adventures without him. 

They had a lovely time in America, and Sherlock, Mycroft noted, had seemed to forget about his doting and doted-upon pet entirely almost as soon as they were on the aeroplane. Indeed, as much as the boy missed the dog, Sherlock seemed also to relish the freedom from his canine friend's overprotectiveness. 

Mummy had declared more than once that she never had to worry about Sherlock when he was out on his own so long as Redbeard was with him. Among other things, the dog had diverted the attention of an angry bull that had taken umbrage when Sherlock had unwittingly invaded his field, tackled an oversized bully who had taken exception to Sherlock's observations that he was shoplifting in front of his mother, and on one occasion had pulled Sherlock out of a stream when the boy had missed his footing while trying to retrieve a specimen for his collection of marine life. 

Sherlock could hardly remember a time when Redbeard wasn't at his side, and had grown to fiercely love and depend upon the animal. But while it was true that the setter's guardianship had rescued Sherlock from many a scrape, and his tireless listening had helped his master work through many a challenging homework problem, Redbeard's presence could also be, Sherlock now discovered, a bit…restrictive. The dog had more than once stopped Sherlock from doing something it deemed too risky or dangerous by blocking the boy's path or holding him back by his coat or trouser leg with its teeth. Sherlock seemed to enjoy not being babied by a dog for a change…and not having said dog inadvertently thwart his plans. (Redbeard had accidentally given Sherlock away on more than one covert "spy mission" with an ill-timed bark, scratch or sneeze.)

It was, Mycroft supposed dispassionately, a sign of Sherlock's inherently selfish nature.There was greatness in his little brother – greatness and brilliance – but these qualities were not tempered by coolness and discipline as they were in Mycroft himself. Mycroft was careful in all he did; Sherlock was rarely careful at all. Part of the reason the younger boy did not have friends was due to the fact that he was as fierce and almost hurtful with his love as he was with this pride and sense of discovery…one needed only to look to Redbeard to see that. There wasn't much Sherlock wouldn't do for Redbeard, but there also wasn't much he wouldn't do to Redbeard in the name of science and curiosity. Sherlock would ride his bicycle for miles on self-appointed expeditions while Redbeard ran determinedly behind him, wearing his paws down until the pads were raw and bloody in his desperation to keep up with his thoughtless master. And Sherlock not only forgot to feed his pet when absorbed in composing a composition, he even experimented on him, once knocking the dog out for a day and a half with a sedative he had concocted himself.

But the great red setter seemed to have an unlimited source of patience where Sherlock was concerned, almost bursting himself trying to keep up with his young charge. Once, when Sherlock was five, Mycroft found the dog frantically attempting to scramble up the trunk of the Dutch elm in their garden. His little brother was sitting on a high branch, impatiently ordering his pet to follow him, and Redbeard probably would have hurt himself trying had Mycroft not put a stop to the exercise and explained to Sherlock that dogs simply don't climb trees. (At which point Sherlock descended, vociferously berating Redbeard for being "idiotic" and "useless" all the way down.)

Redbeard simply panted and waved his plumy tail happily because his idol was back on the ground.

For all that he had appeared to have forgotten about his constant companion while they were in America, however, Sherlock, during the family's return journey, became increasingly excited and eager at the prospect of being reunited with the dog. He shot out of the car before it had even come to a full stop when they reached the kennel, ignoring his mother's squawk of protest, and bolted toward the row of kennels where Redbeard was housed, eagerly calling his pet's name. But he was met with a wailing howl that sent shivers up Mycroft's spine, and a moment later there was a cry of distress from Sherlock that made the older boy and his parents quicken their steps to a run. 

When they reached Redbeard's enclosure, the Holmes parents and Mycroft skidded to a halt, staring at a tearful Sherlock on his knees in front of the cage, reaching through to a dog they barely recognized: the once glorious, shining coat was dull and sparse, the mighty muscles were wasted, and the animal's ribs were showing. 

Worst of all were the terrible, pitiful cries of almost hysterical ecstasy such as they had never heard the beast make is he flung itself at the door of the pen and tried desperately to reach Sherlock's face and hands with his tongue.

The owner of the kennel apologized continually as he fumbled for the key to Redbeard's prison, explaining that they hadn't known how to reach the Holmes family while they were abroad, and weren't sure they should even if they could, seeing that they were overseas.

"We did our best for the tyke," the kennel owner explained worriedly, "but he were pining for t'young man."

Redbeard recovered, but it was clear that, had he been parted from Sherlock for much longer, the family probably would have come home to find the dog had pined away to its death. Mycroft did not put much stock in intense attachments, but even he was not unmoved by the sounds Redbeard made when he was released from the kennel and at once bowled Sherlock over, wiggling desperately as though he couldn't get close enough, uttering frantic whimpers that sounded frighteningly akin to human sobs as he nuzzled the boy's chin.

For the next four months, Redbeard could not bear to be parted from Sherlock at all, even following his young master into the bath. Sherlock seemed but a little less traumatized than his pet, often electing to stay at home if his mother and father were going for errands on which Redbeard could not accompany them for one reason or another.

Mummy worried out loud more than once (never in front of Sherlock) about what would happen to the ridiculously devoted animal when her younger son went off to school – but as it happened, they never found out. The winter before that separation was to take place, Sherlock, lying on the floor in front of the fire reading a book, his head pillowed on Redbeard's satiny flank, idly reached up to twine his fingers in the long, red fur over the dog's shoulder as he so often did...only this time, his hand encountered a large lump that extended down over the animal's ribs.

The veterinarian tried her best, but she was not optimistic, and after a rapid decline over several months, Redbeard finally had to be euthanized.

To say Sherlock was devastated did not even begin to describe his grief. Their anxious and concerned parents finally resorted to taking their son to a doctor, who prescribed pills to help him deal with his despondency. Sherlock took the pills (which dulled his keen reactions and flying thoughts) for several weeks, then threw them away and refused to speak of Redbeard ever again. And from that time on, he took to heart Mycroft's adage that "caring is not an advantage," and became more solitary and aloof than he had ever been. The warmth and humanity that Redbeard had brought out in him dwindled, leaving behind a bitterly sardonic youth whose cutting tongue, combined with his keen insight, drove away potential companions. But Sherlock did not seem to care. Indeed, he seemed rather pleased.

Mummy had hoped Sherlock would get over it in time, but they all had to admit that he was never the same after Redbeard had gone. A wall had come up. Mycroft sometimes thought, privately, that perhaps it was just as well that Sherlock seemed unable to form meaningful attachments, if the loss of a mere dog could affect him so profoundly. Outwardly, it appeared as though Sherlock had "deleted" the dog from his memory...but Mycroft had his doubts.

Mycroft suspected that somewhere within Sherlock, deeply buried, a capacity for strong attachments yet lingered, waiting to resurface.

Chapter Text

“Not all those who wander are lost.”
–J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring 

June 2011

 Though the breeze ruffling his newly dyed and straightened ginger hair was quite mild, Sherlock put his coat collar up and turned so he was facing away from it. Looking at his younger brother, Mycroft guessed the involuntary shiver had less to do with (as John once so eloquently put it) a desire to “look cool” and more with simple fatigue. Sherlock’s angular features were bone-white but for the purplish half-moons under his eyes. His skin, hastily scrubbed to remove all traces of the fake blood, almost seemed translucent.

 Mycroft suspected he didn’t look much better. The wind tugged at the ends of his own usually slicked-back hair, and his eyes felt gritty. The last eighteen hours had been an efficient but manic flurry of activity, spiriting Sherlock away from St. Bartholomew’s Hospital and ensuring that Operation Lazarus was successfully implemented after Moriarty’s unexpected suicide.

 “You’ll start your work dismantling Moriarty’s network in Florence,” Mycroft said, handing Sherlock a file. “The strands of his web are far-reaching…even now we are not entirely certain where all his bases of operation can be found, but the Italian contingent ought to offer more detailed information.”

 Sherlock took the file with a dismissive shrug. “I don’t expect to be more than six months about it at most…probably less, as Moriarty was more confident than he was clever.”

 Mycroft frowned at this, but allowed it to pass. “You are, at this time, a Norwegian graduate student by the name of ‘Sigerson.’ My assistant will arrive momentarily with your identification and a new phone. I expect you to use it, Sherlock,” Mycroft added severely as Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You are not to go months without making contact…if I don’t hear from you at least once every fortnight I will assume you have met trouble and send someone to extract you.”

 Mycroft smiled thinly. “I do worry about you, you know. Constantly.”

 “Yes, yes,” Sherlock said impatiently, tucking the folder under his arm. “You agree to keep an eye on John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Molly, and I’ll remain faithful to our biweekly check-ins, Mycroft. Are you in a position to share their current…status?”

 “Mrs. Hudson, upon receiving the news of your supposed death, is at this time staying with Mrs. Turner next door,” Mycroft said, deliberately not going into detail regarding the profoundness of the elderly landlady’s grief. “I’m keeping a surveillance on the building. When your funeral service is over, I will explain to Mrs. Hudson that your things are to be left undisturbed until such time as I am able to go through them myself, and will cover the cost of the rent. I doubt she will raise an objection.”

 Sherlock made a “hmph” of acknowledgement and looked away, mumbling, “At least John won’t be compelled to move out.” He was clearly not feeling easy in his mind about Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft thought dispassionately.

 “I’m afraid Detective Inspector Lestrade is not very popular with the Chief Superintendent at the moment,” Mycroft continued smoothly. “He is facing an inquiry and a possible suspension. He is also being threatened with demotion, though I will, of course, step into prevent any real damage to his career.”

 Sherlock, who had started to protest at the mention of the demotion, subsided at this assurance, looking sullen.

 “Ms. Hooper will be attending to your ‘autopsy’ later today,” Mycroft went on. “It seems you were correct, and I have underestimated her…she has behaved admirably thus far. That said, I will offer her an opportunity to go on holiday.”

 Mycroft paused, then added, “I’m not sure what toll the deception may take on her conscience, Sherlock.”

 Sherlock paid no attention to this. “And what about John?” he asked, making a great show of pulling his gloves on to give the impression that the answer didn’t concern him overmuch.

 Mycroft smiled slightly. He knew better.

 “Well, what about him?”

 “Have you seen him?” Sherlock asked impatiently.

 “When would I have had time in the past twenty-four hours, Sherlock?” Mycroft demanded acidly. “I’m keeping a weather eye on him, of course. He’s safe, if that’s what you’re asking. He was taken into custody upon giving his statement–“

 “What?!”

 “–treated for a mild concussion – it appears your undercover cyclist was a bit too…enthusiastic in his appointed task–“ Mycroft continued, unperturbed.

 Sherlock winced. He had not wanted John to be hurt, but he supposed that a bump on the head was better than a bullet to the brain.

 “–after which he was formally charged with assaulting an officer – ah, forgotten your faithful bodyguard’s little altercation with the Chief Superintendent at Baker Street, have we?” Mycroft smiled snidely when Sherlock started. “The good Dr. Watson does sometimes remind me of that devoted childhood pet of yours, always ready to attack the ‘bullies’ for you, isn’t he?”

 Mycroft noted smugly that Sherlock’s jaw had tightened ever so slightly.

 “Now, where was I? Ah, yes…after being charged with assaulting an officer and resisting arrest, he was then transferred to a holding cell where he is still, I trust, cooling his heels.”

 “You left him there overnight, Mycroft?” Sherlock hissed furiously.

 “You’ll excuse me the oversight, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped back. “I was rather preoccupied with helping my little brother fake his death, arranging his departure from the country under an assumed name, and assuring our parents as to his safety. Forgive me if bailing out your blogger wasn’t high on my list of immediate priorities.”

 The two men glared at one another, absolutely still but for their hair and coats which were continuously buffeted by the rising wind. Mycroft took a breath and looked away first, knowing that Sherlock was not going to like what he had to say next.

 “To be perfectly frank…it really was, I decided, the safest place for him,” Mycroft said reluctantly.

 Sherlock’s eyes narrowed still more. “What do you mean?” he asked dangerously.

 Mycroft paused. Then, reluctantly, “One of Moriarty’s assassin’s slipped our net.”

 Sherlock stilled. “Which one?” He turned away so that Mycroft had a view of his profile as he steeled himself to hear the answer.

 Mycroft’s lips thinned. “The one that was targeting John.”

 Sherlock spun back around. “Bloody hell, Mycroft!”

 “So you see,” Mycroft continued smoothly, “a holding cell in New Scotland Yard, while not the most comfortable or dignified of accommodations I’m sure, truly did seem the best option for the good doctor who can, on occasion, be a bit…unpredictable, shall we say…while we were resetting the board.”

 Sherlock turned away, visibly trying to get himself under control. He swore softly under his breath. Mycroft knew what he was thinking, because he was thinking the same thing…that this particular faceless assassin, whom they had long suspected of being Moriarty’s chief lieutenant, was both clever and dangerous. And if he was clever enough to slip past Mycroft’s agents, then he might be clever enough to suspect that Sherlock’s “suicide” might just be a ruse.

 Sherlock did not ask regarding the feasibility of that last as he already knew the answer. Instead, after a moment of silence, he said softly, “I could have brought him with me.”

 It was so quiet Mycroft almost missed it under the wind and the turbines of the jet’s engines. “What?”

 Sherlock turned to face him again. “We could have faked John’s death, too.”

 Mycroft gave in incredulous laugh. “And you think he would have dropped everything in his life – his position at the clinic, his other friends, his sister – to follow you on this mad errand?” he scoffed.

 “Yes,” Sherlock said simply.

 He said it without the slightest hint of hesitation, and as Mycroft stared into his brother’s grey eyes and saw nothing but calm certainty there, he found himself wondering (as he had so often wondered while observing his brother in his boyhood with a ridiculously devoted Irish Setter by his side) what it would be like to have someone as loyal to him, just for being himself. There was no one in his life whom he trusted as implicitly as Sherlock appeared to trust John Watson, and of those Mycroft trusted the most, he knew their chief loyalty was, like his own, to the nation and not to him.

 Which was as it should be, of course. He felt a sudden twinge of something he refused to name as “loneliness” and pushed it aside ruthlessly.

 “I have my doubts as to the usefulness of a personal assistant on a venture such as you are about to embark upon, Sherlock,” Mycroft said coolly. “John Watson is a good man, and a worthy comrade to have by your side in most situations. But he is simple, straightforward, and nowhere near as clever as you. He is also quintessentially English and useless at subterfuge. In this situation, being alone will protect you.”

 He paused, wondering for a moment why Sherlock had flinched at those words. But when the younger man only kept his eyes on the tarmac before them and said nothing, he continued.

 “As to the notion that he might be let in on what we were planning, well…the less John knows, Sherlock, the less likely he is to compromise your cover, or to become a target himself. And if he, your own right hand, believes you to be dead, then, hopefully, those whom you are pursuing will believe it, too.”

 Sherlock swallowed painfully. Mycroft and he had discussed all this before, and it had made perfect sense. He did not understand why the memory of John’s broken voice pleading, “Let me though, please…he’s my friend…he’s my friend” should make him question the rightness of his actions now.

 Before either brother could say another word, the woman John Watson knew as Anthea approached, a briefcase in one hand and a zippered file in the other.

 “Your documents, sir,” she said, handing the briefcase to Sherlock.

 Sherlock took them. He looked up at Mycroft.

 Mycroft held out his hand. “You may trust me to see that your friends are kept safe, Sherlock. I trust that you will do all you can to keep yourself safe.”

 And with that promise, Sherlock nodded once and shook his brother’s hand. Then, without another word, he turned and strode toward the plane.

 As the aircraft began to taxi down the runway, Mycroft’s assistant handed him the zippered file.

 “Here is an update on the safety precautions being put into place on Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Martha Hudson and Molly Hooper, as well as your parents, sir.”

 “And Dr. Watson? Has he been released yet?”

 The cool brunette indicated a sheaf of papers in the file. Mycroft pulled them to the top and glanced over them. He paused suddenly and, thunderstruck, began going over them again more slowly.

 The top one was an arrest report. John Watson was not only being charged with assaulting the New Scotland Yard Chief Superintendent, he was also being charged on suspicion of accessory to kidnapping in collusion with one Sherlock Holmes. Due to the seriousness of the latter crime, the evidence gathered, his attack on the Chief Superintendent and his proven status as a flight risk, he had been denied bail.

 Tightening his grip on his umbrella, Mycroft turned back to his assistant. “Explain.”

 His voice was cold and flat, but she knew him well enough to not be cowed.

 “It seems that the NSY forensics team upon reviewing the material gathered at the factory where the Bruhl children were found discovered evidence linking Dr. Watson to the scene prior to his arrival with your brother and the police. A search of 221b Baker Street also turned up a supply of mercury in Dr. Watson’s bedroom.”

 Mycroft stared at her. Behind him, he heard the jet’s engines rev and turned just in time to watch it lift from the ground. He wondered as he watched if Sherlock was looking out of the window at him. Moments later, the plane vanished from view.

 Mycroft stared down at the arrest report again.

 “So…Moriarty planted evidence that would implicate John as Sherlock’s partner in crime.” He frowned. But why? While John had remained a target so long as he was at Sherlock’s side, neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had ever believed that Moriarty had for one moment regarded John as more than dogs body, unthreatening and unimportant except as a way to get to Sherlock.

 Unwillingly, Mycroft started to smile. “Clever boy,” he whispered. “Clever, naughty boy.”

 “Sir?”

 Mycroft started, then looked at his assistant, remembering where he was.

 “Apologies…I was thinking.” He stowed the report back in the folder and started toward the long black car waiting for them. Settling himself in the back seat, he addressed the driver. “London. New Scotland Yard.”

 Mycroft snorted, looking down at the file in his hands. Moriarty had likely deduced that, should Sherlock go into hiding, he would break cover to assist John. And it might have worked, had Sherlock known about this before he left, Mycroft thought.

 Mycroft was surprised to find that he felt…angry. He might not have much in common with John Watson other than a devotion to his country and to Sherlock, but he respected him (there were few men who did not fear Mycroft, and John was one of these), but he’d be damned before he’d see this good man dragged through the mud in correlation to the charges being trumped up against Sherlock. He would descend upon that wretched little Chief Superintendent like an avenging angel, point out the flaws in the planted evidence in a manner that would teach them that Sherlock wasn’t the only Holmes who could see, and John would be free before evening fell.

 They weren’t twenty minutes out from the airfield when his assistant’s mobile pinged. She read the text, frowned slightly, and made a call. Moments later she hung up and addressed her boss, who had been observing her unobtrusively from the rear seat.

 “Sir, our agent at location Y alpha reports activity from the right sector. The target appears to have been spotted.”

 The “target” in this case happened to refer to the assassin whom they believed to be Moriarty’s second-in-command. Mycroft felt a sudden rush of excitement.

 “Change of plans. Return at once to the main office. We have work yet to do today.”

 “And John Watson?”

 Mycroft paused a moment. He glanced down at the arrest report in his lap again.

 Ah, yes. John.

 Mycroft had promised his brother that he would keep an eye on his friends, keep them safe. John Watson had proven to be a bit of a wild card in the past; there was no telling how his grief over Sherlock’s supposed death, played out before his very eyes, would affect him. With Moriarty’s top man still running around loose in the greater London area, perhaps being detained at Her Majesty’s pleasure was the safest thing for the doctor, at least for now. And the easiest way for Mycroft to keep him under observation – and under control.

 “Let’s leave him where he is for now, but continue to monitor the situation,” Mycroft finally decided. His assistant nodded.

 Sherlock wouldn’t like it, Mycroft supposed, but that hardly mattered as Sherlock wouldn’t know. And of course it wouldn’t be for long – Mycroft would see to John’s release personally as soon as they had corralled the elusive assassin.

 Oddly, for one moment Mycroft thought of his brother’s pet. He shook the thought away, moved John Watson to the back of his mind, and retrieved his own phone from his coat pocket.

 There was much work to do.

Chapter Text

"God save us from people who mean well."
–Vikram Seth, from A Suitable Boy

June 2011-February 2012

"Leave him where he is for now" became something of Mycroft's policy regarding John Watson over the weeks subsequent to his brother's clandestine departure from England.

After John was remanded into custody (he never did return to Baker Street after he and Sherlock, handcuffed together, had fled the place), Mycroft saw to it that the public defender provided for John by the Legal Aid Society who had accompanied the doctor to the magistrate's court was replaced with a private lawyer who was with John when his case was passed along to the Crown Court. He also reinstated surveillance on John (Grade 2–Active – no need for anything more stringent, really, as it was all too apparent where John was and what he was doing these days).

Apart from that, Mycroft kept his distance from Sherlock's friends. He had shaken DI Lestrade's hand at the funeral and thanked him for his participation in Sherlock's life; he had gone to Baker Street and arranged to use flat B as a pseudo storage space for Sherlock's (and John's) possessions "for the foreseeable future" (during which time he had allowed Mrs. Hudson to prepare him a cup of tea and even weep for a few moments on his shoulder while he patted her awkwardly once or twice); he had offered Molly Hooper a cordial nod and nothing more at the funeral and on the day he identified his brother's body in the company of a police constable, not wanting to give any hint of their association away.

He did not go to see John at all – in fact, they had had no contact from the time the former soldier had stormed out of the Diogones Club the day of Sherlock's leap.

Neither Lestrade nor Mrs. Hudson had made any attempt to get in touch with Mycroft after Sherlock's faux burial, but Molly Hooper turned out to be a bit more problematic. She had performed her part admirably (even in the face of Mrs. Hudson's heartrending grief at the funeral, though Mycroft could see how painful it was for her), but John's predicament was tearing at her conscience. About ten days after John's conviction (that had been in mid-January of 2012) but before the sentencing, Molly had finally begged Mycroft's assistant (she did not have Mycroft's direct contact information) for an interview. He had wanted to put her off – for him to be seen with her, tied to her in any capacity now that Sherlock was supposedly deceased, was a major security risk he wished to avoid at all costs – but his assistant warned him that he might want to step in now…Miss Hooper was in danger of becoming unpredictable.

Aggrieved, Mycroft arranged a late night meeting in Molly's lab at a time when she was supposedly doing catch-up work and his operatives assured him the building was secure and nearly empty. To his huge relief she did not weep, but it was easily apparent that she had been doing so a great deal lately, and that even now tears were not far off.

"I don't know how much longer I can bear it, Mr. Holmes," she had said, her voice trembling slightly. She looked small and fragile and very young somehow, standing behind her desk in her shabby little office, wringing her slender hands together. "Mrs. Hudson must think I'm so awful…she's invited me by several times, but I've told her I can't bear to see the place…it's actually her I can't bear to see; I feel so guilty when she starts talking about Sherlock and looks so sad. Any cases that involve DI Lestrade now I pass along to Keith upstairs. And John–" here her voice broke a little. Molly blinked rapidly and visibly swallowed a sob before steadying herself and looking up at Mycroft again. "Have you seen the way they've been talking about him in the papers?"

Mycroft had, of course. He sighed a little. It was true – John Watson, the decorated former solider and once-respected doctor, was being crucified in Sherlock's place.

"Miss Hooper, I assure you–"

"The sentencing is in two days, Mr. Holmes. Two bloody days! They're saying he could go to prison for twenty years, and I can't do this, I just can't do this, I thought I could, but–"

"Miss Hooper."

Molly stopped and looked up at him, breathing hard and blinking fast in an attempt to prevent the tears from coming.

"Miss Hooper," Mycroft began, making a concentrated effort to gentle his tone. "I assure you, the length of the sentence the judge hands down is utterly irrelevant. When John's name is cleared–"

"When will that happen, Mr. Holmes?" Molly interrupted. (Mycroft loathed being interrupted.) "When will it be cleared? When...when will Sherlock come home?" Her mouth quivered a bit at that last part.

Mycroft sighed. "Soon. Very soon, I hope."

"That's what you said three months ago! And three months before that!"

Mycroft's mouth tightened in displeasure. He knew damned well the timetable of three to six months that he and Sherlock had predicted for the complete takedown of Moriarty's empire had turned out to be incorrect. It seemed that every stone they turned – Mycroft at home, Sherlock abroad – revealed more corruption, more factions, more of the deadly web.

"We are doing our best," Mycroft said, striving for a reassuring tone. "It has been a more…complex process than we had first thought, true, but progress is being made, and before long, Sherlock's name will be cleared – and so, by extension, John's."

"You could find a way to clear their names now," Molly said plaintively. "I'm sure Sherlock would want you to…does he even know what's happening with John?" she added with a sudden frown.

Mycroft knew he must tread very, very carefully now.

"Miss Hooper." He waited until her eyes met his. "I know you are distressed at Dr. Watson's plight, as am I. But I must warn you again that your silence is imperative to Sherlock's survival. To break it would not help John, and it would only hurt Sherlock."

Molly blanched and looked away. Mycroft paused to let the point sink in still further, then continued.

"There are dangerous people who were in James Moriarty's employ who would be only too happy to 'remove' Dr. Watson – and Detective Inspector Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson – if they had any inkling whatsoever that Sherlock still lives. Or worse, to use them to draw Sherlock out of hiding. And Sherlock's own cover would be compromised. He could be killed."

Mycroft paused again.

"Miss Hooper, I understand your difficulty," he said finally. "But I assure you, Dr. Watson is safest where he is, and as soon as possible he will be exonerated, and Sherlock will return, and all will be as it was before.

He had played his hand correctly. Molly, with her foolish, schoolgirl crush on his brother, would want above all things to ensure Sherlock's safety. She backed down at once, and Mycroft knew he would have no more trouble from her.

Only once had Mycroft experienced a twinge of conscience of his own. Sometime in early October of 2011, his assistant had handed over the week's reports on Sherlock's friends. John's was the top file, and when Mycroft opened it the first thing he saw was an 8"x10" black-and-white photo of the doctor being escorted from the Old Bailey, where his case had just been laid. On his left was the lawyer Mycroft had arranged for him. (The lawyer had reported to Mycroft that John had initially rejected his services, saying in no uncertain terms in his pride and anger that he wanted nothing from Mycroft, but Detective Inspector Lestrade had urged him not to be a fool, to take whatever help he could and count it as being owed to him. John had eventually, grudgingly acquiesced.) On John's right was Greg Lestrade himself, who had only recently been reinstated after his thirty-day suspension. (True to his word to Sherlock, Mycroft had managed to prevent the police detective from being demoted; the initial enquiry and subsequent disciplinary action, however, could not be avoided.) Despite the facts that Lestrade was currently persona non grata around the Yard and that it wasn't really his purview, he had fought to accompany John to and from the Crown Court, undoubtedly, Mycroft guessed, as a way to show moral support.

John was the photo's chief subject, though; the news photographer had caught him full on, and Mycroft found himself arrested momentarily by the image.

Someone (probably Lestrade) had draped John's rain jacket over his shoulders; he could not put it on properly as his wrists were handcuffed in front of him. Underneath the jacket he was wearing that awful suit he had worn to Moriarty's trial, a suit he'd probably owned before he went to Afghanistan. (Mycroft deduced that John had likely not bothered to replace it while he was in the army, as he would have worn his dress uniform for formal occasions.) Never physically imposing to begin with, John looked a bit thinner than he had when Mycroft had last seen him, but unlike most prisoners, he stood very straight with his head well up, chin raised and expression set. His hair was neatly trimmed, short around his ears.

It was the look on John's face that caught the normally unflappable Mycroft, however. Eyes forward, studiously ignoring the journalists Mycroft knew were crowding around off-camera, screaming questions at him, John's stoic expression was that of a stalwart captain looking out to sea as his ship sank with him on it, or a martyr on the way to the stake, grimly determined to make a brave show of it as he underwent lash and flame.

The black-and-white photo made it impossible to tell if silver strands had crept into John's sandy hair, but the lines in his face definitely cut more deeply than before. Yet despite this – despite the cheap suit and the bound wrists and the restraining hands on his arms and shoulders, despite the hurled insults and invasive questions and insensitive accusations to which he appeared to be deaf but no doubt felt in his heart, despite the intense grief at the loss of his dearest friend and the trauma of having witnessed his suicide, despite the knowledge of the grave injustice and absolute wrongness of the whole thing – there was a beauty, a nobility in his expression that transcended the shame and disgrace that being in the dock must be for this proud, dedicated former solider who had never in his life committed a dishonorable act.

Mycroft suddenly noticed the photo was trembling slightly. He realized it was because his own hands were trembling slightly, and he cursed himself for being sentimental. He was certain he was doing the right thing for all concerned by allowing John's journey through the court system play out, but looking at the photo made him doubt. He could not afford to doubt himself, and so he purposefully hid the photo beneath the written report.

Five weeks later, John Watson's trial began. A month after that, he was found guilty as an accessory to kidnapping. (The charge of attempted murder was dropped as the video left on John's blog by the man the press was calling Richard Brook raised reasonable doubt as to the veracity of whether or not the mercury had been planted.) Citing mitigating circumstances (John's lawyer had argued, against John's wishes, that the doctor had not been of sound mind due to post-traumatic stress disorder and that he had been influenced and manipulated by the late Sherlock Holmes), the judge sentenced John to ten years in prison.

John had stood with a dignity that belied his surroundings while the sentence was pronounced, only a slight twitch of a muscle in his left cheek offering any hint of what emotion might be hidden behind his impassive expression. The doctor held his head high as they led him away, utterly stoic except for a slight, brief smile of reassurance in the direction of his sister and his former landlady (both of whom were weeping) as he passed. He also quirked a grateful half-smile at Greg Lestrade when the detective inspector had briefly taken his arm just outside the courtroom and whispered that this wasn't over, by God, not by a long chalk.

Upon exiting the courtroom, John was immediately removed to Belmarsh for holding, and shortly afterwards transferred to Frankland.

And, despite Mycroft's assurances (to Molly and to himself) that this would all be resolved "soon," there he remained for the next twenty-one months.

Chapter Text

“Rain didn't make things messy. People did that all on their own.” 
― Barbara Delinsky, The Secret Between Us

October 2013

 “And what about John Watson?”

 It was the pause – a pause so slight most people would have missed it, but he was not most people, and he knew his brother well – that first alerted Sherlock to the fact that the answer to his question might not be the one that he was expecting (hoping?) to hear.

 Having just (very gingerly – he was still sore from the beating he’d undergone in the Serbian prison) slipped into his suit jacket, Sherlock froze in his task of straightening his lapels and turned his head towards his brother. He felt a prickle of unease at the back of his neck, just above the hairline, when he saw the look on Mycroft’s face. It was a wary, calculating look, a look that Sherlock had seen before. A look that said, An ordinary person might find what I am about to relate distressing; my brother is not ordinary, but he is unpredictable, and so I cannot be certain as to exactly how he will react – therefore, I must proceed with great caution.

 Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

 Mycroft gestured to his assistant, who stepped forward and handed Mycroft a thick file. Mycroft nodded. “Leave us,” he said quietly.

 She went, shutting the door behind her. Sherlock turned to face Mycroft. “What is it, Mycroft?” He demanded. His eyes were on the file, but Mycroft did not extend it to him. Not yet. Instead, he simply studied his younger brother for a moment.

 Sherlock had kept to Mycroft’s rule about checking in once every fortnight, probably more because he wanted to ensure that Mycroft would have no excuse to come after him than from a desire to avoid worrying his older brother. Their conversations were sometimes long and detailed, sometimes short and to the point, but they were always, always focused on the task at hand – dismantling Moriarty’s empire entirely, nothing more and nothing less. Occasionally Mycroft would inquire after his brother’s health in such a way as to make the question sound flippant, partly disguising his actual concern, and Sherlock would respond in a like manner that would mask his own attempts to reassure his brother (and, by extension, their parents, to whom Mycroft would surely be reporting back).

 Never once during the twenty-eight months that Sherlock was away did he ask about anything or anyone in England: not his parents, not Baker Street, not Mrs. Hudson, not New Scotland Yard, not Lestrade…not John. Not once.

 Mycroft had wondered about that. Of course, he didn’t object to it, or offer any unsolicited information (no point in opening a Pandora’s box worth of trouble if he couldn’t answer Sherlock’s questions about John truthfully), but he did wonder.

 Mycroft had narrowed Sherlock’s lack of curiosity down to three possibilities: firstly, that he was so focused on the job at hand that he neither wanted nor needed any distractions, and news from home, especially news of unimportant, day-to-day happenings, would definitely qualify as “distractions.” Secondly, he probably trusted Mycroft to keep him informed if anything really important happened…for instance, if something were to happen to one or both of their parents, who were in their seventies.

 Thirdly…ah, thirdly. Mycroft considered a moment. In many ways, his younger brother was still a child: an easily distracted child. Take his toys away and he’ll fuss, but generally only until he is given a new one. Sherlock was, Mycroft knew, far too brilliant to be able to truly relate to the people he naively called his friends. He might have missed them at first, but once his attention was diverted to his new adventures…well, Mycroft was reasonably certain that Sherlock did not ask after his old “friends” simply because he didn’t think of them anymore.

 Well…Mycroft had been reasonably certain. The way Sherlock was looking at him now, with an air of anxious expectation, like a man bracing himself to hear bad news but hoping against hope he would hear anything but…Mycroft would have to reevaluate. He could reassure his brother on one thing, anyway, and that with absolute certainty.

 “John is alive and safe, Sherlock. They are all alive and safe.”

 Rather than reassure Sherlock, it seemed to make him even more uneasy. He turned to face Mycroft fully.

 “Mycroft,” he said warningly, his voice low and dark. “Where is John?”

 Mycroft gave him a humorless smile. “How would I know?”

 “You always know. Where’s he going to be tonight?”

 Mycroft studied at him a moment longer with that appraising gaze, then took a deep breath.

 “Tonight he will most likely be where he’s been since …shortly after your name was cleared a week ago: sleeping on the sofa at the flat belonging to Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

 Sherlock blinked, nonplussed. “Why would he be staying with Lestrade? Sentiment? Are they celebrating my exoneration? Why would Lestrade have a flat in town? Ah, he and his wife have finally finalized the divorce…obvious. Likely he chose a flat nearer to the Met when he moved out, leaving the house in the suburbs to his wife, save himself the commute…a single man, divorced, would find it difficult to afford a large flat in the city on a policeman’s salary. Lestrade isn’t likely to take on a flat mate at this point in his life…must be a little more than a bedsit. So why not have a celebration at Baker Street? More room, Mrs. Hudson would no doubt like to take part, probably would provide the food…makes no sense.”

 All this was said in a typical Sherlockian, deductive rush. His speech skidded to a halt and his clear gray eyes locked on Mycroft’s again.

 “So, Mycroft…what is it you’re not telling me? Is…something wrong with Mrs. Hudson?”

 Mycroft made a mental note of the slight wavering in Sherlock’s voice as he referred to Mrs. Hudson and stepped nearer, holding out John’s file. “This will tell you everything you want to know.”

 Keeping his narrowed eyes on his brother, Sherlock took the file. He pinned Mycroft with his piercing gaze a moment longer, then turned his back on him as he opened the file and began to leaf through it.

 Mycroft could pinpoint the exact moment when Sherlock saw John’s arrest report with the charges clearly laid: accessory to kidnapping. Attempted murder. Assaulting a law enforcement officer. Resisting arrest. Fleeing the scene of a crime. There was no discernable movement, but instead Sherlock’s body seemed suddenly to turn to stone, becoming hard, still and cold. The only sound was the turning of the pages, more and more rapidly and Sherlock flipped through the file, until at last he stopped at the most recent addition and all sound ceased.

 A moment passed. Then another.

 Mycroft became uneasy. Hesitating, he stepped forward. “Sherlock.”

 No answer.

 Mycroft tried again. “Sherlock?” And he moved to touch his brother’s arm.

 It was so sudden, so unexpected when Sherlock yanked his arm away, spun around and punched him in one smooth, lightning fast movement, that Mycroft didn’t realize what had happened until he found himself blinking bemusedly up at the ceiling, a fierce burn in his jaw quickly dulling to a numb throb. He shook his head a little to clear it and rose up on one elbow quickly when he heard Sherlock utter a sharp, short cry of distress that instantly propelled Mycroft back some twenty-six years to a Yorkshire kennel, but the only thing he saw was a flap of his brother’s coat disappearing around the door frame and a newspaper clipping fluttering to the floor.

 Sitting all the way up, Mycroft carefully pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressed it to his lips with one hand while he slowly reached for the newspaper clipping with the other. It was the photo and article from the Daily Mail, the one from the day John had been vindicated in court. The press that had been so eager to castigate Sherlock and John two years ago was now singing their praises and calling on the Met to be held accountable for their blunders which led to one man being driven to suicide and the other to having his name dragged through the mud (ironic, that) and incarcerated for two years.

 Mycroft studied the photo, his throat tight. It echoed the October 2011 photo in that it showed John Watson exiting the Old Bailey accompanied by his lawyer and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. This time, though, John wasn’t standing quite so tall and impervious to the shouts and calls for his attention. Though his face was as stoic as before, this time he seemed clearly uneasy by the proximity of the reporters, and very intent on trying to avoid the cameras being pointed at him, hanging back slightly behind Lestrade, keeping his eyes on the ground, turning his face away. It was a hopeless attempt, though, and the photographer had no trouble documenting in full color the horrific, two-inch wide scar that now stretched from the corner of John’s left eye, down over his cheekbone, and around his mouth to the point of his chin…as well as the haunted, guarded expression he could not quite conceal.

 Perhaps, Mycroft, thought, rubbing his jaw, Sherlock had been thinking of his friends during his absence more than he had surmised.

 Lestrade waited until he was in the dark, chilly, subterranean car park before reaching into his open coat to draw the pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. He threw a cursory glance around while he tapped one cigarette against the cellophane pack before raising it to his lips. Seeing and hearing no one, he flipped open his lighter. Ostensibly he had given up these things, but it had been a hell of a week, and old crutches are easy to return to when pain flares up. And dear Lord, had it flared up this past week…all that shit regarding Sherlock and Moriarty hitting the fan and bringing up the old hurts, the story exploding in the press, the black eye to the Met (though it was Lestrade himself who had finally managed to prove that Moriarty had indeed invented Richard Brook and had set both Sherlock and John up), and then the whole mess with John…Lestrade felt like he could go home and sleep for a month, maybe more. But it just wasn’t on – there was still far too much to deal with at the Yard, and Mrs. Hudson and John – John, especially – needed him.

 He suppressed a sigh as he took his first drag. At least somebody did.

 It had been about a month before John’s conviction – right around Christmas, and wasn’t that bloody lovely timing – that he and his wife had separated for the last time. Almost exactly a year to the day, come to think of it, that Sherlock had told him she was sleeping with the PE teacher. He had been angry and upset at Sherlock’s callousness and lack of empathy at the time, but he supposed it was because he, Lestrade, had been badly shaken to find that his efforts to reconcile were being met with further betrayal. He hadn’t wanted to admit that his marriage just wasn’t working – he’d given his word – but in the end he’d recognized the truth and moved into a small bedsit not far from the Yard. He wished at the time that he’d listened to Sherlock…and then wondered if, in his own way, Sherlock hadn’t been trying to help him by telling him the truth.

 It was a bit demoralizing at his age and place in life to be back in something like a bedsit, but over time he got used to it, and even to like it…he might get something a bit bigger at some point, but it was nice not having much to clean, not having to go far for the shopping, and not having a long commute in. And if he was sorry that John had had to curl up on his small sofa these past few nights, John himself didn’t seem to mind, and indeed seemed to find the small size of the bedsit…reassuring.

 John was accustomed to small spaces now.

 Lestrade took a deep drag and let it out slowly, shaking his head in admiration. Brave John. He had stayed steady as a rock for almost every bit of these past two years, but when the judge had announced that he was now deemed to be innocent and cleared of all charges and was free to go, the blood had drained from his face and he had staggered slightly, lurching into his lawyer’s side. His sister had flung herself at him, sobbing and apologizing, and Mrs. Hudson had pulled him into an embrace that was shockingly strong for a septuagenarian and begged him to “please come home now.” John had not responded to either of them but instead had raised helpless, shell-shocked eyes to Lestrade’s.

 Lestrade had come to the rescue at once. He had been unable to help Sherlock when it counted, but he could and would help John.

 “You come on home with me, mate,” he’d said, grasping John by his good shoulder. Harriet had protested that John was her brother, and Mrs. Hudson had argued that all John’s things were still at Baker Street, waiting for him “just as he left them,” but Lestrade gently interposed himself between John and the two women and placated them, telling them they would get it sorted out, but for now John just needed to get his bearings, and if they tried taking him back to Baker Street or to his sister’s the press would camp out at the door – with Lestrade, he could lie low for a bit. The gratitude on John’s face had made his approval of the plan perfectly clear, and the two men had fled the Old Bailey, John almost stepping on Lestrade’s heels in his attempt to stay close and away from pushy reporters.

 By the time they reached Lestrade’s car John was regulating his breathing in an attempt to keep down a panic attack. The scar that he’d got last year stood out on his face like a brand. They stood for a moment, facing one another, then Lestrade put his hand on the back of John’s neck and pulled him in for a wordless embrace. John had stiffened at first, then the tension seemed to run out of him and he leaned the top of his head against Lestrade’s chest and just breathed for a moment, in through the nose, out through the mouth, muttering steadily under his breath, “Oh, Jesus…Jesus,” fighting back the tears.

 They’d gone back to Lestrade’s place where John had at once dropped down onto the sofa and fallen asleep without even taking off his shoes. He’d slept for thirteen straight hours.

 The second night John’s sleep hadn’t been quite so restful. He’d awakened with a cry that had Lestrade bolting up in bed. “John?”

 “Put on the light! Put on the light!”

Lestrade had scrambled to do so. He blinked as his eyes grew accustomed to the sudden blaze, and when they cleared he saw John sitting up on the sofa across the room, blankets twisted around his waist, pushing at his eyes with the heels of his palms as though he could reach through the sockets to wipe the dream away.

Lestrade watched him for a moment, then quietly got up and made tea. By the time he carried the two cups over to the sofa and handed one off to John, the doctor’s breathing had slowed to near normal, and he looked up with bleary eyes and tousled hair.

 “Thanks,” he mumbled, taking the tea. Then, lower still, “sorry.”

 “No, mate, don’t…don’t apologize, yeah?” Greg said. He started to reach out, to put a hand on John’s shoulder, then something made him draw back.

 After a beat of silence, John told Greg he would go home, eventually (and by home, Lestrade knew he meant Baker Street), but it wasn’t just the reporters keeping him away right now…it was the thought of all that space…and, even more, of everything being exactly the same as it had been on that night (barring Mrs. Hudson’s inevitable tidying), a shrine to a life that no longer existed. It would be like stepping back in time to the day Sherlock had died, and John admitted that he wasn’t sure he could face that just yet.

 He’d missed the funeral; he’d never been to Sherlock’s grave. For John, Sherlock’s death was almost as fresh as when it first happened.

 Lestrade sighed, dropped the cigarette to the ground, and ground it out under his heel, only half-smoked. It hadn’t tasted good, and he knew “Doctor John” would give him the eyebrow if he smelled it when Greg got back.

 Then, as he turned to his car, the detective inspector heard a voice from the beyond the grave.

 “Those things will kill you.”

 The detective inspector froze in the act of reaching for the car door handle.

 Greg Lestrade was no stranger to death and loss. He had loved and lost many people over the years to illness, accidents and old age (and yes, even to suicide before Sherlock Holmes). If it had been any voice other than Sherlock’s, he might have fainted or doubted his own senses. As it was, he simply stilled as his brain attempted to process what he had heard.

 Could it be true? Could Sherlock Holmes, somehow, have beaten death itself? No, not even Sherlock Holmes could come back from the dead…but could Sherlock have faked his own death so successfully that even his best friend, a doctor, a witness, could be fooled?

 Yes, his brain decided. Yes, he could.

 Lestrade turned his eyes outward to the driver’s side window and saw, reflected in the glass, an achingly familiar profile. He could even see that the silhouette’s collar was popped up.

 “Oh, you bastard,” he whispered.

 The sudden rush of highly conflicting feelings – joy, rage, anguish, hope, fear, wonderment, bewilderment, sorrow – made him slightly dizzy.

 “As far as possible…try not to punch him.”

So he spun around and hugged said bastard with all his strength instead, ignoring the surprised, pained grunt this elicited.

Chapter Text

"Nothing is very strong: strong enough to steal away a man's best years not in sweet sins but in a dreary flickering of the mind over it knows not what and knows not why, in the gratification of curiosities so feeble that the man is only half aware of them, in drumming of fingers and kicking of heels, in whistling tunes that he does not like, or in the long, dim labyrinth of reveries that have not even lust or ambition to give them a relish, but which, once chance association has started them, the creature is too weak and fuddled to shake off."
― C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters

September 2012

Today, Lestrade thought grimly as he approached the tall gate at HMP Frankland. He was going to find out what the hell John's problem was today, and he wasn't bloody leaving until he did.

When the guard at the Visitor's Centre entrance asked to see his visiting order and personal ID, Lestrade pushed through his official police ID instead. "Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. I'm here in an official police capacity," he said authoritatively in his gravelly voice. "It's imperative that I speak with prisoner SJ1311 today."

The guard's eyes widened slightly as she regarded him through the transparent barrier. "One moment please, sir." She retrieved Lestrade's ID from the receiving tray, rotated on her chair back towards her desk, and lifted the phone from its cradle.

When Greg came here, he normally used his regular driver's license to get in. But those "unofficial" visits needed to be planned at least two days in advance and required Greg to have a visiting order as well, which he did not have because John had not sent him one in three bloody months.

Gregory Lestrade was one of two people who were on John Watson's list of approved visitors at Frankland. The other was Mrs. Hudson, and she hadn't received a VO in months, either.

It hadn't been easy to get them on the list in the first place. Her Majesty's prisons (particularly category A and B prisons) were notoriously strict about who was allowed to visit a prisoner, and because the list of approved visitors was quite small (usually three), favor generally fell to family members and partners. Since John was rather short on relatives and Lestrade was an officer of the law, his request to have Mrs. Hudson and Greg on the roster was eventually granted. (Harriet Watson had also once been on the list, but John had revoked her privileges three months earlier, after only two visits. When Lestrade asked him why, John had declined to elaborate.)

It had taken a bit for them to notice that John had stopped sending them the visiting orders because setting up the visits was so bloody difficult to begin with. John was allowed to have three visits each month, but they couldn't be spontaneous…the Visitor's Centre had a rule about scheduling at least two days ahead, but even that often wasn't enough as the slots tended to fill up quickly. In the first few months after John's conviction, Greg usually got out to see him twice a month – once with Mrs. Hudson and once on his own, leaving the third visit for John's sister. When they learned that her brother had barred Harry from coming (and that had taken a few weeks to drag out of John), Mrs. Hudson added a second visit on her own. It wasn't easy for her – a trip to Durham by herself meant a three-hour train journey and then hiring a car for the rest – but Baker Street was very lonely for her now, and she "hated the thought of John locked up all alone in that terrible place, with no familiar, friendly face, day after day, week after week."

The only way for people outside the prison to contact John was through the post – he had no access to a computer, and only he could make calls (never receive them) using the prison phone (they had confiscated his mobile, of course, and telephone calls were regulated nearly as strictly as visits).

The first two months John had called to tell them he'd waited too long to get on the visiting schedule; when he sent a letter to that effect for a third month with no visits, Mrs. Hudson had had enough.

"Something's wrong, Greg, I know it is," she argued as she served him some of her home-baked shortbread to go with his tea (Greg had promised John he would look in on the elderly landlady often, and had grown to very much enjoy his visits).

"Look, Mrs. Hudson, John's not the first person I've heard of who's had all kinds of trouble getting visits arranged…they make it so bloody complicated–"

For an answer, Mrs. Hudson handed him John's letter. It was apologetic, mildly affectionate in John's fond but shy way, and very short. It included a couple of sad attempts at being funny about the bureaucracy of the thing, and Greg could see why Mrs. Hudson was concerned – it felt like John was trying to deflect her from asking too many questions, and that he would rather not write at all but knew he needed to placate his ex-landlady.

Greg stared at the missive, frowning.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said finally, handing the letter back. "I'll get a note in the post out to him this very night…if his answer to me isn't satisfactory, I'll run out there, yeah? I'll be able to get in to see him whether he arranges it or not…I'd have done it before now, but I need to be careful claiming official business and all that…we could get into trouble…"

"Would you dear?" Mrs. Hudson said, lifting a hand to her throat in relief. She sat down across from him at her kitchen table and took his hand and squeezed it. "I'd feel so much better."

"Don't you worry," Lestrade promised.

But after he got John's response to his own letter (a carefully couched, "Mate, what the hell is going on, Mrs. Hudson is worried sick?" sort of note), Lestrade became worried himself: 

Hey, Greg,

Thanks for the note, mate – I do appreciate hearing from you. Sorry I've been a bit out of touch – I've had a lot of correspondence to catch up on. Guess I've been distracted and let the scheduling get away from me. I'll get it sorted soon. But in the meantime, there's no rush to come see me, you know – I'm not going anywhere, ha ha. You and Mrs. Hudson have your own lives to lead, and I don't fancy the idea of her taking that train journey by herself, anyway, now that winter is coming on.

I'll write again soon, yeah? Stay safe, and if you think of it, write up a couple of cases for me (nothing too terrifying, though – they read through incoming and outgoing mail here).

Cheers,

John

Distracted. Really, John? Lestrade thought now. He had been ushered to a small room with a two-way mirror, rectangular table, and two chairs, not unlike the interrogation rooms at NSY. They haven't given you a work detail and you're in your bloody cell a minimum of twenty-one hours a day, and even though you tried to hide it under the table I could see how badly your left hand was twitching on my last visit–"

The guard opened the door, ushered John in, and stepped back into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. John, looking decidedly bemused (no doubt wondering what this was all about) looked up and froze. And Greg, when he got a good look at John, froze also.

Not for the first time since this whole, wretched business began, Lestrade was glad that prison kits didn't resemble the jumpsuits found in American prisons – it would have been hard seeing John in such a getup. Even though the standard issue dull grey tracksuit and blue t-shirt were a far cry from John's usual jeans, jumpers and haversack, John didn't look much different than he did on their visits to the NSY gym – so long as one didn't dwell overmuch on the fact that the stamped logo on the front of his sweatshirt said "HMP" instead of "Army."

But it wasn't the clothes that took Greg off guard now. It was his face – specifically, the vicious, recently knitted red gash that stretched from John's brow to his chin on the left side of his face, its widest part over the left cheekbone. On either side of the long gash, tiny pink points showed where stitches had gone in to hold the flesh together and later been removed. The wound looked as though it had been infected at one point and was still in the process of healing.

The two men stared at one another a moment, eyes wide, mouths open. Lestrade found his voice first.

"Christ. Oh, sweet Jesus–"

John opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"Greg. It's not–"

"Don't John. Do not tell me it's not as bad as it looks. Bloody hell! Don't you dare."

Lestrade raised both hands to his head in agitation.

"Look, let's just–" John started.

Lestrade dropped his hands, grabbed one of the metal folding chairs, yanked it out from the table and set it down again with a metallic slam that made the guard outside the door shoot them a discreet glance.

"Sit down, now," Lestrade barked, and so commanding was his tone that the former soldier responded to it instinctively, sitting down with a sigh. He put his hands on the table in front of him and looked down; it was then that Lestrade noticed they'd cuffed him. Of course…they think I'm here to question him on some other crime, he thought.

He was too upset and pissed off to call the guard in and ask him to remove the cuffs, though. He had the feeling they would refuse, anyway.

Letting a sharp huff of air out through his nose and mouth, Greg sat down across from John.

"I guess I know now why you've been refusing visits."

John looked up ruefully. God, he looked awful, Lestrade thought. He had lost about a stone and was pale from being indoors most of the day. His eyes also looked a little "squirrely," Greg thought, and no wonder if they were keeping him in his cell much of the time. John Watson was not a man who did well with idleness.

"Will you tell me what happened?" Greg asked, striving to keep his voice calm. Just think of it as another investigation, he told himself sternly. But that went out the window when John answered with one word.

"Sherlock," John said simply.

"Sherlock?"

"Sherlock," John repeated. He smiled a little with wry humor. "We were looking for people who believed in him, Greg. We were looking in the wrong places…we should have come here!"

"John, I swear to you, I made sure, sure, that you wouldn't be sent somewhere with criminals you'd helped Sherlock take down."

"And there aren't any here, Greg," John said gently. "Good job for me, too; I'd probably be dead by now if there were."

"Then how–"

John laughed shortly. It was a bitter sound.

"Greg, the first day we met you told me that you'd known Sherlock for five years. He worked a lot of cases before I came along, and I'll bet you there's not a prison in England – hell, in the whole UK – that isn't hosting at least one guest kindly referred to them by one Mr. Sherlock Holmes. As it is, this place has seven, and not one of them believes he's a fake. Real kindred spirits I've found here, me."

Lestrade couldn't stop staring at the ugly gash. "What the hell did he get you with?"

"Quite clever, actually." John sounded strained. "Toothbrush handle, melted so a razor could be pressed in. Never saw it coming. One swipe on the way to the canteen and my eye was full of blood…I thought it'd been put out for a moment. Wound up with forty-seven stitches."

"Jesus."

"Yeah."

"What happened to that…him?"

"Did a stint in solitary* and got an add-on to his sentence," John replied.

Lestrade blew out his breath slowly. "Well, that's something, at least." He was quiet for a moment, then said hesitantly, "Do you want me to–"

"No."

"But–"

"I said no, Greg. I need to find my own way in here."

"But John–"

"Greg, if you make waves, they'll just transfer me, and then I'll have to start from the bottom again," John cut in sharply. "Life in here…it's a hierarchy, you have to establish your place in the pecking order. There's no way 'round it."

John grimaced down at the table, then looked Greg in the eye.

"When I first got here I had three strikes against me that instantly made me a target. First, they could see I'm not what you'd call a big guy. Second, they thought I might be a nonce**, seeing as how I'm in here as an accessory to child abduction. Well, they figured out right quick I'm not an easy mark," here John smiled grimly, and Greg managed a small smile in return. He'd learned long ago at the Academy that blokes like John – little guys with neat, compact builds – were usually tough as iron and the best runners to boot because they could go on and on for miles. They were also good fighters, able to use their lower center of gravity to their advantage.

"Something, I don't know what, convinced them I'm not a nonce," John went on.

Greg knew the answer to that one, too…anybody who knew John for more than a day would be able to tell that he was a man of integrity.

"So now all I have left to deal with is this crew of Sherlock's admirers, who've been more than happy to express their admiration of him to me," John finished. He looked at Lestrade long and seriously. "Now I'm getting jumped every other week instead of every other day. If I'm transferred, I'll have to start all over from the bottom of the food chain again."

Lestrade didn't know what to say. He hated this.

"Besides," John tried to smile. "Gives me something to do, working out how to deal with them. God knows I'm short on diversions these days." He forced a laugh. "Talk about boredom…poor Sherlock, he wouldn't last five minutes in here!"

He was trying to make Lestrade laugh, to lighten the mood. Greg stretched his lips unconvincingly, then gave up the effort as a worried frown took his face over again.

"But maybe a different facility–"

"Like I said, Greg, all of them are home to at least one of Sherlock's past cases. Besides…" he hesitated.

"Yeah?"

John looked away, a bit embarrassed. "They might move me somewhere even more difficult to get to from London. I…I don't want you and Mrs. Hudson going to too much trouble, you understand, but..."

Lestrade's expression turned hard. "Can't think why that would bloody matter, since you weren't sending us visiting orders. You were just going to stop contacting us altogether, weren't you, try to sort of fade out of our lives for our own good, is that it?"

"I would have got in touch eventually!" John snapped, stung.

Lestrade's voice rose then, too. "Oh, really? Do you know how frantic Mrs. Hudson's been these past two months? No, of course you don't, because you haven't even called her! I'm the one who's had to hand her the tissues and tell her you'll get in touch when she cries and worries."

Lestrade was suddenly aware that he sounded like a member of his team who was always arguing with her brother over the care of their elderly mother. He shoved the thought aside as his anger rose still higher, thinking of Mrs. Hudson's distress – and his own. "Even if you don't give a damn what I think, I'd at least hope you'd think of her–"

"I am thinking of her, dammit! I don't want her to see me like this!" John yelled, motioning to his face with his bound hands.

That shut Lestrade up. Some of the heat went out of him as he met John's glare, for he thought he could discern a trace of pleading in the doctor's dark blue eyes. Letting out a long breath, Lestrade laid his palms over the table and he looked down unseeingly at the metal surface for a moment, trying to regulate his breathing. He counted to thirty in his head, then looked up again.

"John," he finally said, his voice gentler now. "You're talking about never seeing Mrs. Hudson anymore. Is that what you really want?"

At that, John closed his eyes and bowed his head, lips pressed tightly together. He was a doctor; he knew full well that, barring plastic surgery, there was no way to hide the wound…despite the careful stitching job, it was going to leave a prominent scar.

"No, of course not," he sighed, sitting back in his chair. "I was hoping it would look a bit better before she did come again, though, you know? She…" John quirked a rueful smile. "Well, she won't be pleased when she sees it."

"No joke," Greg agreed fervently, sitting back in his own chair. "She'll want to take down the bastard herself!"

They both chuckled quietly at this.

After a long silence, John sighed and sat up a bit, looking earnestly at Lestrade. "Would you…?"

"I'll…explain what happened," Greg promised. "And prepare her for what she's going to see." Insofar as I'm able. Jesus.

"Thanks, mate." John managed a small smile.

And that was all. By unspoken agreement, the subject was dropped, and Lestrade filled John in on the doings at the Yard (Anderson's wife had found him and Donovan out and given him an ultimatum – her or Sally, who was not pleased when Anderson cancelled their weekend trip to Brighton), and John talked about letters he'd received from a couple of old Army buddies who were still standing by him and shared funny stories about a young bloke in for dealing who seemed a goodhearted lad overall who had attached himself to John a bit (he had the rather impossible surname of "Wiggins"). In this way, each doing his best to pretend everything was all normal and fine, the hour passed.

As Greg was leaving, though, he retained John's hand a moment longer than usual when John offered it to him to shake and said, quietly but earnestly, "Don't disappear on us, John, yeah? We've already lost Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson and me…well, we couldn't stand it if we lost you, too."

John's expression softened. "I won't, Greg. Promise." He gave Lestrade's hand a quick squeeze, then let it go and stepped back as the guard came in.

Lestrade gave him a warning look. "You'd better call me in a couple of days…I mean it, mate. I'm going to have a talk with Mrs. Hudson tonight, and she won't want to wait to come visit once she hears you've got it sorted."

"Right."

Something was bothering Greg, though, he thought as he left that grim place behind – had been bothering him throughout the entire conversation with John. It wasn't until he reached his car and sat down behind the wheel that he was able to put his finger on it. John had seemed…better than he had at any time since they'd first realized he was being set up as Sherlock's accomplice, despite the horrific facial injury. Rubbing his forehead with his right hand, Greg remembered the day he'd shown up to escort John to his first hearing. The doctor, his face worn with weariness and grief, had looked at him in mild amazement.

"What are you doing here, Greg?"

"Figured you could use a friend at your side."

John had had the poker-faced mask on from the beginning, but a flash of some strong emotion passed through his blue eyes before he managed to push it down – gratitude?

"It's good of you, but foolish. You're in enough trouble yourself," he said flatly.

"I couldn't be arsed." Lestrade was surprised by the fierceness in his own voice as he said this.

John had smiled slightly, then – a weary, bitter smile that did not reach his eyes. "I'm going down for this, Greg. You know it and I know it. It's going to happen because Moriarty arranged it that way, and Sherlock's not here to bail me out of trouble this time." He didn't add that it seemed only fair, as he, John, had failed to bail Sherlock out at the end.

"I'm here," Greg said sharply. Sherlock's name hit his heart like a knife constructed of guilt and sadness and regret. "I'm here, and I'm not leaving you alone in this. They can sack me, but I'm going to keep looking, on my own time if I have to, and I'm going to get you out of this. I might not be as fast about it as Sherlock is…was. But I'm getting you out, do you hear?"

He had said it like a vow, and he had meant it as such – he had not been there for Sherlock when it had counted, but he would be there for John: for John's sake, for Sherlock's, and for his own.

John had been grateful, but it had not erased the look of despair mixed with grief lurking just under the surface in his dark blue eyes. He had never been panicked or frightened; he had seemed to accept his fate from the beginning. But the depression became far more apparent when he actually began serving his sentence. Like Sherlock himself, John wasn't a man who did well with boredom – though he didn't deal with it by shooting up walls. Instead, he began to shut down and withdraw into himself. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had both been very worried about him, and how the imprisonment would affect him over time.

Today, though, there had been something slightly…manic in John's expression. Something almost excited, as though he was welcoming the element of danger Sherlock's enemies were introducing into his prison life. John might not seek out trouble, like Sherlock, but he certainly wasn't of a nature to steer clear of it once it found him.

Greg Lestrade sighed as he pulled out of the car park and began the long drive back to London. Not for the first time, he wondered if John Watson hadn't dealt with his PTSD so much as sidestepped it by keeping his mind and body active and engaged in Sherlock's cases. He seemed like such an easygoing, normal bloke that many at the Yard wondered what on earth he saw in Sherlock Holmes that made the doctor want to befriend the difficult yet brilliant detective, but Lestrade knew there were similarities that ran deep.

He just hoped those similarities wouldn't get John into more trouble than he'd already had.

Three days later, John kept his word and phoned Lestrade, who told him he'd sat Mrs. Hudson down and gently told her what had happened and what she could expect to see on her next visit to John. Mrs. Hudson had been deeply distressed, but also angry – at John.

"You tell Dr. Watson when he phones you that he'd better have that visiting order to me as fast as possible if he knows what's good for him!"

John had laughed and pretended to be frightened, promising earnestly to obey at once, and a week later Mrs. Hudson was on the train to Durham.

He had been so nervous about the visit that morning that Bill Wiggins had to tell him twice that he'd taken John's advice and enrolled in the Open University course before John truly heard him. That had been in the games room during the "association hour," and John's visit with Mrs. Hudson was scheduled for right after.

"'ere. You been out of it all mornin'. Want to shoot some pool?"

"Can't…got a visitor."

"Oh, so's that's why you're distracted! Woman is it?" Bill looked excited, and John laughed.

"Yeah, but she's more of the mum variety, Billy."

"We'll take what we can get in 'ere!" Bill grinned.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting when John was escorted into the Visitor's Centre. She did not, as John had feared, fall apart when she saw his face, but she did step forward without a word and put her arms around him. The hug lasted so long that the screw† that had brought John in began to exhibit signs of uneasiness. Close physical contact with a visitor was permitted at the start and end of each visit, but if it went on too long a guard could elect to put a stop to it, or even to cut the visit short, so John gently disengaged himself from Mrs. Hudson's arms and led her to a chair. There, she took his hands in hers and just sighed, "Oh, John." He bowed his head, feeling unaccountably ashamed, and they sat in near silence for most of their hour together.

Chapter Text

“All of us have our wires crossed and crisscrossed so many times it's impossible to untangle the mess. It really does seem like the entire human race might as well be conversing with hand gestures and grunts, for all the success we're having.” -Jody Gerham, Babe in Boyland

---

October 2013

"No, Sherlock. It's just not on."

Lestrade curled his hands around his mug, which was filled with hot, sweet tea, in an attempt to bring some feeling back into his fingers. He hunched over the none-too-clean tabletop so that what little steam the beverage gave off could drift up to his face. Though he still wore his coat and scarf, he began to feel as though he might never be warm again. He supposed he was in some form of mild shock, and wished for a moment that he had a stiff drink instead of tea.

By contrast, the newly resurrected man sitting across from him in the dingy, half-deserted coffee shop seemed, if slightly impatient, utterly relaxed– far more so, Lestrade thought resentfully, than the situation called for. Sherlock sat leaning negligently back in his seat, one arm across the rear of the seat behind him, the other on the table, the fingers impatiently drumming a restless beat. His signature Belstaff coat hung open casually; his scarf was knotted loosely around his neck. Lestrade eyed the ends of the scarf and took a moment to picture himself using it to throttle the bastard. He might have tried it had he had any strength left in him whatsoever.

"Don't be dull, Lestrade. John Watson has nerves of steel."

"Well, he doesn't anymore," Lestrade growled. He winced involuntarily, thinking of John's most recent nightmare. They didn't talk much about the bad dreams – he knew John was humiliated at having his friend witness them – but Lestrade had suggested gently just that morning that, circumstances being what they were, it might not be such a bad idea for John to call his old therapist and make an appointment. He had been both relieved and worried when John had agreed without protest. "I'm serious, Sherlock…he's been through a hell of a lot, these past two years."

Sherlock's fingers stopped drumming. His face was set like stone.

"I was going to see him first," he said softly. "That is – I had wanted to make myself known to him, first." He wouldn't meet Greg's eyes.

"Well, why didn't you?" Greg asked bluntly.

"I left before I could learn from Mycroft," (here his voice turned slightly venomous), "where you are living now. He told me John was with you…I hadn't thought he would leave Baker Street. Well, why would he?" Sherlock asked defensively in response to Lestrade's incredulous look. "It's a good location, Mycroft kept the rent up…he was happy there."

"And you thought he'd be there waiting around after witnessing your suicide? Jesus, you really are an idiot," Greg said helplessly, scrubbing his hand along the short hairs at the back of his head and neck. "He wouldn't have stayed there even if all hell hadn't broken loose the moment you stepped off that bloody roof. But as it was, Sherlock, it all went to shit in a hurry. The press latched on to him once you were beyond their reach, and tore his reputation to shreds. And then when he got convicted…God, it was awful. For all of us, but especially for John. He was in Frankland for nearly two bloody years."

"It took me two years to dismantle Moriarty's network," Sherlock said sullenly.

"And it took me that long to uncover enough evidence to clear both your names and get him the hell out of that place!"

"I'm not surprised, considering the idiocy of your investigative techniques," Sherlock snapped. "There was no need for you to have been about it that long…on the cab ride over I went through the file and found seven inconsistencies that would have thrown enough reasonable doubt onto the evidence Moriarty had fabricated against John to clear him…his case need never have come to trial!"

That stung – badly – and Greg slammed his mug down, sloshing tea over the tabletop, and rose to his feet.

"Well, you weren't bloody here, were you?" he hissed. "You or your bloody, arrogant sod of a brother. I was all he had, and I did my best for him!"

"Obviously it wasn't enough!"

Greg felt that statement like a punch in the gut, and he sank back into his seat, palms flat on the table, and stared straight down, trying to get his breathing back under control. He felt as though a hand around his heart was squeezing it painfully. He knew full well it hadn't been enough…that he hadn't been enough. He had sifted through the evidence, slowly, painstakingly, for that's what Greg Lestrade was – a dogged, determined, persistent investigator who was good at what he did, and very thorough. But he wasn't a genius, and he didn't have Sherlockian flashes of brilliance. Working alone and on his own time (because to the Yard, the case was closed, and there was no one who believed in Sherlock Holmes anymore, or in John – even Donovan, who liked John, thought of him as a good bloke who had, unfortunately, been bewitched by Sherlock), he had eventually uncovered the truth. But not before John had served twenty-one months of his ten-year sentence, and anyone could see that he would probably never be the same for the experience.

"Lestrade."

Greg looked up. Sherlock, his face pale and his eyes anxious and uncertain, was looking straight at him. "I…what I meant to say…" he trailed off, stammering a bit. Apologies came hard to Sherlock (especially when he meant them), and Lestrade could see Sherlock regretted what he had said. He could even see that Sherlock had said it because he blamed himself, at least partly, for what had happened to John.

He had explained it all to Lestrade…the need to take Moriarty down, the three snipers, the necessity of going undercover. Greg was grateful, he supposed, for his life being saved – of course he was. He could even admire the brilliance and thoroughness of the plan. It was the damned cold-bloodedness of the whole thing that left a bad taste in his mouth and a sick feeling in his stomach. To lie to them all, to force John, John of all people with his PTSD, to witness such a thing, and to leave them all to grieve for however long he deemed it necessary while he went gallivanting off alone around the world on a genius-hunt… And what was worse, he was completely unrepentant – Lestrade could read it in his body language. He was upset about John, yes, but as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned, he had concocted a brilliant plan and done what was necessary to make it work, and while he probably would say it was regrettable that the people whom he called friends found it to be painful, Lestrade knew he had no real notion of the suffering he had left in his wake.

Most people would say that no one knew Sherlock Holmes as well as John Watson did, but Lestrade thought that even John didn't quite realize how childlike the brilliant detective really was – nor how fragile. Sherlock was as unthinking of how his actions affected others as a boastful young boy might be, and, though he had come to care for the three people whose lives he had endeavored to save, he had no real notion of how important he was to them. Sherlock Holmes didn't have friends. People didn't like him, and he didn't understand other people.

Lestrade sat, pinning Sherlock with his own version of a deductive gaze, and saw a man who was upset over the effects his actions had had, but uncomprehending of how deeply those effects ran. It occurred to Greg at that moment that he didn't know anyone in the world – including John – who felt as alone as Sherlock Holmes probably did. Greg pitied him – he truly did. If he hadn't been so hurt and angry himself, he might have pitied him more.

"I'm not taking you back to my place, Sherlock," Lestrade finally said aloud. When Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, Greg cut him off at once. "Yes, I know you could probably follow me there without my ever even seeing you, but I'm going to ask you for one thing…I know it's hard for you to trust anyone over your own intelligence, but just this once I want you to trust me and give me tonight to explain things to John. I know you probably thought he'd be delighted to see you, would shake your hand and clap you on the shoulder and shake his head at your cleverness in pulling this bloody charade off. But that's not what would happen, Sherlock. I'm not sure what would happen if you tried it, to be honest. But I do know this – John's been through a cruel time, and you'd better let me act as a buffer between you on this, and break it to him carefully. So please…just give me tonight to explain things before you go dropping in on him. I'll text you after, but…just give me tonight, yeah?"

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, his lips pressed tight together. Then, curtly, he nodded once.

Removing the pan from the stove, John stirred butter and Parmesan into the rice mixture, covered it, then set it aside. This was key for a perfect risotto, his mother had told him long ago…too many people grew impatient and served it immediately, not giving the dish the time it needed to take on the extra creaminess which gives it its beautiful, signature texture. John had listened well and mastered the knack (Harry had been too impatient).

As a cook, John's skills could be described as competent and capable, but not usually very imaginative. He could brew a perfect cup of tea and grill a particularly tasty cheese-on-toast, but that was nearly the extent of it. Not even Sherlock had been able to resist John's risotto, however, and John had found his roasted vegetable version to be a good way to sneak some much-needed nutrients into the recalcitrant detective.

Even if he hadn't been much of a cook, it still felt good to be able to prepare food for himself again. Hell, it just felt good to look forward to meals that didn't include over-boiled vegetables, sponge pudding and custard. Even being able to prepare a cup of real tea that actually tasted like tea and not like diesel fuel seemed nothing short of miraculous now. The food at Frankland had been nourishing enough, John supposed, but rather grim, and nothing near to Mrs. Hudson's cooking. Along with some of his things from the flat, she had brought over a lovely fish pie and a blackberry crumble that was perfectly sublime the night after John was released for a bit of a celebration dinner, and the three of them had enjoyed it immensely.

With the risotto ready to go, John glanced up at the kitchen clock. He'd expected Greg back well over an hour ago. Not in a particular rush to eat, he fixed himself a cuppa and settled down to wait for the DI, figuring his friend might like to share the risotto.

Thinking of that celebratory dinner, John figured it was a good thing they had had the food to expound upon. All three of them were ecstatic that Sherlock's and John's names had been cleared, and all three of them were positively euphoric that John had been freed (well – John was more stunned than euphoric at this point), but…no one really knew what to talk about. Every topic somehow felt taboo. To talk about the time before, with Sherlock, felt unbearable. To talk about things that happened while John was still inside felt awkward. And for John, contemplating the future felt incomprehensible – he was still having a hard time getting a grasp on the present.

Setting his mug of tea onto the small coffee table to cool. John sat back and glanced around Greg's tiny bedsit. Despite the fact that the Lestrade had told him many times that he was welcome to stay as long as he wanted, John knew he couldn't continue to hide out here much longer. Although the bedsit seemed large when compared in John's mind to his five-and-a-half square metre cell at Frankland, John knew it couldn't possibly seem that way to Greg, and now there were two people living here.

The problem was…John just didn't know what the hell he was going to do.

Harry had not stopped bothering him about coming to stay with her in her large townhouse on the outskirts of London, but John knew he wouldn't be able to bear it. He loved Harry, he worried about her, but he knew from experience that living with her was just not on. She would consistently be in his space, asking him questions he didn't feel comfortable answering, demanding he talk, "open up." He knew full well she was still drinking, and being drunk loosened her tongue in a way that was guaranteed to cause fights. And then there was the way she had let him down so badly after his sentence began, for which she still felt guilty and kept insisting on apologizing.

John just didn't want to talk about it.

Then there was dear Mrs. Hudson. Twice since his release last week she had asked him when he was coming "home," the wistfulness and eagerness in her voice making his gut twist with guilt. In many ways, he wanted to gratify her – Baker Street had been the most "at home" he'd felt since leaving the army – since ever, really. But the thought of returning there unnerved him. Mrs. Hudson thought she was being comforting when she assured him that, apart from some tidying up on her part, everything was "exactly the same." But after everything that had happened – Sherlock's arrest, their run from the law, the confrontation with Mycroft, Sherlock's suicide, and then his own arrest – a lifetime of awful experiences crammed into a twenty-four hour period – followed by the public humiliation of his trial and conviction and then two long, weary, difficult and often downright terrifying years in prison – how could everything be the same? It seemed monstrously wrong, an injustice as great as the one he himself had experienced, to have his books and Sherlock's mingling on the set of shelves in the lounge at 221b as though waiting for their owners to pick them up, for his RAMC mug to be waiting patiently in the cupboard for him to make his next cup of tea, for his dark blue duvet to be sitting ready to be pulled back in his second-storey bedroom.

Besides, it couldn't possibly be truly the same. Sherlock wouldn't be there.

And that omission scared him most of all. Go back to Baker Street with everything the same, but no Sherlock? The science equipment standing idle on the kitchen table, the violin silent near the music stand in the corner amidst stacks of sheet music, Sherlock's chair empty across from his own? No sudden cries of bored! erupting from the couch, no unexpected explosions, no string music at three in the morning, no slamming of the front door and pounding feet on the stairs when he was trying to nap in his chair? After twenty-one months of constant noise – cell doors slamming, shouts and swearing from the other inmates, threats and warnings from the screws, televisions and radios going all night from other pads*, Bill Wiggins's whiffling snore in the next pad over (sound proofing was nonexistent) – the thought of drifting around 221b all alone with only Sherlock's ghost for company, as though John himself were a ghost…John shivered a little involuntarily. The very thought of it made him feel desperate. Surely, then, it would be a road to madness?

Suddenly John wished he had something stronger than tea.

Don't go there, he told himself firmly. After everything, he would not go the way Harry had…the way their father had.

It was tempting, though, when he started trying to envision a future. The ideal solution to the problem of living arrangements would be to get a place of his own somewhere in London, somewhere not Baker Street. But how could he afford it? He had never had much money; the army had always seen to his needs. The bit he'd managed to put by from his locum work and on cases with Sherlock was diminished significantly from his time in prison, spent on phone calls and things he'd needed from the canteen. The money he'd earned on the inside when he started working in the prison infirmary last December was laughable. Would he be able to work as a doctor again? Who would hire him, even now that his name was cleared? For two years his name had been infamous. He came with a load of baggage, even more, now, than when he was first discharged from the army.

Taking a deep breath, John abruptly got up and headed back to Lestrade's kitchenette where he put the risotto back on the burner and set it on low to warm. Greg and Mrs. Hudson had both urged him to take some time and get his bearings before making any decisions. It was good advice, though he couldn't help wishing he at least had a starting point to work from. Right now he just felt lost.

So engrossed in his own thoughts was he that John was startled when he heard the door to the bedsit open. He glanced up, took in Lestrade's profile, then turned back to the range. "Good timing, Greg. I was just about to dish up…"

Then something clicked – something's wrong – and he turned back to Greg again, narrowing his eyes.

Lestrade stood about five feet away, staring at him. He looked as though he had aged ten years overnight, his face nearly as grey as his hair.

To a man who has seen too much trouble in his lifetime and far more than his fair share just recently, this was not a look to make a friend feel easy. John turned to face Greg fully. "Jesus, Greg…what the hell happened?"

For an answer, Greg stepped past John, turned the burner off, put the lid back on the pan and set it aside. He then reached into the small fridge and pulled out two cans of beer. Handing one to John, he took John's arm and steered him over to the couch, then sat down in the chair opposite. John did not sit, but stood staring at him, his heart suddenly pounding. Lestrade took a deep breath and looked up at him.

"Sit down, John, lad. We need to talk."

"John, lad." Though Lestrade was a decade older and thus sometimes felt he could get away with this, John, the former officer, still didn't like it. But there was something in Greg's face that made protest impossible, and John obeyed numbly, sitting across from the DI who leaned forward to open both their beers.

And, while the forgotten risotto cooled and congealed on the back burner, John Watson sat and listened in shock and disbelief as Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade told him gently that Sherlock Holmes was not dead and never had been, and that the entire suicide scene that had taken place over two years ago at St. Bart's had, in fact, been orchestrated by Sherlock and his brother.

She could have finished the washing up sooner, but Martha Hudson found the repetitiveness of the mundane household task to be somehow soothing, and so she took her time, the radio providing a comforting white noise in the background.

White noise was all she had now, for far too long – over two years, in fact. 221 had once been a busy, noisy place, with the sound of her two "boys'" feet pounding up and down the stairs at all hours, the front door slamming, creaking floorboards in the middle of the night, shouting and laughter and yes, sometimes even small explosions and noxious smells (and once even gunshots). But she had loved every minute of it, even the frightening ones. She was like John, she supposed, or rather, he was like her – ordinary life was lovely, but sometimes it just wasn't enough. With Sherlock, something unexpected was always sure to liven things up.

Until finally he had done the most unexpected thing of all, and killed himself.

It still made her tear up to think of it. She would never, ever understand why he had done it…and if she could have done something, said something, to stop him from doing it. She wished she could go back in time and tell him, up on that rooftop, that she, of all people, didn't care what anyone said about him. Even if he had had to go to prison, like poor John had, he would always have her to go and see him, and Baker Street to come home to when he got out.

It had been so hard for her, and no one quite understood, not even her next-door friend Mrs. Turner. She was a woman who had lost her family – husband and boys – in a scandalous way, and no one knew what to say to her. Her husband had been a criminal; her "boys" were not really hers. But to her, they were – the closest thing to children she had or ever would have. So when Mycroft had offered to keep 221b to store Sherlock's and John's things, she had agreed, preferring the silence of the house to someone new coming in.

She just wished John would come home. She had been so happy when he was released, but so disappointed that he hadn't returned to Baker Street at once. But she would be patient and continue to hope…she wanted him home, where she could cook for him and hear his feet moving about overhead and where she could keep an eye on him so she didn't have to worry so much.

She heard the front door open, and stilled.

Turning down the volume on the radio (the announcer was nattering on about a new anti-terrorism bill), Mrs. Hudson tightened her grip round the handle of the frying pan she had just finished drying and moved stealthily toward the door of 221a. Could it be John? Surely he would have called first? But it couldn't be…he hadn't yet taken back his key. Greg definitely would have called, she knew – he was very conscientious about such things.

She saw a silhouette appear behind the frosted glass of her front door – a familiar, impossible silhouette – and froze in place, eyes wide, frying pan lifted, heart pounding.

And then, without knocking, of course (when has he ever bloody knocked?) Sherlock pushed the door open and stood looking at her.

Mrs. Hudson screamed.

Then she hit him over the head with the frying pan.

Then she threw herself into his arms and wept against his breast as he stroked her hair, a laugh rumbling deep in his chest.

Chapter Text

"The first night's the toughest, no doubt about it…when they put you in that cell, when those bars slam home, that's when you know it's for real. A whole life blown away in the blink of an eye. Nothing left but all the time in the world to think about it."
–Ellis Redding, from The Shawshank Redemption

January 2012

John first met Bill Wiggins in the sweatbox* on the way to Frankland. There were about ten others prisoners in the vehicle that had been picked up from various courts, and Wiggins happened to be in the cramped cell next to his. Some of the other men were chatting casually to one another in a show of bravado. John sat straight and silent and still, too numb even to register Wiggins the first time the lad rapped on the partition between their cells.

"You the doc, an't you?"

John had seen the speaker board, a scrawny twenty-something in a battered, hooded sweatshirt. A wispy, ginger beard did not disguise the unmistakable waxy pallor of a habitual drug user. What made him stand out to John, though, were his quick, shrewd, intelligent eyes that darted here and there as he moved about. "Who wants to know?" John asked wearily.

"I'm Bill, Bill Wiggins. Seen you around on the streets when you was with your detective. 'E used to give me money now and again for findin' things out for him."

John closed his eyes. The reference to Sherlock pierced his heart like a dart tossed by a careless child. Instead of responding, he began rummaging through the small canvas bag that Mrs. Hudson had packed for him as well as his chained wrists would allow.

The bag contained all the things John had asked Mrs. Hudson to put in: toiletries from his bathroom at 221b, the lidocaine plasters he used when his arm and shoulder were acting up, a couple of books and medical journals from his bedside table, his watch, and the trainers he used for running. In addition to these, he saw that she had also included some of her own home-baked shortbread, a packet of biscuits and another of tea, and a small box containing writing paper and envelopes, stamps, six pens and two pencils. John was puzzled when he came across a yellow envelope with Lestrade's writing on the front – For emergencies. The flap was tucked in rather than sealed; when John opened it, he found it contained £100 in cash.

Staring at these unexpected gifts, John felt his eyes burn and a lump begin to form in his throat. He quickly closed the bag and looked away from it, taking slow, deep breaths.

After a moment, the voice in the next cell piped up again. "I know he weren't no fraud, your detective bloke…all of us on the street, we all knew it."

John sat for a moment, absorbing this statement. Finally, he spoke just loudly enough to be heard over the motor.

"I'm John."

"I'll call you 'Doc,'" the voice called back cheerfully. "You can call me 'Wiggy.'"

For the first time in days, John managed a smile. It was small and fleeting, but it was genuine.

The hours following his arrival at Frankland were a blur.

They were taken from the sweatbox one at a time to the induction wing. Wiggins went before John. As the younger man stood to exit his cell, he murmured in a low voice, quickly, so only John could hear him.

"Listen, Doc…this is my third time in the nick** for a drugs offense, yeah? So listen to me and until we meet up again make sure you hang onto whatcha got and don't show any weakness, yeah?"

"Move," the prison officer said sharply before John could respond. Then Wiggins was gone.

In many ways, John later reflected ruefully, the prison's regimental induction process wasn't that much different from the military's – at least, from what he could remember. The prison receptions wing was a long, pale blue corridor with a series of heavy metal doors along two landings, and it seemed to John that he visited every holding room it housed, with long intervals of waiting between each one.

In the reception room they relieved John of his canvas bag, removed his wrist restraints, fingerprinted him and took his picture. He was then told to sit while one prison officer began taking down his personal information and another began going through and logging the contents of his bag.

It was all very routine and businesslike; the first prison officer asked the questions in the toneless manner of a person who has asked the same questions thousands of times before, filling out the forms without meeting John's eyes. In a sudden, unexpected return of his own gallows humor, John had a sudden urge to give him his army rank and serial number, too, but then decided being snarky might not be the right foot to start on. So instead he answered readily and politely, keeping an eye on the man going through his things in the meanwhile with the uneasiness of having his personal property handled without permission.

When the forms were filled out, John turned to find the his things divided into three separate piles.

"The toiletries, stationary, writing tools and reading materials are fine; you'll get those back when you're assigned your cell," the officer said briskly, indicating the first pile. The food you can't have – you eat what we give you."

John watched regretfully as the baked goods and tea were set aside. That left one last pile – this one containing his trainers, watch, lidocaine plasters, and the envelope with money from Lestrade, as well as the bag itself.

"The meds we'll give to the infirmary; you'll let someone know when you need them and they'll dole 'em out. The money we hang onto and dole out to you for the canteen," the officer said, indicating the envelope. "Cells are left unlocked when you're not in 'em, so it'll just get stolen if you keep it there. Is your watch waterproof?"

"Yes."

"Then you have a choice – wear it 24-7, including in the shower, or leave it to be stored with the rest of your property. Up to you."

John thought of Wiggins telling him to hang onto whatever he could. "I'll keep it," he said.

The officer nodded. "You'll get it back later, then. The bag will be logged and stored. You have a choice with the shoes…you can have them stored as is and we'll issue you a pair of plimsolls with Velcro fastenings, or you can keep these after we've taken the laces out and have someone from outside bring you an approved pair later."

John thought quickly. It would be better to have shoes that could actually be done up, but these were his, and he was going to have to make do with enough prison-issued items as it was. "I'll keep them."

"Right then." The officer quickly removed the laces from John's trainers, set them on top of the canvas bag, and put the shoes with the items that were to be returned to John later. He then motioned another officer over. "This one's ready to be searched."

As the officer led him out of the room, John glanced over his shoulder in time to see the reception staff sampling Mrs. Hudson's good shortbread.

He supposed it was better than just having them throw it away.

"Strip," the officer in the next holding room ordered. "Everything off, now."

He said it with such calm, professional authority that John could feel his military training kicking in, forcing him to obey without hesitation. He'd known this part was coming, anyway.

There were two of them, both wearing gloves, one watching while the other patted John down. It was quick, impersonal and noninvasive, no more unpleasant in the process than any cursory medical exam might be, but somehow worse for the utter lack of human interest…John felt more like a dog at a Kennel Club show being checked for potential faults than a person. When it was over, the first officer nodded to the second, who handed John a folded pile of clothes: a dull gray tracksuit, blue t-shirt, socks and underwear. He also gave him a towel and a bar of soap and directed John's attention to a shower cubicle at the other end of the room.

"Take a shower, then you can get dressed…leave the upper things off, though, you see the doc next," the second officer told him. He took John's neatly folded clothes and set them aside. "These will be put into storage for you." John couldn't help casting a wistful look at his black haversack. In his own way, he was as attached to it as Sherlock had been to his Belstaff, though in a less ostentatious way.

John showered quickly, toweled himself dry, and pulled on the underpants, socks and track bottoms. Carrying the t-shirt and sweatshirt, he followed the officer in his sock feet along the corridor to a small examining room. A gray-haired man in a white lab coat motioned to the examining table. "Have a seat." The officer who had escorted John waited just inside the door, watching. John noticed he had a small baton and a can of pepper spray on his belt.

The prison doctor took John's height and weight and peered into his ears, his eyes, and down his throat. He listened to John's heart and lungs, palpitated his abdomen, and took his temperature, stopping often to write down his findings. He also questioned John as to his general health. Taking note of the scars on John's body from his injury in Afghanistan – the scar from the entry wound over his shoulder blade on his back and the even larger and more ragged scar let by the exit would sprawled over the clavicle in front, as well as the scar from the chest tube – he raised his eyebrows and said, "Gunshot wound? That doesn't look like it came from a handgun."

"Sniper rifle."

The doctor studied him. "Ex-military?"

John nodded, a shadow crossing his dark blue eyes. He hated admitting to his military service now because he loathed the thought that his new status as a convicted criminal might bring dishonor to his former comrades. Having the press refer to him as "bachelor John Watson" before Sherlock's suicide had been irritating; his post-arrest tabloid nickname of "disgraced ex-soldier John Watson" was exceedingly painful to him.

"Any lingering effects?" the doctor questioned.

John shook away the thoughts of what his old army mates must think of him now and gave the doctor a brief clinical description of his injury, what treatment he had received, and what medications he occasionally took now for residual pain and episodic flare-ups from the resultant nerve damage.

The doctor's eyebrows raised. "Medical man, are you?"

"I was an army trauma surgeon, then a GP," John replied quietly.

The doctor regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before returning his attention to John's file. Had that been a shade of interest, even respect, in his eyes?

"Says here you've been treated for PTSD. Any medication for that?"

"Not for over a year now. I was initially on tricyclic antidepressants, first imipramine, later desipramine."

"Any suicidal tendencies?"

For a brief moment, the thought of his Sig Sauer P226R flashed through John's mind. He wondered if it was still safely hidden in his closet at 221b, or if the police had routed it out during their search. If they had, Lestrade hadn't mentioned it.

"No."

The doctor made a note of that, then briskly closed the file. "Right. I'm authorized to prescribe medications for you if you're having pain or feel the need for your anti-anxiety meds to be restarted, so you'll let me know, all right, Doctor…" He glanced in the file again. "Watson?" And he held his hand out for John to shake it.

Stunned by this professional courtesy, John hesitated before slowly taking the offered hand. "I will, thanks, Doctor…?" he hesitated in turn, eyebrows raised, questioning.

"Bell. Joseph Bell." He released John's hand and looked to the officer. "We're finished here." He looked at John again, and for a moment it seemed he wanted to say something more, but in the end he just told them to send along the next new inmate.

Fully dressed once again in his new prison garb (though still in his stocking feet), John stood before the table in the final holding room while they doled out his prison kit to him: a plate, bowl, cup and eating utensils (all made from plastic) along with a packet of cereal, UHT milk, teabags and sugar packets for his breakfast in the morning, a towel, and an armful of scratchy bedding. He was also given a PIN code which he was told was for £1 credit on the phones on the wings, two postage-paid envelopes with bland, prison-issue paper, and his new prison ID card, already stamped with his photo and the number SJ1311. His approved items (including his watch and shoes, now free of their laces) were returned to him, along with two gray jumpers, a pair of gray trousers, and five pairs of prison socks and underwear.

"Do you smoke?" the issuing reception clerk asked.

"No."

"Then that's everything except for your Prisons Handbook." She set the booklet on top of John's bundle and waved him away.

It was a lot to carry; John had a hard time keeping the tall pile steady as they moved him into the hallway to line up with the other new prisoners. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Wiggins swiftly bundling his kit into the bed sheets and followed suit, earning an approving grin from the younger man as he did so.

A rather unpleasant-looking tall officer with black hair and narrow eyes approached the prisoner at the head of the line, his baton in his hand. "This way." He motioned along the corridor and, flanked by other screws armed with batons, the new inmates moved onto the main wing.

There was a lot of noise here – too much noise. The high ceiling caught the loud voices of the dozens of inmates lining the four landings and threw them back again, doubling their shouts of "All right there, mate? Like your new home? Nice, innit?" John looked up at the faces, some malicious, some amused, a few sympathetic, all trying to get a read on the "new boys." Some of the other first-timers were clearly intimidated, but John had seen a lot during his years in the army and during his time with Sherlock, and he recognized this for what it was…hazing, and an attempt to reinforce an established pecking order. To show weakness now could prove dangerous, so John kept his features set in the stoic mask that had always annoyed Harry.

The induction orderly put him in a single pad next door to Bill Wiggins's. Before he left, the orderly handed John a sandwich wrapped in plastic. "It's past mealtime, so this is to tide you over. You should already have your breakfast in your kit." Without waiting for an answer, he left the cell.

There was a harsh sound of steel-on-steel as the door slammed shut and locked behind him – a very final sort of sound that did little to muffle the noise from the landing.

John shivered a little. The cell was rather cold – particularly to a man whose internal thermostat had never really adjusted back to England's climate after his time in the Middle East. A hot water pipe running from wall-to-wall at the far end of the cell seemed to be the only source of heat.

He stood just by the door, belongings in his arms, and took stock of the tiny cell.

The place smelled strongly of disinfectant. Both the walls and the furniture had been painted a dull off-white. A narrow metal bunk was bolted to the wall on the left side of the cell. The mattress had been cleaned, but John could see faint stains on it. On the far wall at the bed's head was a fair-sized cupboard, its door open slightly to reveal a short clothes bar with a few welded hangers and a lower shelf. Below the door were two large drawers and a shelf on the bottom for shoes.

On the wall to his right, adjacent to the bed, was a small wooden desk with a single drawer. It, too, was bolted to the wall. Attached to the wall above it was a small open cupboard with four shelves. On the same wall to the right of the desk was a small sink with a towel bar. It had a small, round metal mirror above it. Facing the sink, on the same wall as the door to the cell, the toilet was in a separate cubicle. It had neither a seat nor a door.

Squarely opposite the cell door was the single, tiny window with frosted glass. John set his things down on the bunk and went to it. He knew it would have bars on the outside, of course, but he was hoping he would be able to open it for a breath of fresh air. He could – by about six inches.

When he looked through it, he found it faced a brick wall.

John swallowed hard and looked down, trying to steady his breathing, which had quickened with his heart rate. On the windowsill, someone had scratched the words, "Arrive a man, leave an animal."

He closed his eyes to shut the sight of it out and clenched his left hand in an effort to stop the involuntary twitch that had begun. He wanted to do what he usually did when this happened – shove that hand into his pocket to hide it – but his tracksuit had no pockets.

John eased himself down to the floor and turned so he was sitting with his back to the wall, facing the door to his cell – his new home, the place where, he suddenly understood, he was to spend most of the next ten years of his life.

It wasn't exactly a dungeon…he'd slept in poorer places than this, particularly when he was in the army. But that had been for something. This was…this was nothing.

He thought he'd known what nothing was.

"Nothing happens to me," he'd told Ella Thompson, his therapist. After a vivid, colorful sojourn in medical school and then the military, he thought his life was over, just like the two careers that had been stolen from him the day an insurgent's bullet had shattered his health. But the dreary bedsit he had felt condemned to by the MoD had not been as bleak as this room and, more importantly, the door had not been locked.

John remembered those early days back in London, limping restlessly around the city, killing time between physical therapy and psychotherapy appointments, thinking, thinking, thinking. He hadn't known what he would do…hadn't known what he wanted to do now that the life he'd forged for himself – a life of command and competence, a life of purpose and service that had suited him well and made him feel real and alive – had been snatched from him. Then came Sherlock.

Sherlock.

John lowered his forehead to his knees and threaded his fingers in his short blond hair. In the six months since Sherlock's death, he had done everything he could to avoid thinking of his flat mate – his best friend, for so he had become. Brilliant, frustrating, maddening, amazing, exasperating Sherlock. John had had a lot of "mates," but few real friends. Many might not know the difference, but John did, and it mattered to him. His friendship was a gift John gave with extreme caution, and many were puzzled by his choice of recipients – the morose and anti-social James Sholto, his former commanding officer; the eccentric and sharp-tongued Artie Doyle, his mentor at Bart's…and, of course, the consulting detective and self-proclaimed sociopath Sherlock Holmes.

John considered Sherlock his best friend not because Sherlock had always acted like one, but because he gave John what he most needed – a purpose – and because Sherlock was like another part of himself – the better, truer part.

Sherlock had brought him back to life.

John knew he was no Sherlock, but he had thought – hoped – he was of some small use to the man. He could help him, shepherd him, keep him safe and healthy, and direct him on the road to becoming great.

No. Sherlock was already great. But John could help him to become, as Greg had once said, good.

But in the end, John had failed to keep Sherlock safe. He had abandoned him at the crucial moment, allowed himself to be lured away, leaving Sherlock at the mercy of Moriarty, who had somehow caused him to commit suicide.

Head still against his knees, John squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe he deserved to be here. The crime he had committed was, after all, far greater than the one of which he had been accused.

He wished, though, that he had died with Sherlock. Or better still, died instead of him.

John did not move again that night. He was still in the same position two hours later when a prison officer opened the flap in his cell door to look in at him during the nightly head count, and he was still in that position an hour after that when the lights went out, leaving him in near-total darkness.

Chapter Text

"So it was…that at two o'clock to-day I found myself in my old armchair in my own old room, and only wishing that I could have seen my old friend Watson in the other chair which he has so often adorned."

–Sherlock Holmes, from The Adventure of the Empty House

 October 2013

Sherlock had to endure many more cuffs and kisses from Mrs. Hudson (as well as two plates of leftover stew and a slice of cake from her fridge, all of which he was happy to get) before she finally allowed him to ascend the stairs to 221b. By then, it was two o'clock in the morning.

Sherlock paused on the landing for a moment, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.

Home.

The flat was exactly the way he remembered it – almost. Actually, it was more the way it had been when he and John had returned from their trip to Dartmoor after the Baskerville case…was, in fact, the cleanest and the tidiest it had been since Sherlock had first moved in. Per Mycroft's instructions, Mrs. Hudson had not boxed anything up. But it was immediately apparent to Sherlock that she had been in the flat a great deal after Sherlock and John had left it, both immediately following their departure and since.

Sherlock visited the kitchen. Every surface had been vigorously scrubbed, and the oven and the stovetop were gleaming. The dishes had been washed and put away, the chairs tucked tidily under the table, the floor was spotless. His science equipment was still on the table (though neatly arranged), the kettle was still on the countertop, John's favorite RAMC mug was still sitting beside it as though waiting for John to prepare tea. In fact, the only sign that the place was not currently occupied was the fact that the food cupboards were bare and the refrigerator had been emptied out, cleaned, and unplugged.

The same could be said of the lounge – Sherlock's laptop and papers were lined up neatly on the desk, the books were carefully sorted on the shelves, the bison skull was still on the wall and the human skull on the mantel, his violin was settled reverently in its case by the music stand on which his sheet music was carefully stacked, and one of John's jumpers was hanging neatly on the coat rack. Sherlock mounted the stairs to John's second-storey bedroom and peered in. It was the same here as it had been in Sherlock's own bedroom: John's bed was neatly made, his desk tidied, and his clothes were laundered and put away in the small closet and bureau in an orderly fashion.

Sherlock went back downstairs. He stood in the middle of the lounge, looking around, processing information, deducing. A faint but lingering scent of disinfectant hung about the kitchen and bathroom. Lines in the rug told of a recent hoovering. There was a faint layer of dust on the furniture, but not two year's worth. It appeared that Mrs. Hudson had cleaned the place thoroughly over a period of weeks or even months after Sherlock and John had left it, and that she still came in once a week or so to tidy the place.

Sherlock stood still for a moment, thinking of that. During his time away, he had always pictured Baker Street (whenever he had allowed himself to think of it at all) as being exactly the same: his home, his haven, the place to which he would thankfully, happily return when his work dismantling Moriarty's empire was done. It seemed he had his wish. But now it occurred to him how easily that might not have been the case, and it made him feel queerly sad to think of Mrs. "Not-Your-Housekeeper-Dear" Hudson keeping the place as neat and tidy as though he and John would return to it at any time – when it fact, as far as she had known, Sherlock was dead and John had been sentenced to a decade in prison. Mrs. Hudson, he realized, had not been able to move on. And John…

John. Prison.

Huffing out a breath, Sherlock did what he had been longing to do for months – years, actually – and sank back into his old leather armchair. He looked across at John's chair, the throw still slung casually over the back and the Union Jack pillow tucked into a corner. The chair was…disturbingly empty. The flat felt too quiet.

Ridiculous…if John were here, he would be asleep in his room, most likely…there would be no more noise than there is now, at this moment.

But he knew that wasn't quite true…the quietude around him was deeper, emptier than it would have been had John been in his upstairs bedroom.

Sherlock had done difficult things, faced many dangers, endured many hardships, but it was a thought that he had held onto – that Baker Street would stay the same. On the surface, it appeared to have done just that…but the most important part, he realized, was missing.

Mycroft had only been half-right when he thought his brother had stopped thinking of his friends. It was true that Sherlock didn't think of them very often, but that was not because he had forgotten them or didn't care – it was because he deliberately locked them away in his mind palace so that thoughts of them would not distract him from his task. And he did let them out sometimes before he slept, just briefly, to remind himself that he had a life to return to after his "holiday" was over…a Life and a Home.

If one had asked him, Sherlock Holmes would have said he was not a sentimental man, that he did not become attached to people. When he and Mycroft had concocted their plan to take down Moriarty, he had had no trouble leaving John out of the details. He had not wanted to fake his death, but he had been prepared to do so and, yes, even a little excited by the prospect. Before Reichenbach, Sherlock would have said he was fond of John, fond of Mrs. Hudson…even somewhat fond of Lestrade. Like a child, he did not understand how attached he had become to them; they just were – constants in his life that he found useful and not as irritating or dull as most people.

Of all the people Sherlock had ever known (including his own parents), John was the person he felt…easiest with. Never before had he had someone to laugh with, joke with, play board games with. It had all seemed so…comfortingly ordinary, which was something Sherlock knew he had never been. He had assumed it was because John was ordinary; it took him awhile to realize it was because John wasn't ordinary at all.

It must be owned that at first Sherlock did not miss John. He did not expect to be gone long, and this adventure felt no different than any other when he had taken off on his own and left John behind. Indeed, it was oddly liberating not to have John pulling him back, cautioning him to be sensible, reproving him for being rude, ordering him to eat, urging him to sleep, scolding him for smoking. At first, Sherlock felt much the way a teenaged boy might feel with his parents away, leaving him to his own devices.

It didn't take long, however, before Sherlock began to feel something he had not felt since John came along, a feeling he had been unable to define until life with John had opened his eyes to it: loneliness.

Sherlock had not realized how dependent he had grown upon John. He had once called John his "conductor of light;" it was truer than he realized – John was a prism that helped to bend the stream of information that flooded Sherlock's keen senses into a cohesive picture; he was water to Sherlock's fire, and solid earth under his restless, anxious feet. More than once during those two long years Sherlock regretted not bringing John with him…he suspected he could have finished the job in half the time, had John only been there to help him think. He thought better when John was around.

As it was, though, John did help him – the John in his mind palace, at any rate. Just as Sherlock had talked to John in the flat even when John was away, so he talked to him in his head continually while on his travels. John had believed this habit of Sherlock's meant that Sherlock was careless of John's presence. John underestimated his own importance, for the real reason Sherlock did it was because he had come to rely on John so completely.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. He had been taken aback when Lestrade hugged him, and taken aback by Mrs. Hudson's tears (not to mention her anger, he thought, ruefully rubbing the bump on his head). He had thought they would miss him, but had been surprised at the…intensity, the vehemence of their feelings. Did that mean John might have been more affected by his "suicide" than Sherlock had anticipated, too?

Sherlock deduced that John would likely react to his return in one of three ways. Reaction number one: he would be stunned, then delighted, and amazed at Sherlock's cleverness at he had so often been in the past. This was the reaction Sherlock was hoping for, but he regretfully calculated the odds as being too optimistic.

Reaction number two: John would be angry at having been deceived and left behind again and would blow up at him – would possibly even hit him. Sherlock sighed a little, figuring this would be John's most likely reaction. He wasn't looking forward to it, but he could bear it if it would help John get past his upset – when John lost his temper, he tended to lose it all the way, but the lovely thing was that once the explosion was past he settled back to his affable self fairly quickly. A black eye was not pleasant, Sherlock reflected, but would be well worth it if aided in getting things back to normal in a hurry.

Then there was the third possible reaction. Sherlock didn't think it was likely, but…prison. John had spent the past two years in prison. That might add in some previously unanticipated factors. Anger at Mycroft rising to the surface again, Sherlock reopened the file on his lap. From the time John was arrested shortly after Sherlock's leap from the roof of St. Bartholomew's to his conviction, the files were very detailed; from the time he was transported to Frankland to his release, however, there was distressingly little information. John had gone into the prison in late January of 2012, had begun working in the prison infirmary as an assistant to the prison doctor Joseph Bell in December of that same year. Sherlock frowned. The report said that mostly John had been a quiet, well-behaved prisoner, and Bell has spoken glowingly of him. There had been a couple of short stints in solitary for fighting, and one very long stint for striking a prison officer, but the report did not go into detail. There was nothing to explain the scar on his face or the haunted, half-dead look in his eyes…

Sherlock dropped the file on the coffee table and tilted his head back. He could feel something dark and terrible building in his chest. It seemed Mycroft had abandoned John to the "tender" mercies of the prison system, assuming he would be well cared for, assuming that he would be safe and protected. Mycroft, a believer in the system, apparently had not thought of what could happen to John, imprisoned in a high-security facility populated with many of society's most violent men, some of whom Sherlock himself would have put there. Mycroft hadn't thought of the potential for corrupt guards, old enemies, former compatriots of Moriarty, or gangs. And Mycroft wouldn't have thought of John's lingering PTSD symptoms of clinical depression exacerbated by boredom or–

Sherlock started suddenly. He realized he had been sitting in his armchair as of old, fingers steepled before his lips, face tilted slightly to the ceiling. He pulled out his phone – one text from Mycroft, which he deleted unopened. That was all. It was now after four in the morning. Why hadn't Lestrade texted?

Sherlock fired off a text of his own, not caring if the DI had gone to bed.

Well? You said you would text when you spoke with John. –SH

The reply was immediate, showing that Lestrade was indeed still awake.

It's been a long night. Where are you? –GL

Honestly, Detective Inspector. Baker Street, obviously. –SH

Did you just show up at 221 without any warning?! –GL

I came home; what of it? –SH

You colossal prick! If I'd had any idea…is Mrs. H all right? –GL

Why wouldn't be? She was happy to see me. Eventually. –SH

Son of a bitch. I'll talk to her tomorrow. You're really lucky, Sherlock; you could have given her a heart attack. She's not all that young anymore. –GL

She's made of sterner stuff than people give her credit for being. –SH

She's tough, I'll grant you that. But I think you're minimizing the effect your little stunt had on people, and these years have been hard. You expect too much, Sherlock. –GL

She's fine, and I don't expect anything. That's not what I'm texting about, anyway. –SH

He waited, but Lestrade didn't reply. Impatiently, Sherlock typed, So? –SH

So what? –GL

You KNOW what. Did you talk to him? –SH

Yes, I talked to him. Let's talk about it tomorrow, yeah? Or later today, rather. I'll come by. I need to square things with Mrs. H, anyway; she's probably going to have a go at me for not warning her you were coming. –GL

Sherlock huffed impatiently. Lestrade was clearly avoiding the question.

Is John coming with you? –SH

There was a long pause. Then,

No.

Sherlock stared at the word for a moment, but there was no follow-up. Finally he texted back, the bland, on-screen words vibrating with his impatience.

Well, why not? –SH

Did you explain everything to him? –SH

Yes. –GL

Well, what happened? –SH

A longer pause this time.

He shut down on me, Sherlock. –GL

Sherlock stared at those six words for several long moments. A tendril of dread uncurled in his stomach, slowly.

What do you mean? –SH

Stupid, really…he knew what it meant when John shut down. It was rare – so rare that it was the third possible reaction that he had refused to entertain – and frightening when it happened. John was always, always there for Sherlock, real and present, even when he lost his temper…except when he shut down. Then he was there for no one; it was as though a glass tube descended from the sky and encircled him, cutting him off, making him unreachable to everyone, even Sherlock.

I'm sorry, Sherlock. He says he doesn't want to see you right now. –GL

You can't blame him – he's been through a lot and this is a lot to take in. I had a hard job even making him believe you're alive. Hell, I'm having a hard time believing it myself, and I actually saw you, touched you. –GL

Give him some time. I'm sure he'll want to see you, talk to you at some point. –GL

Sherlock? –GL

I'll come by tomorrow. –GL

John was curled on this side on the sofa in Greg's bedsit, facing the back. Greg was in his bed across the room. John knew Greg wasn't asleep, but John pretended he was so that Greg wouldn't try to make him talk anymore. They'd talked for hours, and John needed a break, some time to get his swirling thoughts in some kind of order. He just needed some time to bloody think.

John had been a career soldier. He had lost friends before.

This was the first time one of them came back from the dead.

Alive. Sherlock is alive.

Not dead.

John didn't know how to feel. A myriad of emotions kept cycling through him, faster and faster, and he couldn't come to rest on one before another shoved it aside and took its place.

Sherlock was alive. Surely that was something wondrous, something to rejoice over? How many times had he lain awake in his cell bunk at night and wished Sherlock would just stop being dead? Well, he had got his wish…somehow, amazingly, miraculously, unbelievably, he had got his wish. He should feel euphoric.

Mostly, though, he felt betrayed.

John had listened, unbelieving, as Lestrade had related to him how Sherlock and Mycroft had planned the whole thing – everyone on the street that day, from the bicyclist who had knocked John down to the woman who had comforted him after he had felt Sherlock's nonexistent pulse – had been a plant. Apparently, the whole charade had been played for John and some sniper. None of it had been real – not the medical personnel who ran out of the hospital, not Sherlock's shaking, tearful voice on the phone.

John felt something burning hot rise in his throat, and squeezed his eyes tight shut and forced it down so that Greg would not hear him and get up.

How could Sherlock do that to him? He clenched his fists and tried to breathe through his nose. John had had nightmares about that day for…hell, who was he kidding? He'd last dreamed of it the night before.

Sherlock had told Lestrade that he'd had to jump – assassins had been preparing to shoot John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if he didn't.

But…couldn't Sherlock have got word to him, somehow? Even if John had still had to go to prison, the thought that Sherlock was alive somewhere, working towards setting things right, that John might even be helping by taking the fall for Sherlock's "crimes" – it would have been easier, somehow, given him courage to endure. He thought of the endless days of bleak despair, the stifling fear and nameless dread…he reached up and felt the raised ridge on his face and thought about the scars Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade did not know about because they were hidden under his clothes and he never told them…what had all that been for?

Sherlock hadn't known what happened to John, Greg said. But Molly had, and so had Mycroft…Mycroft had let him be convicted. Mycroft had let him go to prison and left him there for two bloody years!

John suddenly couldn't stand it anymore and scrambled to his feet, breathing hard. Greg sat up, switching on the light. His eyes were exhausted and alarmed.

"John. What–?"

"I need to walk for awhile." John, who had not bothered undressing apart from removing his jumper, now pulled the garment over his head and reached for his trainers.

Greg sat up. "I'll go with you."

"No. I mean…no, Greg, thanks. I appreciate it, but I need to be on my own for a bit." John was reaching for his old haversack, sliding his arms into it.

Lestrade watched him anxiously. "You sure you'll…be OK?"

Three weeks ago, John had been in prison with no real hope of being released for years. Five days ago, after a dizzying whirlwind of new evidence and appeals, he had been exonerated and set free. Since that day, he had not gone out on his own. He claimed he didn't want to be hounded by the press, but Greg thought there was more to it than that – he suspected that, after two years of imprisonment, John was uneasy about being outside. Now, Greg hated the idea of letting him go alone, but didn't want to say so (he knew John wouldn't appreciate it, anyway). For one brief moment, he thought of letting John go and following him, but then clamped a lid down on that idea – enough people had been making decisions for John Watson in recent years.

"All right, John lad. You go walk it off, but make sure your phone is charged, and take the key I made for you, yeah?"

"Got 'em both right here." John held up both items in confirmation before returning them to his pockets. He looked gratefully at Lestrade. "Thanks, Greg."

Lestrade knew he didn't just mean for the key.

At the door, John paused and looked back.

"Greg…there's one thing."

Lestrade sat up. "Yeah?"

"Don't call me 'John lad,' will you? You're not that that bloody old!" He managed a smile small as he pulled the door shut, locking it behind him.

Greg grinned, and shook his head admiringly. You could knock John Watson down, but, God love him, he kept getting back up.

Chapter Text

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick.” 
―Proverbs 13:12

March 2012

The sky was unusually clear, a crisp, dazzling blue. The sun was high, hot and bright. John knew it would not take long for it to bleach his hair to near white. He leaned back in the boat, closed his eyes and let the sun's rays wrap him in warmth. The heat made him feel sleepy and, turning his face to the sun and balancing his fishing rod against his bluejeaned thigh, he sighed in deep contentment, allowing his right hand to fall relaxed over the side of the boat so his fingers could trail through the loch's icy water.

Eschewing his uneasy, dysfunctional home for a fortnight to visit his beloved maternal grandfather in Scotland was the high point of John's summer holidays. Harry had balked at joining her younger brother on these trips ever since she turned fifteen, declaring that two weeks of fishing and walking in the Highlands with an old man to be dull beyond measure; thus, John got to have Granddad all to himself, which suited them both just fine. A retired doctor, Hamish McLean still lived in the small town where he had grown up, a place that held little appeal for Harry but which afforded John all manner of opportunities for boyish adventures.

Granddad was never drunk or rough, never shouted at John or hit him. A smallish, strong, compact man with deep blue eyes, he never tired of talking with his young grandson and patiently teaching him things. As astonishingly alike in temperament as they were in looks, they suited one another. John savoured every day they were together, whether they were spent on long walking journeys accompanied by Granddad's small, black-and-white collie Jess, playing checkers in the old-fashioned kitchen, reading by the coal stove in the sitting room, or fishing in the loch.

It usually wasn't this warm, though. Eyes still closed, John frowned slightly.

"Eyes open now, laddie," Granddad said.

Warm. No, not warm – hot. So, so hot.

"John? Come on now, open your eyes for me."

In a minute, Granddad, John wanted to say, but he found he barely had the energy to answer. His tongue felt strangely thick and his throat hurt. Then two gnarled fingers gave his cheek a couple of strong taps, not rough, but firm enough to let him know the owner of this hand would not be ignored.

"Come, laddie, look at me."

After a brief struggle, John finally managed to open his eyes. The lively eyes looking concernedly into his own were a bright, light blue, not dark, and the chiseled, hawk-like features of the regal, white-haired man leaning over him were not those of his Granddad. A name slowly surfaced in John's sluggish mind: Bell. Joseph Bell. John raised his eyes to see a younger man standing just behind the doctor, hanging over his shoulder, a dark-haired man with an uneasy, worried expression on his face. He was wearing a uniform – black trousers, white shirt with patches on the shoulders, tie, hat…a prison officer's uniform?

John turned his head to the side and saw the small, battered, nondescript desk barely an arm's reach away. On the desk's surface were some of his own books and journals, a tiny kettle, and the writing paper and pens that Mrs. Hudson had given to him when John had first come to the…

Prison. He was in prison. Granddad was dead and Sherlock was dead and Baker Street was not as far away as Scotland, but both places might as well be light years away because John was trapped, caught, a prisoner. The last vestiges of his dream drifted away and the heavy, black weight of despair that he had been carrying since he'd arrived here six weeks ago settled anew in his chest, cutting short his already struggling breath. John wearily closed his eyes again.

He flinched a little when he felt something cool slide into his ear. He heard a sharp click – a thermometer?

"Thirty-nine point seven," he heard the gruff Scottish voice (like Granddad's, he thought blearily) say over his head. It sounded cross. "Why the devil didn't you call me sooner?"

A second voice, defensive, nervous: "Because I didn't bloody know! Nobody did, he never complained or said anything!"

A cool hand came to rest on the back of John's neck. "D'you think you can sit up, laddie?"

Not bothering to open his eyes, John shook his head. A darkness began creeping into the edges of his vision, and he turned inwardly towards it, gladly. Distantly he heard the Scottish voice again ("…healthcare centre…can't walk…need a trolley…") and he thought, bitterly, Why bother? My life is over…just bloody leave me be, why don't you.

John let himself sink into the comforting darkness, to a place with no bars or locks.

Had it been up to him, he would never have surfaced again.

But it wasn't up to him.

John woke a little at a time. He felt exhausted, achy, thirsty, and in desperate need of a toothbrush, but his head was clear and he was no longer burning. He also felt more comfortable than his hard, narrow bunk should have allowed him to feel and, curious, he opened his eyes. He realized at once that he must be in the prison healthcare centre – specifically, in the small, four-bed ward. It was an open room with no partitions between the beds. Everything was white – the walls, the tiled floor, the bedclothes. John looked down and saw an IV inserted in the back of his right hand; when he looked up, he saw what he surmised to be a saline drip. Dehydrated, then, he thought. He feebly attempted to sit up, curious to see what his chart said. It was a bit more difficult than he expected.

"Easy there, laddie. You'll want to take it nice and slow," said a gruff voice in a mild Scottish burr.

John gave over the struggle and looked up. Joseph Bell was making his way towards him across the small ward. A tall man in a white lab coat, he looked to be in his late sixties and had a full head of snow-white hair, lively, intelligent light blue eyes, sharp features and a set to his mouth that made him look as though he was just on the edge of being amused or annoyed or both.

"Dr. Bell," John said, his voice rasping a bit.

"Dr. Watson," the older man replied, once again surprising John with this professional courtesy. "Feeling a bit more alert, I see?" He poured water into a paper cup from the pitcher on the bedside tray and, slipping his other hand behind John's neck to help him raise up a bit, held it to his patient's lips.

"How long have I been here?" John asked after drinking gratefully and settling back on his pillows.

"Since half five yesterday…it's just gone three in the afternoon, now," Bell added, checking his watch. "And you've been sleeping nearly the whole time. Best thing for you, really."

"The flu?" John guessed, handing the cup back for Bell to refill it.

"Indeed. The prison officer who unlocked your cell door so you could go for your evening meal called me when you wouldn't get up or answer him. Your fever was becoming dangerous and you were badly dehydrated, so I got you settled down here where I could keep on eye on you, put you on an IV drip, got some antivirals and antipyretics into you, and waited until your temperature started to come down before I felt comfortable leaving you with my night relief. The flu is definitely making the rounds among the inmates. Seems to have hit you particularly hard. Mind if I have a look?" Bell began warming the chest piece of his stethoscope as he spoke.

"Please," John gave permission, bemused both by the doctor's kindness and his demeanor of simple, human respect – a thing that prisoners didn't get much of in a place like this, where everything was "go here" and "do that," and rarely was one given even his own name.

Bell took John's vitals, checking his blood pressure, listening to his heart and lungs, looking into his eyes and ears with a flashlight. Last of all he took John's temperature, which had returned to normal – the fever had finally broken earlier that morning.

"Much better," he said approvingly. "I'll have the prison officer on the ward door call down to the canteen for some broth, jelly and juice…you need to eat lightly, plenty of clear fluids, but you know all that already. Hungry at all?"

John wasn't hungry, exactly, but he did feel empty. "I think I could eat," he admitted.

"Excellent," Bell responded. He stepped away for a moment to murmur to the guard outside the door; a few moments later he came back and, to John's surprise, pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and sat down.

"Obviously I'm giving you more fluids, but this bag will be done soon. Even so, I think I'll keep you here one more night, but I see no reason why you can't return to your own room tomorrow morning."

Room, John thought ruefully, thinking of his bleak little cell with an involuntary shiver.

Bell's gaze became sharp. "Cold?" he demanded.

"What? Oh. No, I'm…fine. Good. Yeah."

Bell responded by fixing him with a piercing look that suddenly and painfully reminded John of Sherlock.

"No flu jab this year, eh, Doctor?"

John returned the look with a raised brow. "You can call me John…I don't really work as a doctor anymore," he said heavily. "And no, I didn't have a flu jab this past Fall…I usually do, but I was on remand, and…well, it wasn't exactly high on my list of priorities."

"Once a doctor, always a doctor," Bell retorted. "And I must say, Doctor, I'm surprised at you for letting your symptoms go…you needn't have become this ill. You must have realized what was happening?" His tone was chastising, like a teacher to a student, or a father to a son – not harsh, but chiding, as though he expected John to know better.

"No…no, I can't say as I did realize it," John said truthfully. He did not know how to explain to this man that these past six weeks had seemed like six years, and so thick was the fog of depression that surrounded him that it eclipsed the flu symptoms to the point where he thought his lethargy and achiness was due to entirely to his bleak state of mind.

Bell stared at him, his eyes narrowed. John had not felt so stripped bare by a gaze since…well, since Sherlock. The thought, as always, came with a stab of pain to his chest. He could feel his face tightening into his customary stoic mask.

Suddenly Bell spoke. "You deliberately ignored your worsening flu symptoms. Why? What's wrong, laddie?"

Yanked out of his thoughts of Sherlock, John gaped at him. Was the man serious?

"Should I be happy?" He asked tersely. "Am I at a Funfair?"

Suddenly John was furious.

"I've been sentenced to ten years in prison for a crime I didn't commit," he said coldly. "I'll probably never work as a doctor again – even if they do let me renew my license when I get out of here I won't have been able to keep up with advancements in treatment and medicines, and even if I could, what clinic would hire a convicted criminal, and what patient would choose one for a GP? My career is finished, I'll be near to fifty by the time I get out of here which means any hopes I ever had of a wife and family are finished, and I watched my best friend chuck himself off a rooftop ten months ago. That's what's bloody wrong, since you ask."

John felt his throat was swelling. He wondered if being ill had brought his buried emotions closer to the surface, for he felt raw and bruised and ready to lash out. Rather than try to force the feelings back down, though, he ground out, angrily, "And you can stop calling me 'laddie'…I'm closing in on forty; I was a soldier, an officer in the RAMC, and a trauma surgeon until I got shot by an insurgent and washed out of both careers. So I don't need to be patronized by you or anyone else, thanks."

He felt sick, slightly dizzy, and out of control of his own life, which infuriated him. Breathing hard, he glared at he other man who had the freedom to leave this place whenever he wanted and to ask such stupid, idiotic questions.

Bell met John's glare unflinchingly. After a few minutes, he said abruptly, "You'll have to excuse me; I suppose I feel I know you twice over. I knew your grandfather, for one thing, you see…and my son thought very highly of you."

Diverted, John said, nonplussed, "What?"

"Hamish McLean was your grandfather, wasn't he?"

John gaped at him. "How did you–"

"I taught at the University of Edinburgh," Bell said simply. "I was there the winter Dr. McLean did his famous series of guest lectures. Very capable doctor, your grandfather, with a great deal of wisdom to share, and some amazing experiences as an army doctor during World War II…he wrote them up very compellingly." Bell smiled a little. "And very, very proud of his grandson, who was at that time training at St. Bartholomew's in London and aiming hard to follow in his grandfather's footsteps as an army doctor."

He refilled the cup of water and offered it to John, who had managed to sit up more. John took it, drank deeply, then gazed at Bell again, bemused.

"But how could you know I was his grandson? My name–"

"He referred to you by name," Bell cut in smoothly. He hesitated, then added slowly, looking away from John for the first time, "I put two and two together when my son Benjamin spoke of you…he had a great respect for you."

John blinked. His son? Benjamin Bell…

Oh.

Now that he knew the association, John could see where Ben, the cheerful young medic he had known for such a short time in Afghanistan, had inherited his lively, light blue eyes. John swallowed thickly.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," he said formally. "I didn't work with Ben directly, but from what little interaction I had with him I knew he was a fine man…a fine soldier and an excellent medic. He was…too young." John's voice trailed off as he lost himself for a moment in memories.

Bell kept his face averted. "Yes, well…" His mouth tightened after a moment and he brought his gaze back to John.

"Be that as it may," he said briskly, "but right now I'm thinking of my patient. I know you've had a bad blow, John. Too many bad blows," Bell amended hastily when he saw the wry twist of John's lips. "But this doesn't have to be the end."

"Doesn't it?" John asked wearily, lying back against his pillows again. He was surprised and slightly disgusted with himself…he was normally "stiff upper lip" personified, and here he was showing vulnerability to a virtual stranger. (Perhaps it was the fever that lowered his inhibitions, or his compassion for Bell having lost his only child, or the association with his grandfather, or all three.)

"This is bad, I grant you," Bell said gently. "But it may not be so long as you fear. And you can still be useful."

Useful. It was, at the heart of it, all John had ever really wanted from himself, to justify his existence in this world – useful to others, so he became a doctor; useful to his country, so he became a soldier. For a while – a little, little while – he had hoped he was useful to Sherlock, a man greater than John ever could be.

"How?" John asked the ceiling. He had almost forgotten for the moment that someone else was there. "How can I be useful to anyone when I'm locked up a minimum of twenty-one hours out of twenty-four, when I can't practice medicine, or help–"

He was going to say, or help Sherlock, but he stopped, not ready to put that into audible words just yet.

"You can still read and study," Bell said firmly. "You can still write, even if you can't keep a blog anymore. And you may yet find ways to be useful to people in here."

John closed his eyes. He said nothing.

"I can prescribe you some antidepressants if you need me to, laddie, or something to help you sleep if you're having trouble there," Bell went on. "But you're a doctor, and you know as well as I do the positive effects just taking care of yourself can have on your psyche. Eating properly, for a start – you're definitely much thinner than you were when you came in here, and I know it wasn't just the 'flu that caused it. Going out to the yard at every opportunity. Getting some exercise in the gym."

John opened his eyes and fixed them onto Bell.

"Why do you care?" he asked with real curiosity. "You must see thousands of…of lags* like me go through."

Bell smiled. "I do that, indeed. But I know a survivor when I see one."

Before either of them could say anything else, an orderly appeared with a tray of food.

"Ah, thank you, Frank," Bell said easily, rising from his chair and stepping up to the bed to help John sit up. He then took the tray from the orderly and deposited it on John's lap.

"Eat up, laddie," he said bracingly. "Then try to sleep some more. "We'll talk again later."

Bell rested his hand briefly on John's shoulder, then turned and left the room.

John lifted his spoon and looked down at the clear broth. He was surprised to feel a real thread of hunger in his stomach, the first since he had come to this place, and he crushed a cracker into the broth before beginning to eat.

He did not deceive himself that the old doctor's words had sparked a new life in him. John still felt worn down emotionally, and a pep talk was not going to dispel his gloom. But he found to his surprise that he liked Bell. The man had the same comforting demeanor that John's grandfather had had, and the same pragmatic, clear-eyed way of looking at things.

This doesn't have to be the end.

John didn't know if it would be possible for him to forge some kind of life here, but he figured he might as well take Bell's advice and try.

After all, it wasn't as though he had anything else to do.

Chapter Text

“‘It was a mistake,’ you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you."
–David Levithan

October 2013

Despite the studious application of ice, his brother's fist had left a dark bruise on Mycroft's jaw that could not be concealed entirely. Resigned to the mark's presence and in a thoroughly bad mood, Mycroft began his day as he usually did at the Diogenes Club, in the Stranger's Room. When the dress-coated attendant had brought him his customary pot of coffee along with the morning edition of various newspapers, he had raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sight of the bruise; Mycroft had met his gaze with a stone-cold look that quelled any further expressions of curiosity at once, and the man left hurriedly to attend to his other duties.

Mycroft poured coffee into a china cup and reached for his copy of The Economist. Holding it on his lap, he stared unseeingly at the front page. Much against his will, his racing thoughts would not let him concentrate on the reading material. They were far too preoccupied with Sherlock…and with John Watson.

Setting aside the newspaper, Mycroft pulled out a duplicate of the file he had given to Sherlock. He opened it. On top was the picture of John coming out of the Old Bailey just last week – the one that clearly showed the scar on his face while he cowered behind Lestrade, trying to evade the journalists swarming around him.

Looking at John's wary, wounded eyes, remembering Sherlock's cry of distress from yesterday, Mycroft wondered how the hell it had all gone so bloody wrong.

He had not meant for John to be hurt. He had only meant to protect him…and, if he was being honest with himself, to keep him out of the way.

Nothing had gone the way he and Sherlock had expected. Mycroft realized now that he had underestimated Moriarty, or perhaps he had overestimated himself. Maybe it was both. Regardless, neither he nor Sherlock had believed that it would take more than six months at most to bring down Moriarty's network. Mycroft would never have arranged to have John end up in prison, but once the doctor was there, it had seemed…prudent to leave him be. And he had never intended for it to be so long…a day turned into a week, a week turned into a month, and before he knew it, two years had gone by. But the important thing was that John had been safe…at least, safer than he would have been running loose in London, stalked by Moriarty's assassin who had, maddeningly, escaped Mycroft's net; safe from his own reckless tendencies (for Mycroft had no doubt the doctor would have tried to get to the bottom of things); safe from potentially compromising Sherlock's cover (and, therefore, Sherlock's own safety) if he had not been content to let things lie.

That was worth a bit of boredom, surely?

Mycroft studied the photograph. He was not as confident of the rightness of his position in this matter as he normally was. That scar…just how deeply did it run?

He was jerked suddenly out of his reverie by a commotion from the hall. He heard the attendant's distressed tones raised in a loud whisper outside the door, "Sir, you can't just barge in on Mr. Holmes! I need to announce you! Sir, please!"

Sighing, Mycroft set the file aside as he heard the door open behind him. He schooled his features and made his voice especially snide as he turned in his swivel chair and said, "Right on schedule…still in a snit, are we, brother mine?"

Then he broke off when he saw who had just come into the ornate room.

It was not Sherlock.

It was John Watson.

The normally unflappable Mycroft Holmes was completely lost for words at that moment (a thing that rarely, if ever, happened), but his deductive skills ran on unchecked.

Thinner than when we last met by at least a stone…his clothes are looser; even his old hunting jacket is a bit big on him. He wouldn't have been allowed to have his own garments at Frankland, but he has not yet returned to Baker Street…Mrs. Hudson must have brought some of them to him at Lestrade's bedsit. Hair greyer than it was, though at first glance this might be go unnoticed as the grey strands blend into the blond ones. Face more deeply lined – he has experienced a great deal of stress, though the dark circles he is currently sporting are indicative of a poor night's sleep; that, combined with the mud on his shoes which could only have come from the South Bank would indicate he has been walking for most of the night…hair tousled forward, obviously he was moving with his back to the wind. Wind direction, time and location: sometime after 2 a.m. Fatigued, left hand appeared clenched before he put it behind his back to stand at parade rest…emotions reined in tight. Facial scar is still quite red…it will take several years to fade to a silver-white…

It was the eyes, though, that were the most disconcerting to Mycroft – John's steady, ice-cold eyes. It was a look that pinned Mycroft to his seat and stole from his throat the courteous greeting he was trying to frame before he'd even drawn in a breath to form the words.

Before he could find his voice, John abruptly asked, "Who lumped you? I'd like to buy him a drink."

John's voice was cold, but almost casual – neither loud nor overly emotional. He seemed somehow remote and detached from the entire proceedings, and Mycroft, who had been more…agitated than he would have liked to admit just a few seconds earlier, now reclassified his own state of mind as being merely concerned, and he waved away the attendant who was fluttering his hands behind John as though he wanted to do something but wasn't sure what (particularly if it involved the small yet somehow very imposing figure standing before Mycroft). The man fled gladly, closing the door behind him.

Mycroft turned his full attention back to John. Something in the younger man's expression warned him that to lie at all now would be a serious mistake.

"My dear brother, in his impetuosity, regressed to a more infantile expression of disapproval when he learned of your…incarceration," Mycroft said, forcing a rather sour smile. He wondered if this information would help to earn Sherlock a place back in the doctor's good books, but John's expression gave nothing away. Instead, he looked around the room.

"Figured I'd find you here," he remarked. "It's where you were when I saw you last, and you are a creature of habit, aren't you." It wasn't a question, so Mycroft didn't answer. Indeed, he noticed his throat was suddenly quite dry…he felt rather as though he had been shut up with a small lion that wasn't hungry, but hadn't yet decided whether or not it was in the mood to toy with its prey.

John shifted his gaze back to Mycroft.

"Quite a conversation we had back then," he said, almost conversationally. "When you told me about Moriarty, and asked me to tell Sherlock you were sorry. The way your voice stuttered and halted…you should have gone on the stage. Hell, you could have won a bloody BAFTA that day."

"John–" Mycroft began.

"Dr. Watson to you," John corrected sharply. Mycroft swallowed. John had never been the kind of man who worried about what title people used to address him, or even if they used one at all.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft amended placatingly. He knew he would have to tread very carefully. "If you recall our exact conversation, you'll realize I never did actually lie to you…what I said was the truth. You inferred the rest."

"Fool me once, shame on me, eh?" John asked. He smiled a bitter little smile, and his eyes were like a wild thing's – alert, wary and watchful. "Well, I guess one could say I paid for my trust…with two years of my life, I paid for it. But you did warn me, I suppose," he conceded. "The day I met you, you did warn me."

Mycroft suddenly found himself faltering. "I never meant–"

"Oh, now that sounds familiar," John's voice lowered to an almost-growl through a half-smile. "Maybe I can even help you finish the thought this time…you never meant to leave me to rot in that prison for two years, is that what you were going to say?"

"No, I didn't," Mycroft said firmly. "I swear to you, John, I didn't. Neither Sherlock" (Mycroft tried not to notice how John winced at the sound of his brother's name) "nor I believed it would take as long as it did to dismantle Moriarty's network. Moriarty's lieutenant was on the loose in London; he had been targeting you that day at St. Batholomew's. I thought you were safer…in custody. Sherlock didn't even know you had been arrested; I never told him. We both wanted to keep you out of the line of fire, and I feared you would do something rash. It was never supposed to be for long–"

"You. Decided. I would be. Safer. In custody?" John's sandy brows lowered dangerously along with his voice. His hands came around to his sides and his fists were clenched, though he stayed where he was by the door.

Mycroft had the uneasy feeling that John was staying well back not because he couldn't stand being close to Mycroft, but because he didn't trust himself to come any closer…that John feared what he might do if some part of Mycroft were within his grasp – like, say, his neck.

John swung away a moment, and Mycroft, flinching at the sudden movement, could see the muscles cording and bunching in the doctor's neck and shoulders as he strove to remain in control of himself.

"You arrogant...pompous…self-righteous…arse." John still wasn't shouting, but he was breathing hard now, and the tension from his clenched fists was visibly spreading through his arms, shoulders, chest, torso…Mycroft discreetly felt for his phone in his breast pocket…he was beginning to be afraid that the younger man might suddenly fly at him.

But John did not. Instead, he closed his eyes and took deep, steadying breaths.

"You thought you could just kennel me, is that it?" he said, once he had got himself back under control. He turned to look at Mycroft full on. "Moriarty once referred to me as Sherlock's 'pet.'" John's eyes grew distant for a moment and his lips twisted in disgust at the remembered insult. Then he refocused on Mycroft. "And that's what you thought, too, isn't it? You and your brother both." He gave a bitter laugh. "Oh, I see it now. The pair of you lied to me, told me a fairy story the way a parent does to a child to get it to go along with something, and then put me on ice for two years…never giving me any say, any warning, anything to fucking hold onto–"

John's voice broke a little. He faltered and looked down.

"You ruined me," he whispered, so softly Mycroft almost missed it. "The pair of you. You ruined my life."

"John–"

The doctor's head snapped up. Mycroft recoiled slightly; John's eyes were glowing like blue flames with an almost feral look.

"Greg – Detective Inspector Lestrade – he believed I was innocent. And you knew I was innocent. He wanted me to contact you, ask you to help me. He was angry with me when I wouldn't – said I was too bloody proud. I'll bet he contacted you himself to ask you to intervene on my behalf, didn't he?"

Mycroft's silence was a confirmation. John nodded, then went on.

"I didn't because I was so…bloody…furious with you, for betraying your brother to Moriarty. That's what I told Greg. But there was more…I also felt…guilty. I thought you blamed me. I put your brother in the limelight with that bloody blog, and then, when you asked me to protect him, I failed. I figured you thought I deserved whatever I got, for letting your brother die. And I figured I deserved it, too…it was justice."

Mycroft was aghast. "John, that was never–"

John went on without acknowledging the interruption.

"But that was never true at all. None of it was true…all a lie, and you and your brother used me to put on a show, to convince those watching that it was all real. You let me believe it, and you left me to rot."

John closed his eyes and bowed his head; he was shaking with the effort to keep himself under control. When he finally looked up again, his face was furious, his shoulders hunched, and his fists were clenched painfully tight at his sides. His whole body seems so taut it might snap at any moment. When he spoke, his voice came out in a low hiss.

"Now you listen to me, you cold-hearted bastard…I have only one request of you, and one only. Then you and me are quits for good, yeah? It's this – stay the hell away from me. Don't speak to me, don't look at me, don't send me anything in the mail, don't put any funds in my account, don't watch me on CCTV. Don't call me, don't text me. Don't contact me in any way. Don't say my name. Don't speak on my behalf. Don't send anyone to 'protect' me. Don't so much as nod to me on the street if we happen to pass one another – hell, don't even make eye contact. Pretend I don't exist, and I'll pretend you don't exist. Because if you don't, Mycroft…if you do anything to interfere with my life, or even just remind me of your existence on this planet in any way whatsoever, I swear to God…I will fucking kill you with my bare hands. I will kill you, and if they send me back to prison for it, I'll go singing a bloody song, considering it well worth it."

John nailed Mycroft to his chair with a particularly venomous look for one long moment. Then, giving a sharp nod, he straightened, turned on his heel and left the room. He closed the door quietly behind him.

And Mycroft Holmes, frozen in his chair, pressed his hand to his thudding heart and tried to catch his breath. Not for nothing did Sherlock once call him "the most dangerous man John had ever met," and Mycroft was used to being the most feared man in whatever room he occupied. But that had not been true today.

John had threatened his life. Mycroft had caused men and women to disappear for less. But he believed John. He believed John had meant what he said – that he would kill Mycroft if Mycroft tried to interfere with him again.

It wasn't until much later, after a large brandy, that it suddenly occurred to Mycroft that John had never once mentioned Sherlock by name.

Mycroft was in his office later that same day when his second confrontation occurred. This one he had been expecting.

It was his assistant who gave him warning. She looked rather perturbed, for her. "Sir, your brother is–"

Before she could finish, Sherlock strode into the room like an avenging angel. He glared daggers at Mycroft, then turned the fierce gaze on the female assistant. "Leave."

She looked to Mycroft, who nodded, and exited the room, closing the door behind her.

Unlike John's quiet fury, Sherlock's vibrated through his every muscle. His eyes flashed and his curls stood wildly on end, reminding Mycroft of an agitated cat.

The pale grey eyes swept over Mycroft and the room like a pair of searchlights.

"He came to see you," Sherlock ground out. "John saw you at your infernal club…what did he say to you?"

His little brother he could handle. Mycroft threw down his pen and rose to his feet behind his desk so that his gaze was level with Sherlock's. He kept his voice soft and scornful when he answered.

"Deduce it yourself, Sherlock…John is not particularly imaginative; he wanted to take me to task for his wrongful incarceration. And I must say, he was far more in control of himself than you apparently are – quite a feat, given that he is the offended party here."

"Offended?" Sherlock cried. "Is that what you call it – offended? If I had known–"

"Well, you didn't," Mycroft said sharply. "Nor did you inquire. You left your 'friends' to me and I kept them safe as you requested, in the manner I saw fit, since you weren't specific as to how that should be accomplished."

"Safe? Did it never occur to you that there isn't a prison in England that doesn't hold a criminal whom I put there?" Sherlock demanded. He raised his hands to his head and clenched his fists into his hair, hard enough to hurt. "Oh, God! You saw his face! That was done with a razor, I expect, and not recently." He flung his hands down, tearing some hair with them, and leveled a look of such hatred at Mycroft that the older man faltered for a moment. "Did you think it for his own good…a worthy exchange for keeping him safe from Moriarty's people? The devil we didn't know, in this case, was better than the one we did?"

"Don't be melodramatic," Mycroft snapped, provoked enough now to refrain from long speeches. "He was in a British prison, not some Third World POW camp…really, Sherlock, you can spare me your visions of dungeons and chains and medieval torture devices. Safe, clean, well-run, civilized–"

"Oh, do spare me your hymn to Queen and Country, Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted rudely. "You only make yourself look even more ridiculous. If your lovely prisons are so safe, how did John come to be injured in such a way?"

Mycroft felt uncomfortable. "In a high-security prison, there is occasionally bound to be instances of random violence, even as there are on a London street."

"I doubt that was random, but I'm going to find out…unless you care to enlighten me now?" Here Sherlock glared shrewdly from under his curly fringe. "I'm sure in your care and concern you've been checking up on him regularly."

Mycroft looked away. "I've kept a weather eye on him, of course."

"A 'weather eye,'" Sherlock said scornfully. "In a prison environment, someone like John – an adrenaline fiend with PTSD – you deduced those things about him as soon as I did –"

Now it was Mycroft's turn to interrupt.

"Worried about his post-traumatic stress disorder and propensity for danger, are we?" he said disdainfully. "What did you think he would do while you were away? Nothing, I wager, but sit safely in Baker Street, waiting for his master's return, a return he had no reason to expect! I believe you give the good doctor rather too much credit, Sherlock. I've had my doubts as to the veracity of his PTSD diagnosis from the beginning, and whatever other sterling qualities John Watson may have – and I do acknowledge he has them – an above-average intellect is not among them. I judged him to have enough intelligence to keep his mind occupied with pursuits of a scholarly and/or literary nature, yet not so much as to cause him to suffer from a lack of stimulation such as you or I would experience."

Sherlock ground his teeth audibly. "You judge John to be just another 'goldfish,' is that it, Mycroft? And here you're supposed to be the smart one."

Mycroft glowered. "I am the smart one."

"And I know my friend!"

"Oh yes. Friends. Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now." Mycroft was scornful.

"And you don't," Sherlock said coldly. "Or rather, they don't go in for you. Perhaps you were glad to have John out of the way because you were jealous of what he has been to me…just as you were jealous when the puppy you chose preferred–"

Mycroft slammed his fists down on the desk. "Enough!" he roared.

The uncharacteristic outburst, so unlike the normally cool, unruffleable Mycroft, shocked both brothers into silence. For a moment they stood, glaring at one another, struggling to regain control. Then, in a much calmer voice, Mycroft spoke.

"Your concern over your blogger's…emotional issues is touching, I'm sure, Sherlock," he said silkily. "But it is also, at this time, misplaced. We have larger matters to concern ourselves with – namely, an imminent terror strike on London and the continued elusiveness of Moriarty's second-in-command, who is, in all likelihood, involved. This is why you were brought back to England, and this is what you will focus on."

"Oh, will I?" Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed as the feeling of déjà vu swept over him. He lowered his voice, but his tone was no less menacing. "Yes, Sherlock. You will."

Sherlock held Mycroft's gaze as he took a step backwards towards the door. "I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft. And I will find this nameless assassin. And when I have…you and I are through."

Sherlock glared at his brother a moment longer. Then, in a swirl of black coat and blue scarf, he swept back through the door.

Unlike John, he slammed it hard behind him.

The resounding crash shook the office, and shook Mycroft down to his bones. Uttering a shaky sigh, he sank down in this chair and buried his face in his hands.

Sherlock would get over his snit eventually. And so would John.

Mycroft was sure of it.

Chapter Text

"I have no enemies here."
"Yeah? Wait awhile."
–From The Shawshank Redemption

April 2012

They had been targeting him from the beginning. Four of them – Cartwright, Biddle, Hayward and Moffat* – were in for murdering their compatriot, Sutton, who had turned Queen's evidence on them after they robbed the Worthington Bank in exchange for a lighter sentence. They might have got away with it, too – New Scotland Yard had been satisfied that Sutton's apparent suicide was exactly what it looked like until Sherlock had appeared on the scene. (He had not only declared that the "suicide" was in fact a murder – he also called upon his considerable knowledge of tobacco ash to deduce how many people were present in the room where it happened, where they stood, and how the crime was carried out; then, with a few taps on his mobile, he produced the names of the perpetrators.)

The other three – James Winter (assault), Roger Prescott (counterfeiting), and Jack Woodley (fraud) – had nothing in common other than the fact that they, too, were being detained at Her Majesty's pleasure courtesy of one Sherlock Holmes. They were, of course, unable to express their feelings about their incarceration to the consulting detective himself, but were more than willing to use John as a stand-in (despite the fact that their cases were all solved before John had even met Sherlock).

It wasn't until early April that these seven men began to make themselves troublesome. They had held back at first, watching John with appraising eyes, trying to get his measure. In those first weeks, they did no more than participate in the usual "hazing" that the rest of the prison population enacted upon the new prisoners. This was just as well for John, for it wasn't until after his nasty bout with the flu that he began to come back to himself a bit…had Cartwright and his cronies started their campaign on him earlier, he might not have been emotionally ready to deal with it.

On his first full day in prison, John had been locked down until lunch at eleven in the morning next day. When his door opened after that first sleepless night, he had risen stiffly from his place on the floor and stepped out onto the landing hesitantly, unsure of what to do. Then he spotted Wiggins to his right, who gave him a wink and a smile and whispered, "Stick with me, doc."

So John did, following Wiggins and the rest of the "herd" to the wing's canteen, which was overwhelmingly packed with prisoners, and dreadfully noisy. Glancing around surreptitiously from his place on the queue, John thought that some of the men could have rivaled the Golem for sheer size – he later learned that these were long-term prisoners who spent most of their time working out with weights in the gym.

Mostly, though, John just stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact.

The lunch was singularly uninspired, if not downright unappetizing: a jacket potato with nothing on it, a tired sandwich, and some awful tea. There was no pudding. They were to take it back to their cells, which in a way was a relief – John hated being banged up**, but the noise and the crowdedness of the canteen was overwhelming to his frayed nerves.

He spent his first sosh† on the wing with Bill Wiggins, getting to know more about the young street person who had known Sherlock, and who was both a whiz at creating drug compounds and a seasoned lag†† with a fair amount of useful advice to offer.

Sosh was easily the most intimidating time for John during those first weeks – it was, Wiggins warned him, when the other prisoners would try to see how far they could push John, and to what extent they could bully him. Wiggins's advice was simple and straightforward: accept nothing from anyone and fight everyone who tried to pick a fight, even if you were bound to come off worst – back down once, he warned John, and you might as well resign yourself to becoming someone's bitch.

John took the point.

So during his first few weeks at Frankland, John avoided the showers altogether and took sponge baths in his pad. When a bloke in a cell further down the wing, wanting to get John in his debt, dropped by and tried to get him to accept everything from a wrap of speed to a sixteenth of an ounce of marijuana (the going rate was two ounces of 'baccy), John told him to piss off. When another prisoner offered him a mobile, gratis, John said coldly he didn't want anything that had come out of another bloke's arse, thanks (God knew how they managed it). When a guy "accidentally" knocked John's lunch out of his hands in the canteen, sending the food scattering across the floor, John (with a roll of the eyes – seriously, could it get more juvenile than this?) stabbed the man's hand with his fork. True, the utensil was made of plastic, but it was still a hard enough jab to make the guy yelp, which made the other prisoners guffaw in appreciation. And when a particularly ill-tempered screw*† came over, demanding to know what the problem was, John told him it was none of his damn business, earning himself a day in his cell, but also the increased respect of the other prisoners present both for standing up to the screw and for not grassing on his fellow prisoner.

By his fourth week, John ventured to shower. Only one man showed interest in trying something; John, who was ready, immediately whipped his bar of soap at the guy as hard as he could, hitting him in the eye and leaving him with a shiner that lasted two full weeks. From that time on he had little trouble with the general prison population, for the word had gone out: that little Watson bloke might not be all that big, but he was tough as nails and feisty as hell; he knew how to handle himself and wasn't prepared to put up with any shit. The consensus was reached: there was no point in bothering with him when there were other, easier pickings elsewhere.

This did not, however, hold true for the remaining members of the Worthington Bank Gang and their three hangers-on – or, as John secretly dubbed them, "Sherlock's fan club." They kept their distance, watching John carefully, so that he felt their interest and animosity before he even knew whom they were.

It was Wiggins who let him in on it.

"All seven of 'em was busted by your detective, yeah?" Wiggins explained as they walked in aimless circles around the exercise yard one raw, damp day. "And none of 'em too happy about it, if you understand what I mean. You'll want to be careful, doc, or they'll be taking their mad out on you."

"Lovely," John sighed.

In some ways, he didn't much care what happened to him. Before his illness, he had stuck up for himself here out of habit more than anything else – habit and pride. He had always been on the small side of average, and he had always had to fight for his place in the world. He'd fought to get away from his difficult home, fought to get his medical degree, fought to make his way as a career soldier. In school he had fought to make them let him play rugby. While in the army, he had fought for the lives of others. When he was shot, he had fought for his own life, then fought to recover and become mobile again. When he found that all his fighting could not give him back the life he had built for himself, he had almost given up. Then he met Sherlock, and he found himself fighting for Sherlock.

In the end, he had not been able to save Sherlock, not his reputation, not his life. Now John was tired of fighting. It was enough.

Strangely, it was Dr. Bell – with his reminiscences of John's Granddad McLean and the old man's own dead son, who had briefly served as one of John's medics – who reminded John that he is a fighter, and that true fighters can never truly bring themselves to give up a fight.

As he recovered from the flu and began to adapt to his new life, John began to perk up a bit. He still felt dull and listless, but now he began to look forward to his visits from Greg and Mrs. Hudson, to enjoy talking to them on the telephone, and to correspond with Bill Murray, Mike Stamford and his old CO James Sholto (these were among the few who still believed in him).

And then there was Wiggins. The lad was sharp as a whip, but strangely vulnerable, and he brought out John's protective instincts. He found himself watching over young Bill as much as Bill watched over him, for Wiggins had a mouth then tended to run ahead of his brain and an over-developed sense of humor that many of the other, less lively men did not understand. Already John had saved him from more than one pounding by an irritated prisoner he had managed to tick off. Now he was trying to talk the younger man into enrolling in an Open University course – Bill was in for four years, but John was sure he could get out sooner, and he wanted to see the lad channel his potential into a more productive direction and build some kind of life for himself off the streets.

But as John's tenacity and spirit began to resurface along with his health and sense of purpose, so did the Worthington Gang's malevolent interest.

At first it was just whispered threats, insults and petty knocks in the exercise yard or coming to or from the canteen. Then one day in April, about three weeks after John had recovered from the flu, Cartwright came into his cell at the start of sosh. Two of his compatriots – Biddle and Hayward – were behind him.

John, looking up from his desk where he was addressing a letter to Mike that he wanted to send out that day, paused and tensed immediately, rising to his feet.

"Give us your fucking 'baccy," Cartwright said without preamble.

"I don't smoke," John shot back coolly.

"Then we'll take it out of you in blood."

And then all three of them were on him, landing heavy punches that knocked him into the sink. He managed to get a few good shots in himself, but three against one is not the best odds, and they dragged John from the room and onto the landing, shoving him back hard against the stair rail.

"So you're the detective's sidekick," Cartwright observed. "You don't look like much…more of a tag-along, I'm guessing, yeah?"

He made the mistake of leaning a bit too close while pretending to examine him, and John lunged forward against the restraining arms and head butted him. While Cartwright staggered back with a bloody nose, John heard a familiar voice from the lower landing call up, "Oi!"

John glanced over the rail to see Wiggins, pale but determined, starting up the stairs. He halted when John yelled out to him.

"Don't come up here, Wiggy, there's too many of them! Get help! Get–"

Moffat backhanded him, cutting off his cry. John tasted the iron tang of blood in his mouth.

Not a good sign. When things got violent, the prisoners tended to avoid hurting one another where the injuries would show. The face blow indicated that Cartwright didn't care if they disciplined him so long as he got to hurt John badly.

The former bank robber and murderer drew close, his face dark with fury. "Gag him!" he spat.

Winter ducked into John's cell and came out again with a sock from the pile of laundry John had been folding earlier. He stepped to the right and slightly behind John (as far as he could with the stair railing) and looped the sock around John's head, jerking it tight until John had to give in and open his mouth. It was too short to tie off, so Winter simply held it in place as Cartwright advanced on the doctor.

"I hear you got shot before," Cartwright said. "Let's see then. Pull his shirt up, Jimmy."

Frantic, John looked up the walkway. Further along the wing, near the railing so they could easily be seen, Hayward and Biddle were pretending to chat, smiling and nodding, so as to give the impression to any screws that might be passing below that all was well; they were also in a position to block John should he wrench himself free and try to reach for the emergency alarm button near his cell door. Woodley and Prescott had him by the arms; Winter had forced the sock through his teeth and was holding it with both hands at the back of John's head to gag him. Moffat had one arm across his chest, pressing John back against the stair railing, and at Cartwright's order he used the other to yank John's t-shirt up.

Cartwright stood before him, casually lighting up a cigarette.

"Now, let's just think about this," he said conversationally as John struggled furiously to free himself. "What would be the best way to make sure you remember, you don't answer to that ol' detective of yours no more, but to us, now? Eh?"

Cartright pretended to think about it a moment. Then suddenly he seemed to brighten.

"I know!" he said cheerfully. "How 'bout a brand? 'WG' for the 'Worthington Gang.' You'll always remember who owns you with that!"

There was a tense moment of silence, then Woodley and Prescott both began to chortle. But John went cold.

They don't understand, these two, he thought. They think he's just joking. They're small-timers themselves. They don't get that Cartwright's unstable.

At that moment all conscious thought was driven out of his mind as Cartwright pushed the point of the burning fag into his right flank.

John did his best to hold back the scream that was building in his throat, but it isn't an easy thing to do when a man is holding a lit cigarette against one's side. (Having his mate gag you with a sock helps, of course.) Through the graying edges of his vision, he saw Woodley and Prescott staring horrified at Cartwright as the smell of John's burning flesh reached them.

"Jesus, Mickey, don't really burn 'im!" Prescott cried.

Cartwright drew the cigarette back and glared at the two men on either side of John.

"Shut the fuck up and hold him still, or I swear you're next," he growled darkly. Then he pressed the end of the cigarette against John's skin again, a little lower than before. It hurt as much as the first one did and John let out a muffled cry of anguish. It wasn't as bad as being shot, of course, but it did make him think, crazily, of his old Sunday school teacher telling the class of children that Hell wasn't really a lake of fire, that the image was used as an analogy for the absence of God – something so painful it could not be imagined, and so those describing it compared it to being burned, the worst pain a human body could know.

As Cartwright relit the tapped out end of the cigarette and pressed it a third time to John's side, John's head, while bursting with the suppressed agony, suddenly cleared in that cool, delicious way it did when his adrenaline flooded his senses, washing out fear and anger and pain and stress and leaving him with a crystal clarity that he never experienced otherwise. It had helped him during difficult surgeries, emergency battlefield medicine, and on dangerous cases with Sherlock, and now it untangled the strands of confused thought in his mind so that he could concentrate.

Right. I've got Woodley on the right and Prescott on the left. Winter in back a bit but more off to the side. In front of me I've got Cartwright, Moffat, and Biddle and Hayward down the walkway. That leaves just one avenue for escape – backwards.

It wasn't ideal. Behind him was the stair railing, with an eight-foot drop to the first landing. The odds of him escaping injury from such a jump were not very high, especially with the risk of hitting the net.

Then Cartwright pressed the cigarette to his side a fourth time, and as the pain exploded in John's mind he thought, suddenly, how long it would take the bastard to form the letter 'W'. That decided him.

Pretending to faint with the pain, John lolled his head back and let his knees buckle suddenly. As he had hoped, Winter dropped the gag, and Woodley and Prescott reflexively tightened their grip on his arms as Moffat jumped back, startled.

Perfect, John thought grimly, and he pushed off hard on bent legs in a powerful thrust that sent his body flying up and back, tearing his arms free from Prescott and Woodley's grasp and propelling himself up and over the railing. As he went over, he lashed out with his feet and caught Cartwright squarely in the solar plexus, driving the air out of his lungs in a long whoof! and giving John the extra propulsion he needed to get all the way over the railing.

It was a fast drop to the landing below, but John did his best to tuck and roll. It worked, and he hoped he'd mostly only have some nasty bruises to show for it, but the initial impact on his bad shoulder was enough to jerk a snarled yelp out of him as he felt something give. He pushed down the pain – he wasn't yet done.

Bouncing to his feet, John looked up to see Woodley, Prescott and Winter all staring down at him over the railing with identical looks of shock on their faces. And then John dashed – not down the stairs to safety, as they were expecting, but up the stairs and back towards his tormentors.

When John regained the landing, he saw that Cartwright was just managing to pull himself upright again. Lowering his head and charging forward, John caught him in a flying tackle that would have made his old rugby coach proud: Cartwright was slammed, flat on his back, onto the concrete floor with John on top, and what little air he had left was driven from his lungs as John began pummeling him with both fists, making every blow count.

Woodley, Prescott, Moffat and Winter were too stunned to react, and just stared open-mouthed at John. (One of the advantages of being on the small side, John took a moment to reflect, was that people tended to underestimate you.) Down the hall, Biddle and Hayward began hissing frantically, "Screw! Screw!" and all six men bolted, leaving Cartwright and John tussling on the floor.

"Oi! Stop that! Get off of 'im!"

John felt hands grabbing at his arms and moved to bat them off; his blood was up now and he was ready to throttle this son of a bitch. But then, through the red cloud obscuring his vision, he saw that the arms pulling at him were uniformed. He stopped fighting and allowed the prison officers to drag him away from the bloody, battered Cartwright.

Cartwright spent three days in the healthcare centre, then a week confined to his pad. John was also given "days" for fighting; only two, but to him it felt like two weeks. Still, it was worth it – the incident solidified his reputation as a force to be reckoned with and, better still, broke up "Sherlock's fan club," at least somewhat…Woodley, Winter and Prescott decided that it would be in their best interest to let bygones be bygones with John (to whom they were grateful for not grassing on them) and not to associate with the Worthington Bank Gang anymore.

But while the remaining members of the fan club no longer took part in petty insults and jabs, John could see by the look on Cartwright's face when they passed one another during sosh that, as far as he was concerned, this was far from over.

It was Bell who first made John aware of the fact that he was feeling markedly better.

After Bell had seen to Cartwright (who was in a considerably worse state than John), he tended to John's hurts. The younger doctor sat, shirtless, on an exam table while Bell patched him up, dressing the burns and applying a cold pack to the wrenched shoulder, probing the bruises to make sure nothing was broken.

"I'm sorry this happened, but I suppose it was inevitable," the older man sighed, fitting John for a sling. "I'm relieved you came out of it all right. It could have gone a great deal worse, I hope you realize. That was a hell of a risk you took, laddie, jumping over the railing like that."

"I'd rather break my own neck than have one of them do it for me," John replied tersely.

Bell frowned at this and looked searchingly into his face. John, feeling unaccountably uncomfortable, lowered his eyelids. Bell reached over and pulled them up again with gentle fingers. He looked worried, puzzled.

"Are you on anything?" he demanded suddenly.

"What?" John sputtered, jerking his head away. "Am I…no, I'm bloody not!" He glared at the older man in indignation.

Bell huffed out a frustrated breath. "It's just…oh, hell, I don't know how to put it. You look sort of…manic, as if you were high, but I believe you when you say you're not."

Staring at him, John felt a memory stir.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths?"

"Mmm, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh God, yes."

John shook away the memory abruptly.

"Look – Dr. Bell–"

"Joseph."

John blinked. "Joseph, then. Thank you." He cleared his throat, then went on.

"Look…Joseph. I'm just keyed up, from everything, you know? I don't get keyed up while things are happening, it usually happens after. Then I crash. Guess it was the army that made me that way." He tried to smile, but Dr. Bell still looked unsure.

"Prison life…there's a lot of violence here, John. It's a pressure cooker. Lot of grown men, locked up together, bored, frustrated, pent-up feelings…things happen," he said finally. "Just…try not to be reckless, all right?"

John studied the older man for a moment. He wasn't quite sure what Bell was asking him, so he simply said, "Yes…I'll be careful. But this had to happen, Joseph. Things will be a bit easier now, I think."

"I hope so."

Later, in his bunk after lights out, John couldn't help noticing that he felt lighter, less oppressed, and…well, freer than he had since he had come here.

Chapter Text

“For there to be betrayal, there would have to have been trust first.”
–Suzanne Collins

November 2013

"Sherlock Holmes himself has so far refused to comment, but with a series of hoaxes such as these, it's almost impossible to know what the truth actually is. New Scotland Yard have confirmed that Sherlock Holmes is alive, and that they believe him to be innocent of all charges, and that they're looking forward to working with him again. Back to you in the studio."*

John switched off the television and sat back on the sofa. His brain was in a whirl; he literally did not know what to think.

Sherlock was alive.

Sherlock was alive.

The Holmes brothers, with the help of Molly Hooper and a bunch of tramps, had put on a show for John in which he witnessed the suicide of his best friend. Said best friend then left on a grand adventure, tracking down and destroying the remnants of Moriarty's network, while Mycroft and Molly had watched John go to prison and said nothing.

John didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Or punch something. Even while Greg had been explaining it to him, John had had to keep asking him to repeat himself. He just couldn't get his head around it all.

He got up and began to pace.

All his life, when John had a lot to wrestle with emotionally, he liked to move. Going for a run, a bike ride or even a long walk always helped to clear his head and bring things into perspective. Unfortunately, he had not been out of Lestrade's bedsit in the five days since he had gone to confront Mycroft. That had been the same night Greg had told him about Sherlock's "resurrection," and John had walked the streets of London all through the night, ending up at the Diogenes Club the next morning.

The next day, news of Sherlock's miraculous return broke: "#sherlocklives," indeed.

Before the Fall, John had still been able to fade into the background, even during the height of Sherlock's popularity. Though far from unpleasant in appearance, his decidedly English looks, sensible and serviceable clothing, and short-side-of-average height did not cause him to stand out, particularly when paired with Sherlock's distinctive angular features, tallness, and dramatic style of dress. This had been fine with him.

This was no longer the case. Coupled with Sherlock's "suicide" two years ago, John's arrest, trial and conviction had made his face almost as well-known as Sherlock's – and now, thanks to the scar, he could no longer pretend that he wasn't "that bloke from the papers/telly," that the resemblance was just a coincidence, after all. He'd found that out on his trip back from visiting Mycroft – just as, while out walking during the long night before, he'd learned that even if people didn't recognize him as John Watson, they still couldn't help noticing the scar. And staring.

To make matters worse, the media were now desperate to hunt him down. With the news of Sherlock's return came the inevitable, hungry speculation, "What does Wrongfully Convicted John Watson think of his former colleague's return?" (He had gone from being "Bachelor John Watson" to "Disgraced Ex-Solider John Watson" to "Wrongfully Convicted John Watson." He wondered if he would ever be able to go back to being just plain "John Watson.") "Did John Watson know about the subterfuge?" And "John Watson could not be reached for comment." And "Where is John Watson now?" Both Mrs. Hudson and Harry were being harassed by eager reporters, and Lestrade admitted reluctantly that there were a fair amount of the vultures looking out for John down at the Yard, too.

In many ways, he felt like he was still in prison.

A knock at the door halted his pacing. Before John could move or say anything, he heard a voice.

"Ooh-ooh!"

It was Mrs. Hudson.

John hesitated. He wasn't sure he was up for company. He loved Mrs. Hudson dearly, like his own mum, really, but…he didn't really want to talk to her about Sherlock. Not yet, anyway. Greg had told him that Sherlock was back at 221b and Mrs. Hudson was over the moon about it. John didn't blame her, but he also didn't want her to trying to force a reunion or reconciliation for which he was not ready. He knew Mrs. Hudson meant the best for him, but he had no doubt that her desire to have both of her "boys" home might override her sensitivity towards his own feelings, and–

"John Watson, you open this door this minute!"

Unable to keep from grinning, John got up, went to the door, and opened it.

"Finally!" Mrs. Hudson huffed. She was holding a couple of plastic bags in one hand and a holdall in the other. John hastened to take them both from her.

"The plastic bags go in the kitchen, please," the elderly landlady said briskly, starting toward the kitchen area. "The holdall has some clothes of yours from home that I thought you might need."

As John began helping Mrs. Hudson unpack the homemade stew, bread and other goodies, he reflected on how she insisted on continuing to refer to 221b as his "home." He also noticed that she only brought him a few things at a time, no doubt not wanting to empty out his old room to the point where it would look as though John had abandoned it entirely.

"Now then," Mrs. Hudson said brightly, "how about some tea?" She held up a package of chocolate biscuits.

Moments later, she was sitting in Greg's armchair while John sat on the sofa, both of them slowly sipping the hot tea. John was content to let the silence stretch out, but before long Mrs. Hudson set her cup down on the coffee table and sat forward a bit, looking earnestly at him.

"How are you, love?" she asked tenderly.

John automatically opened his mouth to lie, then stopped. It was no good, anyway.

"I'm angry," he said simply.

"It's okay, John. There's nothing wrong with that. I'm quite angry with him myself, you know." Her tone was gentle as she took John's cup from him, set it down on the table, and took his hands in both her own.

"Are you?" John couldn't help asking. "I thought you'd just be happy to have him back…"

She squeezed his hands, hard. "John. Of course I'm angry with him. He lied to us, and he left us behind without a word and it was awful for all of us, but especially for you. Truth to be told, I'm angrier with him on your behalf than I am on my own."

John looked surprised.

"Oh, you can believe it," Mrs. Hudson assured him. "I mean that. But John…being angry with someone isn't the same as hating that person."

John thinned his lips and looked away. Mrs. Hudson let that sink in for a moment.

"I'm not telling you to forgive him, John. That isn't for me to decide, and to be frank I'm not sure I could myself, had I been through...well, the things you've been through."

Her eyes lingered for a moment on his scar, and she looked sad.

"I won't lie to you, John. I miss you, and I want you to come home. I want both my boys back." Here she smiled. "But I understand if you can't. And I understand that it might take some time for you to figure out just how you feel. I'm all bewildered myself – it's the first time I've had anyone come back from the dead, too, you know."

They chuckled a bit at that, then Mrs. Hudson grew sober as she looked into John's eyes.

"I will say this, though, love…as angry as I am, and for as much as we'll have to work through to get past it all…I am happy. Having our Sherlock back…it's like a gift."

John sighed. "I understand that, Mrs. H. And I don't blame you." She raised her eyebrows and he laughed a little. "Well, not much, anyway. I'm not sure…I mean, I'm not sorry he's alive, exactly, but…" his voice trailed off, and he looked away with frustration.

Mrs. Hudson helped him. "But you're sorry he lied to you, and that he left you behind," she guessed.

John looked back at her.

"Yeah. I mean, I went to prison…" He closed his eyes and shook his head as memories threatened to overwhelm him. He blinked hard, then looked into her eyes again. "I'm not the man I was before…before he went away."

She stood up, then, and he stood with her. She drew him in for a hug.

"You're John. You'll always be our John."

John sat for a long time after Mrs. Hudson left, thinking. He was glad she had been more reasonable and sensitive to his feelings than he had expected, but he still didn't feel ready to see Sherlock.

Eventually, though, he knew he was going to need an explanation – and from the man's own mouth, not through someone else.

Sighing, he got up to dump out his cold tea and brew a fresh cup.

He had just reached for the kettle when he was mildly surprised by the sound of the door being unlocked and opened.

"You're back early, Greg." John looked up from the kettle and started to turn, but the reflection he glimpsed in the shiny microwave door caught his eye and froze him in place: the person standing behind him was not Greg Lestrade. The facial features did not show in the reflection, but the silhouette was easy to recognize…a tall figure, thin, curly hair, popped coat collar...

John stared at that silhouette for an endless moment. He could see his own, closer reflection, could make out his own eyes, grown huge with shock, and the long, jagged scar stretching down the left side of his face. He felt like he was shaking, but his reflection was still as stone. Iron bands seemed to be constricting his heart painfully, causing his breath to stutter.

John squeezed his eyes shut. He braced his hands on the worktop and lowered his head.

Maybe, he thought, if I stay still long enough, when I look up it will be gone.

But then, the voice:

"John."

John involuntarily shrank together a little, as though he had been struck. That voice, Sherlock's distinctive, never-to-be-forgotten baritone that he sometimes heard in his dreams but never, ever believed he would hear again in reality…it was almost too much to be borne. It was too much to be borne, and without realizing he was going to do so, John raised a placating hand and said in a tight, low voice, "Don't…just…don't."

But behind him, he heard Sherlock advance a step. John hunched in on himself, pulling in his shoulders, unconsciously trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable. Something in that movement seemed to warn Sherlock that he was nearing a line he did not truly wish to cross, and he stopped again.

"John…I waited, like Lestrade suggested. I waited for you to contact me. But you didn't." The voice sounded lost, almost...childlike. "You didn't, and I wanted to explain…that is...I realize I probably owe you some sort of apology–"

"Leave."

"John, I didn't know. Mycroft didn't tell me you had been charged and convicted until I had returned and–"

Clenching his left fist, John slammed it down on the worktop, making his mug and the kettle jump. Sherlock went silent at once. The seconds ticked by tensely as John struggled to steady his breathing. Finally, eyes closed, still facing away from Sherlock, he managed to speak in a voice that trembled only slightly.

"You made me watch. You made me…watch. And then you let me think you were dead. For two. Years." John raised his face and blinked rapidly at the reflection in the microwave door. "You let me grieve–" His voice quavered; he swallowed once and then tried again. "You let me grieve for – how? How could you do that?" He gripped the edge of the worktop to keep himself from falling. (He didn't add the words "to me," but they hung there in the air as though they had been said aloud.)

"Moriarty had to be stopped." Sherlock sounded defensive. John gave a bitter laugh.

"Oh, I know all about the reasoning behind it, Sherlock. Greg told me. You and your brother planned the whole bloody charade. Nice to know he helped you orchestrate all that while I was sitting on my arse in prison."

"That was never my–"

John went on as though he had not spoken, staring down at the worktop. "I even know why it was important you carry it out that way right then…guns to our heads, wasn't it? Me, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade? Horrific as that whole experience was, I suppose I ought to thank you for saving my life, though I think I may rather have been shot."

"John, I–"

"But that doesn't explain why you left and stayed gone and never let us, let me, know the truth…why you left us to grieve and mourn for you, and blame ourselves for the part we played in your so-called death. You told Molly. You let members of your Homeless Network in on the secret. But you didn't tell me, your friend, who worked by your side every day, who shared a flat with you...who never stopped believing in you."

There was an awkward pause as he waited for Sherlock to respond to this, but the detective was silent. John finally raised his head and looked at the reflection in the door again. His voice was quiet when he spoke.

"One word, Sherlock. That is all I would have needed. One word to let me know that you were alive."

John lowered his head again, breathing heavily.

"Even that hellhole of a prison would have been easier to bear, had I known you were alive somewhere, and that by being there I was helping to keep you safe," he added in a whisper.

Sherlock said quietly, "I've nearly been in contact so many times, but..."

"But?"

"I worried that, you know, you might say something indiscreet."

John caught his breath. "What?" he managed.

Sherlock sounded diffident. "Well, you know…let the cat out of the bag?"

Feeling the blood drain from his face, John finally turned to face his old friend. He did not know what expression he wore on his scarred face, but whatever it was, it made Sherlock's eyes widen, and the taller man took an involuntary, single step backwards.

Seeing him – whole and unbroken and animated and wonderfully, reassuringly alive – was both agonizing and joyous. It hurt to look at him, it hurt in deep-down ways John had never known, but he had to look at him, had to face him when he said what he needed to say.

"I've killed for you," John said hoarsely. "I've killed for you, and I offered – that night at the pool, with Moriarty – I offered to die for you. I was prepared to die for you. I would have, you know, without hesitating."

He suddenly felt near tears, but he angrily forced them back, cleared his throat, and went on.

"So, then. Do you really mean to stand there and tell me – tell me? – that you faked your death, made me watch, let me grieve for you – in prison, mind you – for two years without a bloody word because you thought…you thought I might betray you?"

Despite himself, John's voice broke a little over the last phrase.

Sherlock's eyes went wide at the word betray. "Don't be an idiot!" He cried, his voice sounding both impatient and desperate. "Of course I know you would never knowingly–"

"'Knowingly?'" John interrupted coldly.

"Yes, knowingly. You're not a good liar, John," Sherlock insisted fiercely.

There was a long pause as John stared at him. He found himself smiling a little, though there was nothing humorous about this situation at all.

"Yes," John agreed in a much quieter voice. "That's true, innit…I always did have trouble lying convincingly to the people I care about. Some people might think that a virtue, though of course Sherlock bloody Holmes wouldn't."

He looked away for a moment, gathering himself. Then, turning back to Sherlock, he said in a much harder voice, "But if you believe for one second that I wouldn't let myself be cut into pieces rather than endanger you by a word or a look, Sherlock…well, then, you never really knew me at all."

What little color remaining in Sherlock's face vanished and he looked stricken.

"John…my God, I never meant–"

But John had had enough. "Leave." He turned away again.

"John–"

"Leave."

"No. Not until–"

With an inarticulate cry, John swept up the kettle in his right hand and, in one smooth, continuous motion, whirled about and threw it at Sherlock's head as hard as he could. Sherlock managed to duck just in time, and the kettle sailed through the doorway to the bedsit and smashed against the wall on the far side of the hall.

"Bloody hell!"

It was Lestrade. He came running through the door and skidded to a halt, staring with horrified eyes at John and Sherlock, both of whom were white and shaking.

John blinked, shook his head a little, and seemed to come back to himself. He looked at Greg, then at Sherlock, then past them both to the smashed kettle. He caught his breath and looked at Greg again.

"Jesus! I'm – Greg, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" His voice shook; he sounded close to panicking.

Lestrade's eyes widened in swift concern and he strode towards John in the kitchen area, hissing at the detective as he passed him, "Dammit, Sherlock, I told you to wait!"

John was hunched over, eyes screwed shut, hands at his temples. The scar stood out like a magenta stripe on his pale face. His breathing had grown increasingly erratic, and Lestrade, taking hold of John's wrists and drawing his hands away from his head, began to speak in a low, soothing voice.

"It's all right, John lad. It's all right. You're all right."

Sherlock stood, staring, pale and wide-eyed, his expression as solemn and frightened and confused as a child's that sees its mother crying. Lestrade looked up quickly; he wanted to help him, but right now John needed his attention more.

"Sherlock, go – just go. Go home; I'll come by later. Go now!"

Sherlock fled, the glass from the shattered kettle crunching under his feet. Behind him, he could hear Lestrade repeating brokenly, "You're okay. We're okay. We're all gonna be okay."

Chapter Text

“In order to understand the world, one has to turn away from it on occasion."
― Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays

November 2013

"Thanks for coming," Lestrade said, setting two fresh cups of coffee down on the two-person kitchen table and sinking into one of the chairs. Curling the fingers of his right hand around the steaming cup, he stared into it while he scrubbed his left hand through his short, silver hair. "I didn't know who else to call…Molly was my first thought, but then…" he trailed off.

Across from him, Mike Stamford removed his stethoscope, stowed it in his black medical bag, zipped the bag up, and set it on the floor before sitting back in his own chair and reaching for the second cup with a nod of thanks. "Definitely not the best person right now," he said agreeably, glancing back towards the living area.

Lestrade followed his gaze to where John lay sleeping on the sofa, his back to the dimmed room and a blanket pulled up to his shoulders. His breathing was deep and even.

"It's all right," Mike said reassuringly. "We can talk quietly…that was a pretty strong sedative I gave him. He should be out for awhile."

Lestrade sighed. "I didn't know what to do…he didn't want me to call anyone, kept insisting he was fine, but his color was bad and he kept shaking and he couldn't get his breath back–"

"Greg, it's fine," Mike insisted. "I was glad to come…there's not much I wouldn't do for John, but he hates asking for help."

"Tell me about it," Lestrade huffed, raising his eyes to heaven. Mike offered a smile of commiseration.

For a few moments the two men sat, sipping their coffee, in a slightly awkward silence. Lestrade liked Mike, but he didn't know him very well. He'd seen him occasionally at Bart's, but had known the doctor by sight only until John occasionally began to bring him along on pub nights, back before…well, before everything with Moriarty. Lestrade knew that Mike was happily married (no kids, two large dogs), that he taught at Bart's (where he had attended medical school with John), that he got on pretty well with Sherlock (or had once upon a time), and that he had actually introduced Sherlock to John when each separately told him he was in the market for a flatmate. Other than that, all he really knew was that Mike enjoyed a pint, was good at darts, followed football and seemed genuinely interested in the tales Greg and other Yarders had to share when they met up.

He also knew that, while Mike had not been on John's short list of approved visitors at Frankland, he had kept in touch with John during his incarceration through the post.

"How long have you known John, Mike?" Lestrade asked suddenly, surprising himself.

Mike, who had been staring thoughtfully into his cup, looked up. "We were sort of mates when we were students," he replied slowly. "I always liked him…hell, everybody liked John."

Lestrade nodded. It was easy to like John Watson, he knew. "How did you happen to lose touch?" he asked.

Mike hesitated. "Well, it wasn't really a matter of losing touch, so to speak," he said carefully. "I meant it when I said everybody liked John, but…he didn't have many real friends, if you understand me."

Lestrade frowned. "What do you mean?"

"It's a bit difficult to explain," Mike said. "That is…well, for a guy who seemed really warm and friendly, he mostly kept himself to himself. Think about it, Greg…what do you really know about John Watson?"

Staring down at the tabletop, Lestrade thought it over. What did he know about John? Not much, he suddenly realized with a frown. He knew John was a doctor, had been a captain in the army, had been wounded in action and invalided out. But he didn't know the specifics, Lestrade suddenly realized. He had met John's elder sister at the trial, but no other family had turned up.

Lestrade looked up to see Mike nodding at him knowingly. "Not much, eh?"

"I may not know much about his early life, no, but I know the important things," Lestrade said firmly. "I know he's a hard worker, a brave and loyal friend, and very honest. I know he's a good man…a man of integrity."

Mike smiled faintly. "You don't have to convince me, Greg. I never believed those charges against him for one minute, nor would anyone who'd ever actually met John."

Lestrade looked down and cleared his throat. Mike continued.

"I can tell you a bit more than that…not much, though. You know Harry's an alcoholic?"

Lestrade blew out a breath. "Yeah…yeah, John had said, a long time ago, and I recognized the signs."

Mike nodded grimly. "Well, she wasn't the only one in the family. His father drank, too, and though John never came right out and said it I gather he made a habit of knocking his wife and kids around. Harry left home early, then John had to live with her for a couple of years after their parents died…"

Greg winced. "Trust issues."

"Trust issues," Mike agreed. "You can see why he's got 'em. John was friendly, always, but he held his cards close and kept himself at a distance. He's not one to talk about himself."

The two men sipped their coffee in silence for a long moment.

"Mike," Greg said eventually. "That day…what made you decide to introduce John to Sherlock, of all people? You already knew how…ah, difficult Sherlock is, for want of a better word."

Mike let out a long breath, thinking. Greg waited.

"I liked Sherlock," he said finally. (Greg smiled at this…good old, easygoing Mike, who saw the good in everyone.) "And I thought John could handle him."

When Greg raised his eyebrows at this, Mike smiled. "I did. John's laidback, but not a pushover. I knew from Bart's he had a good sense of humor and thrives on challenges. And patient, good Lord," here Mike snorted. "Anyone who could help me get through pathology should be able to put up with Sherlock's crazy experiments, I figured!"

Lestrade couldn't help laughing quietly with Mike at that. Then the doctor turned serious again, looking at Greg earnestly from behind his specs.

"Between us, though, Greg…there was something sort of…I dunno, sort of desperate in John's face that day. He recognized me right away, I know he did, for all he pretended not to at first." Mike chewed his lip a second, thinking. "I just couldn't let him go. He looked so damned…alone."

Mike glanced over at the sofa, then back at Greg.

"And Sherlock seemed so alone, too. I know he's not like other people, but I thought for a long time he could use a friend, even if he didn't think so himself. Well, I was too slow and dull to be his friend." Mike chuckled ruefully.

"Aren't we all, mate?" Greg smiled in his turn.

Mike nodded. "But…call it a hunch, if you must, but I thought John might be different. And I hoped John, for his part, would at least find Sherlock a distraction. It all worked better than I'd hoped…until it didn't anymore." Mike's kind face fell.

"You mean until Sherlock took a walk off the roof of St. Bart's and John went to prison," Greg said quietly.

"Yeah," Mike said heavily. He rubbed his eyes under his glasses briefly. "But I'll tell you something, Greg…I could never bring myself to truly regret introducing them, not really. Now and then I'd wish I hadn't, then I'd remember that look on John's face that day in the park, and…" He trailed off.

Lestrade waited, and when Mike didn't continue he prompted him. "And?"

Mike refocused his faraway gaze on Greg. "Let's just say…I'm not sure John would be with us today, if he hadn't met Sherlock." He hesitated, then added, "And a world without John…well, it would be a less noble place, in my opinion."

Lestrade pondered that for awhile, staring at the tabletop. Finally, he looked up, determined.

"Mike, could you do me another big favor and stay here for a bit? I'd like to go see someone, and I don't want to leave John alone right now."

It was after midnight before Lestrade showed up at 221b.

Sherlock was in his accustomed leather seat, facing John's empty chair with his fingers steepled before his thoughtful face as of old. But as eerily familiar as the scene was, Lestrade felt the difference – an unseen tension thrummed just under the surface of Sherlock's calm facade, and his pale skin had a grayish tinge to it.

Feeling an odd sense of déjà vu, Lestrade, after some hesitation, seated himself in John's chair and waited. Sherlock's pale eyes were shuttered, but after a few moments it was as though a shade went up behind them and he finally seemed to see Lestrade.

The naked, wounded look in Sherlock's eyes left Lestrade feeling as though he faced a child. It occurred to him that this was not the first time he had felt that way about Sherlock.

"Where's John?" Sherlock's voice was small and uncertain.

"Sleeping," Lestrade replied. He didn't mention how long it had taken to get John through the panic attack, or that he'd had to call in reinforcements.

Sherlock looked away. "I don't understand. I said I was sorry. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

His lost, bewildered air punctured Lestrade's bubble of righteous anger.

"Sherlock," Greg began – then stopped. Sighing, he dropped his face in his hands. "If only it were that simple."

"It is simple, Lestrade," Sherlock said coldly, and suddenly the old, arrogant Sherlock was back. "It was Mycroft. Moriarty framed John along with me, and Mycroft didn't tell me. While I took my own 'fall' from the roof of Bart's, Mycroft let John take a metaphorical 'fall,' claiming it was to keep John safe. John is understandably bitter and blames us both."

Lestrade dropped his hands to his knees and sat back in John's chair. He searched out Sherlock's eyes with his own.

"Look…Sherlock. John's upset about that, yeah, understandably. But I think he's almost more upset that you underestimated him, and that's what kind of led to the whole thing happening."

Sherlock frowned. Lestrade could see by his expression that the detective was puzzled, but didn't want to admit to it.

"Sherlock," Lestrade tried to explain, gently. "Your faked suicide nearly killed him."

Sherlock blinked. "How–"

"I mean," Lestrade interrupted loudly, "It about broke his heart."

Sherlock stared at him. "I don't understand. Why would he be that upset?"

Now it was Lestrade's turn to stare. "Are you bloody serious?" He asked finally.

Sherlock's face turned sour. "Speak plainly, Lestrade, and for God's sake, dispense with the sentiment."

"A bit difficult to do, when talking about your friends," Lestrade said acidly. "You really don't 'get' how much we all care about you, do you – especially John? You think I was in it for the help on the cases, and John for the excitement, and Mrs. Hudson…hell, Mrs. Hudson because she was lonely, or something. You really thought it wouldn't hit us that hard if you died."

"And it was your fondness for me that caused you to take me on in the first place, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked with a sarcastic twist to his lips.

"Not at first, no," Lestrade admitted. "But over time–"

"As interesting as all this is, Lestrade, it hardly applies," Sherlock interrupted coldly, looking away. "I tried talking to John. He made his position quite clear."

"Because he's hurt."

"At least he's not dead," Sherlock shot back. "Mission accomplished, and there's an end to it. Now, I have other, more serious matters to occupy me, and seeing as John isn't in the picture anymore, if you wouldn't mind, I have work to do."

Lestrade sighed. He could see the half-hidden hurt and confusion behind Sherlock's eyes and decided to let it go for now. Standing up, he said, "Listen…I have a case tomorrow you might be interested in. Why don't you come on out, get your feet wet again?"

Sherlock looked up at him, surprised and (Lestrade could have sworn) almost touched.

"I have a case I'm working on for my dear brother" he almost spat the last two words, "but I imagine I can find time to assist you. Except–"

He broke off suddenly and looked away.

Lestrade understood. "Except it won't be the same without John. I know. But maybe it's only temporary."

"I need an assistant," Sherlock mumbled without looking up.

"You need John…but he needs time. So, for now, why don't you ask Molly?" Lestrade suggested. "You owe her after all she did for you…that couldn't have been an easy burden for her to carry."

Shrugging into his jacket, Lestrade headed for the door without giving Sherlock time to respond. "I'll text you tomorrow," he called over his shoulder.

Sherlock didn't answer. He appeared to have returned to his Mind Palace.

John was about ready to pull the hair right out of his head…or kick the walls of Lestrade's tiny bedsit in.

It had been five days since Sherlock had "dropped in," and only once since then had John been out of the bedsit. He and Greg had risked a late night trip to an all-night café two streets over the day after Sherlock's visit, John using a hat and scarf to keep as much of his face covered as he could. It didn't work…an eager young tabloid reporter (she reminded John unpleasantly of Kitty Reilly) had been tailing Lestrade, guessing from photos taken during John's trial that the detective inspector might have ties with the elusive John Watson that had been heretofore unexplored.

They managed to get back to the bedsit without being followed, but now Greg was being tailed at Scotland Yard, and John knew it was only a matter of time. Greg broached the possibility of John making a statement, but John wouldn't hear of it…he wanted nothing to do with those vultures.

Besides…he didn't know what he would say.

So now John was practically climbing the walls. His face, along with Sherlock's, was all over the papers and the TV, Mrs. Hudson couldn't even visit the shops without reporters approaching her, Lestrade was being dogged at the Yard, and Harry was getting intrusive calls at home and at work. John was both afraid to go out and half mad with staying in. And, as relieved as he was to be out of prison, he was disgusted to find himself…well, almost missing the place. There, danger lurked every time he left his pad (except when he was working with Bell), and while actually in his pad he'd suffered from a constant, fluctuating level of anxiety brought on by the mind-numbing boredom and suffocating sense of confinement. But at least he had known what to expect on a day-to-day basis. And he had forged new, distressing habits over the past two years under the rigid routine…he could barely touch anything without reflexively looking to Lestrade for permission first, a situation that embarrassed them both. Lestrade tried to be reassuring ("these things take time, John"), but John felt as though, in his mind, at least, he was still imprisoned.

Huffing out a breath, John flopped down on the sofa and pulled out his phone. He opened the contacts list, which was distressingly short. Skimming over Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's names, he paused at the one just before Mike's and, after a moment of hesitation, selected it.

Three rings later, a connection was made.

"Watson…John. I was wondering when you'd be in touch. Welcome back to the world."

John sighed with relief and smiled a little. "Sir."

"You can call me James now, John. I'm not your CO anymore."

"Thank you, sir…James." The sir had slipped off his tongue automatically, and both men laughed a little.

"How does it feel to be exonerated?" Major James Sholto asked.

"I don't exactly feel like a free man," John admitted. He paused, then asked, "Have you seen the latest?" By "the latest," he meant Sherlock's return.

"I have," Sholto said simply.

For a moment both men were silent. It was a comfortable silence, and this was, at the root of it, why John had called. In addition to their shared history (and John's enormous respect and admiration for the man), Sholto shared firsthand knowledge of the things John had gone through as no one else had…like John, he, too, had witnessed the deaths of good friends first hand, and he alone among John's friends knew what it was to be hounded by the media. In temperament, James Sholto was even more reticent than John, and John appreciated that the man seemed to know about him without John having to actually speak of certain things. It was one of the things John had appreciated about Sherlock.

"So, John," Sholto said now. "You and I have both lost more than our fair share of friends in violent ways over the years…this is the first I've heard of one coming back."

John laughed shortly. "Yeah."

"You don't sound particularly happy about it."

John blew out his breath, trying to collect his thoughts. On the other end of the line, Sholto was silent, patient. That was one way the antisocial man was quite different from Sherlock, John remembered – he would wait while you gathered your thoughts.

"He didn't know about me winding up in the nick," John said finally. "His sodding brother didn't pass along that tidbit of information, apparently. But he lied to me all the same, and for the worst reason…because he didn't trust me."

Saying it out loud made something twist painfully in John's chest. Again he heard Sherlock's voice in his mind ("I was worried that, you know, you might say something indiscreet") and the words stung just as much as when John had first heard him utter them.

"I don't know if I can forgive him for that," John said aloud.

"A man needs to be able to trust his comrade," Sholto agreed. "And to know he's trusted in return."

"And on top of everything else there's the bloody papers…well, I don't have to tell you what that's like. I can't stir a step outdoors, James," John said bitterly.

"Maybe you should get out of London for awhile, John."

"Where would I go?" John retorted.

It was a rhetorical question – he really didn't expect an answer. But Sholto gave him one, anyway.

"You could come here."

She might not be able to run any races with the state of her hip, but her hearing was as sharp as ever. At what sounded like a key in the front door lock, Mrs. Hudson turned the television off with a puzzled frown. Sherlock had called that he wouldn't be in for tea when he had gone out a couple of hours ago, and Greg usually called before dropping by. But the metallic rattle was followed quickly by the scrape of the door opening.

Moving quickly to the door of 221a, Mrs. Hudson cautiously peered out into the hallway. Her heart stilled for a moment when she beheld an unfamiliar figure of somewhat shorter than average height, skinny, wearing faded jeans, scuffed boots, an old blue jacket and a battered black sweatshirt with the hood drawn up. Despite the mildness of the evening, a dark gray scarf further obscured the person's head and face.

Before she could demand that the figure identify itself, it spoke: "It's me, Mrs. H."

She could not help gasping in pleased surprise when John reached up, unwound the scarf and drew back the hood, revealing tousled silver-and-gold hair and the ugly scar that disfigured his otherwise charming face (and broke her heart a little every time she beheld it).

"John! You're home!" Mrs. Hudson cried delightedly. She hurried forward and embraced him. "Oh, John, you should have rung – I would have had tea ready for you!" She leaned back, looking into his face, then said again, "Oh, John…I'm just so happy!" She leaned into him again and gave him a tight squeeze.

He squeezed her back, then held her away from him for a moment. He looked anxious, awkward. "Look…Mrs. Hudson…"

"I'm afraid Sherlock's not here at the moment, John, but he's going to be so happy," Mrs. Hudson bubbled on. "He wouldn't say so, but he hates not having you here, he's been moping about dreadfully–"

"I know he's not here," John interrupted. "That's why I…Greg said he was going with him tonight to see about a skeleton that was found….anyway, I borrowed Greg's key to 221 so I could–"

She interrupted him in her turn. "Don't you worry, I have your key waiting for you. I could have had it back to you before, but–"

John raised his voice. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm not staying!"

She stared at him, stricken. His dark blue eyes were large and solemn as he looked at her, and he swallowed nervously, shifting his gaze to the left. "I-I just came to get some things, and to…well, to tell you goodbye."

"Goodbye?" Mrs. Hudson echoed faintly. "But why…where…" She trailed off. She was gripping both his forearms tightly.

John lowered his eyes a moment, then raised them again. "I'm going to stay with a friend in Yorkshire for awhile," he said quietly. "I'm heading to the train station directly from here…I figured, you know, while Sher–…that is, while he was out, I'd…well, that it would be a good time. To come by, I mean." He looked away awkwardly.

Mrs. Hudson closed her eyes a moment. Her hands slid down from his arms to grasp his hands in hers. She opened her eyes and looked at him sadly. "Oh, John. Just when I got both of you back. Do you have to go?"

"I really do." He looked at her earnestly, and she could have wept to see the look on his face…hurt and scarred and somehow very young, despite the new gray strands in his fair hair. "It's just…Greg's place is so small; we're right on top of each other there…it's not fair to him. And I can't take a step outdoors without the press swarming all over me, not without bundling up like this, anyway."

"You could–"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, I really couldn't," John interrupted. "I can't…not now, not yet."

He didn't add, maybe not ever, but she could see it in his eyes, and she didn't press it for fear he would say it out loud and make it real. So instead she pressed her lips into a tight line and nodded.

John nodded back, relieved. "I just…I just need some time, some space." He paused. "Do you understand?"

"Yes. I do," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I hate it, but I do understand." She'd been through something similar when her husband was on trial back in Florida. "You'll call me when you get there, and promise to stay in touch?"

John squeezed her hands gratefully, then let go. "Promise. And you can call me, too, now, you know, whenever you like…it's not like before."

He smiled, and she tried to smile back. She saw his eyes drift toward the stairs.

"Do you need help?"

"No," John replied quickly. "I'd rather…I can do it myself. It won't take long."

She nodded. "All right then. I'll wait for you down here."

She watched as he took a deep breath, then strode purposefully upstairs. She noticed that he bypassed the first storey altogether, not even glancing in the direction of the sitting room, proceeding directly to the second storey where his own bedroom was. She heard the door open and close, and wondered how it must be for him to be back in his old room after two and a half years, looking exactly as he had left it. It hadn't even gathered any dust – she had seen to that.

With a heavy sigh, Mrs. Hudson returned to 221a and headed directly to the kitchen. She found a small box and quickly began to pack it with teabags, biscuits, some cold leftover chicken, a couple of packets of crisps, and a small cake she had made for Sherlock. By the time she was finished, she heard John clattering down the stairs.

Stepping back out into the hallway with the box, Mrs. Hudson saw him descending the last few stairs, a large Army duffel bag over one shoulder. He was pale and looked somehow…pursued. Anxiety practically radiated off him.

"Here, open your bag," she said quickly. "I put together some things for you."

Grinning, John set the bag down and unzipped it, giving her a brief glimpse of clothing, a few books and his laptop. She tucked the box inside and he laughed breathlessly as he zipped the bag up again.

"I never having to worry about starving when you're around, Mrs. H!" he said, smiling. Then the smile faded and he looked at her seriously. "You always try to look after me."

Tears filled her eyes as she reached for him. "And I always will." Her mouth trembled. "Come home soon, John."

He kissed her cheek, gave her a wordless squeeze, then, scooping up the bag, headed for the front door. She moved sadly back to her own flat.

"John!" she called from her doorway.

He paused in the act of drawing up his hood, and looked back at her expectantly.

"We love you," Mrs. Hudson said, firmly and meaningfully. "We all love you."

He offered her a small, sad smile as he wound his scarf around his face again, slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, and headed out into the damp night without a backward glance.

Mrs. Hudson could not bear to watch him go from the window, and John was too preoccupied, so neither noticed the figure across the street, half-hidden in the shadows, watching him intently as he strode away.

Chapter Text

“Trauma is hell on earth. Trauma resolved is a gift from the gods.” 
― Peter A. Levine

November 2013-March 2014

As it happened, decamping to Yorkshire turned out to be the best thing John could have done.

He spotted Sholto immediately among the few people waiting on the platform. It was the first time John had ever seen his former commander in civilian clothes, but James wore the crisply pressed khaki trousers and striped shirt with as much decorum as ever he wore his uniform. The severe scarring on the left side of his face, which John had been prepared to expect but had not yet seen, did not detract from his dignity an iota – John felt ashamed of his own tattered appearance, and wondered if he wore his own scar half as well.

The two men did not embrace one another, because that was not their way. Stepping down from the train, John immediately shifted his duffel to his left hand and snapped a salute with his right, which Sholto flawlessly returned. Technically they should not have done, as neither of them was in uniform, but for two men who had aspired to be career soldiers – the commander and his second – the impulse was more than automatic; it was a gesture of profound respect.

There was a beat of silence as they studied each other. The last time John had seen Sholto, he had been heading out on patrol; the last time Sholto had seen John, he had been unconscious after having been shot and was being prepped to be airlifted back to the UK.

Several mates declared John to be the "quintessential British soldier," but John felt he had nothing on Sholto. Remote, stoic, laconic…he did not need to shout when giving an order; it was clear by his very tone that, when he spoke, he expected to be obeyed (not that he wasn't capable of delivering a severe dressing down when he felt it necessary – John had been on the receiving end of one or two of these himself, and could testify to their blistering effectiveness). Bill Murray used to swear the man was a robot in disguise. Most of the guys were more than a little afraid of him, but John had always admired Sholto and never felt anything other than respect for the man. He could see in Sholto's pale blue eyes that the major took his heavy command responsibilities with the utmost seriousness; he was brave, honorable, competent, and utterly lacking in fear (apparently), and he had won John's loyalty easily.

"Watson," Sholto said now with a brief nod.

John straightened unconsciously. "Sir."

Neither man remarked that the other looked well as they beheld one another's scars for the first time. Lying wasn't something they condoned.

Sholto finally tore his eyes away from John's face and gave him a quick once-over. "Going a bit casual these days, aren't you, John?"

Anyone else would have found the tone slightly disapproving, but John knew him well enough to hear the faint undercurrent of good-natured teasing. He offered a small, rueful smile in return as he looked down at his own disheveled clothing.

"I don't usually go in for the street punk look," John admitted apologetically, "but I was trying not to be recognized."

Sholto nodded in understanding. "Well…it's late. Let's get home." He spun on his heel and strode out to the car park without looking back. John swiftly transferred the duffel to his right hand, hoisted it to his right shoulder, and automatically fell into step behind him, as naturally as though they had never been separated.

Major James Sholto (retired) lived in a charming three-bedroom stone farmhouse in what he described to John as "way out in the middle of nowhere." It was an apt description, John thought – the property Sholto had inherited from his grandmother was located in a small hamlet in the heart of the Yorkshire Dales National Park, five miles from the nearest village and fifteen from the nearest town with a train station. The major could have got a fair price for it had he been inclined to sell, but the remote place suited his reclusive nature down to the ground, and so he chose to live there instead.

It was too dark for John to get a good look at the exterior of the house or the surrounding countryside, but he could feel how open and unprotected it was, and not just from the strong wind that was blowing continuously. Sholto ushered John into the warm kitchen and prepared tea for them, which they drank standing at the worktable that Sholto had retiled himself. It was late when they finished, and the major showed John to his bedroom, a small but cozy space down the hall from his own. He watched John sling his duffel onto the bed, expressed his wish that he would be comfortable here, and bade him a good night.

"Well. I'm…glad you're here, Watson…John." Before John could respond, Sholto abruptly added, "Breakfast is at 0700," and turned on his heel.

"James, there's just one thing," John said quickly, before he could lose his nerve. Sholto paused and turned back toward him.

"I don't always sleep…well, peacefully, I guess you could say," John said hesitatingly. "That is…it was bad when I was first repatriated, then it got better, but lately–"

"I'll make a deal with you, John," Sholto cut in tersely, looking down the hall towards his own room. "Tomorrow at breakfast I'll pretend I didn't hear you screaming if you'll pretend you didn't hear me." He shifted his eyes to meet John's briefly. "Agreed?"

John looked into the other man's face and saw many of the same demons that haunted him.

"Agreed," he said quietly.

It was an agreement they honored to the letter. If John heard distressed cries from down the hall during the night, he made no mention of it at breakfast the next morning, only shooting his old commander a surreptitious, appraising look to assess potential signs of lingering trauma. If John himself woke after a restless night with raspy throat, burning eyes and sweaty, tangled bed sheets, Sholto would make no reference to it, merely giving him a quick once-over of his own and then offering him tea.

They ate together, they watched telly, they played board games. They shared meals. Sholto showed John the various do-it-yourself projects he was working on; he even began to teach John how to help him with some of the less delicate ones (where a twitchy left hand wouldn't matter). John took over the visiting nurse and physiotherapist's duties…Sholto was hesitant to accept this assistance at first, disdaining it as charity, but at John's simple observation ("I'm your doctor") he gave in, and they fell into the habits of the past. On reasonably fine days, they began roaming the countryside together on foot, going farther and farther afield as their strength and spirits returned to them.

They did not speak of grief or pain. In fact, they did not speak much at all, both being rather reserved men. John supposed that Ella, his old therapist, would not have thought this quietude healthy, would have encouraged John to "get out" what he was feeling. If he had been staying with anyone else, he might have agreed with her, but with James Sholto John had what he could not have had with anyone else – someone who understood the wounds he carried inside because he carried many of the same or similar ones himself. They did not need to speak of them. They simply went about their days in silent support.

James was a taciturn person at the best of times, and when he immersed himself in such projects as retiling the bathroom or restoring a wood floor, John was left on his own. On such days he took long, solitary rambles, pushing himself out of his comfort zone with exposure to the wide open moors. It wasn't easy – for twenty-one months his outdoor time had been limited to walks in a walled-in exercise yard when the weather was decent, and on his earliest lonely excursions he felt pressed down and vulnerable beneath the vast expanse of sky. As the weeks passed, however, he slowly became re-accustomed to freedom, and the feelings of panic and anxiety slowly began to fade, haunting him only in his sleep.

It was a strange way of life for someone like him, John reflected. Mike Stamford had not been off the mark when he had declared that John couldn't bear to live anywhere other than London, with its bustle and energy, and this slow existence was at a distinct variance with everything John had ever sought out for himself. Not since he had first been well enough to get around on his own after being invalided home from Afghanistan had he found himself at such loose ends, but now there was an open, flexible structure to his days: physiotherapy with James, long runs along the country roads, writing in his journal (for he had become accustomed to writing down his thoughts in his blog, and in prison he had had to use paper and pen). He spoke with Mrs. Hudson on the phone every other day, and with Greg once a week.

Greg had been a bit upset with him at first – justifiably so, John thought a little guiltily, for John had not told the DI he was leaving and simply left a note on the table in the kitchen area, fleeing London like one pursued. Naturally, Greg had been worried and a little hurt, but John went to some pains to apologize, and in the end the DI had understood.

The question John got from everyone, of course – Lestrade, Harry, Mike – was "when are you returning to London?" As time went on, it morphed into "will you return to London?" That was an easier question for John to answer – yes – but he could not say when. When Mrs. Hudson asked, plaintively and more specifically, how long he planned to be away, John told her without thinking, "As long as it takes."

"As long as it takes to do what, love?"

John had not answered her, but he knew – he would be gone for as long as it took to heal his spirit. The first time it had shattered – after the army – his beloved London had increased his sense of isolation because he had been existing in a busy hive of activity in which he had no part; it was as though he was looking at the world from within a tank of water, alone, sight and hearing distorted. Then, it had been Sherlock who had reached through and pulled him back into the land of the living. In prison, it had been Joseph Bell. Now, James Sholto's strong but silent presence and the quiet, slow-moving countryside eased John's internal bewilderment and gave him the space he needed to sort out what he was feeling and figure out how to cope with the enormous changes in his life. It was a time of healing – of convalescence.

Neither Mrs. Hudson nor Lestrade avoided the topic of Sherlock. It wasn't that they urged John to talk about him or tried to get him to speak to him; it was simply that they themselves did not shy away from mentioning him. During phone calls, Mrs. Hudson would observe in passing that Sherlock was as untidy as ever, kept appalling things in the fridge and often forgot to eat. Greg would talk about cases Sherlock helped to crack in emails, mentioning that he sometimes brought along a hapless Molly Hooper to assist but then would call her "John."

During his conversations with Mrs. Hudson, John would listen politely and not try to change the subject, but neither would he comment. When emailing Greg, he refrained from mentioning Sherlock at all, though he didn't ask Greg not to mention him. John didn't want to talk about Sherlock, but – he admitted it to himself – he did want to hear about him.

Because he missed him – he missed that bastard terribly. John was angry with himself about that, but he couldn't help it.

He also didn't understand it. For years, now, John had thought of Sherlock Holmes as his best friend – the term might seem childish to some, but it was common enough among military men. On his solitary walks across the moors, on his long runs when he left his iPod behind, while sitting at the writing desk in his room, his journal before him, his eyes on the distant rolling hills through the window, John pondered long and hard about why he felt that way about Sherlock. Sherlock was rude and selfish and abrasive. He had insulted John habitually, forgotten and left him behind routinely; hell, he had even experimented on him without asking permission or even giving him warning. And that wasn't even factoring in the whole faking-his-death-and-leaving-John-in-the-dark-for-two-years thing.

I must be mental, John thought ruefully during one of his early morning runs. Either that or I'm a masochist.

His time in prison had given John a new appreciation for the people in his life. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had both grown dearer and dearer to him, and he was fully aware that both had gone above and beyond the call of duty in their support of him over these past two years, and that he owed them a debt of gratitude that could never be repaid. Mike Stamford didn't have an unkind bone in his body; what he did have was a huge heart, and John knew Mike would give him the shirt off his back without hesitating if he asked for it. Joseph Bell had quickly become like a father to John (the kind of father he'd never had), and John literally did not know how he would have managed those long, lonely months in prison without Bell bolstering him up (indeed, the elderly doctor's death last June of a heart attack had plunged John into another black depression).

Any one of these people was vastly superior "best friend" material than Sherlock Holmes, surely, and yet…and yet, John had, in Mycroft's own words, "decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people."

John was naturally a wary, mistrustful person – he'd been let down too many times not to be. He tried to tell himself that what he felt for Sherlock had merely been interest in his work, and attraction for the fast-paced life he lived, and gratitude to him for pulling John out of the downward spiral he had been caught in after his injury and medical discharge. But deep down, John knew it was more than that...perhaps it had all been on his side, but there had been a kinship there, a connection that he could not deny. He felt a responsibility for Sherlock, and an affection for him that he might have felt for a brother had he had one. More than a brother – a mirror twin. It was not something John could define, but neither was it something he could deny. Sherlock could be a right bastard, but John felt a magnetic pull towards him that was less like a moth to a flame (a destructive image) and more like two drops of water merging together. At the moment, he hated it.

It was unanswerable.

On a rare sunny morning about eight weeks after his arrival in Yorkshire, John sat down to check his email and found a message from [email protected].

He stared at the "from" field a moment, his stomach twisting in sudden anxiety, suspicion, and anger. Had Mrs. Hudson or Greg given Sherlock his email address? He dismissed the thought at once, ashamed of his mistrust...he knew very well that the sneaky prat was perfectly capable of figuring out John's email address for himself.

John stared at the message for many minutes, debating with himself whether or not to just delete the thing unopened. There was nothing in the subject line. What could the email possibly contain? An apology? Unlikely. An explanation? Perhaps. A myriad of emotions swirled within his breast – anger, sorrow, pain, wistfulness.

Finally, he clicked on the message (there really was never any chance that he wouldn't).

"Reggie Brunton came to see me at Baker Street a week ago; he and I had been at university together. I remember that more than once he expressed a keen interest in my methods of observation and inference. It promised to be a tedious visit – a dull past acquaintance looking to capitalize on my recent notoriety and satisfy a private morbid curiosity by presuming upon an association that was not at all close. It took me some time to remember him at all, and I was about to usher him out (I was in the middle of an experiment) when he began to describe for me the decrepit country house he had bought on auction from the distant relatives of the aristocratic family that had once owned it, the Musgraves. The place was overrun with the detritus of several centuries, and Reggie had brought along an old family document he had found containing what he thought was a nonsensical family ritual dating back to the 17th Century, written in verse-form, thus:

'Whose was it?'
'His who is gone.'
'Who shall have it?'
'He who will come.'
'What was the month?'
'The sixth from the first.'
'Where was the sun?'
'Over the oak.'
'Where was the shadow?'
'Under the elm.'
'How was it stepped?'
'North by ten and by ten, east by five and by five, south by two and by two, west by one and by one, and so under.'
'What shall we give for it?'
'All that is ours.'
'Why should we give it?'
'For the sake of the trust.'

"Reggie found it a meaningless, absurd sort of riddle, but I recognized it at once for what it was: a set of instructions for finding something. Intrigued (and bored, as there was nothing on with the Yard at that point), I accompanied Reggie back to the estate. Ascertaining the height of the oak, which was still standing, and the position of the elm, which was now gone, I performed a few calculations and paced out the route to a boarded-up wine cellar underneath the house. I was momentarily perplexed until I remembered the last instruction: "and so under". There was a hollowed out chamber under where I was standing, as old as the house itself. Finding a stone slab with an iron ring in it concealed under a pile of scrap wood and straw, Reggie and I, along with his brother and a friend, managed to lift the slab off the hole that it was covering, and inside, we found a rotting chest in which was stored a pile of mangled, rusty bits of metal and colored stones. Upon closer inspection, it became apparent that the metal was gold and the stones gems. It happened that it was no less than King Charles I's gold crown, being kept for his successor (who, as it turned out, was Charles II). The ritual had been a guide to retrieving this historic symbol.

"Upon further research, Reggie found that one of the Musgraves, Sir Ralph Musgrave, had been a king's man. It was then easy for me to deduce that the original holder of the ritual had died before teaching his son about the ritual's significance. It had thus become nothing more than a quaint custom for more than 300 years.

All in all, not an uninteresting way to pass the time between murders."

John scrolled further down, but that was all. The email was not signed. There was no greeting of any kind, not even his name. It was as though Sherlock were continuing a conversation John hadn't realized he was a part of, or writing out a journal entry. He stared at the computer screen for a moment.

What the hell?

He rubbed his eyes and read through it again. The second reading did not clear up for him what motive Sherlock might have had for sending it. Did he expect John to post it on his old blog? (John checked; Sherlock had not posted it to his own web site, The Science of Deduction.) Perhaps he was trying to entice John to come back and go out on cases with him again? Or maybe Sherlock had sent it to him by mistake.

Confused and irritated, John closed the email without replying. He did not, however, delete it.

A week later, another email arrived from Sherlock. Written in the same vein as the first (no greeting, no signature), this one recounted the case of a father who had sought Sherlock's help in the disappearance of his daughter. The young woman claimed to have a lucrative position with an advertising agency in the heart of London, but as it happened she had been funding her expensive lifestyle as a high-end prostitute. After her arrest, she had not come home, preferring to stay in prison under an assumed name rather than admit her true profession to her family.

It was an interesting and amusing story told in Sherlock's sardonic, impatient prose, and John found himself smiling before he remembered he was mad as hell at Sherlock Holmes and slammed the laptop shut.

When the third email arrived a fortnight after the second (this one recounting the suicide of a woman who tried to make her death look like murder and implicate the au pair who was having an affair with the "victim's" husband), John finally called Greg to see if he could shed any light on the situation.

"If he's trying to get me to come back and be his dog's body again, he can piss off," John grumbled, staring unseeingly through his bedroom window, holding the mobile to his ear. "I'm not biting."

"That might be part of it, John," Greg said slowly, "but I think…well, I think he misses you."

"Misses having me clean up his messes, making his tea, and handing him his phone, you mean."

"That's not fair, John." Greg sounded impatient now.

John was hurt.

"Isn't it, Greg?" he asked bitterly. "Because he sure as hell didn't seem to miss me those two years I was sitting on my arse in Frankland."

Greg sighed. "I know…I know, John-lad. I'm sorry." There was a long pause, then he said, slowly, "You know Sherlock better than anyone except maybe Mycroft, John, and to be honest I think you know him better even than his own brother. But this one thing I think maybe I do know better, because you're too close to it to see it – Sherlock got attached to you."

John laughed hollowly. "What, like a pet? Maybe Moriarty wasn't so far off the mark."

Greg sighed with frustration. "I don't know how to explain it, exactly, but…before you, I wasn't sure Sherlock Holmes was capable of friendship. I believe the great git does respect me in his own way – a little, anyway. But before you came along, he didn't even try to modify his behavior. And I never heard him laugh with someone the way he laughed with you."

John felt a pain in his chest at that. He missed laughing with Sherlock. James didn't have much of a sense of humor, and Greg was a good friend, but…Sherlock was the one he could let his guard down with and laugh, really laugh. When he had been in prison, John had begun to think he would never laugh like that again.

"He doesn't think the way we do…in many ways he's still a kid, deep down," Greg went on. "He did what he did to try to protect us. And don't think I'm defending him, but I think he stayed away because…because he thought it wouldn't matter to us all that much."

"Oh, come on, Greg–"

"I mean it," Greg insisted. "He's more fragile than we thought, in some ways. And he does miss you. I've heard him slip and call Molly by your name. And Mrs. Hudson says she hears him muttering to you when he's alone in the flat and doesn't think she can hear him. I wouldn't be surprised to find out he talked to you all the time he was away. I think that's what these case write-ups are…he missed talking to you, sharing stuff with you. He misses you, and he's trying to reach out, and he doesn't know how."

I miss him, too, John thought sadly. Out loud he said, wearily, "Well, what am I supposed to do about it?"

"That's up to you, mate. But whether you want to mend your friendship with him or not, you're going to have to face him sometime, for your own sanity if nothing else."

John was silent. He gazed out over the peaceful landscape; the swallows had flown away weeks ago, and now the rooks were bobbing along the ground, seeking grubs in the withered grass.

"Don't answer that now. Just think it over, yeah?" Greg said finally.

John smiled softly. "Thanks, Greg."

"Anytime." Lestrade paused, then added, hesitantly, "And one more thing, John…you getting out of London was a good thing, even though we all miss you. But…just make sure 'healing' doesn't turn into 'hiding,' yeah? Things are cooling down here, and you always have a place to stay when you need it."

John lay awake a long time that night, thinking about friendship and loyalty, laughter and betrayal, pride and forgiveness, and redemption. He thought about how facing death changes a man, and how facing death with someone else ineffably binds them together.

A week later, John returned from a three-hour morning hike across the moors to find Sholto in one of the outbuildings, carefully sanding down an antique table with a scrap of very fine-grained sandpaper. John stood in the doorway watching for a moment, noting, with his medical eye, how James used his badly damaged (but thankfully non-dominant) left hand to balance the leg of the heavy oak piece while he patiently smoothed the sculpted dowel with his right. John observed with satisfaction the improved range of motion the arm was displaying since they began working on the impaired limb in their joint physical therapy sessions.

He felt confident that James would be able to continue the exercises without him.

"Well, Captain, do I pass inspection?" James' dry, amused voice broke into John's thoughts, and he shifted his gaze from the arm to Sholto's pale eyes, alight with a mild, dry humor. John smiled unapologetically.

"You should ask your doctor."

"I am asking my doctor. I have a live-in one, you know."

"He says your hard work has been paying off."

"But I'm not likely to get full use of the arm back." There was no bitterness in Sholto's voice when he said this.

"Not likely, no," John said gently.

James straightened, set the sandpaper down on a nearby worktable, and stretched himself. He held his left arm out and studied the scarred hand dispassionately, as though it belonged to someone else.

"Never mind. I'm thankful I didn't lose it altogether," he said matter-of-factly. "I was trying to pull a crow out of a Rover that an insurgent had tossed an HE into the back of...instead of getting the kid out, I got this." He paused, then added softly. "Too bad...it would have been a good death."

John sighed a little. He understood about desiring a "good death." Though he had prayed for his salvation when he was wounded, there had been times during his recovery that he wished he had died of that wound. Dying while working to save somebody else, his trusted comrades near...it would have been a good death, yes.

James seemed far away. John was tempted to ask him about That Day, but he knew his old commander wouldn't appreciate such a personal question. So instead he said, "I was going to reheat some of that split pea soup for lunch...care for some?"

James started a little, blinked, looked up, and forced a smile. "Sounds good."

They walked back to the house together in a companionable silence.

Later, as they finished their lunch in the old-fashioned kitchen, James said, "It's been good having you here, John. I appreciate all you've done for me these past months. I hope you'll not be a stranger."

John put down his spoon and looked up in surprise. "Am I going somewhere?"

Sholto looked at him shrewdly. "Aren't you?"

John said back, blowing out a breath as he did so. He studied his friend for a moment, then smiled ruefully. "You know me too well."

Sholto smiled a little at that. "I never had a better second. When will you leave?"

"End of the week, I think," John replied. He paused, then added, "James...I can never thank you enough for this. These past months...well, I didn't realize how much I needed this time away. But–" he broke off.

"But," Sholto suggested, "you're ready to go home and face your demons...is that it?"

John nodded, relieved that he didn't need to explain further.

"I understand, John," Sholto said gently. He paused, then added, "Just so you know, you're always welcome here...whenever you need to come."

John looked at him in concern. "Will you be all right?"

"Thanks to you...yes," James answered honestly. "You're not the only one who's been...healing...these past few months. I think I'm ready to deal myself back into the game. Not sure exactly how, yet, but I have a few ideas."

"You'll keep me updated, I hope," John said. "And you're welcome to come stay with me whenever you like...once I've landed somewhere, of course."

Sholto nodded once, briskly, then stood. John stood with him, hesitated, then offered a sharp salute. Sholto paused, returned the salute, then – surprisingly – offered his right hand. John shook it briefly, then James gave him another nod and headed back outside.

John watched him from the window, then went up to the guest room. He had emails to send, phone calls to make, and packing to do.

He was going home.

Chapter Text

"…on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall…"
–From "Mending Wall" by Robert Frost

March 2014

He loved them, but they bored him almost to tears.

Still, Sherlock felt he owed it to them to be polite and (for him) patient…they had been very understanding about the whole Sherlock-being-publicly-discredited-and-faking-his-own-death thing.

Besides…Mummy wouldn't stand for it if he told her to shut up.

So Sherlock sat in his chair, only sighing quietly as he gave them a quarter of his attention while they nattered on about his father's tendency to lose things down the back of the sofa, the tour of the city they had been on that morning, and Mycroft's plans to take them to see Les Miserables. The other three-quarters of his mind were taken up with the search for Moriarty's missing assassin, Lestrade's latest murder investigation, estimating how much longer his parents were likely to talk before they finally left…and wondering what John Watson was doing now.

It vexed him, how often he thought of John. During his travels it had been easy to avoid thinking about him; Sherlock had been busy, busier than he had ever been in his life, dodging danger and working his mind – and transport – almost nonstop to unravel a puzzle bigger than any he had ever imagined. His senses had been overrun with the sights and sounds and scents of exotic locations, many of which he had never visited before, and none he had ever visited with John. Days and nights undercover, calling on his prodigious language skills, seeing and absorbing and processing information like the machine John had once accused him of being – there was no time to think of John, or his parents, or London, and few reminders.

Except sometimes, late at night, when Sherlock had to lie low and wakeful and couldn't even escape into sleep to pass the time…then thoughts of home came, unbidden. Home was Baker Street and Scotland Yard; the morgue at Bart's, Mrs. Hudson fussing about his meals and the state of the kitchen, and John, always at his side.

He had never had a friend like John before. He knew he never would again.

Mycroft had been closer to the mark than even he had known when he referred to Sherlock's time away as a "holiday" – in many ways, it had been, filled with excitement and adventure and mental challenges and something new every day, sometimes every hour. But when it became almost too much – when he was tired or frustrated or worried or afraid or depressed, feelings that only came on him during those sleepless hours after midnight – then Sherlock would comfort himself with thinking of home (and all that word entailed for him), and the belief that it would all be waiting for him to take up again, unchanged from what it had been, when he eventually returned.

For such an exceedingly intelligent man, Sherlock Holmes could be remarkably naïve.

Now he was back. His name had been cleared, the publicity had died down, and there was much to occupy his mind. London was still London, Baker Street was still Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson was still like a second mum, Bart's and Scotland Yard were unchanged (unless one counted Anderson going from an annoying detractor to an annoying fan boy; since the operative word was still "annoying, Sherlock supposed it hardly mattered). But while all this would once have been plenty, now he felt there was something lacking. Without John, it was as though everything was robbed of color. He could feel John's absence almost everywhere he went, as though his very shadow was missing.

Not to mention the fact that Sherlock thought better when he had John to talk to. That was part of the reason he had begun sending John case write-ups…he liked to imagine John sitting, rapt and admiring, as Sherlock expounded over his deductions. (At least, that's what Sherlock told himself was the only reason he sent them.)

Yes, he thought of John often – but afterwards it still seemed odd to him that he should have been thinking of him at the very moment when, in the middle of his mother's droning on about their trip, the door to the flat opened and John himself stuck his head into the sitting room.

Sherlock stared at him in shock. "John!"

But John had spotted his parents and already begun to back away. "Sorry, you're busy…"

But Sherlock leapt over the coffee table as he hurried to his parents, sweeping them up and towards the door with an imperious flurry of his hands. "No, no, they were just leaving."

His mother frowned even as she allowed herself to be ushered along. "Oh, were we?"

"Yes, you were!"

But John was looking everywhere but at Sherlock, still backing away. "No, no, if you've got a case–"

Sherlock could see at once that John had screwed himself up to come, and now, seizing on an excuse to put it off, he was jumping at the chance to delay this conversation. Sherlock knew that if he let him go now, he might not see him again for a long time. He hurriedly continued to herd his parents through the door.

"No, not a case." He glared at the older couple. "Go. Goodbye!"

To his relief, John moved hesitantly over to the window, looking out onto Baker Street and studiously trying not to hear as Sherlock's parents (long used to their son's eccentricities) made their rushed goodbyes and extracted promises of more frequent contact.

Sherlock slammed the door behind them and leaned against it a moment, breathing a sigh of relief. "Sorry about that."

John looked around. "No, it's fine. New clients?"

Sherlock hesitated, then admitted, "No, just my…parents."

He knew they would not be what John expected. He also knew (though he hoped he was wrong) that John would guess they had known all along…

"Your parents?!"

Sherlock sighed. "In town for a few days…Mycroft" (he noticed how John's face hardened at the mention of his brother's name and winced slightly, his own ire rising a little) "promised to take them to a matinee of Les Mis. Tried to talk me into doing it." His mouth twitched.

John looked through the window at the departing Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. "Wow. They're not what I…I mean, they seem so…normal."

Sherlock snorted. "My cross to bear."

John huffed a small, polite laugh, then grew serious again. He turned back to the window, so Sherlock almost missed it when he said, softly, "There's a lot I don't know about you."

Sherlock pressed his lips together at that, but did not respond.

John straightened and turned to face him again. "Did they know, too?" he asked bluntly. "That you spent two years playing…hide-and-seek?"

Sherlock swallowed and dropped his eyes.

"Maybe," he said reluctantly.

John laughed again, only this time it was a bitter, sardonic sound. Sherlock hated that sound.

"Oh, so that's why they weren't at the funeral! Mrs. Hudson told me they hadn't shown up."

Sherlock snapped defensively, "I'm sorry, all right?! I'm sorry!"

John's expression hardened and he started towards the door. Sherlock swallowed.

"Sorry," he said again, softer, this time meaning it.

John stopped in his tracks, hesitated, then, with a sigh, stared own at the floor. After a moment, he took a deep breath and looked up, then around at the room for the first time. His eyebrows went up.

"What happened to my chair?"

Sherlock followed his eyes to the spot where John's battered armchair used to sit opposite his own. The truth was he had moved it upstairs because he couldn't stand looking at it and finding it empty all the time, but out loud he said, "It was blocking my view to the kitchen." He sat down in his own chair to prove the point.

John's mouth quirked. "It's nice to be missed."

I did miss you. I do miss you. "Well, you were gone…I saw an opportunity."

John snorted. "No, you saw the kitchen." After a moment, he went and sat down on the sofa. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fiddling with a set of keys, which he studiously kept his eyes on.

Since he wasn't looking up, Sherlock took the opportunity to study him intensely.

Healthier-looking than he was in November, despite the scar, which is whiter than it was. Still thinner than he was in 2011, but has gained some flesh back – probably about half a stone. Leaner muscle mass – he's been running again, quite regularly, too. Color better than it was – he's been spending a great deal of time outdoors, even in the wind and rain. Crow's feet at the corners of the eyes deeper; suggesting a lot of squinting off into the distance. Been working with his hands a great deal – fingers are roughened from sandpaper; slight blemishes from some sort of chemical –most likely paint thinner or wood stain, perhaps both. There's a smell of it round his jacket even now. Been in London several days already, I should say – by the hem of his jacket he looks to have taken a train almost a week ago, and while the mud in the grooves of his well-worn hiking boots has been scraped out, there are still visible traces, enough to confirm what I already knew…he's been in the Yorkshire Dales. Obviously not staying in a hotel – the way his hair is sticking up at the back indicates he's been sleeping on a sofa. Whom would he stay with while in London, if not here? Stamford or Lestrade. Most likely Lestrade – I deduced he had someone staying over and assumed it was a woman. He looked uncomfortable when I mentioned it …obvious, really, he didn't want to tell me John was in town. No doubt John didn't want me to know before he was ready.

After a moment, John looked up. Seeing Sherlock's narrowed, assessing eyes, he gave a slight, knowing smile – making a deduction of his own, Sherlock thought; specifically, that Sherlock was finding him out.

Sherlock smirked a bit. It was always a safe assumption – that he was finding one out.

An uncomfortable silence stretched out. Finally, Sherlock said sincerely (if awkwardly), "So…how are you, then?"

John's eyes flicked up to meet his, then away again. "Good, yeah…fine. You?"

"Oh," Sherlock faltered. "Good. I'm…good. Occupying myself, you know."

"That's good."

Another awkward silence. Sherlock shifted in his chair and reached for a case file, affecting an air of unconcern as he turned it over in his hands.

"Down on a visit from Yorkshire, then, are you?"

John didn't bother asking how Sherlock knew he had been in Yorkshire.

"No, actually." He cleared his throat. "I've come back. I'm back to stay, I mean. Mike Stamford put me in touch with a GP near Bart's going on parental leave…I'm going to take over for her while she's gone. Between that and my army pension, that should give me a bit of time to find something more permanent. Give me an opportunity to get my certs up to scratch, get back in the game a bit, too."

Sherlock had sat up straighter as soon as the words "back to stay" had left John's mouth; he abandoned the pretence of being interested in the case file.

"Are you? That's…good." He tried not to look too eager. "Have you…where are you staying?"

"Kipping on Greg's sofa for now," John said immediately, confirming what Sherlock had already deduced. "Until I find a place of my own, you know."

Sherlock toyed with a button in his shirt cuff. "Any prospects?" he asked nonchalantly.

He was immediately dismayed by John's answer.

"Yeah, actually…one really good one. Flat in central London, one bedroom. Rather small, but I don't need much space."

"How can you afford a place in central London on your own?" Sherlock demanded, chagrined.

"Well, the landlady is offering me a really good deal," John said carefully. "The fact is, the place isn't in the best of shape. She said she'd knock the rent down a bit if I did some fixing up…I'd been doing a lot of that sort of thing with the friend I stayed with in Yorkshire, and it will give me something to do in my spare time."

"I see." Sherlock spoke neutrally, fighting down his disappointment. It certainly sounded as though John, in addition to not moving back in, didn't plan to go out on cases anymore, either.

After a moment, John motioned at the untidy stack of papers and files on the coffee table.

"So…working on anything interesting, then?"

Sherlock perked up again at once. Ah ha…you have missed this, haven't you? He thought smugly. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world…I have you now!

Out loud he said nonchalantly, "A couple of things, actually. A case involving a stolen diamond that promises to be at least a seven. And…" He paused for dramatic effect, reaching for the file he had been toying with moments ago.

John frowned. "And?" he prompted.

Sherlock leaned forward and stared at him intently. "Do you remember the Right Honourable Ronald Adair?"

John blinked. "You mean the judge who oversaw the trial of…Moriarty?" He flinched a little upon uttering the name, no doubt remembering how the consulting criminal had been the catalyst for his life falling apart.

"The same," Sherlock confirmed.

"Well, what of him?" John asked, carefully schooling his features.

"He's been murdered."

John's eyes widened. "What? When?"

"Last Thursday evening, at his home in St. Albans. His wife, an early riser, had gone to bed some hours earlier; Adair, who suffered from mild insomnia, apparently made a habit of reading or doing paperwork in his study until after midnight. On this night a sound woke the wife at around half two in the morning, she could not say precisely what it was, though it later transpired that it had been breaking glass. Seeing that her husband had not yet come to bed, she went in search of him – a search that ended in the study, where she found the judge dead on the floor beside his desk, shot through the eye."

Sherlock retrieved a crime scene photo from the file and rose to pass it to John, watching his reaction closely. The former army doctor stared at the photograph, bemused, before asking slowly, "Is that…an arrow?"

"Crossbow bolt," Sherlock corrected quietly. He joined John on the sofa, looking again at the grisly photo that showed the venerable judge lying mostly on his back, his face covered in blood and a few inches of feathered shaft protruding from his left eye. "Specifically, a twenty-inch carbon bolt with a half-moon nock and a fixed blade, broad head point. Unusual fletching – after running some tests I ascertained they were made from the feathers of an African helmeted guinea fowl…it appears to have been hand-fletched; I would venture to say that the shooter was very confident in his skill since he chose to use feather fletching instead of vanes, which are more commonly associated with weapons of this type."

"Him?" John swallowed and forced himself to tear his eyes away from the photo. Sherlock remembered how violent deaths seemed to affect him…death would have been instantaneous; the judge would not have suffered any more than if the projectile had been a high caliber bullet instead of a bolt, but even Sherlock could not deny that there was something particularly brutal about the weapon used…brutal, and personal.

"Mostly likely, yes," Sherlock answered. "Based on the location and where the bolt originated – from the angle and trajectory I traced the flight path to a copse of trees overlooking a fence in the back garden, where I discovered trimmed feathers from the same, non-indigenous bird that provided the fletching for the bolt lodged in the judge's skull. A distance of some forty yards, through a window, at night – at that distance the marksman would have to have been highly skilled with this weapon. I have ascertained that the shooter is between five feet eight, five feet ten inches tall, with superior upper body strength and a history of military experience, wielding a compound crossbow with a draw weight of about seventy-five to one hundred and twenty-five pounds.

John squinted at the photo, bringing it closer to his eyes. "You said it was fletched with a feathers from a helmeted guinea fowl…none I ever saw while I was abroad in the army had blue-tipped feathers like this."

They were hard to spot in the photo, but John was right – the black, white-spotted feathers were tipped with a vivid, electric blue color, just above the nock. Sherlock was pleased that John had observed it. He passed over a close-up of the bolt.

"Very good, John. "The tips of these feathers were dipped in an indelible, dye-based ink of an unusual shade of blue, which would not have affected the weight or balance of the bolt in flight as would acrylic or other paints. Obviously the killer wanted to leave behind some sort of signature."

Sherlock handed over another photo of the body to John. "Further evidence of the power of the weapon is the fact that the bolt punched through the back of the skull. Note the point, which is barbed with four fixed blades…the internal tearing would have slowed the bolt's speed, yet it still penetrated the base of the cranium."

John started down at the photo. "Jesus," he said softly. He shivered a little, and handed the photo back.

"Macabre enough for your blog, John?" Sherlock asked smugly. "I'm sure this is just the caliber of material you came looking for today."

John looked startled. "What? No, no…that's not why I came here at all."

Sherlock laughed. "Oh come now, that's what this visit is all about, isn't it?" He stood up and moved over the window; across the way, construction workers were finally laboring to restore the blasted-out shell of the structure in which Moriarty had once planted a bomb, starting a game with Sherlock that led to unguessed-at, far-reaching, and devastating consequences. The detective watched for a moment, then turned his back to it to face John. "Life's been too dull for you these past months; you missed coming out on cases with me. The write-ups that I've been sending you (much less sensationalistic than your own literary efforts, of course) were the final insight into what you've been missing."

John started at him, open-mouthed. Sherlock felt a twinge of doubt when he saw an expression of bitter hurt flash through John's dark blue eyes, then those eyes went flat and his face hardened.

"Sherlock, believe me, going out on a case – or bloody anywhere with you – is the last thing on my mind right now."

Sherlock felt strangely hurt. The Work was all he had to offer; if John no longer wanted anything to do with it, then…

Then Sherlock had nothing to offer him.

"Why did you come here, then?" His voice was curt, spiteful.

John's eyes widened – startled at Sherlock's tone – then narrowed in irritation. Abruptly he stood up. "No reason," he said tersely. "I'll just be on my way then, shall I?"

"I suppose you came for an apology, is that it?" Sherlock sneered, turning his back to the room.

John paused. He looked at Sherlock seriously.

"No, not really," he said honestly. "I suppose I came because…well…"

"Well?" Sherlock was impatient. He turned to face John.

John met his eyes calmly. "Because I wanted to ask you…why did you come back, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was nonplussed. Of all the things he thought John might have asked, that certainly was not one of them (further cementing John's status as the only person capable of surprising him on a regular basis). He slowly looked down.

There were several ways Sherlock could have answered this question. He could have said, I came back because I'd done all I could abroad, and the last strands of Moriarty's web – which are in danger of regenerating at this point – are here. He could have said, because Mycroft needed me on an unrelated case of national importance. He could have said, because the assassin that was targeting you That Day at Bart's is still on the loose, and may have something to do with the status of Moriarty's reviving network.

Sherlock could have said all of those things, and they all would have been true. But the heart he denied having suddenly warned him that, if he valued John's friendship at all, he would for once need to utter a different sort of truth, or risk losing John for good.

So he answered simply, truthfully, and as honestly as possible, forcing himself to meet John's eyes.

"Because I wanted to come home."

As far as expressions of sentiment went, it wasn't much. But it was the best Sherlock could manage at that moment, and he could only hope it would be enough – that John would understand what he really wanted to say.

Fortunately for him, John did understand (as he so often had in the past). The doctor's eyes softened.

"Me too," he said quietly. "London is my home, too, and I missed it these past few years."

"And that's why you came here," Sherlock said, trying not to sound too hopeful.

"No." John's voice was frank. "I came to the flat to see if…" His eyes darted away from Sherlock's like minnows fleeing a flash of light on the water, and he looked embarrassed. Then he cleared his throat and forced himself to meet Sherlock's gaze directly. "I came here to see if we were still friends," he finished bluntly.

Sherlock's heart seemed to still. "And are we?" he asked softly, afraid of the answer. For his part, the answer was yes, but he knew he couldn't speak for John.

John studied him for a long moment. His face was serious, but there was no anger there.

"I don't know, Sherlock," he said finally, slowly. "I'd like to be." Letting out a long breath, he sat back down, leaning forward in his seat again with his elbows on his knees and his hands between them (Sherlock noted the slight twitching of the left hand). He did not appear to be troubled so much as thoughtful…the months away had obviously done him a lot of good, Sherlock thought grudgingly; he seemed…easier, more at peace.

John licked his lips and looked up.

"It nearly killed me, seeing you fall," he said quietly. "For a moment, I thought it had."

"John–"

"I'd have gone with you, if you'd asked me," John continued as though Sherlock hadn't spoken. "I would have. Greg explained to me what was happening at that moment, the moment we were…on the phone. About the sniper. But afterwards…and then, you telling me you never got word to me because you were afraid I might give you away…because you didn't trust me…"

A spasm of pain crossed John's face and he closed his eyes briefly.

Sherlock felt convicted.

"I wanted to take you with me, and I wanted to contact you," he said feebly. "Mycroft–"

"Since when do you listen to Mycroft?" A ghost of a smile crossed John's lips, not reaching his eyes before it drifted away.

Sherlock was mute.

"You don't have to explain it, Sherlock," John said. "I've thought about it a lot over these past few months, and I know you didn't mean to…hurt me. Just like you didn't mean to hurt me at Baskerville, even though you knew what you did was a bit not good or you wouldn't have tried to hide it. You never mean to hurt your friends, do you?" John laughed a little, a sad and weary sound. "You sometimes remind me of a little kid who pulls the wings off a butterfly to see if he can figure out how the thing flies, then wonders why it dies after."

"John..."

"I know you're like this, Sherlock, and I know you don't mean it, but it doesn't change the outcome," John interrupted hurriedly. "These last years have been…hard. Very hard. Watching you 'die,' and mourning you. Oh, I know you didn't, but it was real to me. To me you did die. And then the trial, and prison." John looked down. "That was…hard. Sometimes I feel like I'm still there. And I still can't take it in that your brother didn't. Do. Anything to get me out. Hell, he didn't even come to see me."

His voice was thick with bitterness.

Sherlock's stomach twisted. "You think that…if I'd known about your arrest and conviction, I'd have gone along with Mycroft, and left you in prison?" he asked.

"If you'd asked me that three years ago, I'd have said 'no,'" John's eyes and voice were flat. "But then, I'd have said you'd never have pretended to commit suicide in front of me and leave me to grieve for two years, either."

John paused, studying Sherlock with sad, grave eyes. When he continued, his voice was calm and serious. "To be honest, Sherlock…I don't think I could say with any certainty what you're capable of, when it comes to solving a case."

The words stung – badly, in fact – but the point was fair. Sherlock literally did not know what to say, but before he could formulate anything, John went on.

"But even knowing all that…I've missed you. You were my best friend and, even though I'm still angry…I'm glad you're alive."

Sherlock's swirling thoughts came to a sudden halt, and he blinked at him stupidly. "You mean…I was your…'best friend?'"

John looked surprised, as if this was something Sherlock should have known. He studied the detective's face searchingly, as though suspicious he was being facetious, and seeing that he wasn't answered gently, "Of course you were. Of course."

There was a long silence as Sherlock, for once speechless, tried to process this. He had known John was important to him, but he had not realized that he was important to John…at least, not as something other than a source of fodder for John's adrenaline addiction.

John waited in patient silence for him to suss it out. Sherlock was touched and happy, but at the same time fearful and uncomfortable in this unfamiliar territory – sentiment – and so he turned the conversation slightly by asking, hopefully, "If that's why you returned…why don't you just move back in here?"

He did not say, "Why didn't you ask to move back in here?" because as far as Sherlock was concerned, 221b would always be his and John's flat whether John lived there or not.

But John apparently didn't see it that way, at least not at the moment. He looked away as he answered carefully, "I still need some space, Sherlock. Sometimes I think maybe my life got too wrapped up in yours…we lived together, we worked together. I neglected my other friends, my medical career, such as it was. My girlfriends. Yeah, I know I always blamed you for busting up my relationships, but the truth was I let you."

Sherlock snorted derisively. Romance. People. Jobs. Boring.

"So, anyway…I think it would be better if I had my own space for a change," John finished.

"And where is this space you're looking at," Sherlock replied, trying not to show how hurt and disappointed he was by this news by injecting a faint note of derision into his voice.

John quirked a smile, obviously – and annoyingly – seeing right through him.

"Actually, it's quite close…downstairs, in fact."

Sherlock stared at him, not understanding. "Downstairs?" he repeated stupidly.

"It's 221c, Sherlock."

John grinned as Sherlock gaped at him. He looked very pleased with himself.

Chapter Text

“It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.”
– William Blake

May 2014

When it came to children, John was rather ambivalent. It wasn't that he didn't like kids; it had more to do with the fact that he had had very little experience with them. Being the younger of his parents' two children, there were no smaller siblings to contend with, and he had spent most of his adult life either in university or the army – places where one did not, as a general rule, encounter very many children.

A person would have to have a heart of stone, however, not to be charmed by little Charley, John thought. A very precocious and extremely boyish six-year-old, Charley had a shock of tangled, bright-red curls that made his head look like a burning bush, a dozen freckles over what had to be the legal limit, a turned up nose, perpetually scraped knees and elbows, and a pair of sparkling hazel eyes that were so mischievous no adult could help looking around the room at once to try to spot whatever had to be broken, missing or tampered with the moment one spotted them. But despite being highly energetic and frighteningly verbal, he was an engaging little chap without a shy bone in his body, taking to John in a lovely, confiding way that was a treat to a doctor who was used to kids squalling the moment they saw him in anticipation of a vaccination.

When John administered Charley's vaccine, instead of crying the boy yelled "OUCH" in as loud and dramatic a fashion as possible, made a great show of rubbing the sore spot, then demanded a lolly ("strawberry!") for his pains, which John obligingly gave him while Charley's dad looked on, smiling.

"Take two," John grinned, holding out the jar. "For being a brave boy and not crying, or trying to hide – or biting me!"

Charley's dad laughed outright at this as his small son (trying to conceal the fact that he had actually taken three lollipops) said with great interest, "Do you get bit a lot, Dr. John? I never bite Dr. Sarai, even when she jabs me."

"Well, some kids are scared when they come in here, even when I try to cheer them up with Teddy," John said with a smile, referring to the stuffed bear he kept in a corner of the worktable.

"That's for babies," declared Charley firmly, ripping the wrapper off one of the lollies and sticking it in his mouth.

"Some of the scared ones are even bigger than you, but you're brave as a lion, aren't you," John said, marking his chart.

"I'm not scared of anything!" Charley boasted. Then he frowned and added, with the air of one struggling to be fair, "'cept the dark…I still sleep with a nightlight." He looked unhappy about it, and his father gave his shoulder a squeeze. "You'll get rid of it when you're ready, lad," he said good-naturedly.

"Here, I'll walk out with you," John said, and smiled when Charley trustfully slipped his small hand into his.

"There's no hurry to get rid of the nightlight, Charley," he told the boy confidentially. "I'll tell you a secret…I sleep with a light on myself this days."

Charley's eyes widened. "You do? But you're big!"

John laughed. "It's nice somebody thinks so for a change!"

"Look, Charley, there's Mummy," Charley's dad said. A well-dressed woman stood up as they entered the waiting area.

"I got done with my errands early, so I thought we could all go to lunch," she said brightly, smiling as the little boy ran up to her.

"Look, Mummy, Dr. John gave me three lollies!"

"Did he now!" The woman looked up then, but as she registered John's face – the scar – her smile fell away and she froze, wide-eyed.

"This is a fine boy you have, Mrs. Barkis," John said kindly, but the woman drew away from him hastily, pulling Charley close to her.

"You're him…you're that child kidnapper, the friend of the fake detective!"

Several people in the waiting room looked up from their phones or magazines. John drew back as though slapped, the blood draining from his face.

"Emily!" Charley's father was aghast. Mrs. Barkis turned to him.

"Dan, it's him…didn't you recognize him?" she hissed.

"Of course I recognized him, but you know he's been proven innocent…and he was first-rate with Charley," the man said in an undertone, casting an apologetic look back at John and taking his wife's arm as he quickly steered her towards the door.

"Innocent. Off on a technicality, more like," the woman huffed. "The police don't send innocent men to prison, Dan! I'll be having a word with Dr. Sarai when she gets back, about hiring criminals to take over her practice, look after her patients…"

At that moment one of the clinic nurses, an attractive blonde woman who served as Dr. Sarai's practice manager, swiftly came over and took charge of the couple. Her voice was cool and professional, as was her expression, but there was a steely resolve there all the same.

"If you three would just come with me I'll get you sorted…"

"It's him you need to get sorted! If he's staying on we'll just have to find another–"

The door swung shut behind them.

John, frozen in place, could feel his heart hammering in his throat. Everyone in the room was looking at him, some with shock, some with sympathy. Drawing himself up with unconscious military precision, he schooled his features, spun on his heel, and calmly walked out of the room, down the hall, and to his office, shutting the door behind him. Making his way to the desk, he sat down in his chair and stared blankly at the computer.

A few minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door. John jumped a little, then called, "Come in."

The nurse poked her head in. "You okay?"

John gave her a small smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm…fine. Good."

She looked doubtful, and he added, "It's bound to happen sometimes. I know that. I should be…well, most people are pretty accepting, and give me the benefit of the doubt. I need to be…um, good with that."

"I was just going to get some lunch…can I bring anything back for you?" she asked suddenly.

John looked at her. He was rapidly becoming fond of this woman. She was kind, smart, and attractive, and she seemed both secure in herself and to know when to leave him alone – a rare combination. If he weren't a scarred wreck of an army doctor and a recently freed prisoner trying (once again) to patch the remnants of his shattered life back together, he might have asked her out on a date.

But he had enough to be going on with for now.

"No, thanks, Mary," he said. "I'm good."

221 Baker Street was dark. Sherlock let himself in the front door carefully, balancing a bag of chips in one hand. For once he was hungry, and the owner of the chip shop just off the Marylebone Road always gave him extra portions. He'd passed it on his way back from investigating Lestrade's latest crime scene, so he elected to stop in as it was on his way, instead of going for Chinese.

Besides…getting Chinese wasn't as much fun without John.

It was very late. Sherlock caught the front door to prevent it from slamming so as not to disturb Mrs. Hudson, who had probably gone to bed – she tended to retire early. She had left the hall light on for him, and Sherlock saw John's jacket hanging on one of the wall hooks. He stared at it a moment, hesitated, then slowly removed his Belstaff and scarf and hung them beside John's haversack, shifting his bag of chips from one hand to the other as he worked his arms out of the sleeves. He turned, put one foot on the bottom step of the stairs leading up to 221b, then paused, considering. Bypassing the stairs, he walked along the corridor towards Mrs. Hudson's front door.

Stopping just short of 221a, Sherlock turned to the left and studied the door to 221c for a moment. Carefully, he pushed it open and looked down the short flight of stairs to a second, glass fronted door. The living room on the other side of that door lay dark behind the frosted window; there was not even a flickering of light from the television. Though John's jacket, hanging in the hallway, advertised the doctor's presence within, there appeared to be nothing stirring in the basement flat.

Most likely, John was in bed.

With a small sigh, Sherlock quietly closed the door again and leaned against the wall for a moment.

If he had thought that John's return to Baker Street would herald a renewal of the old days, he had been sorely mistaken. Not once in the eight weeks since he had come back to London had John gone out on a case with him – indeed, he had not even ascended the stairs to 221b since the day he'd moved back in.

Sherlock remembered that day with a frown. Mrs. Hudson had told John he could shift all the furniture in his old bedroom to the flat downstairs, and John had enlisted Lestrade's and Sherlock's help in the heavy lifting. There wasn't much – a full-sized bed, a battered chest of drawers, a small writing desk and chair, and a small set of bookshelves, along with John's few possessions – but Sherlock had been dismayed by how much it had bothered him to see the things leave the flat. It had felt like John was moving to the other side of London rather than two floors down.

The worst part, though, had been when John had grabbed the back of his old, battered armchair, and called Sherlock to take hold of the other end.

"What? Mrs. Hudson didn't say you could take that!" Sherlock snapped.

"She said I could take all the furniture in my old room. This is my old room, and this chair is in it," John said impatiently.

"Because I dragged it up here!"

"Which means you don't need it. I do," John retorted. "Come on, Sherlock, I've got an empty sitting room downstairs. This will give me something to put my arse on besides the floor or my bed until I can get a few more things, and you're not even using it."

They stood immovable, glaring at one another. Then Greg, blowing slightly from the effort of hauling John's army footlocker downstairs, reentered the room. He looked from John to Sherlock and back again. "What's the trouble?" he asked mildly.

There was nothing Sherlock could say that wouldn't sound…sentimental, so he just muttered briefly, "No trouble at all," and grabbed hold of the front of the chair. Without a word, John lifted his end, and together they wrestled it out of the room, down the stairs, and out of 221b.

The incident had left Sherlock with an unpleasant sense of foreboding. He had known, of course, that John was not moving back into his old room, but he had hoped that his friend would treat 221b as an extension of 221c – that, in the end, the change of address would really only be reflected by a change in bedrooms and a redirecting of mail. Sherlock did not like to admit to himself that he had been envisioning moving John's chair back into the sitting room of 221b, and that John would occupy it as much as he ever had in the old days, reading, drinking tea, watching crap telly, interviewing clients, discussing cases.

Such had not proven to be the case. The night of the move, after they had reassembled John's bed in his new bedroom, screwed the legs back onto the desk, and positioned his chair in 221c's sitting room; after Mrs. Hudson had tidied away John's clothes into the chest of drawers and the tiny wardrobe and sorted his books and medical journals into the set of bookshelves, John had ordered Italian from Angelo's for them all as a thank you (Angelo, delighted that the "Baker Street Boys" were back in town, had made the delivery himself and included a cannoli free of charge). They had gathered in 221b to enjoy the meal together…Greg had thrown in a few bottles of wine, and Mrs. Hudson made tea to go with the mouthwatering cannoli. She had presented John with a small set of dishes and cutlery as a flat-warming present, Greg had given him a small television, and Sherlock a kettle which, he assured John, was brand-new and had never been used for any experiments. They had laughed and talked, easy and relaxed (unusual for Sherlock in a social setting), until well after midnight; then Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed and Greg had gone home. Sherlock was just about to propose a game of Cluedo for old time's sake when John declared himself to be "utterly knackered," thanked Sherlock for his help and the gift of the kettle, and retired to his new flat.

He had not set foot in 221b since.

At first, it had all seemed fairly reasonable: John was busy reestablishing his life in London in much the same way Sherlock had had to in his first months back. Having begun his locum position for Mike Stamford's colleague on parental leave, John made it quite clear from the outset that he intended to behave as professionally as possible – not showing up for work or falling asleep on the job were not acceptable when he was trying to reestablish himself as a working physician. In addition to his regular working hours, John was spending part of each morning and evening preparing for revalidation of his medical license. He had resumed his practice of meeting up with Lestrade and Stamford at their favorite pub one evening a week. He was making a concerted effort to visit his sister regularly. He also spent a great deal of time fixing up 221c, replacing the carpet, pulling down the old, peeling wallpaper, painting, sanding and tiling the walls and worktops. Mrs. Hudson was delighted with him.

Of course, all this meant that Sherlock saw him very little. If it hadn't been for the fact that Mrs. Hudson had begun having "her boys" in her flat for Sunday dinner, he might not have crossed paths with John at all. The doctor was two floors away, but in many ways he might still have been in Yorkshire.

Standing in the dim light of the hallway, Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. There had been flashes of the old John, but these were few and fleeting – for the most part, John treated him with a grave politeness, offering a nod of greeting as they passed in the hall or making small talk that included no more than simple inquiries into Sherlock's casework during their visits with Mrs. Hudson. There was a rift between them that Sherlock desperately wanted to bridge, but he didn't know how. He just wasn't any bloody good at that sort of thing.

Sighing quietly, Sherlock straightened and pushed himself off the wall, ready to go up to bed. As he stepped away from the door to 221c, however, he was arrested by a soft sound from below – a muted whimper that was at once both strange and familiar.

Freezing, Sherlock listened intently. For several moments there was nothing, then – there! There it was again.

He knew this sound. It was the sound of John Watson trapped in the throes of a nightmare.

It had been years since Sherlock had heard these noises – muffled cries and thumps in the night that left him feeling uncomfortably and uncharacteristically helpless. In the early months of their cohabitation, before the Blind Banker case, there had been a fair number of them – three or four per week. Over time they had abated almost entirely, resurfacing only at times of great stress. The last one had been the night after he and John had arrived home from Dartmoor, after the Baskerville case.

Only once, in their earliest weeks of living together, had Sherlock attempted to physically shake John out of a nightmare. It had not gone well – the former soldier had reacted violently, lashing out with a closed fist (that Sherlock successfully dodged) before startling awake. It had taken John a good half hour to come down from the adrenalin rush, fighting off the panic symptoms with regulated breathing and trying desperately to cover his chagrin that Sherlock had seen him like that. From that time on, Sherlock had made no mention of the nightmares, only reaching for his violin when he heard one begin, for the music often seemed to help soothe John in his sleep – and when it woke him instead, each could maintain the fiction that Sherlock just happened to be playing at that time, thus preserving John's considerable pride.

There was a short, breathless exclamation of distress from below.

Mind made up, Sherlock carefully pushed open the door to 221c again and began, quietly, to descend the short stairwell.

None of the three occupants of 221 Baker Street were in the habit of locking the doors to their respective flats. Like many old Victorian-era London buildings, the residence had once been a single family home in a formerly well to-do neighborhood, later made over into a set of individual flats sometime during the early to mid-twentieth century. 221 bore the marks of its former life more than many such buildings, and this was emphasized through the casual way in which Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson and John all treated the place. Before Reichenbach, Mrs. Not-Your-Housekeeper Hudson had never done more than offer a casual "yoo-hoo" before coming into 221b with extra shopping or to tidy up – indeed, Sherlock and John never even bothered to shut the door to the flat at all unless there was a particularly chilly draft, trusting to the always-locked front door and their own wits for security. Sherlock had had no more compunction about walking into 221a unannounced than would any adult son dropping by his mum's place (he had no compunction about raiding her refrigerator without asking, either). The ever-polite John would announce himself to Mrs. Hudson with a short knock, but then would proceed right in without waiting for her to acknowledge him. He was more thoughtful than Sherlock this way, but he also liked the idea that they could get to Mrs. Hudson in a hurry if necessary.

After Sherlock's return, he and Mrs. Hudson had returned easily to their old way of going on, with her entering 221b to tidy up or drop off shopping or bring Sherlock his tea, and him barging into 221a unannounced, demanding to be fed (all the while surreptitiously checking on her welfare). After John moved into 221c, he and Mrs. Hudson immediately began treating their respective flats in the way they had when he was living upstairs – that is, she would feel free to drop by 221c to see John was comfortable and well-fed (though he protested it wasn't necessary), and he would pop in with only a quick knock beforehand to join her for an evening of crap telly.

This casual way of going on did not, however, extend to Sherlock and John. John never ascended the stairs to 221b, and Sherlock never entered 221c without knocking and waiting to be invited in. This, more than anything else, represented the change in their relationship: Sherlock himself was aware of the fact that, before Reichenbach, he would invade John's room, go through his things, pick the lock on his desk, read his journal and "confiscate" his laptop without hesitation or remorse. John would sometimes grumble irritably, sometimes shout exasperatedly, but as long as Sherlock left his medical bag alone he mostly put up with it, sighing and accepting that this was life with Sherlock. Indeed, Sherlock did it partly to take the piss, enjoying John's blustering yet affectionate diatribes.

So what was different now? Why did the detective not feel that he could treat 221c as he did 221a – as an extension of his own flat? Sherlock could not have said, exactly, except that he instinctively knew that John had somehow drawn an invisible line in the sand that Sherlock feared to cross…that if he did cross it, the reaction would not be one of affectionate exasperation or fond ruefulness, but something more painful than a blow to the body. John had said he wanted to remain friends, but he was so distant now, and Sherlock, inexperienced in the messy matters of the heart, had no idea how to reach him.

All this ran through Sherlock's mind as he hesitated in the stairwell, his slim hand resting on the metal knob of the door to John's sitting room. Then he heard John cry out again, wordlessly, and the unmistakable sound of him twisting about restlessly on the sofa, and he pushed the door open.

Sherlock had to wait a moment for his eyes to adjust. The room was bathed in darkness; dimly lit only by the streetlamp through a crack in the carelessly drawn curtains at the front of the building. As his vision became clearer, he took a quick glance around. Even in the deeply shadowed half-light, he could see that John had done a lot with the place in just a couple of months – new carpeting, replaced light fixtures, the scarred wall patched, repaired and papered, fresh paint on the skirting boards – and that was just in the sitting room. He hadn't been lying when he said he'd been busy. But the old-fashioned, hideously garish Victorian pattern of the paper on one wall was evidence that it had been chosen by Mrs. Hudson, and the cheap curtains and secondhand furniture (a small sofa now joined the familiar armchair, along with a floor lamp, set of bookshelves and battered television stand) gave the lie to the notion that John was being an amateur interior decorator. John liked to keep things military-neat, and his tastes were simple; this level of care indicated, as Sherlock suspected, an attempt to stay busy…and avoid interacting with his old friend and flatmate.

Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by thrashing and muttering from the sofa, where John lay hopelessly tangled in a hand-crocheted throw. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead and there were tears on his cheeks. His pulse fluttered at his exposed throat like a dying bird's.

Sherlock own throat tightened at the sight. He stepped closer. "John," he said, endeavoring to keep his voice low and soothing.

"No…no, God, no," John mumbled, eyes fast shut. "Not another three bloody weeks…Jesus, no, I've already had two–"

"John!" Despite his better judgment, Sherlock couldn't help leaning down to put his hand on John's shoulder.

The reaction was as violent as it was instantaneous. John's fist flashed out and clipped Sherlock squarely on the chin, sending the taller man stumbling backwards into the scratched coffee table and dumping him unceremoniously onto his arse on the floor.

John struggled and woke.

"Bloody hell! Jesus, Sherlock, are you all right?"

He scrambled to free himself of the blanket and, surging to his feet, stumbled to the wall to flip the light switch. Hurrying back to where Sherlock sat on the floor rubbing his chin, John grasped his hand, pulled him to his feet, then pushed him down onto the sofa.

"Shit. Let me get some ice for that."

Sherlock waved a hand at him. "John, I'm fine–"

"I'll be the judge of that," John said sternly, heading for the small galley kitchen.

Listening to John rummaging out of sight in the kitchen, Sherlock took the opportunity to observe more closely the work the doctor had been doing. John's latest project appeared to be replacing the bricks in the hearth.

John reappeared with a penlight in one hand and a tea towel full of ice in the other, which he handed to Sherlock. "Here, hold that to the bruise."

He sat on the coffee table in front of the detective, peering into his eyes for signs of concussion. Seeing none, he stowed the penlight in his breast pocket, his features tightening with displeasure and annoyance.

"What were you doing in here, anyway? Don't you ever knock? And grabbing my shoulder while I'm asleep, that's brilliant. Dammit, Sherlock, I told you never to–"

"You were crying," Sherlock blurted out.

Stunned into silence, John just stared at him for a moment. Then his expression softened even as his face reddened; he pressed his lips together and looked away.

"It was just a dream," he muttered.

Sherlock said, hesitantly, "You were saying something about…three weeks…"

John winced. "I don't remember," he said quickly. This was obviously a lie. "I had a rough day at work, that's all."

There was a long, awkward pause, then John, endeavoring to divert the topic, looked up and around.

"Why were the bloody lights off? Did you turn them off? I was watching telly–"

"Mrs. Hudson."

John blinked. "What?"

"It was Mrs. Hudson, obviously" Sherlock said in his rapid-fire way. "You take care to avoid falling asleep anywhere other than your bed, have since I've known you – only once do I recall you falling asleep on the couch in 221b, the night you subjected me to the James Bond marathon. The following morning your left arm and shoulder were so stiff and painful you could barely move, had to take a massive dose of heavy-duty painkillers which you don't like to do because you dislike the way they cloud your thinking (which is already clouded enough, I might add). You are not dressed for bed, but there was a blanket over you. I smell fresh scones coming from your kitchen, too strong unless they were out on the table, where you would not have left them because you are not in the habit of leaving food out. They smell like the same kind of scones Mrs. Hudson brought me earlier today; obviously she made a double batch, brought some to me, came in here with your portion, found you asleep in front of the television, put the scones in the kitchen, covered you with a blanket and turned off the television and the lights. Like I said – obvious."

John gaped at him a moment, then grinned in admiring wonderment in the old familiar way. "Brilliant."

Sherlock smirked. "Hardly a difficult leap."

John snorted. "Tea?" he asked, standing up and straightening his jumper. "I promise I won't throw the kettle at you this time, especially since you gave it to me!"

"Love some," Sherlock said happily, feeling, for the first time, as though things might finally be getting back to normal.

As John headed for the kitchen, Sherlock's mobile suddenly chimed. He pulled it out of his pocket.

It was from Lestrade.

There's been another one. Victim killed with a crossbow, Waterloo Bridge, North Bank. Will you come?

He felt that familiar, exciting rush of blood through his veins.

John looked through the kitchen door. "What is it?"

Sherlock glanced up. "Lestrade, with another crossbow murder," he said intensely. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly. "Care to come along? I could use the opinion of a competent medical man."

He held his breath as John hesitated, looking torn. When the silence stretched out, Sherlock wheedled, "Oh, come on…you don't have work tomorrow, and you've already had a few hours of sleep."

John smiled, and Sherlock exulted quietly, knowing he had him. "All right. Hang on a sec, would you?" The doctor turned down the short hallway to his bedroom.

Sherlock watched him go. His smile faded. Turning back to his phone, he fired off a quick text to Lestrade. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he composed one to Mycroft:

I need a copy of John's prison file. –SH

He hated asking for a favor from his brother – with whom he was still very angry – but he needed to find out what "three weeks" meant.

Chapter Text

"A person who pulls himself up from a low environment via the boot strap route has two choices. Having risen above his environment, he can forget it; or, he can rise above it and never forget it and keep compassion and understanding in his heart for those he has left behind him in the cruel uphill climb."
–Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

May 2012

For the most part, the screws* were fairly decent blokes – ordinary people earning a paycheck, not without compassion for the convicted men in their charge. They were not overly friendly or familiar as a general rule, but they mostly were fair and had no trouble treating the prisoners with the basic respect and courtesy due one's fellow human beings.

Gary Harris was one of the exceptions.

There are people who are born bullies – men who use their positions of authority to browbeat and mistreat their underlings to gratify their own sadistic tendencies towards cruelty, and as a way to compensate for their own feelings of inferiority and low self-worth. Harris was one of these. An undersized, none-too-bright man with a mean disposition, he had lived his entire life both envying and fawning upon those stronger than he, and crushing without mercy those weaker. Until he became a prison guard, his opportunities to indulge the latter side of his ugly nature were few.

Harris swaggered among the prisoners under his charge like a cocky bantam, lording it over them, ordering them this way and that, using any excuse to berate them, punish them – even strike them with his ever-ready baton when he thought he could get away with it. He showed great favoritism to those inmates who sucked up to him, but even those who didn't submitted to his authority with few complaints. Harris bragged to his mates at the pub that the lags** lived in fear of him, conveniently leaving out the rather obvious point that it is easy to dominate men who know you have the power to have their sentences lengthened, deny them visits from loved ones, cancel privileges, or bang them up† for days on end.

There are men in the prison system that ordinary citizens might find difficult to classify as quite human. Sadly, not all of them are inmates. Those few that are not tend to get away with their abuses if they are careful, for those in authority are far likelier to take the word of a prison officer over that of a convict. Harris was very careful, never going too far, avoiding witnesses, even setting prisoners on one another to satisfy his need for petty revenge.

John Watson utterly despised such people. So far as he was concerned, Harris was a bully, and John detested bullies. Being small of stature and unassuming in his looks, he had, naturally, encountered his share of them, and he knew from experience that most of them were cowards at heart and at least a little stupid. He knew that most bullies learn early that, if they push hard enough, look mean and talk a big game, the majority of the people they threaten will back down. On the occasions one did stand up to them, however, they were generally shocked and unprepared. John was never one to back down from a fight, and when he answered a bully's posturing with a challenge of his own, he usually prevailed before it even came to blows, leaving the bully in question scrambling to find a way to save face.

John did not challenge Harris, however, because of the authority the man held over him as a prison officer. This was not due to fear of what Harris could do to him or take away from him, but because John, having spent most of his adult life in the army, had been trained to respect the chain of command.

Within the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, John had been an officer of consequence. Though possessed of strong leadership skills, he was, Major Sholto had more than once proclaimed, a born second-in-command, devoted, conscientious, and loyal to the bone. Sholto had relied on John greatly, and John had always carried out his orders with courage and distinction. Good-natured and well liked by the men, he was yet a stander of no nonsense who knew when duty needed to be done and did it himself. John had liked and respected Sholto, but he was no maverick – as long as it did not violate his own strict moral principles, it was not in him to disobey someone in authority over him, whether he liked and respected that person or not. It was because of this that he had always waited respectfully for Lestrade's nod of permission before examining a body at a crime scene, despite already having been given the go-ahead by an impetuous Sherlock (to whom John had unconsciously assigned the role of commanding officer almost from the beginning).

So although John disliked Harris even more than many of his fellow prisoners, he gave the guard less reason than any of them to discipline him. He did not fawn over the man like some other prisoners did, but neither did he disobey his imperious orders or give him cheek. When Harris barked at him, John answered coolly but respectfully.

The irony was, Harris couldn't stand John. The screw had disliked the doctor from the very beginning, for John made him feel inadequate by his very existence, having many of the qualities Harris coveted and lacked: John was well-educated, a physician and a soldier…no, more than a soldier – an officer. As prisoners went, John was a rarity – even an oddity – and Harris was usually delighted at the chance to beat down men like John, men Harris felt life had been overly generous with while slighting himself. But John wasn't the type who was easy to beat down – though reserved, John's honesty, integrity, and genial and empathetic nature made him popular with screws and prisoners alike, while his bravery and toughness won him respect. Worst of all, though, was the fact that Harris knew John was contemptuous of him – as Sherlock had said, John was too transparent to be a good actor, and something in his body language – the straightness of his posture, perhaps, or the flat look in his eyes when Harris snarled at him or another prisoner unjustly, the tonelessness in his voice when he responded to Harris's commands with a patient, "Yes, sir" – alerted Harris, who was keen to such things, to John's true opinion of him. What frustrated the prison officer most of all was the fact that John's feelings towards him were something felt rather than observed – no one else watching John's behavior in Harris's presence would have seen anything disrespectful or subversive in the doctor's demeanor, and so Harris had no legitimate excuse to punish him.

Regardless, Harris's dislike for John did not turn to outright hate until John inadvertently put a serious dent in the prison guard's rather profitable smuggling ring.

Spring was slow to arrive that year, but most inmates never missed a chance to go out of doors if they could help it, and John was no exception. One chilly, drizzly morning in early May, about five weeks before Cartwright would lay his cheek open with a razor blade (on the anniversary of Sherlock's death, in fact), John met Bill Wiggins in the bleak exercise yard to find the lad sporting a busted lip, several purple lumps on his forehead and jaw, and a small cut under one eye.

"Bloody hell, Wiggy," John exclaimed. "What happened to you?"

The doctor in him coming to the surface, he automatically reached for Bill's chin, but Wiggins jerked it away, avoiding John's eyes as he did so. John thought the young man looked guilty and ashamed. He let his hand fall.

"Come on, let's move," he said gently. He and Wiggins began the slow, aimless circle round the yard that many of the prisoners unthinkingly fell into. (John often thought ruefully that they were like sheep in a livestock market.) He gave Wiggins a sidewise look as the younger man shuffled along, his eyes still cast down. John gently repeated his question. "What happened, Wiggy? Did you get into a tiff with another lag?"

Wiggins shook his head, still not looking up. It took a lot of coaxing on John's part, but he finally mumbled, "It were Harris."

John was stunned.

"That screw with the bloody great God complex and the nasty disposition?" he demanded.

"Yeah."

They walked in silence a bit longer; then, over the remainder of the hour, Wiggins reluctantly gave John the whole story:

"You know I've been in the nick before," he began slowly. "Using. And selling." Wiggins swallowed, hesitated, then went on, "I dealt while I was in here, first time. Got a lot of contacts on the street…Harris would get the stuff from one of 'em and I'd distribute so it'd go no further than me, and we'd both get a cut."

Wiggins fell silent for a moment. He still wouldn't meet John's eyes. The doctor prompted him gently.

"So what happened this time?"

Wiggins swallowed and stared straight ahead. "The supplier I had Harris work with before is in the nick 'imself – Altcourse. Harris wanted to pick up again with one of my other contacts, but I turned him down. He offered me a bigger cut, but I wouldn't bite. He's been after me ever since, and…well…" Bill indicated his battered face.

John stopped and looked at him. Wiggins, puzzled, stopped as well and looked back at him questioningly. John asked, "I'm glad you didn't Wiggy, but…why didn't you?"

The lad's eyes darted away in embarrassment. "You said…you said I could be a chemist. If I studied hard, and got off the stuff. That I could get off the street and all. You said," he finished, almost defensively, as though he feared John might have been taking the piss.

A sudden warmth filled John's chest. He wanted to squeeze Wiggins's shoulder, but feared he'd come across as condescending, so instead he said, calmly, "You could. You can. You've got it up here." He tapped his own forehead when Wiggins looked up. "You're better than…all of this." John waved vaguely around the dreary yard, the shuffling men in gray tracksuits. "I know it. So did Sherlock." For once, his voice didn't falter over the name. "I'll help you with your studies whenever you need me, and we'll send you forward when you get out of here, Billy."

Wiggins lit up. "Ta, doc." He gave a short laugh. "Your detective, he told me to be on the lookout for you and look arter you 'an all, but you's been looking arter me as well, hasn't you?"

John stared at him, distracted. "Sherlock…Sherlock said that? When?"

Bill's smile faded, and he looked serious again. "Right before…before…"

John looked away, thinking hard. Had Sherlock known…suspected–?"

"Time's up!" One of the prison officers yelled.

John shook the thought away for the moment and brought his focus back to Wiggins's current state as they made their way back indoors.

"We need to speak to someone about this, Billy."

Wiggins stared at him, aghast. "Are you off your bloody nut, Doc?" he demanded. "Who you think would listen, yeah? There was no witnesses…it'd be my word against his, and who d'you think they'll believe…a screw or a two-time lag?"

And that was the bollocks thing about it all, John knew – no one would believe Bill, especially not without witnesses (and they'd be slow to believe it if the only witnesses were other prisoners). John ground his teeth in frustration. Harris was corrupt and a bully…there had to be some way of stopping him. Until then, John resolved to keep a closer eye on Wiggins.

What he didn't realize was that Harris was now keeping a closer eye on John, having identified him as the driving force behind Wiggins's sudden determination to go straight.

The next day, Harris caught John as he was returning to his pad*** from the shower.

"Oi! Watson!" Harris swaggered up to him slowly, swinging his baton as though confident his very presence was intimidating enough to hold John in place.

John sighed mentally and turned to face him. "Sir," he said politely. Harris's eyes narrowed.

"I want a word with you about our boy Billy."

"Billy?" John feigned ignorance.

"Don't get snarky with me, Watson. You know I mean Bill Wiggins."

"What about him, Mr. Harris? Did you want me to try to find out who beat him up?" John looked Harris square in the eye.

Harris glared back at him. "So, we're going to play that game, are we, Watson? You don't want me for an enemy."

John put his left fist behind his back and clenched it, trying to rein in his temper. "I hope I haven't done anything to make any enemies here, sir," he bit out.

Harris smirked. "The Worthington Bank Gang would disagree."

John's lips thinned. I haven't done anything to them, either. It's what they tried to do to me."

Harris's expression turned cunning. "They won't do anything to you, Watson, if I tell them not to. I could be a friend to you."

"In exchange for me being a friend to you, I suppose," John replied. He could feel his blood pressure rising.

"Now you've got it." Harris seemed pleased John had caught on so quickly.

"And what would you feel is a...proper expression of…friendship?" John asked tightly.

"Easy," Harris replied at once. "Just tell Billy boy to be more…cooperative when I ask him to do something, and we'll all of us get on just fine."

John stared at the prison officer. God, what I wouldn't give for the chance to take a crack at that smug face! "I'll be sure to tell Wiggins to always do the right thing, Mr. Harris," he said, unable to keep the revulsion from his voice. "I'm sure that's what you mean, innit?"

Harris's face darkened. "Listen, you–"

At that moment Jorkins, another prison officer (who happened to be a man of integrity and did not care much for Gary Harris) came into view at the far end of the corridor, walking towards them. John took advantage of Harris's distraction to make a retreat.

"I'll return to my cell now, sir," he said, and walked off.

Behind him, he heard Harris hiss, "You'll be sorry you crossed me, you self-righteous little arsehole."

John did his best to stay on the alert after this incident, and warned Bill to do the same. They avoided Harris as much as possible, and avoided being alone. When the days passed with no sign of retribution from the screw (who now behaved as though he never even noticed Wiggins or John), the doctor began to hope that the whole thing had blown over, and that Harris had focused his malicious and nefarious attentions elsewhere.

Ten days after Wiggins first told John what had happened to him in the exercise yard, John made his way back to his pad after a phone call with Mrs. Hudson. He was in the middle of a letter to Bill Murray and decided to see if he could finish it and get it mailed before sosh ended. John liked being barefoot when he could help it, so he toed off his trainers and peeled off his socks before settling down at his rickety desk. He had just laid out Bill's letter when he heard a scuffle from the corridor.

"Give it to me, you little shit! Where is it?"

John tensed as he recognized Cartwright's voice.

A second voice, angry, yet shaky with panic: "I tell yer, it weren't me! I don't 'ave it!"

Wiggy.

Without stopping to grab his shoes, John bolted out onto the landing.

Wiggins was a tough kid, but he was outnumbered – Hayward and Biddle had him against the wall, and Cartwright was in the lad's face, holding a piece of sharpened plastic under his chin. "Hand it over, or I'll cut yer!" he snarled.

"Still ganging up on people, are you?" John asked coldly, having sidled up to Cartwright before the other man had even noticed. Before Cartwright could react, John grabbed his arm with his right hand and slammed it down onto his knee. As Cartwright howled in pain, John grabbed him by the neck, threw him into the wall, and used his own foot to sweep both of Carthwright's feet from under him.

One down, he thought, and sprang on the nearest of Wiggins's attackers, who happened to be Biddle. Freed on one side, Bill immediately leapt on Hayward. A fierce scuffle broke out.

John and Wiggins would definitely have had the upper hand, but then Moffat appeared from a nearby cell and jumped into the fray, seizing John from behind and yanking him off Biddle, who took the opportunity to punch John in the stomach, temporarily winding him. By this time Cartwright had recovered sufficiently to join in again, favoring his sprained arm but red-faced and fueled by rage. John had just elbowed Moffat in the solar plexus, kneed Cartwright in the groin and was turning back to Biddle when a third man came at him from the side and stomped down – hard – on his bare left foot. John yelped in pain as he felt two of his toes crack and, whirling, punched the offender square in the mouth, knocking him flat on his back.

There was a sudden silence as Wiggins, Hayward, Biddle and Moffat stopped scrambling and stared in shock (Cartwright was doubled up and groaning on the floor). John, blinking away the water that filled his eyes at the pain in his foot, looked down to see that he had punched Harris.

Forgetting his foot, John felt his stomach drop. He had hit a prison officer.

He was in serious trouble.

Wincing but smirking at the same time, Harris sat up, rubbing his jaw (which was already swelling) and eyed John with sadistic glee.

It was at that moment that John realized Harris had probably set this whole situation up.

Harris got to his feet. "Back in your cell, Billy boy," he ordered, jerking his thumb at the pad nearest to John's. Wiggins gave John a wide-eyed look.

"Now!" Harris barked. When Bill still hesitated, John gave him a nod, and the lad reluctantly backed into his cell. Harris slammed and locked the door behind him; when he turned to glare at John, the doctor realized he had taken John's nod and Bill's acquiescence as undermining his own authority. Dozens of other inmates on the wing had begun to gather, wondering what the commotion was, and Harris, with a black look, glared round at them all.

"Into your cells, now," he shouted. Spotting Jorkins hurrying towards him, he motioned for him to stop. "Jorkins, put this wing on lockdown."

When Jorkins hesitated, Harris glared at him. "Now, Jorkins. I'll explain later. Watson, Biddle, Hayward, Moffat – move." He gestured towards the stairs, and John numbly began to descend with the others, his heart hammering with the fear of the unknown.

He expected they were going to the director's office, but when they reached the first floor landing, Harris motioned them to proceed along the corridor instead of on to the ground floor. John could hear other prisoners moving around inside their pads, calling, "Bloody hell is going on?" as they passed.

At the very end of the corridor, a single cell door stood open. Harris motioned the four men into it. It was a cell like any other, except, John noticed, it was perfectly empty. He felt a prickle of unease as Harris closed the door behind them and then leaned into the toilet cubicle to grab something off the floor.

When Harris turned back towards him, John saw that, in addition to his baton, he now held a length of rubber hose. Involuntarily John took a step backwards, even though there was nowhere for him to go.

"Attacking a prison officer…pretty serious offense," Harris said with a cruel smile. "But I figure I can do you a favor and take care of it myself without getting the governor involved…save you having time added onto your sentence, yeah?" He glanced at Hayward, Biddle, and Moffat. "Boys, help the good doctor out of his shirt."

Hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, as Granddad McLean used to say, John thought grimly, and though he knew it was a losing battle from the start he fought with everything in him. He got several good shots in, but three on one is not the best odds, and before long they had wrestled John out of his sweatshirt and t-shirt and had pushed him face down onto the floor, Hayward lying across his legs and Moffat and Biddle each kneeling on one of his arms once he was helpless. Breathing hard against the concrete and squirming desperately under the crushing pressure in his limbs, John froze when Harris deliberately stepped into his line of sight.

"Let's see, let's see, which first," the officer said idly, studying the hose in his right hand and the baton in his left. He pretended to ponder them for a moment, then said, "I think we'll start with this," brandishing the hose as he stooped to set the baton on the floor. John, glaring up at him, jerked ineffectually against the weight of the three men holding him down, but it was useless – he was completely trapped.

"I'm going to enjoy this," Harris growled, tapping the hose length lightly against this left hand as he advanced upon the prone doctor.

John, realizing what was coming but powerless to stop it, lowered his head to the floor, closed his eyes, set his teeth, and prepared to endure.

He was barely conscious when they dragged him from the cell, Biddle on one side and Hayward on the other, each supporting John by drawing one of his arms across their shoulders, for the doctor was unable to bear himself up or even to raise his head. He was only vaguely aware, as if from a great distance, of the uppermost layer of skin on the tops of his bare feet being scraped off as they limply trailed along the concrete landing, then the metal grating of the stairs as they descended behind Harris. Even over the persistent ringing of his ears, John was aware of the relative silence broken only by the whispering and shuffling of the other prisoners, banged up in their cells and only too aware of what had just been done to one of their own by a vicious man who had power over them. The air around them was thick with tension and, though John didn't realize it, awe – the sound of the brutal beating had carried through the cell block clearly, but John had borne it with barely a sound. His pride was intact, but as the other prisoners could clearly see by looking at him through the flaps in their cell doors, he had paid dearly for his stoicism.

Aware that they were taking him to an area of the prison he had never seen, John tried to pay attention to his surroundings, but it was almost impossible to keep his eyes open or to hold a thought in his head. He was cognizant of descending a set of stairs beyond what he thought was the main landing, of the slight drop in temperature – a basement level? – of the chilly, close atmosphere in a darkened corridor that at once brought gooseflesh to his bare, battered torso. Then there was the sound of a cell door grating open, Harris's voice – "right here" – and he was dropped heavily to the hard floor, the impact jarring his aching body. He lay where he fell, struggling to get his breath back.

"Step out to the corridor," Harris's voice said somewhere above his head, and John heard Biddle's and Hayward's footsteps recede.

There was a moment of silence. John turned his face to the side, saw Harris's feet, and struggled to look up at the guard. A single bulb in a cage fixture in the low ceiling above made him squint.

Harris met his eyes coldly. His breath came fast and a faint sheen of sweat coated his face; he had overexerted himself during John's "disciplinary session."

"Three weeks, Watson," Harris said, his voice soft with malice. "You can cool your heels here for twenty-one bloody days, and thank me for it. That's the max I can give you, but no one will question it after you assaulted a prison officer." He indicated the swelling on his jaw, then left. There was the grating sound of steel as the cell door slammed home, then the overhead bulb winked out, leaving only a stream of light from the corridor through the open flap in the cell door to illuminate the cell.

John lay on the floor for a long time, drifting in and out of consciousness. After awhile he forced himself to sit up, groaning painfully as he did so. The cold concrete felt good against his battered, aching body, but he knew that, clad only in his track pants as he was, he would soon become chilled. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he tried to take stock of his surroundings.

The cell was very like his own, only the ceiling was a bit lower and a small air vent was situated where the window would have been upstairs. Unlike John's own pad, however, this one was totally bare except for the metal bunk bolted to the wall, the sink across from it, and a toilet (which was not, like his own, in a cubicle) – there was no desk, no cupboards, and no mirror. The mattress was completely bare – there wasn't even a pillow – and the bar under the sink had no towel.

John quickly did a self-assessment of his injuries, probing and testing them for depth and severity. No broken bones, no open wounds – just a good deal of deep bruising and puffy welts. It occurred to him that the length of his sentence to solitary confinement had a dual purpose – by the time he was allowed out, most of the injuries would have completely faded, and there would be no evidence as to what Harris had done to him. It would be his word against Harris's, and, as Wiggy had said, who would believe the word of a lag over a screw – especially that of a lag that already had a reputation for fighting? Biddle and Hayward would back Harris up; the other prisoners could only attest to what they had heard and seen afterwards – they had not seen the actual beating, and most likely they would all be too fearful of retribution to speak out. John could not blame them.

Slowly and painfully, the army doctor dragged himself to the bunk. He felt thirsty and feverish, but far too weak to go to the sink for a drink of water. Pulling himself onto the damp mattress that smelled faintly of mildew, he curled himself up into a frozen ball and tried to think warm thoughts as he fell into a shallow, uneasy sleep.

His last waking thought was a sincere hope that Wiggins would be all right.

Isolated from the other prisoners on this silent, subterranean corridor, with no windows to let the outside light in, John had no way to track the passage of time apart from Harris coming to slide a tray of food through the slot. This occurred once daily – Harris would bring him his evening meal, including with it a packet of cereal and a granola bar, figuring John, in his forced inactivity, didn't need more than that.

Indeed, for the first two days John didn't even touch the delivered trays. Hurting, sick and feverish from the beating he had received, he craved only water. He knew he probably wasn't drinking enough, but it was just so hard to keep getting up and dragging himself to the sink, for the only drinking vessel he had were his own two hands.

On the third day, John felt clearer, enough so that he knew he could get – and keep – the food down, and that he probably should try lest he grow weaker. He dutifully forced down every bite of the rubbery omelet and plain jacket potato, slept for several hours, woke, ate the cereal and the granola bar, and carefully put his body through a serious of stretches to encourage healing and combat pain and stiffness.

When Harris showed up later with another tray, John took it and passed the empty one back through the slot. When Harris saw he had eaten this time, he peered through the flap at John.

"Feeling better, are you?" he grunted. "Not going to die in there, then?"

John ignored him. Harris didn't seem to mind.

"Good," he said, smirking. "I wanted to make sure you weren't going to keel over on me before I implemented the next part of your education in what happens when a dirty lag like you crosses his betters."

And with that the bastard closed and locked the flap, plunging the cell into complete darkness.

Tray in his hands, John froze, listening in disbelief to Harris's receding footsteps. There was a distant slam of the door to the wing, then utter silence.

Nothing. He was both blind and deaf.

John's heart began to pound.

Slowly, carefully, he crouched and set the tray down. The sound of the metal scraping against the concrete floor sounded loud in that silent space, and he jumped a little despite himself. Easing his foot out, groping with both hands, he made his way to the bunk. Sitting on the floor with his back to the it, he leaned forward, feeling around until he found the tray and carefully slid it forward. He felt around some more until he located the plastic utensils, then paused. This new development had robbed him of any appetite he might have possessed. He wasn't even sure what was on the tray – he thought he'd glimpsed a bean and vegetable curry just before the light had gone.

"Steady, Watson," he muttered to himself.

Blind people learned to manage, John thought grimly, and so could he. He managed to get most of the food down without spilling it, then slid the tray under the bunk where he'd be sure not to stumble over it if he had to get up for a drink or the loo. Crawling on top of the mattress, he curled up and closed his eyes. After a moment he covered his ears, and tried to convince himself that the darkness and silence were due to him being asleep.

Sometime later, John heard a slight squeaking and scratching from under the bunk. Mice. They were after the leavings on his tray. He started to get up to shoo them away, then realized it would be an exercise in futility as he couldn't see and they would likely return. He lay back down.

Being banged up in his cell drove him nearly distracted with boredom. Being locked away in this lonely cell, away from the activity and noise, had been maddening. This sensory deprivation, however…this was pure hell. Once a day he saw the dim light of the corridor when Harris came to bring him a new tray and collect his old one. In those few, precious moments, John had to fight with himself not to beg the guard to leave the flap open. The only thing keeping him from it was the certainty that it would do no good – he'd be sacrificing his pride and satisfying the sadistic Harris to no avail, so John drank up what light he could and tried to memorize what was on his tray in the seconds before the flap slammed shut. At least these daily "visits" gave him some idea of the passage of time; it would have been impossible otherwise.

He began pacing back and forth in the dark, back and forth, back and forth, trying to work off his rising anxiety. It reminded him of the lion he'd once seen in a bleak little zoo during a primary school trip. It had not been a very good zoo – it was eventually shut down for its inhumane practices. Before that had happened however, the boy John had seen with his own eyes the small, concrete cages, and he remembered sadly watching a beautiful lion, head low and eyes desperate, as it restlessly paced up, turned, paced down, turned, paced up, turned, paced down, turned…

On his fourth day in the dark (at least, he thought it was the fourth day – it was difficult to be sure because the constant darkness and silence threw off his circadian rhythms, causing him to sleep a great deal), John began to hallucinate.

It was just voices at first. He had been pacing up and down again when he heard Mrs. Hudson say, quite clearly, "Try to settle down, love. I'll get you a cup of tea. Just this once, though – I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper!"

John spun about. "Mrs. Hudson?!" he gasped hopefully, reaching blindly in the darkness for her small, warm form. For a moment he was sure he smelled the aura of baking and lavender that always accompanied her, but there was nothing. He stood stock still, regulating his breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth, counting to five with each inhale and exhale. He tried to focus, but it was difficult – his brain activity had slowed tremendously with the dark. He knew what was happening, of course – as a doctor he knew about the physiological and psychological effects of prolonged sensory deprivation – but knowing apparently didn't negate experiencing it firsthand, and he was badly shaken.

The next auditory illusion occurred a few hours later. He was lying on his side on the mattress, not asleep exactly – more in a stupor – when he heard Greg Lestrade's gravelly voice call cheerfully, "That's another case wrapped up! Fancy a pint, John?"

That one scared John because he actually answered out loud, "Love one," startling himself to alertness and then blinking stupidly, wondering why it was so dark before he remembered…

The next day, the visual hallucinations began.

When his mind was clear John thought in bitter amusement that, were it not for the fact that they were so damn frightening, the visual hallucinations were almost preferable because at least he could see and hear during them. Unfortunately, they were not things he wanted to see or hear: medical evac hels*† circling overhead in a sky so blue it burned his retinas. Burnt out rovers smoking beside dusty roads, surrounded by broken, bleeding men calling out to him for help. He physically ducked to avoid an empty bottle thrown by a bitterly swearing, de-toxing Harry. Bill Murray kneeling above him, crying out to him to hold on, hold on, dammit as he tried to slow the bleeding in John's gushing shoulder. A man not much taller than himself and wearing a black ski mask yanking a hood off his head and bundling him into a vest of explosives while another held a gun to his temple and a smirking Moriarty, resplendent in a smart suit, observed hungrily. And, worst of all, Sherlock letting himself fall from the roof of St. Bart's, arms outstretched, again and again and again.

It got so that, between the nightmares and the hallucinations, John could no longer tell if he was awake or asleep.

On his twelfth day in the dark, Sherlock came to him.

John opened his eyes to see the detective sitting in the corner of his cell in his accustomed chair, leaning back slightly, right leg crossed over his left, fingers bridged before his face. Sherlock seemed to be illuminated from within, so that John could clearly see him.

"Well, John," the well-remembered baritone rumbled, "I see you've got yourself into a rather dull predicament."

John lay on his side. He could have cried with happiness. He did not try to sit up for fear of dispelling this illusion completely. He gazed wistfully at his old friend, and his lips quirked fondly even while his eyes stung.

"Not so very dull," he murmured. "You should see the things I've been seeing."

"Sensory deprivation effect," Sherlock said dismissively. "With nothing to focus on, your brain is creating things on which to focus from memory. Predictable." He shifted slightly, and John marveled at how real the sound of the leather against Sherlock's suit jacket seemed. "Of course your untrained, idiotic mind is focusing on negative experiences of trauma. If you had a mind palace you would be able to occupy your funny little brain with worthy remembrances, and data enough to keep it sharp and grounded."

John could not help snorting in laughter. He'd even missed Sherlock's insults. "God, you're a prat even in my hallucinations."

"Tell me something I don't know, John."

"Here's one." John closed his eyes. "I miss you," he admitted.

He waited for the snide remark about sentiment, but there was only silence. He opened his eyes to utter darkness.

Sherlock had gone, taking the light with him.

Chapter Text

“The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place.” 
― George Bernard Shaw

May 2014

Holmes and Watson, on the job again.

This is how it should be, Sherlock thought. Maybe now I'll be able to think properly.

As the cab approached the railings at the edge of the pavement at his direction, Sherlock found it difficult to keep from bouncing on the seat like an overexcited child. He was back in London, on the way to a promising crime scene in what was shaping up to be a brilliant case, with John at his side. It was all he had wanted for nearly three years. Sherlock felt the air around him practically thrum with energy, the way the air above an open flame shimmers. He was so caught up in a mixture of exultation and his own racing thoughts that he did not notice how quiet John was, or the look of wary trepidation on his scarred face.

"Here. Let us out right here," Sherlock exclaimed as he spotted the flashing blue lights. He leapt out of the cab almost before it had stopped, paying no heed to John's muttered, "I'll just get the fare then, shall I? God, some things never bloody change."

Sherlock crossed to the railings at the edge of the pavement and swung himself over; behind him John, having settled with the cabbie, scrambled over as well and joined him. Together, the two men looked towards the cordoned off area at the foot of a set of steps beneath Waterloo Bridge.

"We've been here before," John said quietly. He sounded unnerved.

Sherlock shifted his eyes toward him, but John's face was averted and hidden in shadow, his eyes fixed on the police activity below the bridge.

"Yes," Sherlock said shortly. "The northern side is usually where my Homeless Network gathers…a popular spot for one or another of them to kip."

"I wasn't talking about the them as a whole." John's tone was clipped. "I was remembering…a girl who wanted change for a cup of tea, and you gave her fifty quid. That murdered security guard…"

"The Great Game," Sherlock finished softly. "The case in which Moriarty revealed himself…yes."

They were silent a moment, then Sherlock shook away the prickle of unease that had begun to creep up the back of his neck and strode forward.

"Hardly relative. This is a prime spot for nefarious dealings."

John followed him wordlessly.

When they approached the police tape John tensed as Sally Donovan stepped forward to meet them, nor did he respond when she said, coolly but civilly, "Dr. Watson." Then she glanced at Sherlock and said in the same tone, "Holmes."

John raised his eyebrows at that. They went up still further when Sherlock responded politely, "Sergeant Donovan."

The look on Donovan's face was one of unenthusiastic acceptance, but without animosity. She spoke into her radio. "They're here. Sending them up."

She lifted the tape for them; Sherlock inclined his head and led John through.

"Well…that was less awkward than I anticipated," John muttered as they started up the steps.

"All water under the bridge, John," Sherlock said briskly (and with no sense of irony) as he strode forward. "Sally and I reached an understanding months ago. I hold nothing against her; she was merely doing what Moriarty meant for her to do."

John snorted. "That's all very well, but I didn't mean awkward for you."

Sherlock frowned slightly and gave him a sidewise glance. John's jaw was set, his eyes resolutely forward.

"I don't understand…why would it be awkward for you?" Sherlock wondered.

John halted so suddenly that Sherlock found himself several paces ahead before he realized it, paused, and turned back.

John stared at him. "You're kidding, right?"

Sherlock just frowned questioningly.

John barked a short, dry laugh without a modicum of humor in it. "Who do you think slapped the cuffs on me the day you took a walk off Bart's roof?"

Sherlock stared at him, aghast.

"Donovan was the one who arrested you?" he demanded.

John began ascending the steps again; Sherlock fell into step beside him. "Marched me through Scotland Yard in handcuffs in front of God and everybody. Processed me and everything then and there, concussed as I was. Thanks for that, by the way."

Sherlock's stomach twisted uncomfortably. "Better a bump on the head than a bullet in the brain," he mumbled, more to himself than to John. The doctor merely grunted noncommittally.

There was a pause, then Sherlock began, hesitantly, "When she arrested you–"

But John interrupted him. "Water under the bridge, Sherlock, remember? She was only doing her job. 'Done is done and can't be undone,' as my grandfather used to say."

Before Sherlock could snap back a sarcastic response, Lestrade spotted and hailed them. He looked delighted to see John.

"Welcome back, mate," he said, shaking John's hand. "I was beginning to wonder if we'd every see you out here again. We've missed having you around to yank this one's leash!" Lestrade grinned and stuck a thumb in Sherlock's direction.

"Of course he was going to come along again, eventually," Sherlock sniffed.

John gave him an unreadable glance, then apparently decided to ignore him. "Just trying it out," he told Greg tersely.

Lestrade got the message. "Our man's over this way. Probably one of the uglier scenes I've come across in my career," he warned.

As they entered the seating area beneath the bridge, all three men halted.

"Jesus," John said softly.

Even Sherlock could admit to being slightly…unsettled. It was definitely one of the bloodier crime scenes he had encountered. Judging by the size of the red puddle in which he sat, the victim had evidently bled out. Drawing nearer into the harsh glow of the portable lights put up by the forensics team, Sherlock needed no special powers of observation to see why: even with the blood caked over and around it, the bolt protruding from the side of the throat was clearly visible.

The victim's glazed, half-open eyes were nearly obscured by the dark blue wooly hat pulled down to his eyebrows. He was wearing a black, short-sleeved t-shirt over a long-sleeved white t-shirt, baggy blue trackies cut off at the knee, black socks, and a single black trainer on his right foot. His legs were stretched out and apart in front of him, the feet bonelessly flopped outward.

Pulling on the pair of Latex gloves Lestrade handed him, Sherlock pulled his magnifier from the pocket of his Belstaff, snapped it open, and hunkered down to examine the body quickly but closely, running a careful eye over the young man's torso, pausing briefly at the left knee, then working his way down to the feet. Moving the right foot out slightly, he examined the sole of the victim's shoe with his magnifier.

Straightening, Sherlock turned to John. "Doctor?" he said, nodding towards the body. John automatically fell back on his old custom of looking questioningly at Lestrade first and waiting for the older man's nod of permission before pulling on a pair of his own Latex gloves and squatting down beside the body. Sherlock stepped back a bit and surveyed the surrounding area as John took hold of the victim's wrist, then reached up to lift an eyelid.

"I'd say he was in his late twenties. Been dead about…three hours, maybe a bit longer, I'd guess. No other unusual marks or bruising, so I'd say he was sitting here when he took the shot. Not in poor physical condition, exactly – he's lean and well-muscled, anyway – but definitely a bit malnourished." John took hold of the right hand and pressed down on the index fingernail. He sat back on his heels and looked up. "Cause of death, exsanguination."

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered. He ignored John's and Lestrade's glares and continued.

"The bolt should have gone straight through his neck, but was stopped by the concrete side of the bench," Sherlock observed, rapid-fire. "Clearly the same shooter as in the case of Ronald Adair…though the bolt is of a different type – a ten-inch aluminium arrow as opposed to the twenty-inch carbon bolt used on Adair – the fletching is made of the feathers from the same type of bird, specifically an African helmeted guinea fowl, hand-trimmed and dipped in indelible blue ink, and affixed to a half-moon nock."

He leaned forward and, very carefully, scraped away a bit of the blood from one of the feathers with his gloved thumbnail. John and Lestrade leaned forward; sure enough, the spots on the feather and the vivid blue tips were clearly visible.

"The different style of bolt would indicate a different type of crossbow…probably a crossbow pistol, lighter and easier to conceal. A torso shot would not have done the job here; this shot was very carefully placed. The marksman is highly skilled and very confident in his ability to make a kill shot from within one hundred yards even with the lighter weapon. But why this victim?"

Sherlock leaned over the body again and paused, studying it intently as John slowly regained his feet.

"Not a London native, but he's lived here for some time," he went on in a more thoughtful tone, almost as though to himself. Homeless…he's clearly been sleeping rough, which would account for the signs of malnourishment John noticed, and probably makes this spot one of his regular places to kip, it's quite popular with the indigent…"

Suddenly, the detective straightened up.

"Where is his bicycle?" he demanded, looking round.

Lestrade and John stared at him. "His what?" Lestrade said, blinking.

"Bicycle, his bicycle," Sherlock said impatiently. "You see the slight roughening on the soles of his trainer? Clearly an avid cyclist, probably favors a fast pedal cycle based on the wear on the inner left knee of his trousers."

"Oi! Anderson!" Lestrade called over his shoulder. "Any of your lot spotted a bike nearby?" A moment later, the forensics specialist appeared, looking decidedly disheveled and absurdly pleased to be there.

"John," he said, politely. Then, admiringly, "Sherlock." He gave the detective a worshipful look not unlike one of Molly's.

John's eyes widened; he'd heard about Anderson's self-flagellation and subsequent turnaround after Sherlock's fall, but it was surreal to see it in action. Sherlock merely sighed wearily. He would never admit it, but he missed trading insults with Anderson; the man had become almost unbearably tiresome since he became a "fan."

Anderson, after a respectful beat of silence, turned to Lestrade. "No sign of a cycle of any kind. We did find his backpack, though…it was sat next to him. We've put it aside for cataloguing the contents–"

"Where is it?" Sherlock cut in. Anderson indicated a young woman carefully laying out the contents of a battered black pack onto a sheet of plastic and photographing them one by one.

"Gloves," Sherlock demanded, holding out a hand for a fresh pair, and Anderson instantly produced a pack of disposable Latex gloves. John snorted a laugh, which he immediately tried to cover with a cough when Sherlock glared at him.

Lestrade sighed wearily as Anderson eagerly held a bag in which Sherlock tossed the soiled gloves before putting on fresh ones, but let it pass. Sherlock paid no heed as he bent over the tattered backpack and its contents.

"How d'you know he's homeless?" Lestrade asked. "It just seems odd…a high-up judge and a homeless kid, both taken out by the same assassin –"

"What do we know about the body? The shooter hasn't left us with much – the victim's clothes and this bag. The clothing is old, too large for the wearer, haven't been washed in some time…they're all he has, or almost all. It's late, but he was clearly settling down between the benches. Sleeps rough, then, and used to it. You can see that by the fact that he only has one shoe on."

John stared. "What…?"

"Look, the other shoe was in the backpack," Sherlock said impatiently. "He was in the act of removing his shoes and storing them in his pack so they wouldn't be stolen while he slept when he was shot. Again, look at the other items…several pairs of spare underwear and socks made of material that dries quickly, bar soap and an antiperspirant, a couple of cans of beans…all items that a homeless person would carry."

John whistled, impressed. Sherlock allowed himself to preen for just a moment before reaching for the bag itself. He reached inside and drew out a piece of cardboard that had apparently been torn from a box.

"To block out the wind from the back?" John asked.

"Not a bad guess, but unlikely, considering the size and the pocket he kept it in," Sherlock replied absently. "No, more likely it's for– ah! Just as I thought."

His rummaging fingers latched onto something inside the bag, and he pulled out a black marker.

"For a sign," he explained. "'Hungry and homeless' or the like."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade protested as the detective suddenly rent the inner lining apart. "That's evidence!"

Sherlock gave him a withering look. "More evidence, you mean," he exclaimed, pulling out a balled up sock and tossing it onto the plastic sheet. It landed rather heavily. Lestrade glared at him a moment, then unrolled the sock.

"Loose change," he noted. "And…" he frowned, puzzled.

John peered over. "That's an odd thing for him to be carrying."

Sherlock leaned over and froze. It was a blue squash ball.

John noticed. "Sherlock?"

No answer.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade insisted.

Sherlock straightened suddenly and strode back to the corpse. In one swift motion, he swept the cap off the head.

"Oi! Sherlock! You need to be careful…" Lestrade hurried over, John with him.

Sherlock paid no attention but instead hunched over, peering intently into the victim's face.

"Sherlock," John quietly tried again.

"I've met this man before," the detective replied softly.

His friends gaped at him, nonplussed. "You know…" John began.

Sherlock looked up sharply. "You've seen himself yourself, John…he is the cyclist you encountered on the day…" he was about to say, "the day I jumped," but changed it at the last second to, "the day Moriarty shot himself on Bart's rooftop."

If Sherlock expected John only to be surprised and interested by this remark, he was mistaken…the doctor's expression closed off and his jaw tensed; it was as though the temperature in his immediate vicinity suddenly dropped ten degrees.

"I wouldn't say I actually saw him," John replied tersely. "I happened to be looking up at the time."

There was an awkward silence that Lestrade broke by pointedly clearing his throat.

"Do you have a name?" The DI tactfully tried to change the subject.

Sherlock shook himself and returned to the task at hand. "First name only – Ozzie."

"You said he had a bike?"

"A bike, yes, and a good one, too," Sherlock said, using the flashlight app on his phone to squint at the ground. "Expensive urban model, 'Big BMX,' his prize possession, one he would never allow out of his sight if he could help it. Rather than spending the cash he collected on drugs or cigarettes he tended to put it into his bike…ah, there, you see?"

John and Lestrade leaned over to peer at the black smudges beside the bench.

"Those marks are from a very specific brand of tyre, Schwalbe Marathon Plus. More expensive than others, but sturdy and puncture-resistant."

His friend gaped at him. "How the hell can you tell what kind of tyre those are from?" Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock looked surprised. "I'm familiar with forty-two different impressions left by bike tyres."

John snorted a laugh and turned away muttering something along the lines of "tires and tobacco ash."

"The question now is, what happened to the bike?" Sherlock said impatiently, clicking the "k" loudly on the word "bike" and looking around as though he expected to see the vehicle suddenly pop out of the pavement.

"Maybe the killer took it?" Lestrade suggested.

John was perplexed. "Why…would the killer have taken the bike?"

"He wouldn't have." Sherlock replied. "Someone else did that…who called it in?"

Lestrade grunted. "Didn't leave a name…Control said it sounded like a young female. How can you be so sure the killer didn't take the bike, anyway?"

Sherlock gave him his patented "Must you be such an idiot?" look. "The killer didn't come anywhere near here…based on the position and location of the body, the shot clearly came from the roof of the lifeboat pier." He directed their attention to the RNLI Tower Lifeboat Station swaying gently in the river a short distance away.

"Sherlock, that station is manned around the clock," Lestrade protested.

"Precisely," Sherlock shot back cryptically. "Which is why the first order of business will be to check with the crew to see if they had any false alarms tonight. We'll need to do a search of the station…and of the river, as well, likely. We'll be finding another body before morning."

So it had proven…at Sherlock's prompting, Lestrade directed Donovan to check in with the RNLI and learned that, shortly after midnight, the crew on duty at the Tower Station had been called away on what turned out to be a false "shout"* near the Southwark Bridge. One crewmember was left behind to man the station. When the other's returned, there was no trace of him.

Sherlock was gleeful. "Brilliant. This one won't have been murdered by crossbow; the killer wanted to take his place long enough to blend in and use the station as the point from which to target Ozzie. Besides alerting us to the fact that the assassin was tracking Ozzie's movements, it means he likely got more up close and personal with the murder of the volunteer, giving us more data to work with once the body is located. Assuming your lot don't take too long to retrieve it from the Thames, Detective Inspector."

John shot Sherlock a Bit Not Good look and Lestrade asked, bewildered, "But what's the bloody connection between this kid and the judge? Is it just a coincidence?"

The smile faded from Sherlock's face as he turned to gaze at the dark water. John heard him say, almost under his breath, "The universe is rarely so lazy."

John could tell they would get no more out of him for the time being.

Sherlock was silent, thinking, in the cab on the way back to Baker Street. John left him to it until they were nearly there.

"Why was the squash ball significant?" John's voice suddenly broke into his thoughts.

Sherlock didn't look at him. "On the day I…fell…I used a squash ball under my armpit to…"

"To cut off your pulse long enough so I'd think you were dead," John finished tonelessly.

Sherlock's silence was an affirmation.

John decided to let it go for the moment. "It couldn't have been the same ball, Sherlock."

"No. No, it wasn't. Nor do I believe Ozzie had it in his possession."

John turned to frown at him. "What?"

"It was left there deliberately. As a sign to me."

"By the killer?"

"I already told you, John, the killer wasn't anywhere near Ozzie when he was killed," Sherlock said impatiently. "Do try to keep up. No…by whomever took the bike."

"You're sure there was a bike, then?" John asked. Sherlock gave him a withering look, and John quirked an exasperated smile.

"Right, then. So what do you think it means?"

Sherlock turned his attention back to the window. "Difficult to say without more data. When the body is found I'll know more."

John nodded and said no more. Sherlock waited a beat, then asked, "What did Sally Donovan want you for as we were leaving?" He had noticed the detective sergeant pull John aside just before they departed the scene.

"To make peace, I suppose." John's tone was clipped, and, though burning with questions, Sherlock recognized the danger signals and let the matter drop.

They were silent the rest of the way home.

When they got out of the cab in front of 221, Sherlock paused and stared intently at the door for a moment.

The knocker was straight.

John frowned at him. "Something wrong?"

"No, no," Sherlock said quickly. "I was just thinking…Chinese? We should just have time before–"

"Sherlock," John cut in.

Sherlock stopped talking and turned to face the doctor. John was studying him with a serious look on his scarred face. Once he saw he had Sherlock's attention, he went on gently.

"This…tonight. It was good. I'm not saying it wasn't. But I'm not…what I mean to say is…"

He trailed off. Sherlock finished for him. "You need time."

John looked relieved. "Yeah." He smiled, then turned serious again, looking concerned. "That okay?"

Sherlock considered a moment. "I understand."

"Do you?" John asked shrewdly.

"Not quite," Sherlock admitted, and John smiled, apparently pleased with his honesty. "But I'm trying to."

"I guess that will do for now," John said, unlocking the front door and letting them in. "Good night, Sherlock." He opened the door to the stairs to 221c and disappeared.

"Good night, John," Sherlock said quietly to the closed door.

Starting at the stairs leading up to 221b, he sighed to himself. He wasn't really hungry, but he had hoped John would be up for a late night (or, rather, early morning) meal, both for old times' sake and so that Sherlock could avoid Mycroft, who apparently had brought him John's file personally and was waiting upstairs to speak with him.

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock started up the stairs. No point in putting it off.

Chapter Text

“Most of the evil in this world is done by people with good intentions.”
–T.S. Eliot

May 2014

Upon entering 221c, John toed his shoes off and arranged them neatly on the tiled space to the right and in front of the door before stepping onto the carpet. He had forgotten to take his coat off when he and Sherlock had come in; rather than go back upstairs to hang it in the hallway, he instead draped it carefully over an arm of the small sofa before making a beeline for the kitchen – and the kettle.

John was rather fond of his kitchen, tiny though it was. Galley-style and quite old-fashioned, the first thing he had done was re-tile the small worktop using the skills he'd learned from Sholto. It was a neat job; Mrs. Hudson had been delighted, and he thought James would have been impressed (though the major probably wouldn't have said so out loud). Taking a leaf out of Greg's book, John had purchased a secondhand, Formica-topped kitchen table with just room enough for two along with a pair of vinyl-upholstered chairs. Taking up his mug, he settled in the chair he customarily used now – the one that faced outward to the sitting room and, subsequently, the door. It was a habit leftover from his army days and reinforced during his time in prison – he preferred facing the main point of entry whenever possible.

That way he hoped to avoid surprises.

The opposite chair didn't see much use. Mrs. Hudson, mainly, and occasionally Greg. Mike on two occasions and Harry once. Sherlock, never, despite the fact that he lived only two floors above.

The doctor had noticed Sherlock's uncharacteristic wariness regarding John's flat – and indeed, towards John himself. John knew this was probably his own fault, at least in part – during a bitter argument, Harry had once told John that he had an uncanny ability to erect an invisible barrier around himself that made it near impossible for people to reach him and reluctant to try. John hadn't been consciously aware of it before, but had since learned to use it as a shield – it had proven helpful to him both as a doctor and a soldier when he needed to detach himself and remain professional, but, as his therapist had once pointed out, he had come to use it as a personal shield, as well.

John told himself he had been "shielding" himself unconsciously, but, examining himself honestly, he had to admit that he had deliberately been holding Sherlock at a distance, at least on some level. Over the past few weeks, John had pondered the situation with Sherlock off and on, wondering if there was an ugly, deeply buried part of himself that was cold-shouldering his old friend as a punishment. He hadn't thought so, but he hadn't been sure. After yesterday and last night, however, he was sure – it wasn't Sherlock. It was him.

The truth was, John was finding adjusting to life in London after Sherlock's "death" and return, after prison – after everything – a lot harder than he had expected.

His months in Yorkshire with James Sholto had given John the time, space and solitude he had craved in which to get his head together, while James himself had provided the doctor the silent, compassionate understanding without judgment that he had so desperately needed.

Only once had James ventured to offer a word of advice, and that was on the day he had dropped John off at the train station.

It was right before John had boarded the train back to London. Standing on the deserted platform, he had again expressed his gratitude to Sholto for having him stay for so long, but the major had waved John's thanks away with his scarred hand.

"It's what comrades do," he said simply. "We have each other's backs." He paused a moment, then added quietly, "You're a braver man than I am, John."

John let out a startled laugh, gaping at him incredulously. "You're joking, James. I've never known a man so utterly fearless as you."

James did not return the smile. "In battle, perhaps," he said slowly, with no hint of boasting in his tone. "But in life…" He fell silent, and John waited patiently as the other man struggled to verbalize what he wanted to say. Finally, Sholto went on, choosing his words carefully.

"In the war…the mission was clear, the enemy easy to recognize. I sometimes think that dying would not have been difficult…not as difficult as building a new life, I mean."

He gazed over John's shoulder at nothing. "I've been…hiding here, John."

"Healing," John replied sharply. Sholto's eyes snapped back to meet his.

"Remember?" John went on gently. "Healing, until you were 'ready to deal yourself back in the game.'"

Sholto smiled a little, the old gleam returning to his gaze as John used his own words against him. "Touche. Well, perhaps now we're both ready, but there will be new enemies to fight, and some of them won't be so straightforward."

He sounded like he was warning John.

"No, I don't imagine they will," John agreed. "Though I suppose two old soldiers like us should be able to manage it."

Sholto offered his hand, and John took it. "Goodbye, John. Stay in touch, will you?"

"You too, sir," John replied. He gripped Sholto's hand briefly, then let it go, caught up his duffle bag, and stepped onto the train.

Ten minutes later, as the train pulled away from the small station, John turned to the window for one last look at the moors. By the gravel road he spotted a lone figure standing at attention, his good right arm raised in a crisp salute.

Now, settled in his new flat in his old building, nursing a cooling cup of tea, John reflected that he had not really understood what Sholto had been trying to prepare him for what he would face when he returned to London. He had thought he had known, after being shot and medically discharged, what it was to feel like a stranger in his own city, among his own countrymen, half-crippled and alone. Returning after two years in prison was something entirely different. He was scarred inside and out in ways he couldn't hide this time, and it was all so much harder to put behind him than it had been before.

Sherlock had invited him along on several cases, but John had been hesitant to accompany him, wary of facing Lestrade's team. He had finally gone along last night – this morning, rather – deciding it was time to get it over with so that things could begin to get back to normal (or whatever passed for normal in his life with Sherlock), and that, after all, he had done nothing wrong.

He had not been prepared for the rush of memories that hit him when he saw Donovan for the first time in nearly three years. Instantly, he had been propelled back to that awful day when Sherlock (apparently) had fallen to his death before his very eyes.

The twenty-four hours following Sherlock's leap from the roof of St. Bartholomew's would forever be a hazy muddle of images in John's mind. During their passing, he had lived through a wild, bewildered woe the likes of which he never confided to anyone, for there was no one who would have understood. Concussed, traumatized, in shock, he had been only vaguely aware of the stunned stares of the police officers and community support officers of the Yard as Sally Donovan had led him through to an interview room in handcuffs. Sherlock had been grudgingly respected, sometimes admired, but never liked; John, on the other hand, was genuinely well-liked by nearly everyone he met. The Yarders were aghast at his arrest and found it difficult – at first – to believe that John could be involved in the kidnapping and poisoning of defenseless children. (It was not long before they all, to a man but for Lestrade, did come to believe it, though most of them blamed Sherlock, telling one another that the "fake genius" had taken advantage of an emotionally damaged veteran. Watching his supporters fall away, one by one, would be an experience John would never forget.)

On one level, it might have been a mercy for John that he had had so much thrown at him all at once. As he lay awake in the darkness of the holding cell that first night, his mind was forcibly distracted now and again by the discomfort of his surroundings. If this had not been so, the anguish of his mind might have been too great for him to bear, for while the hours passed he scarcely remembered that he had a body at all, or anything other than one: that Sherlock was dead; that his best friend had dashed out his own brains on the pavement in front of Bart's while John watched.

It wasn't until many hours later that he became aware that the bunk was so hard that he had to keep turning over on it to find a spot that wouldn't hurt his bad shoulder, and that the chill of the place, combined with his emotional shock and exhaustion, left him shivering continually.

Those months before his conviction while he had been on remand were still hazy to John, a bewildering blur of mental torment and confusion. He remembered requesting, and being denied, permission to attend Sherlock's funeral – probably for the best, he thought afterwards, as he was besieged by reporters with shouted questions and popping flashbulbs every time he was taken out in public; his presence at the funeral would no doubt have made it even more of a media circus. He had put on his most stoic face and held himself like the soldier he was, but the humiliation and sense of disgrace cut him far more deeply than he expected anyone other than Mrs. Hudson suspected. At the time he was going through it his grief for Sherlock had diverted his mind, but seeing Donovan tonight had brought it all back. Her stiff apology (which he accepted, assuring her that he knew she had only been doing her job and that she, like everyone else, had been taken in by the machinations of a mad genius) almost made him feel worse.

These then, John thought morosely, staring down into his cooling mug, were the enemies James had warned him about: not the people themselves, per se, but the memories and uncertainties that accompanied them, and that were purely John's to face. He had told himself on the train back from Yorkshire that re-acclimating to London would be difficult, but he had done it before after he had been invalided out of the army, and he could do it again now. But the "enemies" he had faced then – loneliness, injury, depression, a lost sense of purpose – were different than those he faced now.

John's enemy now was the stricken pain in his heart at the falling, frightened and suspicious face of a mother whose young child he had doctored. It was the curious whispers of the other patrons in the Tesco when they saw his scarred face and recognized him as "Wrongfully Convicted John Watson." It was the sick feeling of shame when he saw the Yarders who had watched him being arrested. It was the hurt pride he felt at the thought of having to ask his landlady, whom he loved like a mum, to please not turn the light off if she found him asleep because he was a bloody grown man afraid of the dark. It was the bewildered, almost frightened look on the face of his brilliant but somehow childlike best mate when he told John he had been crying in his sleep.

John tightened his fingers around the handle of his old RAMC mug. How was he supposed to come to terms with all that? It was an enemy that could not be dispatched with his gun, or subverted by mad, joyous adventures with Sherlock.

After sitting another half an hour in pensive silence, John swallowed down the last of his now-cold tea, carried the mug to the sink, washed it out, and set it in the rack to dry. Leaving the kitchen pin-neat as usual, he crossed through the sitting room and walked down the short hallway to his small bedroom, where he switched on his bedside lamp and changed into flannel pajama bottoms and an old, long-sleeved tee shirt. Barefooted, he returned to the hall and made his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

Upon returning to the bedroom, John grimly left the lamp lit as he climbed into bed, though he rolled over on his right side with his back to the light. For about ten minutes he lay with his eyes closed, then, blowing out a frustrated breath, he opened them and abruptly turned back to the bedside table. Raising himself on one elbow, he opened the small top drawer and drew out an even smaller battered, metal box. He hesitated, then opened it. Inside was a collection of frayed business cards. Rifling through them, John paused when he reached one near the bottom before pulling it out. He stared at it a moment, then, with a defeated sigh, he closed and returned the box to the drawer, shut it, and set the card bearing the name "Ella Thompson" on top of his mobile where he'd be sure to see it when he woke, and settled back into the blankets again.

Sherlock pushed the door to 221b open. As he expected, his brother was standing next to the fireplace, tall and straight in his three-piece suit despite the lateness of the hour (it was now closer to dawn than to midnight). Mycroft was gazing towards the sitting room windows. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him over the handle his customary umbrella, his overcoat looped over one arm. He did not look round when Sherlock came in.

Sherlock stepped into the sitting room, removing his coat as he did so and hanging it up without taking his eyes off his brother.

"I'm surprised at you, brother," Sherlock said, with the barest trace of acidity in his over-casual tone. "Your innate distaste for what you call 'legwork' combined with your natural sense of self-preservation should, I'd have thought, prevented you from delivering the file personally."

Mycroft did not rise to the bait. "I understand that 'Hat-man and Robin' were seen on the job again tonight," he observed snidely, still not turning to face Sherlock. "I take it you two have…shall we say, 'kissed and made up?'"

Sherlock took a step forward. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "You made a request of me, did you not?"

He glanced pointedly towards the coffee table, upon which lay a thick, bound folder that had not been there when Sherlock left. Sherlock had already spotted it during his initial visual sweep of the sitting room when he came in, but he pointedly did not look at it now, eager as he was to get his hands on the thing. Instead, he kept his flinty eyes on his brother.

"Again, knowing your distaste for legwork – and the fact that you hardly needed to hang about once the file had been delivered – I find it difficult to believe your sole purpose in coming here was to deliver it personally," he said coldly.

Mycroft turned to face Sherlock fully.

"I understand that the victim of the latest 'crossbow murder,' as I have no doubt the papers will label it, happens to have been one of your…irregulars," Mycroft said with a sniff at the end.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at this, but did not ask how Mycroft had found out about Ozzie so quickly.

"Well, and what of it?" he drawled, coming into the sitting room and undoing his scarf. "My homeless network," he said, emphasizing the term pointedly, "is comprised of individuals from a traditionally high-risk walk of life…it is unfortunate, but not unusual for indigent persons to meet an untimely end."

Mycroft gave him a look of impatience that clearly said, Oh, come come!

"Will you pretend to me, little brother, that you do not find it significant that these two victims have absolutely nothing in common but one?"

Sherlock made his way to his customary armchair and flung himself into it.

"A rather dubious connection at best," he said airily, drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair.

He got the reaction he was looking for; Mycroft's eyebrows flew up and his voice was incredulous.

"Dubious? Oh, Sherlock…what do we say about 'coincidence?'"

Sherlock's smugness evaporated at once. "It's tedious to repeat oneself, Mycroft," he snapped. "Just say what you have to say."

Mycroft's expression was serious, intense. "Rather a skillful shot, this crossbow assassin, wouldn't you say?"

Sherlock's fingers stilled. He sat wrapped in silence for several minutes. Mycroft, ever the more patient one, waited him out.

"It doesn't make sense," Sherlock said finally. "If Moriarty's elusive assassin is behind these deaths, then where has he been all this time? And why now? And why these particular victims? Why not–"

He stopped suddenly, loathe to finish the sentence. There was no need, anyway…his brother knew what he was thinking.

"I don't know," Mycroft admitted. It cost him something to say that, but for once Sherlock didn't relish the opportunity to take the piss out of him. He felt too...too…

Worried? He asked himself.

Yes, worried.

"None of these markers of yours is behaving in any way suspiciously?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock sighed. "No, Mycroft, but you have to trust me. I'll find the answer. It'll be in an odd phrase in an online blog, or an unexpected trip to the countryside, or a misplaced Lonely Hearts ad."

"There's more to this than meets the eye, Sherlock. More murders are coming, and they have something to do with an organization we thought was destroyed."

"Lernaean Hydra," Sherlock muttered.

Mycroft frowned. "What?"

""Lernaean Hydra," Sherlock repeated, then went on rapidly. "In Greek mythology, it refers to a vicious reptilian sea monster with many heads. The story tells of how warriors would attempt to slay the best, but every time they cut off one of its heads, the Lernaean Hydra would grow two more."

"I know what the Lernaean Hydra is, Sherlock," Mycroft said acidly. "What does that have to do with–"

"Moriarty," Sherlock muttered. He tapped his fingers restlessly on the arms of the chair again, then sprang up and strode to the window, pushing aside the curtain so he could gaze down at the lightening street below. "I cut off his head that day at Bart's…have two new ones sprung up?"

The question was not aimed at Mycroft, but his brother answered anyway, carefully.

"Moriarty is dead, Sherlock."

"But his network isn't, apparently."

"You assured me–" Mycroft began.

Sherlock dropped the curtain and spun around to face him. "And you assured me that John Watson and the others would be safe," he said sharply.

Mycroft stared at him, stricken.

Sherlock's voice pitched dangerously low. "That's part of why you're here, isn't it, Mycroft? You never read that file yourself until I asked for it, did you? Merely inquired with your informants every fortnight or so to ensure that John was alive, but didn't look too closely?"

Mycroft's eyes shifted away from his guiltily, and that look of guilt – so seldom seen on his brother's face as to be almost unrecognizable even to him – was what set Sherlock's heart hammering in his chest.

"I didn't want to be tempted to remove him," Mycroft said softly.

A lead weight settled in Sherlock's stomach. "So I'm right then?"

Mycroft deliberately raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's. "Brother, I cannot change the past, though I would at times, I assure you, give worlds to be able to do it. I regret I ever put you onto the Irene Adler case. I regret the chain of events of events that led to us embracing Operation Lazarus as a viable plan for defeating Moriarty. And yes, I regret that, on the day you left England in pursuit of this mad errand, I did not go directly to Scotland Yard and have John released at once, as I had initially planned. I am not infallible, Sherlock."

Sherlock snorted. "Like I ever thought you were."

"Haven't you?" Mycroft observed shrewdly. Sherlock saw that he was not gloating and, struck by his seriousness, let the retort he had been framing die.

After a moment, Mycroft continued. "To paraphrase a rather well-known modern author, 'being rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger.'" He smiled wryly.

Sherlock stared at him. His chest felt tight and he had no idea how to respond. He turned back to the window.

What he finally said was, "You'd better go. John Watson has a foolishly generous heart, but I don't think he's quite ready to extend his considerable capacity for forgiveness to you as yet, and should he suspect you are here he might decide to reshape your nose for you."

Mycroft reclined his head briefly, then slipped on his overcoat. "Ronald Adair had many friends. I will give the Prime Minister my personal assurance that you are on the case."

When he reached the door to the stairs, Mycroft paused. "Sherlock."

Sherlock turned from the window again, but Mycroft's back was to him. He waited.

"I do hope that, after reading the file," Mycroft said evenly without turning round, "one day you will be able to forgive me. I don't have much hope that John will…or that I will forgive myself."

He left before Sherlock could answer.

Sherlock stood frozen where he was for a moment; then, breathing steadily through his nose, he made his way to the couch. He sat down slowly, steepling his fingers at his lips and regarding the file in its spot on the coffee table in much the same way he might observe a possibly dangerous specimen he was about to experiment on.

He wished John were there to make him tea.

Just as he reached for the file, his mobile chimed. Fishing it out of his jacket pocket, he saw a text from Lestrade:

Bloody hell, you were right – the RNLI lifeboat crew got a false shout re a jumper at Tower Bridge. No sign of the jumper but when they got back to their patch the volunteer crewman left behind to man the station was missing. His body was found washed up on the South Bank near the Battersea Power Station.

Sherlock felt a rush of energy surge through him, dissipating any creeping fatigue at once.

Did you secure the scene?

Lestrade replied immediately.

Nothing to see where the body washed up, and it was already taken to the morgue by the time I got the call. We've secured the Tower station, though…Donovan is heading it up.

Sherlock thought fast, then tapped again at his touch screen.

On my way back to the Tower station. When is the autopsy scheduled?

This afternoon.

See that Molly gets it.

Sherlock put his mobile away and reached for his coat. John's file would have to wait.

Chapter Text

“You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocket ship underpants don't help.”
―Bill Watterson

June 2012

The overhead ceiling bulb snapped on suddenly, causing John to hiss in pain and involuntarily turn his face into the dank mattress as the searing light stabbed his retinas. A moment later his oversensitive ears were likewise assaulted by the harsh scrape of metal on metal as the cell door was shoved open, and footsteps that rang like pistol shots against the concrete floor slowly and deliberately made their way towards him, coming quite close before they stopped.

John raised his head from the crook of his bare arm and squinted up painfully at the figure looming over him. With the light behind it and the spots dancing before his eyes, it was difficult to make out the facial features, but he knew it was Harris looking down at him.

"Get up," Harris said after a short silence.

John blinked at the man owlishly, then slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, and from there rose shakily to his feet. At once his weakened legs gave out on him and he flopped back down onto the bunk, breathing hard.

"Get up," Harris repeated dispassionately. He did not offer a steadying hand.

John pressed his lips together and hauled himself to his feet. Bracing his legs, he forced his posture into a military, ramrod straightness and spared Harris one cold, defiant glare before turning on his heel (stiffly, it was true) to face the door. Harris's jaw tightened in displeasure, and he stalked past John and strode towards the door himself.

"Move, Watson," he said curtly. "Time's up."

Head high, spirit unbroken, John followed Harris back to his own pad without a word.

"Okay, Wiggy, let's try it again," John said patiently. He glanced down at his notes and read out, slowly and clearly, "'Which route of administration will give the highest blood concentration level in the shortest time?'"

His blue eyes refocused on Wiggins's expectantly. The younger man hesitated, chewing on his pencil rubber.

"Er," Bill said hesitantly. "Intravenous?"

John's face gave nothing away. "Are you asking me or telling me?"

"Telling you?"

John raised his eyebrows. Wiggins put the pencil down, looking determined.

"Telling you," he said firmly. "Intravenous!"

John grinned. "Correct. Brilliant!"

Wiggins laughed in relief. "Okay, what's next?"

John glanced down at his notes again. "Up for doing a bit of maths?"

Wiggins groaned. "If I has to. Er, have to," he said gamely.

"You do. And don't take the piss out of me, Wiggy; you're better at maths than you pretend," John said.

"I am not!"

"At any rate," John went on, ignoring this, "You've got to be familiar with pharmacokinetics. 'If 10 miligrams of Tadalafil has a typical half-life of seventeen-and-a-half-hours, how long will it take for the blood concentration to fall to a quarter of its initial strength?'" he read.

Bill frowned, chewing on his pencil rubber again, then pulled his notebook close and bent over it, scribbling rapidly on a sheet of paper and muttering feverishly under his breath. John watched with a slight smile.

It was two weeks since he had been released from solitary. They were sitting across from one another at a beat-up old table in the prison library. John had taken to devoting three of his weekly "sosh" hours and part of his weekly library hour to helping Wiggins study his Open University courses. It made his heart hurt in a strange way to see how keen the lad was to do well, just because John had told him he could. It made John wonder if anyone had ever told Bill that he was smart, talented, and fully capable of earning a degree and working for something better for himself. He had an uneasy feeling no one ever had.

Bill, for his part, went at his studies like a house on fire, going over the material again and again, begging John to quiz him repeatedly to ensure the lessons had sunk in, and showed himself to be almost pathetically grateful for the doctor's help. It actually made John feel guilty sometimes because he believed that, if anyone should be grateful, it should be him. Helping Wiggy gave John a purpose, helped to fill the lonely hours, and made the time go faster. It also distracted him from the misery and bleakness of his surroundings for awhile.

And if ever I needed distraction, John thought, the smile slipping away, I need it today, God help me.

One year ago today, the new life John had worked so hard to build after he had been invalided out of the army had come crashing down around him.

Every morning when he awoke, John was, for one drowsy moment, back at Baker Street, and the weak sunlight was filtering through the dusty curtains and Sherlock was playing scales on the violin and the smell of a breakfast fry-up from Mrs. Hudson's flat would come stealing up the stairs. Then he would hear a rough shout or a cell door clang and the illusion would disappear, and a heaviness would settle over him briefly before he grimly tamped it down and got on with things.

Today, though, had been especially hard, because it was the first anniversary of Sherlock's death.

John deliberately did not turn on the small telly that Greg had managed to procure for him, unwilling to run across any news retrospectives about the fake genius who had committed suicide a year ago today; likewise, he avoided the rec room where some of the other inmates were spending their sosh time watching telly. Were it not for the fact that he had a visit scheduled with Harry today he would have just stayed in his pad and read, only venturing out to fetch his meals. He did not want to speak of what day it was to anyone. He didn't even feel he could bring himself to call Mrs. Hudson. He just wanted to hide away and get through the hours as quickly as possible.

By the time lunch was over, however, John found he was almost looking forward to Harry's visit. The hours were dragging by so slowly and, alone with his thoughts, he could not keep his mind from dwelling on the past – and that last awful day. He hoped the time with his sister would prove a welcome distraction.

Instead, it had been an unmitigated disaster.

As soon she put her arms around John in the Visitors' Centre, he realized two things: first, that, while not drunk, Harry had definitely had a few before she arrived, likely when she got off the train; second, that she did not realize what day it was. This perversely bothered John. On the one hand, he did not want to remember what day it was himself, and he certainly did not want to talk to anyone about it or have it mentioned to him. On the other hand – and this annoyed him – it bothered him that his own sister did not seem to take into account the impact Sherlock's death had had on him – not enough to remember the day his friend had died, at any rate.

But that was the sad fact of civilian life, John thought, leading Harry over to a couple of chairs by the window…unless one was romantically involved with the person who died or he or she was a blood relative, most people didn't understand how profound the loss could be.

The visit began well enough, if awkwardly. But John figured that was probably due more to the uneasy relationship he had with his sister.

Harry was six years older than John. At five feet, four inches tall she was just two inches shorter than he, and, like him, she had a small, neat build, roundish face, and sandy hair that she wore in a chin-length bob with a fringe. Unlike John, she did not have Granddad McClean's dark blue eyes, having instead inherited their father's hazel ones. But it wouldn't take Sherlock Holmes to spot they were brother and sister…the physical resemblance was plain to see; they even shared many of the same facial expressions, and, when sober, Harriet Watson had a charming, understated and easygoing manner that was very similar to her little brother's (it was a different story altogether when she was drunk, as John knew only too well).

What made Harry's visits so damnably hard was that there seemed to be so little for them to talk about. By unspoken agreement neither wanted to bring up their shared past in their troubled home. John couldn't reminisce about the army without getting a disapproving frown from Harry, who had seen John's sojourn in the military as a personal abandonment. Harry couldn't reminisce (read: complain) about Clara without getting a disapproving frown from John, who had liked Clara and been unhappy with Harry's decision to walk out on her. John knew better than to broach the topic of Harry's drinking; Harry knew better than to broach the subject of Sherlock. It was frustrating, awkward, at times downright agonizing…John knew Harry wanted to be closer to him, but it was hard to get close to someone when you had so many potential land mines standing between you.

So they did what they usually did: Harry talked about the latest soap opera-esque misadventures of the cast of co-workers in her workplace, making it sound like a real-life version of The Office, and John told her amusing anecdotes about prison life, avoiding the dirt and violence and misery and making light of hardships, presenting it instead in the light of a quirky sort of boot camp featuring lighthearted misadventures populated with its own cast of colorful characters, like a real-life version of Porridge.*†

Wiggins was always a safe topic, and Harry loved to hear about him.

"Bloody hell, the things that kid gets up to," John had said with a laugh. "He's only half Hayward's size, so he gets even with him by way of these ridiculous practical jokes…only just the other day he decided to take advantage of the fact that the great idiot always makes a big deal of having the loo to himself and his favorite porn magazine at the same hour every day–"

"Oh, God," Harry gasped, starting to laugh.

"Yes – and Wiggy had fiddled with the pipe on the toilet so that when you flushed it the thing would work in reverse, sort of like a high-powered bidet–"

Oh, my God, stop, stop, I'll piss myself!" Harry cried, doubling over.

"Hayward came roaring out of that loo like a bull with his pants around his ankles, dripping wet from top to toe, and fell over in the corridor while everyone on the block was coming back from the yard!"

It occurred to John, as he laughed with Harry until tears ran down both their faces, that he hadn't felt this at ease with his sister in years, and he was glad that she had come even if she hadn't remembered what day it was.

"Oh, God," Harry finally gasped breathlessly. "Did Hayward ever find out who did it?"

"Nope," John grinned, wiping his eyes. "He swore dire retribution, of course, but Bill's too clever for him…the lad really is as bright as a button."

"Talking of that, how are his studies going?"

"Smashing," John replied with a touch of pride. "You should see the way he keeps at it."

Harry grinned slyly. "You would have made a great dad, John."

John winced. "Well, this is likely as close as I'll ever come, I suppose," he said, a trifle acidly.

They fell silent, the awkwardness creeping back, both wishing they had thought before speaking.

John tried to dispel the sudden tenseness by going on as though nothing had happened.

"His hard work and good behavior have got him notice from the officials," John continued hurriedly. "I'm very hopeful that, if he keeps on as he's been, he can get transferred to a D cat* in a year or two and finish his degree there, maybe get a job in a shop."

Harry looked at him soberly. "You'll miss him, though." It wasn't a question.

John carefully schooled his features. "Well…of course. But I want the best for him. This could be a chance for him to get out from under…start a new life. Make something of himself."

They were both silent for a moment, thinking of how much emptier John's days would be once Wiggins was gone. Mycroft had been right, John thought – he was not one to make friends easily, and had Wiggins not approached him on the sweatbox that first day John probably never would have got to know him.

Harry broke into his thoughts at this juncture. "You know, John…you don't necessarily have to…to serve your entire sentence," she said hesitantly.

John, whose thoughts had wandered for the moment, blinked and looked up. "What's that?"

"I'm just saying…you could get out a lot sooner, if you wanted," Harry said, looking at him earnestly.

"'If I wanted,'" John repeated, laughing hollowly. "Harry, at best I can't expect parole until I've served eight years."

"I'm not talking about parole," Harry said, unconsciously leaning towards him and looking intent.

John stared at her. She wasn't suggesting he try to escape, was she? "What do you m–" he began.

"I mean you could confess, John. I was talking to a friend of mine about it, a lawyer…she said if you'd only confess they'd let you out much sooner, that it's only because you insisted you were innocent that made you ineligible for early parole," Harry broke in impatiently.

John gaped at her, aghast. "'Confess?' Harry, are you mad? I can't do that…it would be dishonest!"

Now Harry looked angry. "What the bloody hell would be dishonest about owning up–"

"'Owning up?!'"

At John's outburst, she fell silent. They stared at one another. Then, John's features hardened.

"You think I'm guilty."

"John–"

"You think I helped Sherlock–" there was a sharp dart of pain in his throat as he uttered the name, "that I helped Sherlock pass himself off as a genius."

"John–"

"You believe I helped to kidnap and poison two young children."

Stricken, Harry looked at him with wide eyes. The silence stretched out. John did not break it this time.

Finally, Harry reached out and took his hand.

"John," she said gently, "I don't blame you. I think that Sherlock turned your head–"

John jerked his hand away and stood up. "This visit is over."

"John, don't be like that!"

"Be like what, Harry?" he snapped. "Upset that my own bloody sister thinks I'm capable of abducting two little children and poisoning them? Me, a doctor?"

God, his own sister…the Yarders were one thing; it was their business to be suspicious, and Moriarty had been nothing if not thorough in the planting of the evidence. But Harry…they may not have got on well, but surely she knew him better than to think that–

"Oh yes, a doctor!" Harry cried angrily, standing up herself. "Let's never forget you're a doctor – were a doctor – shall we? Or a soldier. No, more than that, an officer. Mummy's baby and Da's pet, the family white hope! As if they could ever let me forget! Well, if they could see you now–"

"Leave." John's voice was deadly.

Harry gasped, suddenly horrified with herself. "Oh, God, John…I didn't mean…that's…"

But John had already turned away. "Leave, Harry. And don't come back here anymore." He strode across the room and rapped on the door. A prison guard opened it.

"John!"

But he was gone before she could recover from her shock at his abrupt departure.

"Doc?"

John jumped a little. "What's that?" He looked up, blinking.

"You all right, Doc?" Wiggins looked worried. "I been talking, but you looked like you was in a brown cloud."

"Just thinking." John cleared his throat, shuffled his papers and sat up straighter, focusing a keen eye on the younger man. "Have you finished?"

"Yeah, I gots…got it." Wiggins looked down at his paper. "Um, it would take about thirty-five hours for the blood concentration to fall to 25% of its initial strength," he read off.

John quickly checked his answer key and grinned. "Spot on."

Bill grinned back. "Brilliant!" He looked pleased and proud.

"Told you you'd get it." The doctor checked his watched. "Hour's about up. We'd better head to the canteen, Wiggy, or there'll be nothing edible left."

"Ah, go on, ask me some more, doc."

John closed the book firmly. "Got to rest and refuel those brain cells if you want them to stay in top condition," he declared, then winced internally. I used to say the same thing to Sherlock.

"Oh, all right," Wiggy grumbled, gathering up his books and papers.

Never one to stay irritable for long, Wiggins had recovered his customary good temper and signature grin long before John finished checking out new reading material, and chatted animatedly about what the blokes on his work detail got up to as they made their way out of the shabby library. John listened with interest…he swore that Wiggy was better than a show sometimes, and the younger man was about the only thing that could get him laughing these days. He was fairly outdoing himself today in an apparent effort to take John's mind off Sherlock, and it was working admirably.

Perhaps that was why John failed to notice Cartwright moving towards them from within the midst of a tight group of other prisoners.

John's face was turned towards Wiggins when Bill suddenly stopped walking and his eyes widened.

"Doc, look out, he's got a shiv**!" Bill cried.

For months afterwards Wiggins blamed himself for not pushing John out of the way – or at least keeping his own mouth shut, for at his cry of alarm the doctor automatically began to turn his own head to follow the lad's eyes. But John credited that warning with saving his left eye, because that was what Cartwright had been aiming for…and what he would have struck dead-on had John not moved at the last moment.

For several seconds John thought he had lost his eye. There was a sudden, tearing pain, a ripping sensation as the makeshift weapon slashed down, then an excruciating burn as though a branding iron had been pressed to the side of his face and a horrid, dry, scratching sound as the point of the rusty razor blade actually went deep enough to score his cheekbone. Then the shock of the blow set in and the entire left side of his face went numb, and John could not see out of his left eye at all. He panicked briefly until he realized the eye itself was not hurt but merely full of blood. His face was covered with it, as were his hands, his shirt, his left sleeve. The corridor vanished and he began to hyperventilate as Sherlock, broken and bloody on the pavement, appeared before him.

Reality came slamming back home with the sudden shouts, curses and scuffles breaking out around him, and from his right eye he could see that several of the other prisoners had already tackled Cartwright to the floor even as a number of screws came rushing up, batons out.

John found he was backed against the wall, hands to his face, hunched over. On his right Wiggy was crying, begging him to say he was all right; around him were other prisoners who had come to respect John, putting their hands on his arms and speaking reassuringly. Then Officer Jorkins was there, grabbing his right shoulder.

"Health Centre. You need a trolley, Watson?" The prison officer looked upset and badly shaken, but in control.

"I can walk," John said. Blood got into his mouth and he turned his head to spit it out. "I can walk."

He managed to clear the blood out of his left eye and opened it wide to reassure himself that it was indeed intact, and that's when he saw Harris further along the corridor. The guard was leaning back against the rail, making no move to help his fellow prison officers get the situation under control. When he saw John looking at him he gave a small, cruel smile.

He lay on his back on a cold metal table, gripping the sides so hard his knuckles were white. He felt like he was trembling, but it couldn't have been too bad or Joseph would have said something.

Bell had been pale but steady when they brought him in. He had taken John's arm gently and led him to an exam table at once.

"It's all right, laddie. It's all right," he kept saying. "We'll get you patched up. We will."

"Anything I can do to help, doc?" Jorkins asked. He still looked ashen.

"No…no, I have it in hand."

John had wondered if he was in shock, because he felt calmer than Bell looked.

It had been painful when Bell had cleaned and irrigated the wound (though the aging doctor's gnarled hands were surprisingly deft and gentle), as had the jab from the injection carrying the local anesthetic, but now the area was numb. As Bell painstakingly stitched up the gaping tear in his flesh, all John could feel was a tugging sensation – highly unpleasant, but not painful.

"How bad–" he began, but Bell cut him off immediately.

"Don't talk, laddie," the old man said tersely. "I need you to keep very still for this."

For awhile, the only sound was the faint buzz from the overhead fluorescent lamp, and the even fainter whisper of Bell's shirt sleeves as his hands moved. John's head was turned so that the left side of his face was exposed to Joseph's ministrations, and he stared unseeingly at the small sink on the opposite wall. He kept envisioning Sherlock's grey eyes, their light extinguished, his broken face, and his hair dripping with blood.

A fitting way to commemorate the first anniversary of the worst day of my life, John thought. He felt vaguely nauseated.

He had to fight down a sudden urge to laugh. His mouth twitched. He swallowed once and closed his eyes.

The movement was not lost on Bell, who paused above him. "Are you feeling this, John?" he asked worriedly.

"No…no."

When John said nothing more, Bell returned to the task at hand. After a moment he said softly, "Been a hell of a day for you, hasn't it laddie?"

Surprised, John open his eyes and raised them toward Bell's without moving his head. Having one's face sliced open would certainly constitute a "hell of a day," but from the old man's tone, John could almost have sworn that he knew…that he realized that today was–

"Ben – my boy – he loved music," Bell said. John stayed quiet as instructed, but he couldn't help shifting his eyes up to the doctor's face again.

He knew Bell didn't like to talk about Benjamin.

"He was only ten when we lost his mother," Bell went on, peering intently at his hands as they stitched away at John's face, avoiding looking into the younger man's eyes. His mouth tightened a moment and his own light blue eyes dimmed slightly at the remembered pain. "It was a difficult time."

"It must have been. I'm sorry," John murmured.

"I told you to keep still," Bell said crossly. "Anyway," he continued after a moment, "it was at night that Ben felt it most, those early years. I used to help him sleep by singing to him."

He surprised John with a short laugh. "I was no great shakes as a singer, I can tell you. But Ben and me, we loved singing together at the pub. The others would always pester us for a song. We sang together the night before he left for his last deployment. Ended with his favorite, in fact."

There was a long silence while he continued to sew the layers of flesh back together. Then he asked, almost shyly, "Would you like to hear it?" His eyes shifted to meet John's and he paused in the suturing.

John nodded slightly, and Bell cleared his throat as he resumed his work.

For some reason those moments stayed with John after the rest of the painful events of the day had faded somewhat in his memory. He found he never had to reach far into his mind to remember exactly how it had been…the feel of the cold, hard table beneath him, the glare of the fluorescent light above, the sound of Joseph Bell's gruff yet surprisingly tuneful tenor quietly singing "Tàladh na Beinne Guirme"† in his ears, and the way his muscles finally began to uncoil as his body relaxed and his eyes drifted shut.

He spent the night in the prison health centre. Jorkins escorted him back to his cell the next day, holding onto John's right arm just above the elbow not as though he were containing him, but as though he were trying to keep John from falling.

John felt like shaking him off, but he knew the guard was only trying to help.

Once in his cell, John made his way to his bunk and sat down. He stared at the prescription bottle of antibiotics in his hand, which Bell had given him along with a tetanus jab and some painkillers.

Jorkins hesitated by the door. "Can…can I get you anything? Cup of tea?"

John was about to say "no" when he saw the prison officer's worried expression. He tried to smile, the sutures on the left side of his face halting the movement of his lips on that side.

"Great, yeah. That would be lovely. Thanks."

Looking pleased, Jorkins stepped out, closing the cell door behind him.

John waited until his footsteps died away before he got up and slowly made his way to the sink. Gripping its sides, he steadied himself, then deliberately looked at his reflection in the metal mirror above it.

He sucked in his breath. He knew it was bad, but…bloody hell.

Bell had done his best, but it was a nasty cut, and the old man was not a plastic surgeon. Of course, it probably looked even worse at the moment as it was swollen and inflamed, but it would leave a bad scar – there was no doubt about that.

John was not a vain man, but he did take care to present himself well – the army had drilled it into him. His clothes, while casual and serviceable, had always been tidy and clean; his hair neatly combed, his fingernails carefully trimmed.

He closed his eyes and lowered his head, taking slow, measured breaths.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and deliberately looked at his reflection again.

Well, what does it matter, really? In here it will only give the other prisoners pause, which can only be a good thing.

Swallowing hard, he turned back to his bed. As he did so, a stack of papers on the desk caught his eye.

Slowly, he picked them up. They were the visiting orders he was required to send to the people on his list of approved visitors before they could come and see him.

John stared at them a moment. Then he looked at his face in the mirror again.

Harry he wouldn't be seeing anymore, but Greg and Mrs. Hudson…

No. He couldn't let them see him like this. Especially not Mrs. Hudson.

John purposefully dropped the stack of visiting orders into the bin, then went and laid down on his bunk. It would be hard not having visitors anymore, but it was for the best, he told himself firmly. Greg and Mrs. Hudson needed to go on with their lives. As for him, he didn't have a life anymore – he'd only be holding them back in a painful past.

Bitterly, John kicked his shoes off and rolled over to face the wall. When Jorkins returned with the tea he pretended to be asleep.

Chapter Text

"All around that dull grey world
From Moscow to Berlin
People storm the barricades
Walls go tumbling in

The counter-revolution
People smiling through their tears
Who can give them back their lives
And all those wasted years?
All those precious wasted years–
Who will pay?

All around this great big world
All the crap we've had to take
Bombs and basement fallout shelters
All our lives at stake

The bloody revolution
All the warheads in its wake
All the fear and suffering
All a big mistake
All those wasted years
All those precious wasted years–
Who will pay?

Do we have to be forgiving at last?
What else can we do? (What else can we do?)
Do we have to say goodbye to the past?
Yes I guess we do (Yes, I guess we do)"
–From "Heresy" by Rush

May 2014

She was nervous – very nervous. But she had to do this. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she straightened her back, screwed up her courage, and knocked, timidly but firmly, on the door's frosted glass pane.

"Coming," his voice called. She could hear muffled footsteps approaching quickly, and a blurred figure approached the door from inside. His voice was easy, conversational, as he opened it.

"Back already, Mrs. H–?" He began, then broke off when he recognized her. For a moment, they stood and took stock of one another.

He looked thinner than he had when she had last seen him in person, though not unhealthily so – his muscles were lean, and the sallowness of his court photos had given way to a light tan. He was wearing old, faded jeans that were quite threadbare at the knees, sturdy ankle boots, and a button-up, long-sleeved work shirt, un-tucked. He had obviously been working on some home project – his silver-blond hair was dusted with a powdery residue that might have been plaster, and he held a pair of work gloves in his left hand that were dotted with polyfiller and paint. A dot of white filler on his right cheek gave his easygoing countenance an endearing, almost comical appearance – or it would have done had it not been for the brutal scar on the left side of his face, throwing his normally pleasant features out of balance. The sight of it made her stomach clench – as did the way his expression, which had been open and inquiring an instant before, turn guarded.

"Hello," he said carefully, staring at her. He let go of the brass door handle and made to run his fingers through his hair; seeing that his hand was covered with plaster, he changed his mind and wiped them on his trousers instead. He swallowed uncertainly, and seemed to be at a loss as to what to do with his eyes. "This is a surprise," he finished lamely.

"Yes. I – I probably should have phoned first, but…may I come in?" she stammered.

She almost fled there and then at the uncomfortable look on his face, which showed quite clearly that he'd really rather she didn't. But then he straightened his shoulders, sighed almost inaudibly, and, holding the door wide, stepped back to give her room to pass.

"Yes, all right" John said politely. "Come in, Molly."

He offered her tea and she accepted, more because she could see that he needed something to do with his hands to cover his tension than because she was actually thirsty.

She followed him through the small sitting room into the galley kitchen, a bright, cozy space with white walls, freshly installed modern cabinetry painted a cheerful blue, and a gleaming, tiled worktop.

"Have a seat," he invited, waving at the small, two-person table with his free hand while he used the other to fill the kettle.

Molly sat down on one of the two vinyl upholstered chairs, setting her handbag on the floor between her seat and the wall. She noted the obviously new tiles, then looked up to take in the modern but tasteful lighting.

"You did all this yourself?" she asked, impressed.

John shrugged without turning as he switched on the kettle. "Just puttering," he said modestly.

An awkward silence fell, broken only by the sounds of him laying out the tea things as she sat trying to think how to begin. She still hadn't come up with anything when he finally handed her a mug and took the seat across from her. She looked up to see his blue eyes fixed calmly on her, and quickly looked down again. She tried to cover her confusion by lifting her mug in both hands and blowing across the surface of the steaming liquid.

"I see congratulations are in order," John said, clearly trying for a light tone.

Molly looked up, blinking, then realized he had taken note of the diamond solitaire ring she wore on her left hand.

"I…he…he's not from work," she faltered.

John smiled. The movement of his lips was halted by the scar on the left side of his face; it unnerved her, and she blundered on.

"We met through friends, the old-fashioned way. He's nice. We... he's got a dog. We – we go to the pub on weekends and he ... I've met his mum and dad, and his friends and all his family. I–"

She broke off suddenly, aghast at herself. She had no idea why she was babbling on to him like this. It seemed beyond cruel. While he had been mourning for Sherlock, having his name dragged through the mud, his career destroyed and his freedom taken away, she, who had known the truth from the beginning, had been building a life for herself – something he had not had the luxury of doing while sitting in prison. Tears rushed into her eyes.

"This is…wrong. This is…was a mistake," she said, startling him by setting her mug down so abruptly that her tea slopped over the side. She leapt to her feet, her chair screeching over the tiles as she fumbled for her handbag. "This was…I should go, I need to go. This is wrong!"

Blinded by her own tears, she snatched up her handbag and stumbled out of the kitchen, but because of her blurry vision she bumped into a corner of the coffee table, hard. She halted briefly with a small cry, raising her fist to her mouth and trying to get her breathing back under control.

A warm, dry hand closed gently but firmly over her wrist, the index finger sliding up to take her pulse.

"Sit down, Molly." His voice, like his touch, was both gentle and firm. "Here, on the sofa."

He guided her to the sofa, then crouched in front of her, eyeing her with an appraising frown that was so…so doctorly she could almost see the stethoscope slung around his neck.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I – I didn't mean–"

"Just try to calm down, okay?" he said, giving her hand a quick squeeze before letting it go. "I'll be back in a minute…I'm just going to get you some more tea."

She nodded, but shot a quick glance at the door as if still contemplating escape. He noticed.

"Don't, Molly. Just sit for a minute…catch your breath. All right?"

She nodded again and covered her face with her hands, trying to stifle her tears.

When John returned a few minutes later, Molly's breathing had calmed considerably, and she took the proffered mug without a tremor. The tea was quite sweet, and she sipped at it gratefully. He watched her for a moment, then gave a brief nod and settled into his battered armchair.

"Want me to have a look at your shin?"

"What?" She looked up from the tea, puzzled, then became aware of the dull throbbing in her leg from where she had run into the table. She blushed.

"No…no, it's all right. Just a bruise."

He nodded agreeably, and they sat sipping their tea. The silence spun out slowly, and Molly realized that John had no intention of asking her why she had come – he was leaving the ball entirely in her court. Taking a deep breath Molly tried again.

"I'm sorry about – " she waved vaguely at herself, "–all this. It just – I didn't think, before I came here, about how selfish it was of me. To be coming to you for…for absolution or something, so that I could feel better!" She forced a watery laugh.

"Molly–"

"No, let me finish," she said quickly, and John fell silent, probably in surprise at the forcefulness of her tone. He settled back in his chair and waited patiently while she took a moment to gather her thoughts, and she silently blessed him for it. Suddenly finding it difficult to say what she wanted to say while meeting his steady blue gaze, she looked down and addressed her tea mug instead.

"On that day when…well, you know. That last day," Molly began. She paused as though waiting for an acknowledgement, but when none came she hurried on.

"When he asked me for help…I didn't think about you. Or Mrs. Hudson, or – or Greg, or anyone, really. I didn't even think about myself, really, at that point – about what it would mean for me, for my job and all if it didn't work. But mostly all I could think about was that Sherlock was in trouble, and he asked me to help him. I wanted to help him, if I could."

She risked a quick peek at him, but his face gave nothing away. She looked down again.

Come on, Molly, she scolded herself inwardly. You know about people. Dad said it was my special gift – I can see them, really see them deep down when I want to, and know all about them. I can tell what they're feeling when no one else can. They can't see me, usually, but I can see them. But I never really "saw" John Watson…why didn't I?

Gathering all the courage she possessed, Molly set her mug down and determinedly raised her head to study John long and hard. Despite the scar, he did not seem uncomfortable with this perusal, somehow sensing her racing thoughts and waiting patiently until she had seen him.

He comes across as ordinary, Molly thought, still staring at the doctor intently. Or at least he did, before prison. I don't mean that in a bad way, either…he's not unattractive. He looks like the sort of man who'd offer to carry an elderly woman's bags at the Tesco, or give a child a lolly in his consulting room. And he would. He also looks like the kind of man who would make a good dad, and help his wife with the dishes. But that's not quite right, is it? There's a lot more to him than that. I wonder why I didn't see it before…

And then it occurred to Molly just why she had never truly seen John before: it was because of Sherlock. When Sherlock was near, she had trouble seeing anyone else. She suddenly remembered that first Christmas party in 221b, when Sherlock had behaved so horribly to her. Afterwards, dear Mrs. Hudson had teased her gently, telling her that Detective Inspector Lestrade, at least, had found her new dress alluring. Molly had dismissed this as an attempt by the old lady to make her feel better after Sherlock's conduct, but to be fair, she had barely remembered seeing and talking to Greg that night, or anyone. She had had eyes only for Sherlock, as usual.

Her feelings for Sherlock had changed over the years. In those early days, Molly had seen the energetic detective's face everywhere. She used to see it lit up with delight at a discovery or scowling with impatience. She used to see it on her way to and from work, in the clouds, the trees, in the patterns fallen leaves made on the ground. There was no other image in the foreground when Sherlock was near, and often, even when he wasn't. She could see nothing else.

With Tom, she had to wait until he came to her again before she remembered exactly what he looked like. Tom was steady; she did not need to spend her time in his presence worrying if he was noticing her or worrying if he was not noticing her. It was oddly restful.

Now that Sherlock had returned, she felt an almost wistful nostalgia for her romantic crush from before. She cared deeply for him still – in some ways, more than ever – and she could feel how very easy it would be to go back to the way things were before. But she didn't want to, if she could help it. She liked being able to see properly again.

Molly had barely noticed John when she first met him, not realizing what he was to become to Sherlock, and that he was here to stay. When she did realize it, she had been jealous at first, and not because she believed they were together in the way some people assumed they were. She had been jealous because she knew they weren't, yet their closeness was so instant, so easy, so fundamental, like two magnetic forces coming together. She had wished that she herself could have formed such an attachment with the detective.

Later, Molly had come to appreciate John as the prism through which Sherlock's harsh searchlight was transformed into something admirable, relatable, and even beautiful at times. In a way it made things worse – as Sherlock's true nature, long hidden, began to be revealed to her in small glimpses through his friendship with John, her feelings for the detective only deepened. But it was a transformation she would not have missed for the world.

Now, looking at John, Molly felt as though she was truly seeing him for the first time – a brave, devoted, and loyal man with a great deal of honor and a large dose of hidden darkness; simple yet immensely complicated, straightforward and oddly old-fashioned. He had not wanted to admit her to his flat, she knew, but was far too chivalrous to be rude to a woman. She thought she could use that innate chivalry to dig a little deeper.

"You didn't come to the autopsy this afternoon," she said suddenly, surprising herself.

For the first time, he shifted his eyes away from hers. "I had a lot to do 'round here," he said vaguely.

Sherlock was right – he's not a good liar, Molly thought. Neither am I, but I could lie for Sherlock. I wonder if maybe John could have, too, if Sherlock had given him the chance?

"Yes, Sherlock was complaining. Saying," she said with a small smile. He glanced up at her and smiled briefly himself before looking away again, remembering with her that Christmas Eve that now seemed so long ago.

Molly was joking to lighten the mood, but Sherlock had been complaining. Lestrade had arrived first, and had asked where John was when Sherlock strode into the lab alone, eyes flashing, coat swirling round him.

"Fatigue fraying your detection skills more than usual, Lestrade?" Sherlock had said nastily. "Obviously John is not here." He approached the exam table with a final sort of air that said quite clearly that, so far as he was concerned, the subject was closed.

But Molly had been too surprised to let it go.

"But John hasn't been along since he got back from Yorkshire, has he?" she asked before she could stop herself.

Sherlock had opened his mouth, but Lestrade had cut in hastily before he could say something rude.

"He came to the crime scene at Waterloo Bridge last night."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" Molly was glad to think that things were finally returning to normal, but Sherlock had another opinion.

"Apparently not good enough for the good doctor, who was far more interested in putting up plasterboard, apparently, than assisting with the autopsy. Perhaps he's seeking a new career path." He sniffed in a disgruntled fashion. It was apparent he didn't see why John had brusquely repulsed his invitation, but Molly did, and a sudden coldness settled in her stomach. Without another word, she drew the sheet back from the waterlogged body of the RNLI lifeboat crewman, revealing the gaping wound in his throat left by a tactical style knife.

"It was because of me, wasn't it?" she asked John now. "You didn't come because you knew I'd be there."

John started, guiltily met her eyes, sighed, and looked down again. "Molly–"

"I hate what happened," she broke in fiercely.

He closed his mouth and looked up at her again, waiting.

"Things were…never supposed to happen like that." Molly drew a shaky breath and pressed on. "Jim…everything was falling apart because of him. Sherlock's reputation. Your lives were in danger. This was supposed to fix things. Sherlock said it was the only way to fix things. And it was supposed to be resolved in three months. Just three."

John continued to simply look at her, waiting. Molly swallowed once.

"I didn't think about…after." Molly closed her eyes, willing the tears to stay down. "It was all so…bloody…awful. Mrs. Hudson. The funeral, dear God, the funeral."

She drew a shuddering breath to steady herself, then fixed wide, wet eyes on John's.

"And you, being arrested…the trial, and your conviction…"

His mouth tightened a bit and he shifted his gaze to his hands again.

"I hated it," Molly hurried on. "Mr. Holmes – Sherlock's brother, you know–"

At the reference to Mycroft, John's eyes narrowed and flashed murderously, and Molly faltered, suddenly frightened. He immediately looked contrite and nodded at her to continue.

After a moment, she did.

"I…I'm not blaming him, but…I did keep asking him and asking him. First it was three months, then six…I think he meant it, you know? That it wasn't supposed to be much longer. And that Sherlock's life would be in danger if the truth came out. And the years just…went by."

John closed his eyes and huffed a long breath through his nose.

"I wanted to come and see you, but I was afraid of what I would say," Molly confessed. "I was lying…lying, and lying, and lying. To everyone. To Mrs. Hudson. To Greg. To Tom."

She waited until he met her eyes again before finishing. "But I knew I wouldn't be able to lie to you if I saw you."

His face blurred as tears filled her eyes and, feeling profoundly weak and ashamed, she looked down again and let them fall.

Moments passed. Then, once again, gentle hands moved to grasp her own. Blinking, she looked up into John's eyes. They were sad, kind, and above all, understanding.

"The things we do, yeah?" he said softly, looking straight at her. "The things we do for Sherlock Holmes."

Molly gripped John's hands hard in her own, bowed her head, and began to cry in earnest.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry!"

"I know…I know. "

It was nearly time for dinner when Molly finally left. After seeing her out to the street, John went back into his flat and sank down on the sofa, heels of his hands pressed to his eyes, too drained even to get up and make himself a fortifying cup of tea.

As it happened, he didn't have to.

There was a soft knock, and then the door slowly swung open. "Ooh-ooh!"

John lowered his hands and smiled. "Come on in, Mrs. H."

Mrs. Hudson came in, carrying a tray of tea things. She set it down on the coffee table and took a seat in John's chair. "I thought you could use a little bolstering up."

"You're a saint, Mrs. H." John leaned forward and helped himself to a biscuit.

For a moment they munched in silence, then Mrs. Hudson said, "She was here a long time."

John realized Mrs. Hudson must have let Molly in.

"Yeah."

"Did you…have a nice chat?" Mrs. Hudson sounded diffident. John decided to put her out of her misery. He leaned back into the sofa and looked at his landlady seriously.

"She came to apologize."

"Did you accept?"

John sighed. "What else could I do?"

Mrs. Hudson sighed as well. "I did, too - accepted her apology, I mean. I think it must have been very hard for her, carrying that big secret all alone, and watching…" she paused delicately, "well, watching everything turn out the way it did."

"I know." John said wearily, sinking back into the sofa again in a most un-soldierly, slumped posture. "Everyone meant the best, and no one was supposed to get hurt." His tone was bitter.

Suddenly ashamed of himself for whinging, he looked away.

"Oh, love," Mrs. Hudson said sadly. "I didn't mean to imply that you don't…you have every right to feel angry and hurt, John."

John laughed without a trace of humor. "That's what my therapist says."

Mrs. Hudson was surprised. "Have you started seeing her again?"

"Yeah. She was able to fit me in today." John looked up. "You won't–?"

"I won't tell Sherlock, love, but you know I won't need to."

John laughed, and this time, she was glad to note, it was a warmer sound. "No joke. He'll know as soon as he sees my coat in the hallway, probably."

Though pleased to learn that John had returned to therapy, Mrs. Hudson tactfully changed the subject, and they sat companionably drinking their tea while they awaited Sherlock's return.

Chapter Text

And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon England's mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England's pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England's green & pleasant Land.
–William Blake

May 2014

Sherlock could practically feel the air surrounding him thrumming with his own excitement, the way the space around a struck tuning fork or above a fire seems to shiver invisibly. He charged up the steps to 221, let himself in and yelled "John!" up the stairs before remembering that John now lived in the basement flat. Mrs. Hudson appeared at the door of flat A in her dressing gown, looking bewildered. "Goodness, Sherlock! What on earth…!"

Ignoring her, he grabbed John's jacket off the hook in the hallway, hurtled down the stairs, and flung the unlocked door to 221c open so forcefully it banged against the wall and bounced back at him, glass rattling in the frame but remaining mercifully unbroken; Sherlock managed to catch it before it hit him in the face.

John, who had been leaning back in his chair with his hands over his eyes, jumped a mile, then scrambled to his feet, instantly spitting mad.

"Bloody hell, am I to have no peace today?!" he shouted. "If you break that glass you can damn well replace it! Who told you to come barging in here without knocking, anyway?!"

Sherlock's keen gaze raked over the slightly disheveled doctor.

Hair rumpled up at the back, tense through the shoulders and neck. Fists clenched, lines at the corners of the eyes deeper – tense and worked up about something, but holding it in. Tension set in before my arrival – lashing out now because I startled him; he was already in a disgruntled mood. Why? Tetchy this morning when I tried to get him to come along to the autopsy…told me to "sod off," but then, he had just awakened. Something has him on edge…his work boots are on, but he wasn't working on a project, at least not in the last couple of hours. When he's relaxing he takes his shoes off, unless there's someone in the flat…a visitor? Yes, there are two tea mugs on the worktop in the kitchen. One has lipstick on the rim, I can see it from here…a woman. Yes, there's a trace of perfume in the air…Harry? No, she prefers a musk scent, this one is floral. Floral with a trace of…formaldehyde? Floral and formaldehyde scent, strawberry lipstick…Molly. Molly was here…why?

For a moment curiosity derailed his purpose, but then Sherlock shoved it aside. The nerves along his arms and legs tingled with the electrifying desire to go, to run, to be there. He could suss out the reason why Molly had come to see John later if it should prove to be interesting, which it most likely would not. Now it was time to move – the game was on!

Ignoring John's protests, Sherlock grabbed the doctor's right arm and attempted to shove it into the wrong arm of his jacket. "Come on, John, come on," he said impatiently. "We need to follow up this lead while it's still hot!"

"What lead?" John demanded, jerking away and pulling the jacket back off. "Where the hell have you just come from, anyway?"

Sherlock sighed in impatience, but realized he would have to give some explanation if he hoped to get John moving anytime soon. "Bart's. I attended the autopsies of both Ozzie and the RNLI lifeboat crewman. There were dust particles on Ozzie's shoes, particles I saw on his backpack and on the pavement around the crime scene…stupid, stupid, why hadn't I seen it before?!"

"Sherlock–"

"John, I need your help…it was inexcusably slow of me, but viewing the particles under a microscope in the lab I realized where they came from, where they had to have come from! Now, all I need is a quick look round the place…" Sherlock shoved the jacket at John again, who grabbed it off him in a huff.

"I can put my own bloody coat on, thank you! Now, where…?"

"The Docklands, quickly, now, we need to go!"

John hesitated, sighed, and groaned in defeat. "Dammit! Just let me get my wallet and phone first, yeah?" He disappeared down the short hallway to his bedroom, pulling his haversack on as he went. Sherlock smiled triumphantly.

The detective was already climbing into a cab when John hurried down the steps of 221. He knew Sherlock wanted him to come, but he also knew that the detective was so was eager to be off that there was a danger he could become too impatient and leave without him. John jumped into the rear seat on the driver's side just as Sherlock leaned forward and told the driver, "Royal Victoria Dock, quickly."

"So what was it about some dust particles on Ozzie's shoes that tells you we need to go to the Docklands?" John asked, buttoning up his jacket.

"Not dust particles, John…ash," Sherlock replied, leaning toward the passenger side window and looking ahead as if he could will the vehicle to go faster.

"Ash? As in, tobacco ash? Well, you'd know, I guess."

Sherlock gave him a withering glare. "Ash as in burnt chaff, John."'

John frowned. "Chaff?"

"The husks of grain or other seed separated by winnowing or threshing in–"

"I know what chaff is, Sherlock, thank you," John cut in impatiently. "Where on earth in London would Ozzie have walked through burnt wheat chaff?"

"There's only one place," Sherlock said, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of discovery. "The Docklands."

John thought hard. "But…there are no operating mills down there anymore…they're all long since defunct."

"Exactly," Sherlock said with satisfaction, as though John were a maths student who had just worked out a difficult theorem for an exacting teacher. "The last one closed down at least…oh, I'd say thirty years ago or more. But the ash I discovered on Ozzie's shoes was older than that…nearly a hundred years old, in fact."

John stared at him. "But how–"

"God, think, John!" Sherlock said impatiently. "You of all people should know your military history…in 1917 there was a large explosion in a West Ham munitions factory."

"The Silvertown Explosion," John said slowly, remembering. "Yeah. Nearly a hundred people were killed…hundreds more injured…"

"More to the point," Sherlock pushed on, indifferent to the thought of lives lost a century earlier, "one of the mill's grain stores and silos were hit, resulting in a massive fire that sent burning chaff high into the air, covering as many as seventeen acres."

John was awed. "So there's still chaff to be found 'round London, then?"

"Not likely around London," Sherlock said, eyes sparkling. "But inside the mill itself."

"Now hang on, Sherlock," John protested. "Those derelict mills are all cordoned off…security must be pretty tight 'round there…"

"If Ozzie could get in, so can we," Sherlock declared, leaning to the side in order to look ahead again. "And once we're in, we can investigate unhindered…with the health and safely regulations in place, security guards are rarely permitted to enter the very buildings they're assigned to protect."

"Lovely," John muttered, visions of CCTV cameras, spike-topped barriers and – he shuddered – patrolling guards with batons going through his mind. But the promise of an adrenaline-filled chase outweighed everything else.

And, of course, he would never allow Sherlock to go alone if he could help it.

By the time John had wriggled down after Sherlock through a small, broken window into the mill's basement, he had a jagged tear running down the length of his right trouser leg and a hole in the left elbow of his jacket; the palms of both hands were skinned from when he vaulted over a barrier, and his face was streaked with dirt and his hair with cobwebs.

When he turned his torch beam onto Sherlock he saw that, annoyingly, the other man appeared pristine as always.

Eyes narrowed, the detective switched on his own torch and shone it around. "An ideal bolt-hole for the dispossessed, and one at least one person clearly took advantage of," he said softly, indicating the blurred prints left by (what appeared to John) the soles of army boots in the layers upon layers of floor dust.

John stared down at them. "If they're willing to play cat-and-mouse on a regular basis with security," he murmured. "Not everyone has a police ID they nicked from an actual DI."

Ignoring this, Sherlock leaned closer over the marks, frowning.

John thought he recognized that look. "What is it?" he asked uneasily.

For a moment Sherlock didn't respond. Then he shrugged slightly and straightened.

"Probably nothing. Come on, John, this way."

Decades of neglect had left their mark on the place. The stairs to the main level were splintered, and there were gaping chasms in the threshing room floor that had once housed large machinery, long since harvested for their parts and materials. Uprooted lumber littered the surface like uneasy waves, and in the diffused light of the fading day from level upon level of uncovered windows on the north and south walls, the lazily drifting dust, weaving between the chipped and peeling columns, gave the place a gloomy air.

John stared up, fascinated. At least fifteen levels – he couldn't quite make out the exact number in the half-light – rose above the threshing room. Open staircases on the right and left sides of the main level switchbacked through narrow platforms guarded by minimal iron railings that might once have been painted blue; shadowy doors in the brick walls gave testimony to the presence of abandoned machine and storage rooms behind them. Rows of metal chutes cut through the levels like rusty corkscrews. The place reeked of rust, mildew and pigeon droppings – the constant, soft cooing of the latter was the loudest sound; the street noise beyond muted as though from another world.

Sherlock might think it was ideal, but John found it unnerving. And the wide main floor, surrounded by open levels, reminded him uncomfortably of the main wing at Frankland.

"Look, John!" Sherlock's hushed, excited voice cut into his musings. "Look here, in the dust!"

John shook away his morbid thoughts and crouched beside Sherlock to look at the narrow, grooved tracks. It took a moment to register, then he saw it. "Bicycle tyre tracks?"

"Schwalbe Marathon Plus bicycle tyre tracks," Sherlock told him, his eyes shining.

Before John could reply, a gravelly voice called to them from above, startling them both badly.

"Oi! You two having fun?"

Sherlock stared. "Lestrade? How–"

John said, "I phoned him."

"You phoned him? When?" Sherlock demanded angrily, while from the third level on the east side of the building, Lestrade, grinning, called down, "Dammit, John, you shouldn't have told him…let him think I figured it out on my own for once!"

"He'd have worked it out soon enough," John said reasonably, and Sherlock muttered something that sounded like, "Too right."

"How did you get in, Greg?" John called up.

Lestrade jerked a thumb toward the door behind him. "The building adjacent to this one is in better shape…someone put down a metal door slab between the two window ledges. Sturdy job…you'd better come take a look."

"Sherlock was just showing me the bicycle tracks from our murdered cyclist's bike," John said, picking his way carefully to the staircase nearest Greg.

Lestrade frowned. "Our cyclist was here?"

"Not Ozzie, no, at least not recently." Sherlock cut in, reluctantly following John. "Whoever took his bike…yes."

"You're saying someone stole Ozzie's bike after he was killed?" John asked.

"Oh, I'm saying more than that," Sherlock replied in a low voice. "I'm saying we may have a witness to Ozzie's murder."

"Careful on these floors," Lestrade warned as they reached him on the third level. "They're rotted through in spots…best stay on the beams, those seem safe enough."

He motioned them ahead, and John waited to follow Sherlock so he wouldn't impede the detective's sweeping, deductive gaze.

Crumbling chains hung from overhead girders. Ancient, abandoned machines and rotting crates lay covered in layers of dust throughout the room – untouched, but the floor (which was as treacherous as Lestrade had said) definitely showed signs of recent activity. Approaching the window, Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and opened it.

"Crossing from one building to the other would be easy enough," he observed. "Climb out of the window, leap from one sill to the other…simple. It's not even that far, an easy jump. Whoever put the door here did so out of trepidation at the sight of the concrete forecourt below, or perhaps to make it easier to move something across…a bike, no doubt."

He shone his torch at the base of the window, and John could see the tracks left behind by a set of worn trainers, as well as those of a Schwalbe Marathon Plus bicycle tyre.

The doctor stared at the tracks for a moment. "Sherlock, he said slowly, "These footprints are different than the ones we found in the basement."

"Yes," Sherlock replied, lowering his brows. "And those in the basement did not exit by that window, nor are there any in here…there must be another way in or, rather, out."

Whirling about suddenly, he strode confidently along the floor beams past John and through the door to the landing. John sighed and followed. When they reached the corridor, they found Lestrade just putting his mobile away.

"Whom were you texting?" Sherlock demanded.

"Donovan," Lestrade replied. "I want her and a team out here, secure this site and get a forensics team in–"

"Wonderful," Sherlock snarled. He turned to John. "Come on – we need to finish here before the idiotic, bumbling simpletons who comprise London's police force muck up the scene and alert our witness to their presence."

"Sherlock!" John protested as Lestrade glared, but the consulting detective was already flying down the stairs again. He shouted back over his shoulder as if he hadn't heard.

"Check the levels on this side for fresh prints or another way in! I'll take the west side…before our one lead is obliterated by the Met's lack of discretion!"

John sighed and looked apologetically at Lestrade. "Shall we?"

Lestrade paused, then sighed as well. "Might as well."

To save time (and because they figured that, with the two of them looking together they might have a hope of at least coming close to Sherlock's level of observation alone) they checked the rooms along the eastern levels together, making their way steadily upwards as they finished carefully searching each floor. It was slow going – the floors were so damp and rotted that they had to keep to the beams or risk putting a foot through – and they had only reached the eighth level by the time Sherlock had examined every space in the main floor left by the torn-out machinery and had climbed the stairs on the west side of the threshing area to examine the rotting, cage-style lift on the fifth floor. Across from him and three levels above, John could hear the detective muttering to himself in the vast, echoing space. He stepped to the railing of the platform and looked down.

"Sherlock? You okay?" he called. He felt uneasy, not being able to see Sherlock, and not at all happy that the detective had boarded the decrepit, surely unstable lift.

"It doesn't make sense, John!" Sherlock raged, stepping out of the lift. "There's no sign of–"

John barely had time to feel relieved that Sherlock had stepped off the (deathtrap) lift when there was a sudden swish, a blur through the air, and a heavy thunk! into the wall next to the lift's Art Deco control panel, missing Sherlock's throat by mere centimeters.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, desperately clutching the railing and scanning the main floor for the threat even as his friend jerked to the side. A few meters behind John, Lestrade spun around in alarm.

And then John saw it on the threshing floor far below – the shadowy figure of a male, not terribly tall, but compact, and dressed in dark clothing from head to foot. Hefting his crossbow over his shoulder, he sprinted towards the basement stairs, weaving in and out of the columns as he went.

Lestrade spotted him not a second after John had.

"Stop!" Lestrade shouted. "Stop! Police!"

It happened fast – Lestrade stepped off the beam and took three steps across the landing towards the edge of the platform to get a better view of the disappearing assailant. "Greg!" John yelled in warning, throwing out one hand to stop his friend, but it was too late – the rotted floorboards suddenly seemed to disintegrate under the DI, pitching him forward towards the edge – and the deadly, eight-storey drop below.

"Christ!" Lestrade screamed, clawing frantically at the floor, but the soggy wood seemed to crumble under his fingers.

"Greg!" Without hesitating, John threw himself across the unstable platform and seized the DI's right wrist; Lestrade's fingers just closed around John's wrist in return when, with an awful creak, the flooring gave way entirely under their combined weight and both men plunged downward, their mutual cry of horror echoed by Sherlock's own cry of John! from across the way.

His stomach seemed to fly up into his throat, and John, shutting his eyes against the sight of the littered floor rushing up at them at a frightening speed, braced himself for the inevitable even as he clung to Greg's wrist in his left hand and wildly flailed for a purchase with his right. Astonishingly, after a dizzying twelve-foot drop, his fingers encountered the edge of the nearest metal chute; John clamped down automatically, arresting his and Greg's free-fall with an almighty jerk that knocked the air from their lungs.

And there they dangled high above the threshing room floor, John clinging to Lestrade with one hand and the grain chute with his right.

"Jesus, oh Jesus," Greg moaned. John could hear him hyperventilating, and his own breath came in short, sharp gasps. He twisted frantically, flailing uselessly with his feet to try and find a purchase, but his shoes just barely scraped the wall. He looked up – the curved part of the chute onto which his hand had painfully frozen was about six inches below the floor of the seventh-story platform. It might as well have been six miles – John grunted, straining with all his might to pull both of them up, but it was impossible. With Greg a dead weight on his left arm and his own weight dragging on his right, his pectorals quivered with the effort but simply did not possess the strength to lift them both up.

John looked down. Immediately his heart crawled up into his throat, so he focused on Lestrade instead, who now hung silent and shuddering with his eyes closed, helplessly depending on him. Swallowing hard, John glanced to the side, desperately contemplating the idea that he might be able to build up enough momentum to swing them both – or, at the very least, Greg – over the decrepit railing of the sixth level and hope the floor held up. With the grain chute in the way, however, the distance was too great.

John's heart seemed to stop in that dreadful moment. He knew without looking that Sherlock would be running pell-mell to get to them, but with no connecting platform the consulting detective would never reach them in time: even if the chute held, John knew he wouldn't be able to hold on for long.

Lestrade knew it, too.

"John." Eyes now open, the DI's face was ashen as he looked up at the doctor. "Let…let go of me, mate. You've got to. You can't hold us both up…if it's just you, you might be able to–"

"No!" It came out as a gasp; with Lestrade's weight pulling on one arm and his own on the other, John's hyper-expanded chest muscles and lungs made inhaling almost impossible, forcing him to take shallow breaths. "Hold on–I can–"

"Dammit, John, let go, that's an order!" Lestrade cried. "Fine, I'll let go–"

"No!" John shouted hoarsely, panicked as the other man loosened his fingers. He tightened his own grip on Greg's wrist to a bruising force. "I'm not watching another mate fall to his death if you let go Greg I'll let go and drop with you SWEAR TO GOD!"

John almost did let go at that moment when, startled, he felt two hands grab onto his forearm from above. He raised his head and found himself staring into the wide, terrified but determined eyes of Sally Donovan, who was lying full-length on the platform above to try to distribute her weight over the treacherous flooring and thus minimize the risk of another collapse. "Oi!" she cried sharply over her shoulder. "We need help here, now!"

Second later, more hands reached down; Anderson and a young detective sergeant John recognized from the Waterloo Bridge crime scene appeared, positioning themselves over the relatively safer floor beams as they hauled John up far enough to grab Lestrade. John gasped with relief as his right arm locked over the edge of the chute and Greg's weight was removed, relieving the horrid pressure on his arms and chest that had been dragging him downward; a moment later another pair of frantic hands appeared to join Donovan's, and between them they lifted John to safety, too.

John fell forward onto his elbows and knees, trembling violently all over as the adrenaline coursing through his body abruptly began to wane. He looked up to see Greg, his face as gray as his hair, sitting against the wall as Anderson carefully arranged his own jacket around his boss's shoulders. Wanting to go and check on his friend, John tried to push himself up with his left arm – and that was when a white-hot, blinding flare of pain tore through him with such intensity that, for a moment, his vision grayed and he became completely disoriented.

Next thing he knew, John was lying flat on his back on the (relatively) safer area of flooring near the wall, blinking up at the rusted, cobwebby beams above.

"John?" Sherlock's paper-white face appeared above him, beryl eyes wide, and John realized it had been he who had helped Sally to pull him to safety. He opened his mouth to thank him, but a sudden wave of nausea made him clamp it shut again. The pain in his shoulder and arm robbed him of breath and left him utterly unable to gather the strength even to raise his head. He closed his eyes as a dizzying spell of lightheadedness threatened to steal his consciousness again.

Dammit, he knew this pain. Shakily raising his right hand, he carefully palpated his bad left shoulder to make certain – sure enough, a squared-off bulge in front of the shoulder joint confirmed his diagnosis.

"Anyone here…know how to reseat…a dislocated…humerus?" John managed, unable to keep from smiling slightly despite the crippling agony.

Anderson looked up from where he was instructing Greg to put his head between his knees. "I do."

He scrambled over to them on all fours, leaving Lestrade in the care of the young DS.

"We'll need to check for fractures first," Anderson said quietly, and John nodded his permission as the forensics scientist carefully pushed his jacket aside and began unbuttoning his checked shirt. "Just don't move my arm, yeah?"

As Anderson drew the fabric aside and began to inspect the rapidly swelling joint, Donovan let out a brief hiss at the sight of the scars over John's collarbone left by the ragged exit wound and subsequent surgeries from his career-ending injury in Afghanistan, and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Anderson made no comment, but quickly and efficiently ruled out the likelihood of a fracture.

"Sally, you stabilize his arm. Sherlock–" and, despite the agony, John couldn't keep back a huff of laughter at the diffident worship in Anderson's voice as he addressed his idol, so different from former days, "–Sherlock, if you would hold him steady on his right side…?"

Sherlock (who amazingly still hadn't said a word during all this but crouched with wide eyes centered on his friend's face and one hand resting on John's right ankle) carefully pinned the doctor's good shoulder and arm to the floor and moved close enough to block his right leg from flying out.

Carefully manipulating John's left arm, Anderson muttered, "All right, on three: one…two…"

Without waiting to reach three (and thereby not giving John a chance to involuntarily tense up in anticipation, making the relocation harder), Anderson abruptly rotated the shoulder blade and simultaneously shoved, dislodging the unseated humeral head which then popped back into place with a sickening crack that caused John to unleash a stream of profanity made up of every foul expression he'd ever heard and a few he made up on the spot. By the time he was done, the pain while still significant was no longer debilitating, and for a moment he just lay there, reveling in the relief as the sweat streamed down his face.

"Wow," Sally said, staring at him. She paused, then said it again. "Wow. Did you learn that in the army?"

She was really impressed.

Some of John's pallor gave way to an embarrassed flush. "Some of it. Sorry, Sally."

She snorted a laugh at his chagrin, and John gave her a rueful smile before turning his eyes to Anderson. "Thanks, Phil."

"Thank you," Anderson replied, his eyes flickering briefly to Lestrade and then back to John's significantly. They stared at one another for a moment, and John offered a brief nod of understanding.

Anderson sat back on his heels. "We should immobilize that arm before you try to move."

"I'll do it," Sherlock said suddenly, pulling his scarf off. Before John had a chance to react, Sherlock quickly buttoned up his shirt, helped him to sit up, and fashioned the scarf around John's shoulder and arm into a standard sling. As he finished tying it off behind John's right shoulder, John murmured, "Thanks, Sherlock." Sherlock hesitated a moment, then let his hand rest briefly on John's good shoulder before slowly moving away.

"Got a First Aid kit in the boot," Sally said. "There's ibuprofen in it…hopefully that will help until we get you to A&E–"

"I'll take the ibuprofen, but I won't need A&E," John cut in as Sherlock helped him to his feet. "This isn't the first time I dislocated this shoulder since I was shot; I know how to treat it."

"Fine, then you can come back to the Yard for a statement," came Lestrade's curt voice. They turned to find the DI on his feet, still pale and shaky, his expression tight. The DS hovered next to him uncertainly. Lestrade glared at him and said, coldly, "Let's get the hell out of here."

He moved past the others without looking at them and carefully but purposefully made his way to the stairs.

The trip to the Yard was quiet. Leaving the forensics team behind to gather what evidence they could, Donovan drove Lestrade's car as the DI was still too shaken to take the wheel himself. He sat in the passenger's seat, smoldering silently. In the back seat, a gel pack positioned over his shoulder, John leaned back with his eyes closed, pale and keeping as still as possible, waiting for the ibuprofen Donovan had given him to work.

Beside him, Sherlock stared out the window and brooded.

The jolt of terror that had blasted through him when John and Lestrade had crashed through the derelict mill's rotted wood floor was unlike anything Sherlock had ever experienced, even during his long months of tracking down Moriarty's network. It had been worse – far, far worse – than facing down Moriarty himself while John, wrapped in Semtex, stood nearby, worse than seeing John on his knees with a gun to his head while a CIA agent counted to three. Those occasions had been bad, but Sherlock had not felt so utterly helpless – his mind had been racing, working to find a way out, to save his friend, and he had known that he could so long as he could think – at least, he had known he had the possibility of doing so, and that had enabled him to act.

But when he had seen John dangling from one hand over an eight-story drop, Lestrade suspended from his other hand and he, Sherlock, too far away to get there in time, he had known that no amount of genius could prevent the worst from happening. It would happen, and he would be helpless to stop it, a powerless, horrified witness to their violent end. It had not stopped Sherlock from trying, of course – he had dropped his magnifying glass and sprinted with everything in him down the splintered stairs, heedless of the treacherous floorboards, his heart ready to burst out of his chest, all the while knowing, knowing that he could not make it in time, could not, it was impossible, and any second now his only friends – one of them his best friend, the one person in the world whom he considered utterly essential – would drop to their certain deaths before his very eyes. Had Lestrade not texted for the team–

Sherlock pushed the thought aside with a small shudder. But though he could delete it from his mind, there was one he could not stop thinking of, however hard he tried.

Often, in stressful situations, a person can become insensible to what is happening around him, his focus fixed upon one thought or emotion, blocking out ambient sounds, sensations, even images. For Sherlock, the opposite was true – under duress his mind grew clearer, his sight keener, his hearing sharper, every scrap of information getting through. And so, though the blood had been singing in his ears and his heart thundering in his chest and his pounding steps echoing through the ancient mill like pistol shots, he had clearly heard Lestrade order John to let him go – and he had heard John's reply.

I'm not watching another mate fall to his death.

The likelihood of whether or not John would have been able to hold on long enough for Sherlock to reach him in time without the strain of Lestrade's extra weight was debatable. But it hardly mattered. It had not just been sentiment talking – John had meant it when he said that if Lestrade let go, so would he, choosing to follow the other man into death rather than witness it and survive.

Now, in the silent car with Lestrade fuming in the front seat and John silent and still beside him, Sherlock began to understand what it must have been like for John that day on the pavement in front of Bart's, looking up at Sherlock, knowing what was about to happen, and desperate – but powerless – to prevent it. Along with an unpleasant prickling of guilt, it left Sherlock with a profound thankfulness that he did not have to see in reality what John thought he had seen three years before.

Back at the Yard, Sherlock's statement was delivered in his usual you-people-are-all-incompetent-idiots-not-to-have-discovered-this-for-yourselves style, only condescending to explain the evidence he had found, what he thought it meant at this stage, and what should be done with it after John raised an eyebrow at him.

"Are we done?" Sherlock said impatiently after Sally had grudgingly gone over the facts with him three times. "We need to get a cab–"

"In a minute," Lestrade said tersely. "First I'd like to speak with Doctor Watson in my office."

Sherlock stared after the DI, puzzled at his tone, as he strode off without a backward look. John, who had frozen beside him for a moment, took a deep breath, straightened, and followed after, not slowly, but not hurrying, either. Sherlock noticed that he had wiped his face of all expression. Looking after them, Donovan gave a low, commiserative whistle as Lestrade's office door clicked shut behind the two men, and Anderson muttered, "He's for it now."

Sherlock looked at him swiftly, an acidic retort on his tongue, but it died when he saw Anderson's expression, which was a mixture of sympathy and profound relief that he wasn't the one who had been summoned to Lestrade's office.

"What–" he began, but then the shouting started.

Everyone in the immediate area, including Donovan and Anderson, looked uncomfortable and made a great show of not looking toward Lestrade's office, pretending they couldn't hear the DI yelling, but Sherlock stared openly through the glass front of the door. John was standing straight with his chin lifted like he was at attention while Lestrade got up in his face and tore into him. The door muted the words, but the incensed DI was raging loudly enough that Sherlock could make out some of what he was saying: When I give you an order you'll bloody well follow it or I'll not have you on any more crime scenes of mine, etc.

At this, Sherlock's brows lowered and he took a step forward, intending to intervene. But as though he somehow sensed his friend's intent from the other side of the door, John turned his head very slightly in Sherlock's direction and caught his eye. He gave the consulting detective a very small shake of the head before quickly shifting his gaze to the front again before Lestrade noticed the exchange.

Frustrated and rattled, Sherlock ground his teeth – but, trusting John as the authority on feelings, he obeyed his silent command and kept still.

The berating seemed to go on for ages, but finally Lestrade strode to the door, jerked it open, and snarled at John, "Take Sherlock and go. Get out of my sight, the pair of you; I've had enough of you both for one day."

Wordlessly, John left Greg's office and made his way over to Sherlock, not looking back as Lestrade slammed the door closed again. He looked tired, the detective noted, and his face was drawn with pain, but he did not seem upset, embarrassed or chagrined.

"C'mon, Sherlock, let's go," the doctor said quietly, and continued on to the exit without stopping. Sherlock looked back once before following him out – the room was completely silent, and through the glass door of his office, he could see Lestrade sitting slumped in his desk chair, his hands over his eyes.

The cab was nearing Baker Street before Sherlock finally spoke.

"I don't understand," he admitted. "Why was he so angry with you? You saved his life."

John, sitting next to him in the back seat, responded without opening his eyes or raising his head. "He wasn't really angry with me."

"He shouted at you."

Eyes still closed, John smiled. "That he did. He sure did. Not quite as blistering a dressing down as my old CO could give, but pretty damn close." He chuckled slightly; he actually sounded…admiring.

"He threatened to ban you from future crime scenes!" Sherlock was outraged. "That's a threat he usually reserves for me."

John sighed. "Yes, well…he didn't mean it. He was just upset."

"Upset with you."

"Upset with himself." John finally raised his head and, carefully, turned to look seriously at Sherlock. "He thinks he almost got me killed, and he was blaming himself for that."

"He almost did get you killed," Sherlock said with a scowl, turning to look out of the window. "The idiot reacted without thinking, nearly getting both of you killed and allowing our suspect to escape–"

"Sherlock. Sherlock."

John's voice was low and stern, and when Sherlock turned back to him he saw the other man's eyes were cold. "You're not to say that to him, not ever. Do you hear me?" he demanded when Sherlock just stared at him in surprise.

"I'm not deaf, John," Sherlock said sullenly, directing his gaze forward again. John glared at him a moment longer, then his eyes softened and he leaned his head back again.

"Besides, that's rubbish…it was a knee-jerk reaction, one anybody might have made." At Sherlock's snort, he smiled again without opening his eyes and added, "Even you, Sherlock."

Thinking this over, Sherlock couldn't help smiling himself, realizing the truth of the statement. "Perhaps," he admitted, and chuckled when John grinned.

A few moments later, Sherlock added, "You did save his life, though."

He didn't know why he said it…it was all-too-obvious, and Sherlock usually scorned to point out the obvious. But a part of him wanted to…wanted to thank John for saving both Lestrade and himself (since Sherlock had been next to useless in that scenario), if only by making John acknowledge what he'd done.

John started a bit as though Sherlock had interrupted him in dozing off, winced at the pain in his shoulder, and stared up at the ceiling of the cab. "Just returning the favor," he said absently.

Sherlock frowned. "Lestrade saved your life? When?"

John blinked and raised his head again, as though just realizing he wasn't alone. He glanced sidelong at Sherlock, then away again. "Well – metaphorically speaking."

When Sherlock kept waiting for a proper answer, he added in a much quieter voice, "I wouldn't have got through the last few years without him."

Along with a brief but unexpected stab of jealousy, Sherlock suddenly remembered something else that had been niggling at the back of his mind…something he had seen when Anderson had opened John's shirt to examine the dislocation: scars, and not the ones John had obtained in Afghanistan. Sherlock had seen those scars once or twice before – John was sensitive about them, so he tended to stay covered up even in the flat, but Sherlock had barged in on him while he was shaving and glimpsed them before the doctor could reach for his dressing gown. Sherlock had wished he wouldn't – he had been fascinated by the sight of the healed-over wounds and would have welcomed a chance to try to deduce bullet caliber and trajectory, but he had sensed John's discomfort and been more shaken than he would have liked to admit at the realization of how close John had come to not coming home at all.

Regardless, Sherlock has seen enough in the mill to realize John had new scars, scars he must have obtained while Sherlock was away or the detective would have known about them. In those brief moments before Anderson reseated the dislocated bone, Sherlock had spotted no less than four unexplained scars over John's ribs and above his navel, along with a series of small, circular burn marks than Sherlock suspected had come from a lit cigarette–

"You okay?" John suddenly asked, his voice concerned, and Sherlock realized he had been staring at his friend in silence for several moments, leveling the full force of his deductive gaze on him.

You okay? That question, that simple, two-word question of caring that Sherlock had heard again and again from John: You okay? after Moriarty had wrapped him in enough explosives to blow up a city street; You okay? on his phone after that mad dash back to Baker Street to check on Mrs. Hudson; You okay? Sherlock had heard in his mind again and again after a particularly harrowing time while hunting down and destroying the threads of Moriarty's network. Always, always John put Sherlock's well-being ahead of his own, and that fact, along with the memory of the fear he had just experienced and the months and bloody months of loneliness after Reichenbach, suddenly left Sherlock feeling close to overcome.

"Fine," he said tersely, looking away again. "I'm not the one with a dislocated shoulder." Who almost died tonight. He looked back at John, who was still quite pale and appeared weary. "How are you feeling?"

John grimaced. "Bit better. The ibuprofen took the edge off. When we get back I'll take some Diclofenac and have a kip with an ice pack. Should be much better tomorrow, though I'll probably have to keep my arm in a proper sling for a while."

Before Sherlock could reply, the cab pulled up to the curb in front of 221. Uncharacteristically, Sherlock paid the cabbie, then held the door for John as he scrambled out. He unlocked the front door and, in the hallway, helped John slide his right arm out of his jacket sleeve and hung the garment up for him.

"Will you need help?" Sherlock asked awkwardly as John used his good arm to rearrange his jumper.

"No, I can manage," John replied. He hesitated, then asked, "Fancy a cuppa?" He motioned towards the door to 221c, making it clear he was offering.

"Not just now," Sherlock replied, though he was secretly pleased at the invitation – the first of its kind since John had returned to Baker Street. "I have work to attend to upstairs. With any luck the police will manage to collect some useful evidence from the mill by tomorrow, and there are some things I'd like to check over first."

"Need help?"

"Not with this," Sherlock said carefully. "I imagine I'll be spending a lot of time in my Mind Palace."

John smiled slightly. "Right, then. Try to keep things to a dull roar, will you?" He headed towards the door to 221c, calling over his shoulder as he went, "G'night, Sherlock."

"Good night," Sherlock replied as the door swung closed. He took a deep breath, then began ascending the seventeen steps to 221b. As much as he would have loved to let John make him a cup of tea (just like the old days), that pleasure would have to wait.

He had a file to read.

Chapter Text

"Me? My lawyer fucked me. Everybody's innocent in here. Didn't you know that?"
–Andy Dufresne, from The Shawshank Redemption

May 2014

Getting out of his clothes and into a set of flannel pajama bottoms and a long-sleeved t-shirt was a challenge, but with a bit of sweating and a good deal of muttered swearing John finally managed it. He then raided his own stash of medical supplies for a shoulder immobilizing sling, maneuvering his left arm into it, and two Diclofenac tablets, which he swallowed dry. Washing up and brushing his teeth with his right hand was a bit uncomfortable, but not unduly awkward – though John's left hand was his dominant one, he had been through occupational therapy after he was wounded in Afghanistan to learn how to manage with the non-dominant hand and had attained a fair degree of ambidexterity.

Once he was ready for bed, John padded on bare feet to the kitchen to prepare a mug of herbal tea (a relaxing chamomile blend) and an ice pack, both of which he took with him back to his bedroom. Setting his tea on the bedside table, John then retrieved two extra pillows from the cupboard and arranged them carefully at the head of the bed so that his head, neck, shoulder and arm would be supported while he rested, turned the lamp down low (but not off), and crawled under the covers, applying the ice pack to the affected area once he was settled. With a deep sigh he closed his eyes and tried to quiet his mind, falling naturally into the breathing exercises for pain management that he had been taught after he was shot.

John Watson and physical pain were old and intimate acquaintances. He didn't like pain any more than the next man and, having experienced more than his share of it, was certainly not keen to encounter more. But neither did he fear it. As a doctor, he knew that pain was the body's way of telling a person that something was wrong and needed attention, like the "check engine" light in a car dash. There were ways to manage and deal with it, to distance one's mind and work through it. The only time he had ever actually feared pain was not when he was shot, but when he developed a massive, post-operative infection afterwards. It was during those weeks after the initial injury that he often thought (when he could think at all) that he would like to tell God he'd changed his mind about wanting to live. Though he could never quite bring himself to do it, he did sincerely hope after his recovery that he would never have to go through anything like that again. Compared to the intense, seemingly endless suffering he had been forced to endure then, a dislocated shoulder was child's play.

Emotional pain, on the other hand…now that was something else.

The prospect of emotional pain (which can also be a byproduct of physical pain, as he learned during his long recovery after Afghanistan) was more daunting to John than physical pain. In prison he had experienced plenty of both – much of it during his first summer in Frankland when he was no longer receiving visitors, the Worthington Bank Gang had their sights on him, and Gary Harris was determined to break him.

Summer 2012

John's first summer in HMP Frankland was nothing short of brutal – mentally, emotionally, and physically.

The wound on his face healed slowly, becoming infected at one point and needing to be reopened, flushed and re-stitched. Dr. Bell berated himself bitterly over it, but John reminded him that these things can happen no matter how careful the attending surgeon might be, and the weapon that had inflicted the injury had been far from sterile. The gash finally did begin to heal by the end of July, allowing for the removal of the second set of stitches, but John knew that, barring plastic surgery, he would carry the disfigurement for the rest of his life.

Though no other such dramatic injuries were visited upon John during that long, long summer, many smaller ones were. Under the direction and protection of prison officer Harris, the former Worthington Bank Gang – Cartwright, Biddle, Hayward and Moffat – declared open season on the former army doctor, taking every opportunity to inflict some petty violence on him. True to the resolution he had made the day after Cartwright had cut him, John officially removed Harry from his list of approved visitors and stopped sending Visiting Orders to Mrs. Hudson and Greg altogether (he cut back drastically on how often he called them, too, putting them off via the post). He told himself often it was just as well, for these days he was always sporting a fresh minor injury – a black eye this week, a cut lip the next, a bruised cheekbone the week after. He carried bruises elsewhere too, of course, but these could be hidden under his clothing – the ones on his face he could not hide, nor could he hide his bruised knuckles, and he knew the injuries would have upset Mrs. Hudson terribly and made Greg swear. (In fact, Greg might even attempt to intervene against John's express wishes.)

Harris himself took as many opportunities as he could to use his ever-ready baton on John, knowing any marks it left behind would be attributed to altercations with other prisoners. Of course, he avoided leaving marks wherever possible – his favorite target was a man's kidneys, using the end of his baton to strike his victim unawares from behind, then enjoying the way the color would immediately drain from the prisoner's face – even to the lips – leaving behind a sick look, but no telltale bruises. By late August of 2012 John came to a point where he had a constant low backache and occasionally pissed blood.

Thanks to the guard's careful machinations, John quickly developed a bad reputation for fighting, leading the prison officials not to investigate too closely when the doctor was put on report, accepting the word of a staff member and the non-contradictory statements of the other prisoners involved regarding the alleged skirmishes, and signing off on Harris's recommendation to forfeit John's privileges or confine him to his cell when it was determined that disciplinary measures were called for.

Though Harris took more personal satisfaction in physically abusing the former blogger, it was a luxury he could not afford himself often – the risks to his own position were too great were he to be found out. He could and did inflict many lesser cruelties, however, including depriving John of the tiny kettle Lestrade had brought him, his books and medical journals, visits to the gym or library, and trips outdoors. But it wasn't long before he discovered the doctor's true Achilles' heel – confinement.

It was almost too simple, really, Harris thought – to make Watson miserable, utterly demoralize him and send him into a depressive funk from which he would take days to bounce back, all he had to do was bang him up. John would infinitely prefer a dozen beatings like the one he had received the day he had hit Harris to two days locked in his own cell, and the longer the doctor was confined, the harder it hit him. Take away his reading and writing materials at the same time and it hit him harder still.

Though outwardly stoic, the effects on John of being shut up for days on end, alone and bored and at the mercy of his own tortured thoughts, were readily apparent – were in fact as transparent to a man like Harris as the former soldier's dislike of him had been, though John never indicated so by any outward expression. Confinement broke John's heart in ways that the less complex prison officer could never understand, but he took advantage of it all the same, and by the time Detective Inspector Lestrade showed up in mid-September to confront John regarding his failure to send Visiting Orders, the doctor had spent a total of thirty-eight days under disciplinary confinement to his cell, the shortest consecutive stretch lasting forty-eight hours and the longest ten days. He had also spent an additional twelve days in solitary confinement, the shortest period lasting seventy-two hours and the longest a full week.

It was little wonder, then, that Greg had thought John looked "squirrely" during that unannounced visit.

Greg's visit reminded John of how terribly much he missed the DI and Mrs. Hudson. Though many people liked John, he had few true friends, and so the ones he did have were precious to him. But he was also predisposed to depression, and when consumed with emotional turmoil, his instinct was to shut down and cut himself off from everyone. Though not possessed of Sherlock's self-described ability to "delete" this or that unwanted fact from his mind, John did ruthlessly avoid thinking of Greg and Mrs. Hudson that summer, telling himself firmly (when thoughts of them came unbidden to his mind) that they were a part of the past, and that it was better for both them and him if his association with them were allowed to gradually fade away. The fact that they weren't willing to allow this to happen warmed the solitary, grieving doctor, and the pleasure of actually talking to them again – and, through them, his connection to Sherlock's memory and the best years of his life – John knew that, right or wrong, he wouldn't be able to deny himself their company again.

The challenge now would be keeping them from finding out about what was happening to him.

John did not want Mrs. Hudson to know he was being hurt because he didn't want to distress her. His motives for keeping Greg in the dark were (apart from a wish to not bring the DI further career trouble by intervening on his behalf) somewhat less pure, having a lot to do with the doctor's own considerable pride. He had been a combat soldier, dammit – an officer. He did not want or need rescuing; he could work his problems out for himself.

Besides…it's not as if I have anything else to do.

He tried not to let that thought surface, to keep it buried deep, for it revealed the part of himself John feared and reviled – the reckless, ruthless, adrenaline-seeker that somehow existed side-by-side with the patriotic soldier and the compassionate doctor. John hated that part of himself and strove to hide it, deny it, crush it out of existence. The army had provided it with a "healthy" outlet – that was why he had volunteered to go to "hot" areas. Following his medical discharge, Sherlock had provided a new outlet for it. It was part of what drew him and the consulting detective together – not the need for adventure so much as the need for acceptance. People marveled that John could accept the eccentric, difficult genius for who he was, but John knew he could trust Sherlock with his whole self in a way he could not with anyone else. Sherlock would have understood why John secretly relished the element of danger Harris and his minions presented for him in this bleak, dull, desperate place on a daily basis, and would not have judged him for it. Sherlock would not have thought less of John for the dangerous game he was playing, nor for the sense of excitement he drew from it – even if John thought less of himself.

If it hadn't been for the stints in his pad and, particularly, in solitary, John would have been even less inclined to avoid the skirmishes that inevitably occurred. He got a great deal of satisfaction out of outsmarting Harris and the Worthington Gang and making them look foolish by cleverly avoiding trouble, but the fights gave him a chance to burn off his own pent-up energy. Those hours spent in solitary, though…God, give me any number of shots to the kidneys, but keep me from the horror of the boredom and sensory deprivation that leaves me at the mercy of my own PTSD-riddled mind. Still, the threat of confinement lent still more zest to the challenge of keeping one step ahead of his persecutors at all times. Things had not yet got to a point where John didn't feel he could handle the day-to-day obstacles.

At least, not until Harris found a new way to torment him: through Wiggins.

Bill Wiggins was no idiot, nor was he new to the life of a lag*. This was his third time in the nick**, and his second in Frankland (his first had been in a Category C juvenile facility). Though skinny and gangly, he was quick and tough and picked things up rapidly; his innate street smarts had kept him from real harm most of his life, and he was confident in his ability to look after himself – and, by extension, "the doc" (as he called John). He'd made it through his first term relatively unscathed; he was sure he'd make it through this one. Indeed, this time he had a goal and a hope for the future; he was more motivated than he had ever been.

A prisoner is more susceptible to attack within a prison in the areas that are not directly under surveillance; e.g. a corridor, cell, shower or toilet. Wiggins knew better than to let his guard down in any of these locations (except for his own pad† when he was locked in). When it came to showering, he advised John, the key was to be fast.

"A bloke can take you down in thirty seconds," he said sagely. "You needs to watch their hands 'cause that's where an attack comes from…you needs to be on the lookout if a boke's hands are in 'is pockets or behind 'is back. 'e could have a shiv*†. And you never, never lets yourself get caught in a corner, yeah?"

He had never had a gang of thugs specifically targeting him, though.

Prison purchases are made through a system known by inmates as "canteen," which in this case is not an actual, physical shop, but a form which John, Wiggy, and the other prisoners on their wing received every Tuesday (other wings received the form on different days). The form detailed what the prisoner was allowed to spend as well as a list of items available for purchase: apart from phone credit, the rather limited selection included stamps, writing paper, toiletries, cereal, biscuits, and even some tinned items. It was not the best quality stuff and it grew monotonous rather quickly, but if they were very lucky there was sometimes a slim offering of fresh fruit (John's preference, though Wiggins had a decided weakness for chocolate bars and infinitely preferred to use as much of his "spends†*" each week on them as possible). A prisoner placed his order using the canteen form and paid for it with out of the weekly allowance drawn from his private cash account (if he had enough – John was one of the lucky ones, having his account initially started with the £100 pounds Lestrade had sent in with him, then having it topped up through regular postal orders sent by Mrs. Hudson). In theory, an order was delivered to the prisoner on the Saturday following the initial purchase (the practice was something else).

The system sounded straightforward enough, but John learned quickly not to look forward to receiving his purchases too much – the items listed on the canteen were not always available; the money one was allowed to take in was not always processed on the same day, meaning one might fall short and not have enough in one's account to make a purchase; once the DHL forgot to deliver his order altogether.

"Don't pin your hopes on it, Doc," Wiggy had warned, and John had simply nodded.

He didn't bother to tell Wiggy that he didn't pin his hopes on anything anymore.

The difficulty in obtaining these small luxuries meant, of course, that they were at a premium among the prisoners. Goods were a source of personal comfort and a feeling of normality as well as something to look forward to in a dull, repetitive, monotonous life; they were also used in a prisoner-to-prisoner bartering system. As such, they were at continual risk of being stolen (since the cells were left unlocked when their inmates were not in them and there were only so many hiding places per cell, thievery was common), or taken by force from their owners. The remaining members of the Worthington Bank Gang were particularly guilty of this, and such was their reputation (helped in no small part by the favoritism shown them by Harris who used them both as "muscle" and for his own nefarious moneymaking schemes, paying them in privileges and a tendency to look the other way when they bullied and harassed the other prisoners) that half the inmates did not dare to cross them when they made demands.

When Selden joined their number in late July of 2012, much of the remaining half began to knuckle under, too.

Selden had just begun serving a life sentence for the brutal murder of a family of four. Having been in and out of prisons since he first went through a sex offender treatment program in HMP Dartmoor at the age of nineteen, he was in his late forties when he broke into the Princetown house, killed the parents as they slept, then sexually assaulted and murdered the twins, a fourteen-year-old brother and sister.

Because nonces*** tended to be targeted by the general prison population, they were usually placed in the Rule 45**† section at Frankland. Selden was the exception…at sixteen-and-a-half stones and over six feet tall, he was built like an ox and had hands like the lids of a rubbish bin. Just as intimidating was his sullen, lowering face, deeply seamed and almost simian in nature. Given to unnerving silences, everything about him radiated violence and danger, even when he was still. The nonce wing being somewhat overcrowded at the time of his induction, it was assumed Selden could manage well enough on his own within the general prison population. No doubt he could have, but as it happened he didn't need to: both Harris and the Worthington Bank Gang brought him into their circle at once, and began using him as extra muscle.

On a Tuesday evening in late September, John left Wiggins to study his Open University course in the library while the doctor spent his sosh††* time circuit training in the gym. As the ninety minutes drew to a close, John showered quickly, stopped by the canteen for a packet of cereal for next day's breakfast, and headed back to E wing.

He knew something wasn't right as soon as he rounded the curve of the landing and saw Biddle and Hayward lurking outside Wiggy's cell. They were leaning nonchalantly against the railing, talking in low tones. Suspicions aroused and, realizing they hadn't spotted him yet, John slowed his steps, approaching warily. His eyes settled on the two men's hands first, because that was where Wiggy had told him to look.

"You needs to watch their hands 'cause that's where an attack comes from."

Biddle and Hayward weren't holding weapons, however…no, they were currently occupied with trading cereal packets and cigarettes and–

Chocolate bars. John's eyes narrowed and he felt a cold rage begin to rise in him. Throwing caution to the wind, he started boldly towards the two men. Intent on their plunder, they didn't even notice him at first.

Then John heard a sharp, smothered cry from Wiggy's pad.

Heart in this throat, John broke into a sprint. He was on top of Biddle and Hayward before they even had a chance to look up.

Seconds later, Hayward was down on the floor with a broken jaw while Biddle, who had already gone one-on-one with John once and was not keen to do it again, fled down the corridor, yelling for Cartwright. Paying them no further mind, John dashed into the cell next to his, the one belonging to Wiggins.

Selden had Wiggy down on the floor, straddling him. The lad's nose was clearly broken and his shirt had been torn from his body, revealing his scrawny, ribby torso. Selden had one of his arms pinned and was pressing the end of a screwdriver into the underside of Wiggy's jaw where it met his throat – not hard enough to pierce the flesh (yet) but firmly enough to leave an imprint. The young man's eyes were wide and terrified.

Though Selden outweighed him by a good five stones and was taller than him by half a foot or more, John never hesitated.

For such a big, apparently mentally slow man, Selden was surprisingly quick. He managed to twist his upper body towards John and raise the screwdriver a split second before John barreled into him, using his lower center of gravity to tackle the other man off his victim, feeling the tip of the screwdriver graze along his side as he did so. Wiggy rolled free at once.

John had no time to see how the lad was – before he could regain his balance Selden was on him, his huge hands wrapped around the doctor's throat. John managed to knee him in the groin – hard; but while the bigger man grunted and his thick-featured face turned dark red, he did not budge. John began flailing due to the lack of oxygen, then he saw from the corner of his eye a large object arc through the air. Seeing his shifting gaze, Selden started to turn to look, too, but it was too late – fueled by fury and terror, Wiggins brought his desk chair down as hard as he could over Selden's head, neck and upper back, and the nonce went down like a ton of bricks right across John's upper body.

Coughing and gasping, John struggled and squirmed to free himself from the deadweight of Selden's body. Wiggins did not move to help; he had staggered back until his back was against the wall and slid down in a crouch, his wide eyes fixed on Selden. As John wrenched himself loose he noted the rapid breathing – tachypnea – and visibly fluttering pulse in the young man's neck – tachycardia.

Shock, John thought, dragging himself shakily to his feet and making his way over to Wiggins with his hands out to show he was harmless. Wiggins didn't even look at him.

"Bloody hell," the lad gasped, his face leached of color. "I killed him – I fucking killed him, doc!" His voice went into a high squeak with panic.

Swiftly, John bent over Selden and took the man's pulse – it was there. More's the pity, John thought grimly, but better for Wiggins even so.

"You didn't, Wiggy, you didn't," he said quickly, making his voice low and soothing (what Sherlock used to call his "doctory voice"). "It's all right, Wiggy, you didn't kill him, though no one would blame you if you had by mistake…saved my life, you did." He offered a tentative smile as Wiggins dragged his too-huge eyes to his.

"He tried–" Wiggins, looking impossibly young, swallowed hard. "He tried to–to–"

"But he didn't," John guessed, kneeling down in front of Wiggy and grimacing in sympathy at the bruises already forming on his exposed skin.

Wide-eyed, Wiggins shook his head.

"That's good…that's good," John soothed, beginning to check for broken bones. "You're all right, Wiggy…it's over now."

"What the bloody hell?!"

Wiggins flinched and John looked up to see Jorkins standing in the doorway, his eyes wide as he took in the chaotic scene.

"Selden came in here and–" John began, but then Harris appeared in the corridor behind Jorkins.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, surveying the pad. "Fighting again, Watson? You must love solitary."

John winced, but stubbornly pushed on. "Wiggins needs medical attention, sir," he said briskly, addressing the comment to Jorkins. "Selden is alive…knocked cold, though…concussion I expect."

"I'm all right," Wiggins muttered, looking down.

John looked at him sternly. "You need to let Bell check you out."

Jorkins stared at John, something akin to respect in his eyes at the doctor's air of calm authority. "Hang on, Harris," he said without turning. "We've got a couple of other officers on the way…I'll let them know to secure Selden; he and Hayward will both have to go to hospital, but I think Wiggins can go to the healthcare center. You need a trolley, Wiggins?"

"I can walk," Wiggy said sullenly, staring down at his feet. He was very pale, and shaking a little. John wanted to put an arm around him, but knew the lad wouldn't appreciate it in front of the screws†††.

Before he could respond, three more prison guards showed up with a trolley. Jorkins addressed them first.

"Get Selden out of here," the prison officer said sharply. "When he's released from hospital we'll put him in in DSPD…I'll have a word with the director tomorrow about making that move permanent."

John moved back against the wall as the officers removed Selden. Once they were gone he got to his feet again and reached down to help Wiggy up. It was then that Jorkins, who had been watching Wiggy sympathetically, glanced at John and did a double take.

"Jesus, Watson," he gasped, starting at John's torso.

Puzzled, John looked down and saw that the left side of his sweatshirt was saturated with blood. Pulling up his shirt, he saw a long, thin slash from where the screwdriver had glanced (so he had thought at the time – he had barely felt it) along his side.

"Huh," John said bemusedly. "I guess he got me after all."

A sudden wave of dizziness assaulted him and he swayed on his feet. Jorkins grabbed his arm on one side; Wiggy grabbed the other.

"You okay, doc?" Wiggy fretted.

"Yeah…yeah, fine," John said. He was telling the truth – the momentary dizziness had passed and now the wound began to sting. He sighed. "Dammit…more stitches."

"Best get you both down to Bell," Jorkins muttered.

Harris stepped forward. "I can take them."

"No," Jorkins said sharply, eyeing him suspiciously. "No…I'll do it. You go with these three and make the arrangements for Selden and Hayward's transport. We should never have allowed a registered VISOR^ loose in the general population."

Without waiting for a response, he motioned John, who was supporting the still-shaky Wiggins, through the door and along the corridor ahead of him.

John stubbornly refused to look back, though he knew Harris wasn't finished with him.

When Jorkins escorted John to the healthcare centre so Bell could patch him up, the old man was not amused, nor particularly sympathetic.

"We need to stop meeting like this, laddie," the doctor grunted irritably, jerking the suture through John's flesh with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. John winced. Bell did not apologize.

"It wasn't my bloody fault," John said bitterly. He had meant the words to come out in a snarl and was furious with himself that they made him sound more like a whinging schoolboy.

"Is that so?" Bell demanded. "You couldn't have run and got Jorkins or some other screw to break it up? Had to play the big hero yourself, did you?"

"It wasn't like that, Joseph!" John snapped, stung. Glancing quickly into the darkened ward beyond where Wiggins lay sleeping under the influence of the sedative Bell had given him, his ribs wrapped and a plaster over his nose, he continued in a lower tone. "Have you any idea what he was about to do to that young lad? Would you have had me let that happen?"

At that, the righteous anger seemed to drain out of Bell and he lowered his hands and bowed his head. He suddenly looked very old.

"No," he said softly. "No, I wouldn't have that happen to him or any other lad for the world…I've seen what it does."

The two men sat in silence for a moment, reflecting; then, with a weary sigh, Bell resumed stitching.

"I don't blame you for what you did today," he said quietly. "Nevertheless…I worry about you, John. You're reckless and hot-headed." He paused, then asked earnestly, "Is your own life really worth so very little to you?"

John blinked at the deep sadness in the old man's voice. He felt somehow disarmed.

"I…I'm not suicidal, Joseph. I told you that before," he said finally.

"But do you have a death wish?" Joseph asked as he taped gauze over the neatly stitched wound.

"Is there a difference?" John fired back.

"In practice – no, I would say there isn't," Bell replied calmly. He handed John his shirt and began gathering his instruments together. "In theory, though…"

John carefully eased the shirt over his head, mindful of his aching body. "In theory?" He automatically began to help Bell clear up, and the doctor let him.

"Well," Bell replied slowly, thinking. "Let's say there's a man – a good man, mind you. Brave. Caring. Strong. Stubborn as hell."

John smiled grimly. Bell ignored him and went on.

"The adventurous sort, kind that likes a little excitement in his life. Or a lot – gets bored easily. And let's just suppose this good man has some…well, problems."

John narrowed his eyes but still said nothing.

"Bad things have happened to him," Bell continued, not looking up from the basin as he began carefully washing his instruments. "Quite a few, in fact, over the course of a lifetime." He gave John a sidewise glance. "I'm guessing here, you understand."

"Of course," John replied sardonically, keeping his expression even.

"Now let's say this good man has been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. Some say he's over it. He might say he never really had it. Personally, I think he never dealt with it so much as sidestepped it by 'treating' his condition with regular doses of pure adrenaline and keeping himself from having to think too much."

John set down the basin he was washing in the sink onto the metal worktop with a clang. "Now wait just a bloody minute–"

"So then this good man," Joseph continued loudly over him, "well, something else bad happened to him…something that left him thinking his life was over, or at least not worth living. So he decided to start working on slaying every dragon he came across, looking to justify his life…and if, well, he lost his life in the process, so much the better. That would be a noble thing, wouldn't it?"

John, his face set like stone, set down the last of the cleaned instruments. "Are we done here?" he asked evenly.

"Not quite," Bell said. He wiped down the sink, then turned to face John full on.

"Laddie," he began after a moment's hesitation, "I know you don't belong here."

John stared at the old man, dumbfounded.

"Are you saying you believe I'm an innocent man?" he said eventually.

"Aren't you?" Bell asked simply.

John smiled faintly. "I've said it enough times, yet here I am. Why should you think the court got it wrong? I've never told you straight out I'm innocent."

Bell smiled ruefully. "Well, that's part of it…you're the first prisoner I've treated who hasn't!"

They both laughed a little at this, but inside, John felt overwhelmed. He felt an urge to thank the man, but didn't quite know what to say.

Bell wasn't finished, anyway.

"I put in a request to get you on a work detail down here with me," Bell said suddenly. "I could use an assistant."

The first part of that statement shocked the former army doctor; the second made him wince.

"I–" John began, with no idea how he would finish.

"The request was denied," Bell continued briskly. "Not forever, mind you, but until They've seen that you've…well, 'settled,' I guess you could call it." Bell turned to the set of drawers and cupboards along the wall and began putting away the supplies. "Which won't happen if you can't keep out of trouble, laddie."

John sighed. "I would like to work for you," he said frankly. It would be far from exciting, of course, but the chance to use his medical skills again – even on a severely limited basis – or even just to be in a medical environment; to work with a colleague, to spend time with Bell, who had known his grandfather and whom John already liked immensely – it was certainly better than any other "opportunities" afforded him in this place.

"Well, think you can try and tone things down a bit?"

John paused, thinking of Harris. "It's not always up to me, Joseph," he said carefully.

The old man was shrewd – much shrewder than John. His gaze sharpened as he looked searchingly at the younger doctor.

"John," Joseph said gently, "is there something you'd like to tell me?"

Torn, John hesitated. He felt as though he had been carrying heavy burdens all alone for so long, and a part of him – a big part – wanted to confide in this kind but sharp old man who reminded him so much of his beloved grandfather, his childhood's only source of true stability.

What good would confiding in him do though, really? John asked himself. He says he believes me…does he mean that? And even if he does, what of it? Other people believed in me, and it made no difference. Why would he take my word and Wiggy's over Harris or Sherlock's fan club? And even if he does believe me about Harris, he can't prove anything. Even the other prisoners would back Harris up, scared for their own skins, and I don't blame them. Bell has no real power here, and in the end standing by me might put his job in jeopardy, just like it did for Greg. Not to mention making things worse for me in the long run when Harris learned about it. Well, it doesn't matter what happens to me, but there's Wiggy. Kid's been through enough, and has a real shot at getting on in life if we can get him out of this…no, best keep my eyes open and not get anyone else involved.

In the end, his pride and habitual wariness won out.

"No…no. There's nothing."

Looking disappointed, Bell started to speak but was interrupted by a knock at the door. The two men turned round, and John immediately tensed.

It was Harris.

"If you're done with the prisoner, doc, I'll escort him back to his cell."

There was something smug in the prison guard's expression, faint enough that most people would not have noticed it – but John did.

So did Bell. He had never liked Harris, and John's reaction, slight though it was, had not been lost on him. The prison doctor's eyes narrowed and he looked from John to Harris and back again.

"Very well," he said reluctantly. "You can take him."

Harris gave them both a wide, false smile. "Good to know you're okay, Watson…and that you managed to save Wiggins' honor. Let's go, shall we?" He motioned to the door with his left hand while his right nonchalantly came to rest on the baton in his belt. John's eyes lingered on it briefly, than he looked back at Bell and nodded.

"Thank you, doctor."

"Take care of yourself, laddie," Bell called after him as Harris led him out of the healthcare centre. The words sounded less like an arbitrary farewell and more like a warning, and a genuine expression of concern.

John was silent as he walked ahead of Harris to the main wing, tensed to receive a blow at any moment, but it did not come. As he started for the stairs that led to his level, though, Harris stopped him.

"No, no no," the prison officer drawled lazily. John looked back at him, and Harris motioned towards the stairway leading to the sublevel. "Downstairs, Johnny."

John carefully schooled his features, but inside his chest his heart began to pound. Back to the isolation cell, then.

Determined not to give Harris the satisfaction of watching him squirm, John forced himself to move at once down the stairs to the basement level with as much of an air of indifference as he could muster. Behind him, Harris pressed the end of his baton against John's spine, and as he descended into the chill and the dimness, John vowed he would spend whatever time he was given here in trying to come up with a way to get rid of Harris once and for all. He was no Sherlock Holmes, he knew, but he'd been the man's blogger for several years. He could come up with something.

He had to.

Chapter Text

"Being rather cleverer than most men, my mistakes tend to be correspondingly huger."
–From Harry Potter & the Half-Blood Prince

May 2014

Sherlock strode purposefully into the sitting room of 221b, pulled off his coat and scarf, and flung them on the couch. Then, thinking better of it, he slowly picked the garments up and hung them carefully on a hanger. For a moment he stood bemusedly, as though he weren't in his own home. He looked uncertainly toward the coffee table where Mycroft had left John's file. Mrs. Hudson had apparently not been in; it sat undisturbed in the same position as when he had left.

Abruptly, Sherlock went to the kitchen and began to prepare tea.

He told himself he needed the sustenance, but deep down he knew he was stalling and it annoyed him. The facts were what they were and could not be changed; he was not accustomed to feeling hesitant about learning the truth. It made no sense.

Still, Sherlock waited to trade his dress shoes for slippers and his suit jacket for a dressing gown before he settled down in his accustomed chair with his tea in one hand and the file in the other. He took a sip of the steaming liquid, then deliberately set it on the side table and flipped open the manila file.

The first thing that leapt out at him – right on top – was a rough-cut, 4" x 6" photograph bordered in white with an eight-digit number stamped on the bottom border. The photograph depicted a close-up image of a man's torso from the top of his neck to just above his navel; the camera view had been oriented to the man's left side. The subject was clearly malnourished – his ribs stood out plainly, easy to count, and his belly was a concavity. It was immediately apparent, however, that the photographs were meant to document the severe, deep, purple-and-black bruising over the deltoid, pectoral and bicep muscles on the left side of the body, as well as the trapezoid muscle between the neck and shoulder. Below the armpit, more bruises decorated the man's ribs and abdomen, and several deep scratches stood out on his pale chest and shoulder. A deep, black lump about the size of a golf ball swelled the lower left jawbone, which was just visible at the top of the frame.

With trembling fingers, Sherlock slowly set the photograph aside. Beneath it, a second, similar photograph depicted another torso shot of (presumably) the same man, this time with his back facing the camera. Again, his thinness was plainly apparent by the way his ribs jutted out and the vertebrae along his spine protruded like doorknobs. But what made Sherlock's breath catch in his throat and his body go still were the welts and marks that extended from the nape of the man's neck to his waist. The injuries to the thorax were clearly made with a blunt object like a club or a pipe; these appeared to have been inflicted with something equally heavy, but more flexible – a rubber hose, perhaps. They made the beating Sherlock had taken in the Serbian prison look like a friendly slap on the back.

Though the man's face was not depicted in either photo the fist-sized, ragged, starburst scar over the left clavicle in the first photograph and the smaller, puckered scar left by an entry wound from a high-caliber bullet over the scapula on the second confirmed that it was John.

Sherlock was deep in his Mind Palace when a cool, damp breeze playing persistently across his face slowly brought him back to awareness. Blinking in surprise at the change of atmosphere, he looked round to find he was standing on Bart's roof, facing out over the city, with no memory of having left the flat.

He felt…mildly surprised. This sort of thing had happened to him before, of course – when immersed deeply in his own thoughts he did occasionally move about from one seat to another and even from one room to another while on a sort of autopilot, scarcely aware of what his transport was doing while his mind was thus engaged. He remembered how bemused John had been by this during their early days of sharing the flat before coming to accept it as a matter of course. Until he had embarked on his mission to hunt down and destroy the remnants of Moriarty's organization, however, Sherlock's rapt wanderings had been confined almost exclusively to within a single establishment. This was the first and only time since his return that he had wandered through the city unawares.

For a long moment he stood staring down thoughtfully at the spot where John had stood almost three years earlier, looking up at him in dismay while Sherlock spun him the story that set "Operation Lazarus" in motion. John had been too far away for Sherlock to make out his expression, and the detective had been glad of it (though he would not have acknowledged that feeling at the time). He had known it would be the last time he would see John for some time (though he had not expected it would be as long as it had turned out), and the look of distress on his friend's face might have distracted him during the next crucial minutes. Hearing his strained voice had been hard enough.

He had missed John. He could admit that now. Not so much at first – in those heady, early days of freedom, no superior older brother watching his every move and judging him, no legalistic police inspector remonstrating with him like a child, no landlady scolding him for his lack of manners and prattling on endlessly about uninteresting things, no best friend and colleague fussing at him to eat, to sleep, to curb his waspish tongue – he had felt the kind of euphoria of reckless freedom that a child feels the first time he embarks on a solo adventure with no authority figures to caution his every step. Also, in those early days, his mind and focus had been completely on the task at hand; it had been a relief to have no distractions that he would have been at pains to ignore anyway.

But as time went on – as the game got harder, and darker, and Sherlock began to understand that the joker being gone from the deck did not mean the enemy was not holding a few face cards – his way grew murkier, the nights longer, the days

(lonlier)

duller. Solving puzzles and having adventures was not as much…well, as much fun without an audience. Nor was it as inspired – he had not been lying when he had told John that he thought better when he talked aloud. It was one of the things Mycroft had sniffed about, citing it as proof of Sherlock's inferior intelligence. Mycroft was a hound that could run silent, but like many an excited bloodhound when quarry was on the move, Sherlock preferred to bay.

But it wasn't enough just to bay – he needed someone to share it all with, his deductions, his excitement. As a boy he had secretly wanted friends, but the other children did not understand him – had regarded him with mistrust, jealousy, and later, downright animosity when they realized how easy it was for Sherlock to find them out. The only one who could even begin to understand him was his own brother, but Mycroft's brilliance, coupled with the fact that he was seven years older, caused the larger boy to behave in a lofty and disparaging manner towards his little brother that Sherlock found maddening.

The other children bullied and made fun of him. His older brother, who alone had a chance of understanding him, instead looked down on him. There was no one to fill the void in his heart – until Redbeard.

As a boy, Sherlock had blossomed once Redbeard came along – intellectually (he thought better when Redbeard was there, when he had the red setter to talk to), emotionally (the distracting, lonely ache of solitariness was banished in the big dog's company), even physically (he was prone to get more exercise, sleep more soundly, and even eat more consistently when the animal was near).

It was Mycroft – the big brother he secretly admired, unconsciously emulated, and would gladly have worshipped had the older boy been less aloof and superior – who had pointed out the rather obvious flaw in depending on another living creature when Redbeard had had to be euthanized. Far from being sympathetic towards his younger brother's pain, Mycroft had mocked Sherlock for his weakness and warned him that caring was not an advantage – that all lives end, all hearts are broken, and true, cold reason was the only thing worth attaining in the end.

For all the young Sherlock endeavored to treat his elder brother with the same scorn he believed his brother held for him, he did regard Mycroft as wiser than he. Thus, Redbeard was eventually replaced with a cold, lifeless and empty skull.

Until John came.

Sherlock could never have explained it (which annoyed him, as he liked to be able to explain everything), but something about John had clicked with him the moment they met. On the surface they were chalk and cheese, but Sherlock spotted the core similarities (a need for action, adventure, and adrenaline) at once, as well as the differences that filled one another's blank spaces (Sherlock needed to be encouraged and admired; John needed someone to look after and believe in). It wasn't long before Sherlock realized that, despite John's own lack of genius, he truly was a conductor of light – no, he was Sherlock's conductor of light, reflecting the consulting detective's own brilliance back at him as the moon reflects the rays of the sun, making it even more brilliant in a way Billy the skull or even Redbeard ever could. It was this quality of John's that made any substitute a poor one at best, causing Sherlock to "talk" to John during his time away, sometimes in his head, sometimes out loud, running his ideas and plans by him, relishing his feedback, admiring, or even exasperated looks. This Mind Palace John did not make up for the real thing, of course, but it was better than any other alternative.

It wasn't until Sherlock had been on his own for about six months before he began to understand how much he had come to depend upon John's companionship as well as his assistance.

He had never had a friend before, not like John. He had thought he preferred being alone. But John's presence in the flat had been a comfort, had provided a balance he hadn't realized was missing, even when the doctor was upstairs in his own room or just reading quietly in his chair. He had thought John's tastes to be pedestrian, but suddenly Sherlock missed playing Cluedo and watching crap telly and sharing meals now that he had no one with whom to do those things. He missed having someone to talk with, argue with, joke with, laugh with, and tease. No, not someone – he missed John.

It was a truth Sherlock allowed himself to acknowledge only briefly in the moments before sleep, knowing that Mycroft would have raised his brows to know it. And as three months turned into six, and six months into a year, he began to regret more and more not bringing John with him. It occurred to him that, had he done so, he might even have been able to return home sooner.

Home. London. Baker Street. New Scotland Yard. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Molly. John. He never asked about any of it on the rare occasions he spoke to Mycroft from abroad, but he thought of it, waiting for him the same as ever for whenever he should return. He would come home and Mrs. Hudson would be there and she would cry and fuss and feed him, and John would be there and he'd stare and swear and maybe even hit him, but then he would laugh and slap him on the back or maybe even hug him and Sherlock would allow it because he'd missed him so much, and everything would be as it had been before.

Then he had come home and Mycroft had handed him that file, that bloody file, and right on top had been John's arrest report, and the clipping that covered John's exoneration, and a color photograph of a wary, uneasy John ducking behind Lestrade, a horrific scar on his face that said quite clearly that nothing was the same and never would be again. Sherlock in his shock and

(fear)

anger had struck Mycroft and thrown the file at him and stormed out, too distressed to look any deeper into what John's life had really been like while he, Sherlock had "been away." Until tonight.

Sherlock suddenly swayed where he stood and shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard, as though he could somehow reach through the sockets and pull through the memory of what he had read and throw it over the same edge he had plummeted from three years ago.

His hands had begun to shake as he read in a way they had not since Baskerville. That had been bad, but this was infinitely worse as he paged through the file and committed to memory a long, sordid story that went well beyond public disgrace and incarceration, to include months of abuse and cruelty and isolation. Sherlock had not allowed himself to think of England if he could help it; when thoughts of John did creep, unbidden, into his mind, he pictured a John that might be a bit melancholy, but was, for the most part, sitting contentedly in his chair in 221b, reading his medical journals and sipping tea and waiting, without knowing it, for his old friend's return. He pictured a John who was, like the rest of the people he cared about, safe and sound.

Now, shivering on the roof of St. Bart's, Sherlock cursed his eidetic memory as it filled in the blanks of exactly what John had been doing (or at least experiencing) while he had been tearing apart some of the many, varied strands of Moriarty's vast criminal web:

-On the day Sherlock had exposed a drug smuggler who had infiltrated a breakaway sect of Buddhist warrior monks in the Himalayas, John had received a severe facial wound that had left him with forty-seven stitches and a disfiguring scar.

-On the day Sherlock had passed along the identity of a diplomat's murderer along with the evidence needed to track the killer down to a police inspector New Delhi, a convicted criminal whom Sherlock had helped to bring to justice years ago threw a kettle full of scalding water at John, soaking his sweatshirt on the right side of his body from his shoulder down almost to his wrist and leaving him with second and third degree burns resulting in a long, shriveled, gnarled scar.

-And on the day Sherlock, posing as a jury member, had proved instrumental in convicting a man accused of murdering his wife (who also happened to be the very assassin who had been prepared to end Mrs. Hudson's life on the day Sherlock had had his final confrontation with Moriarty on Bart's rooftop), John was already four days into what would turn out to be sixty-three days in solitary confinement, the corrupt prison officer concealing the unsanctioned punishment by marking them in the records as three separate, three-week periods separated by forty-eight hour intervals so they would not be consecutive and thus raise a red flag in the system. The guard had been escorting John back for yet another three-week stint when the doctor, driven to the brink of madness by this point, had fought back, infuriating the guard (named Harris), who then enlisted the aid of other prisoners to hold John down while Harris administered a severe beating (documented by the evidence photos in the file). Witnesses testified that the guard was in such a rage they feared he would kill the doctor, but then John had broken free and–

A short, strangled cry jerked Sherlock back to the present. He found himself on his knees, the concrete tearing at his dress trousers, sitting on his heels with his hands fisted in his own hair. He realized the small, sharp sound of despair he had heard had come from his own throat…he could still feel it vibrating there the way the crossbow bolt his would-be assassin had let fly at him in the mill had vibrated in the wall next to his head. He thought he might fly apart at any moment and gripped the curls harder, trying to hold himself together.

It had seemed so simple, all of it…confound Moriarty. Ensure his friends' safety. Tear down the spider's web, strand by strand. Have a lark doing it, then come home to London. To Baker Street. To John.

How had it all gone so bloody wrong?

For a moment, he hated Mycroft. Moriarty had referred to John as Sherlock's "pet;" Sherlock knew that Mycroft saw the doctor in much the same way – he had compared him to Sherlock's childhood dog, Redbeard, more than once. But it wasn't that Sherlock thought of John as a dog. It was more that, as a child, he had thought of Redbeard as another boy – the only friend he had, who loved him as he was, and seemed to understand him in a way no one else could.

For perhaps the fourteenth time that night – or, rather, morning, for it was now half two – Mycroft studied the CCTV footage of their elusive crossbow assassin fleeing the mill at the Docklands. Quick and soft as a shadow, the man who had attempted to murder his brother late yesterday evening was visible for only a fraction of a second as he passed over a spike-topped barrier and disappeared between the two buildings depicted on the digitized image. It was impossible to avoid all the cameras, but their perpetrator had clearly known ahead of time what path to take in order to avoid most chances at detection. It confirmed what Mycroft already knew – they were dealing with a very dangerous man.

Pausing the feed so he could look closely at the grainy image of the figure as it vaulted lightly over the barrier, he sighed. It was, even now, almost all they knew, for beyond the fact that the assassin was obviously ex-military, was a former officer who had likely been "asked" to resign his commission, and had a gambling addiction, he could deduce little else – the archer had been careful to obscure his face and figure as much as possible.

Switching off the monitor, Mycroft rose from his desk and tightened the belt of his silk dressing gown around him. He made his way across his study to the small, carved oak and bronze liquor cabinet against the far wall, and poured himself a snifter of brandy. Taking a small sip of the burning liquid, he wandered over to the French windows, slowly swirling the brandy in the glass and gazing unseeingly into the darkened grounds while his mind ticked busily. For anyone other than a Holmes it might not be much to go on, but for Mycroft it was a decent start, and he was certain that, with a bit of digging, they would have a name before the day was over.

Mycroft slowly raised his left hand and lightly pressed his fingertips against the cool glass, closing his eyes. He knew he should sleep, but lately…

"Thoughts of your sins keeping you awake, brother mine?"

His eyes snapped open in shock and his body stiffened, but he congratulated himself for not reacting more strongly – for a moment, his brother's dark baritone had sounded in his ears like the knell of his own conscience. Forcing himself to relax, Mycroft huffed out an irritated breath and turned around. This was not the first time his brother had managed to slip past his security detail, but it never failed to annoy him, and he promised himself someone would be sacked before lunch.

Sherlock stood to the left of the heavy, dark-stained oak door, partially concealed in the shadows Mycroft's small, stained glass desk lamp could not dispel. Shrouded in his long black coat despite the mildness of the night, his collar turned up and his chin dipped low in a slightly defensive posture, his hands deep in his pockets, he presented a mostly black figure with just the barest gleam from the amber, emerald, sapphire, rose and amethyst ovals of light from the glass shade catching his oddly colorless eyes and patterning his alabaster forehead.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and was about to make a snide retort to the effect of Sherlock resembling nothing so much as an avenging angel; then his younger brother stepped into the more illuminating glow of the corner lamp, and the elder Holmes had to stifle a gasp instead.

Though Sherlock was holding his face rigid so that his angular features to be carved of marble (the way he always did when his emotions were high and he was desperate to hide them), the sheer, raw pain in his eyes and the set of his lips stole the snarky remark from Mycroft's mouth before it had fully formed.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said instead, stepping forward involuntarily. Despite his intent to keep his tone neutral, the word reflected his open concern.

"For the love of God, don't!" The words seemed to escape Sherlock as he abruptly averted his face and put one hand up in a supplicating gesture, holding his brother at a distance. Mycroft stopped at once. "Don't…I can't…"

Mycroft was aghast. Not since Sherlock was a child had he seen his little brother so unguarded and vulnerable, not even during his days of drug experimentation. He was obviously furious over giving himself away now, and in front of Mycroft, the last person on earth before whom he would reveal what was in his heart.

The "Iceman's" stomach twisted uncomfortably. Sherlock might boast of being able to "delete" extraneous information from that ridiculous memory palace of his, but about some things he had a long, long memory indeed. Those things primarily concerned loss, and pain, and personal betrayal, and while Mycroft truly did love his younger brother deeply, he knew that their difficult relationship was due in a large part to his own behavior towards Sherlock over the years.

Sherlock was the closest thing to a true peer Mycroft had, but he was also more sensitive than Mycroft ever could be – a quality Mycroft had ridiculed and discouraged and mocked in an attempt to stamp it out of the younger boy, telling himself it was for Sherlock's own good and would save him much pain in the end. And it was true – mostly. There was also a part of Mycroft that was jealous of Sherlock's ability to form connections with others, tenuous and random and rare as those connections may have been through the years. That small, mean, selfish part of Mycroft had not wanted to be the only oyster in the house, nor had it wanted to share his only companion with another.

Until Sherlock was about eleven, Mycroft's jibes had been more in the nature of a true brotherly rivalry and mutual teasing, albeit one reflected through his own brilliant, coolly logical mind. If they were a trifle more…acidic than perhaps they should have been, Mycroft knew, guiltily, that they were fueled in part by a resentment and jealousy over the family dog's preference for Sherlock over him – feelings that further rankled Mycroft because he was annoyed with himself for having them.

It was those feelings that prompted Mycroft to reveal the truth to Sherlock and torment him for his gullibility when their parents told the younger boy that the suffering Redbeard had gone to live on a farm where the air would be healthier for him. When his furious mother had told Mycroft that he should have known better ("You're seventeen, Myc, and a genius into the bargain! You know your brother thought the world of that dog!"), he had loftily replied that she and his father had been wrong to lie to Sherlock and that, in truth, Sherlock knew the truth but just didn't want to face it. He had believed that, too – but that was not the reason he had told Sherlock the truth – not the entire reason, anyway.

Be that as it may, the damage was done. Mycroft bitterly regretted it now, but it could not be undone. Though Sherlock eventually got past it, it had changed him. He had grudgingly forgiven his parents and even, to some extent, his brother, but he never forgot, and he never trusted them again – particularly Mycroft. From that time forward he had been very careful to maintain emotional distance and conceal his true feelings; for him to show himself so fully now meant the blow he had suffered had indeed run very deep.

Mycroft would have given worlds to change the past. Sherlock might never believe it even if Mycroft were somehow able to magically show him, but he was the most important person in the world to the elder Holmes. Some of that sentiment, perhaps, showed in Mycroft's voice when he next spoke.

"Sherlock, I swear to you–"

"That you didn't know," Sherlock finished, his face still averted. His voice was low and harsh, but Mycroft could still hear a faint tremor. "You didn't know what was happening until it all blew up in your face and you couldn't ignore it anymore, did you." It was not a question.

"I did not." It cost something for Mycroft to admit this, but honesty was all he had left now.

"I believe you." Sherlock actually laughed a little at that, but it was a bitter, hollow, somehow wild sound. "I believe you…which is the only reason I don't kill you right here and now. In your supreme arrogance you believed everything was fine, and if Mycroft Holmes, the British government believed it, oh, then by God it must be so."

An unaccustomed feeling of failure uncurled in Mycroft's chest. "Sherlock, as soon as I was aware of the situation I moved to intervene–"

"Too late!" Sherlock whirled to face him, and his oddly colored eyes were bright with unshed tears, his face a mask of fury. Despite his brother's prior reassurance that violence towards him was not on his mind, Mycroft found himself taking a step back.

"I moved in at once–"

"He killed a man, Mycroft!"

There was a beat of silence. Mycroft turned to face the window again. He shakily lifted the brandy snifter to his lips and took a sip. "It's not as though this was first time, Sherlock."

It was the first time he had ever alluded to Sherlock that he knew about Jefferson Hope. Sherlock would have known that Mycroft would have figured it out, anyway.

"You had no idea what was happening to him until he was driven to kill a prison guard," Sherlock ground out; Mycroft could hear him drawing closer but did not turn around. "And even then, you did not get him released."

"At that point, I couldn't," Mycroft said wearily. "Unlike in the case of the Bruhl kidnapping, this time he was guilty. Or at least," he amended quickly as he heard Sherlock draw in a breath of indignation, "culpable. I could not extract him without drawing attention, and, knowing your sojourn abroad was nearing a climax, I felt it best to just…let things play out."

Now Sherlock's voice was so close Mycroft fancied he could almost feel his brother's hot breath stirring the hairs on the back of his neck.

"Yes, because that strategy worked so well from the beginning," Sherlock spat.

Mycroft set his glass down on a nearby accent table and turned to face his brother.

"What I did for him, I could," he said evenly. "You saw the photographs of what Harris – the guard – had done to him, and this following sixty-three days of solitary confinement preparatory to another twenty-one days…establishing reasonable force, extenuating circumstances and extreme provocation without premeditation was not difficult even without the lawyer I provided, but I did see to it that his sentence was kept to the minimum two years for manslaughter, which counted as time served when he was found to be innocent of the kidnapping charges. I managed to keep it quiet and out of the media–"

"A thing the prison officials would only be too willing to assist with, considering their own culpability in leaving an animal of this nature in a position of trust," Sherlock broke in bitterly.

Mycroft went on as though he had not spoken. "I launched my own, private investigation, and had the miscreants who had been bullying Dr. Watson transferred to other establishments, ensuring at the same time that their stay in the new locations would not be, shall we say, precisely comfortable."

Sherlock's lip curled. He was not appeased.

"I saw to it that John was given a work detail – the prison doctor had requested that he be assigned to him in the healthcare centre – which I daresay made the time pass a little more quickly–"

Sherlock snorted and his eyes flashed dangerously.

"I arranged for a young miscreant whom the good doctor had befriended and begun mentoring – a former member of your so-called 'Homeless Network,' I believe – be transferred to an open prison, and that John's recommendation that he attain an off-site work detail in a chemist's shop be approved. And I had Dr. Watson's situation monitored closely from that point on, ensuring that the remainder of his stay in Frankland was…uneventful."

"And I suppose that you think this makes up for letting him be convicted in the first place, for leaving him to serve twenty-one months in a Category A prison, and for putting him out of your mind until something happened you couldn't ignore," Sherlock said coldly, his voice close to breaking.

"No, I don't think that," Mycroft said calmly, looking away. "But it was all I could do at that point."

For a moment he thought Sherlock was going to attack him; the look in his eyes was murderous. Furiously he spun around instead, his coattails flying out behind him in that dramatic way Mycroft knew he favored, but he was not doing it for dramatic effect now.

"I'm the one at fault here," Sherlock said in a ragged whisper. "This is all on me. I wanted to bring John with me, but I let you talk me out of it, and left him to your not-so-tender mercies on your recommendation. I should have seen that for what it was – you trying to cut John out of my life."

Mycroft stilled. "Excuse me?"

"How desperate were you to keep me from having my own friends, my own life, Mycroft? To show me how important you are, and how unimportant you thought John was? Did you believe John would distract my attention from the case, or that he'd distract my attention from you? Did you intend to ruin him from the very beginning?"

"Enough!" Mycroft roared suddenly. Sherlock went silent at once, turning back to face him, and Mycroft turned back to the window abruptly, trying to steady his breathing. Only his little brother – his maddening, exasperating, much-loved younger brother – had the ability to get him worked up like this.

For God's sake, put your trousers on!

There was a long silence. Then Sherlock spoke, in a much smaller voice that somehow propelled Mycroft back to his youth.

"I…don't know how to fix this."

Mycroft closed his eyes. "Neither do I," he admitted.

There was a long, long silence. Then Mycroft said without turning, "But I do know, Sherlock, that your loss would break my heart."

He waited for a response – a snide one, a derisive one, or an unbelieving one. When none came, he turned to find that Sherlock had gone, disappearing as quietly as he had come.

Mycroft stood still for a moment, then went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself another drink. Moving back to the French windows, he resumed staring out at nothing.

Caring was not an advantage – he knew this to be true. Maybe if he told it to himself often enough, he might come to truly believe it.

After spending well over a decade in the army, John Watson was neither a heavy sleeper nor a late riser, but the excitement and adrenaline rush he had experienced at the mill, coupled with the muscle relaxants he had taken just before he had lain himself down for the night, ensured he was still sound asleep when there was a firm rap on the glass front door the next morning. Startled, he jerked awake at once and scrambled to sit up before he remembered his shoulder.

"Oooowwwwww, Jesus!"

Wincing at the stabbing pain, he froze and made a grab for the offending appendage, automatically forcing himself to relax and fall into the pain-management breathing exercises he had learned after being shot even before the events of last night came back to him. Blinking owlishly, he carefully sat up, noticing at once how bloody sore he was all over apart from his shoulder (which trumped everything else). Sliding his bare feet into his tatty old slippers, he glanced down at the cold pack tangled among the mussed bedding. It had long since gone warm.

The knock at the door to 221c was repeated.

"All right, all right, I'm coming," John muttered, running his fingers through silvering hair with his good hand. He glanced from his bound arm to his dressing gown and, giving it up as a bad job, headed out to the front room in his pajamas. If it had been Mrs. Hudson she would have just walked in; anyone else could bloody well take him as they found him at – he glanced at the wall clock over the mantelpiece as he crossed the sitting room – half eight in the morning.

He was surprised to find Lestrade standing on the other side of the door, a large, padded manila envelope in one hand and a white paper bag in the other.

For a moment the two men took each other in. The DI looked utterly knackered – John guessed he hadn't been to bed at all. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday; his short, bristly grey hair was flattened on one side, his face was drawn and pale and unshaven, and the skin under his eyes sagged a bit.

"Greg," John said in surprise. Recovering himself, he stepped back and to the side. "Come in."

Lestrade stepped through the door and stood awkwardly as John closed it. For a moment they stared at one another until Lestrade broke the stalemate.

"I brought breakfast," the DI said suddenly, holding up the white bag. Something tense and awkward seemed to pass then, and John smiled. "Coffee?"

"Love some."

John led the way through to the kitchen and waved Greg to take a seat as he started the coffee. While it was brewing, he pulled down the bottle of painkillers from one of the cupboards and swallowed two dry. Greg, who was pulling croissants out of the bag, noticed.

"How're you feeling?"

John set out the milk, then, as an afterthought, sugar. "All right. Bit sore. It'll pass, though. I don't think I sustained any serious damage. I'll have a friend look me over today, though, to be sure."

Greg nodded. "Good. Yeah, good." He looked down quickly, then up again. "Sorry to wake you."

John made a face. "Just as well. I'd never get to sleep tonight if I'd gone on much longer."

He poured out two mugs of coffee and brought them one at a time to the table, pushing one over to Greg. "How are you feeling?" he asked in concern, sitting down and reaching for a croissant.

Greg snorted as he added milk and sugar to his coffee. "Not bad, considering I think I lost about ten years off my life last night."

John smiled in commiseration. Another silence – a not-entirely-easy silence fell. Greg, staring down at the tabletop, cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Look – John–"

"Greg," John interrupted, "you don't have to say it."

"Say what?" Greg demanded, looking up with a glare. "How the hell do you know what I'm going to say?"

"I don't, exactly," John said honestly. "But I figure it's got to be one of two things, and I don't need to hear either one of them."

"But–"

"Any more than you needed to hear what I wanted to say to you the night I got out of prison," John added quickly.

His dark blue eyes focused on Greg's brown ones intently and, after a moment, Greg blinked and looked down again. He remembered how John had tried to thank him for standing by him through his trial, conviction, and imprisonment, for working tirelessly to clear his name, and for giving him a place to stay. Greg had not wanted to hear it.

Last night, John Watson had saved his life, and Lestrade had dressed him down for it while the rest of the Yard had listened. He was not angry or hurt, and he did not need to hear either a thank you or an apology. Greg wanted to give him both, but he knew that if he insisted now, John would be embarrassed. Perhaps that would not be the best way to thank him.

So instead, Greg cleared his throat and said, "Right. Got any butter?"

John blinked, then grinned. "Yeah." As he got up and went to the fridge, he glanced down at the manila envelope on the table. "What do you have?"

"Piece of evidence for Sherlock, from last night's adventure," Greg replied, and as their talk turned to the case, he thought to himself that he never would have imagined, on that night in Brixton several years ago, that the unassuming looking man with the bad limp Sherlock had brought along would become a great friend.

Now, if John and Sherlock could just get back in sync, he thought, all would be right with the world.

Chapter Text

"I could not deprive you of the revelation of all that you could accomplish together, of a friendship that will define you both in ways you cannot yet realize."
–From Star Trek 2009

Synergy: the creation of a whole that is greater than the simple sum of its parts. The term synergy comes from the Attic Greek word συνεργία synergia[1] (confer Koine Greek: συνέργεια synergeia) from synergos, συνεργός, meaning "working together."

January 2013

John stood in front of his bunk folding his laundry: t-shirts, sweatshirts, track pants, underwear, socks, in neat, army-regulation piles the way he had been taught, just as he had done ever since his discharge. It was habit now, a rote action, and though anyone observing him would guess from his blank expression that he was utterly absorbed, the mundane task somehow comforted him while leaving his mind free.

Not always a good thing, though – a free mind. As John's arms and hands continued with the precise movements, his ears were attuned to what was happening in the next cell over: the sounds of drawers being pulled out and shut again, a mattress being lifted as the bunk was stripped, hangers sliding on a bar, papers being shuffled.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, there was a long silence. A weight seemed to settle in John's stomach as he heard Jorkins's quiet voice and Wiggy's subdued answer.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

There was a sound of footsteps on concrete, then Jorkins appeared in the open doorway of John's cell. John paused and looked up. The prison officer gave him a small nod. John nodded back.

Jorkins offered John a sort of smile that didn't reach his eyes, then said over his shoulder, "I'll be waiting for you at the head of the stairs, yeah?" and moved off.

John took a deep breath and raised his head to stare at the wall a moment, his lips in a thin line, a sweatshirt still in his hands. His chest felt tight.

There was a small knock on his doorframe. John turned his head slowly towards the door. Wiggins was standing in the doorway. He was wearing the faded blue jeans, battered trainers, t-shirt and tatty hoody he had been wearing the day he and John had arrived at Frankland. John noted the garments had been cleaned and pressed. Wiggins, too, looked clean and pressed, recently shaved, hair neatly cut, nails scrubbed and neatly trimmed. In one hand he held his "bang-up bag" – a decent-sized blue holdall with a black handle that looked well-packed. He was very pale.

John cleared his throat. "So. You're off then?" He tried to keep his voice light and casual.

Wiggins wet his lips. "Yeah." He swallowed hard. Looked down.

John nodded.

"I…I'll write–" Wiggy tried feebly, but John cut him off at once.

"No." Hearing the sharpness in his voice, he struggled to soften his tone. "No, don't. Forget this place. All of it. This is your chance. Leave it all behind."

When Wiggins didn't answer, the sharpness came back. "Do you hear me?" John demanded, voice rough.

After a beat, Wiggy looked up and flinched when he met John's blazing eyes. Pressing his lips tightly together and looking much younger than he actually was, he gave a small nod, swallowing hard. Then, when John made no move to invite him in or even fully face him, he abjectly backed into the corridor, hesitated, then disappeared from view as he headed towards the stairs.

John turned back to his bunk and grimly began folding the sweatshirt.

There was a sudden sound of running footsteps, rubber-soled trainers hitting the concrete. Startled, John dropped the shirt, but before he could turn or even look up Wiggins was there, throwing his strong, wiry arms around him and burying his face in John's shoulder, almost knocking the doctor off balance.

Surprised, John hesitated, then, impulsively, raised his own arms and hugged the boy back, hard. He tried to steady his own breathing as he felt a dampness seep through the fabric over his shoulder.

"Don't look back," he whispered fiercely in the younger man's ear. "Don't look back."

Wiggins' fingers tightened briefly on the back of his shirt. He took a deep, ragged breath, gave John a hard squeeze, whispered, "Thanks for everything, doc," and bolted out of the cell. John stood frozen, listening to the sound of Wiggy's trainers as they pelted along the corridor, then down the iron staircase.

He continued to stand and listen until even their echo died away entirely. Then, turning back to the bunk, he resumed folding his laundry.

"Good luck, Wiggy," John said softly.

Perhaps it was just a fancy, but his cell already felt a little colder and emptier.

July 2014

It was like old times. Staggering under the weight of an unseemly pile of heavy books detailing the characteristics, habits and habitat of chrysomelid beetles (specifically those of the genus Diamphidia), Molly had to resort to using her shoulder to shove open the door to the lab. True to form, Sherlock, seated on a bench and peering intently at a slide through a microscope, didn't jump up to help her or even so much as look up – rather irksome, since Molly was bringing the tomes at his request. Nettled, she dropped the books down on the worktable next to him with a heavy thunk.

"Careful," Sherlock snapped, still not looking up. Molly sighed in exasperation.

Using a pair of tweezers, Sherlock plucked the small metal broad-head from the bolt Lestrade had brought to Baker Street after the incident at the mill from a nearby Petri dish and dropped it into a test tube with a small amount of liquid at the bottom. The liquid immediately began to fizz.

"Slide," Sherlock said. Molly started and looked up at him, blinking. She had been watching the pipette with fascination and missed his request.

"Slide," Sherlock repeated impatiently. "Just there." He held his hand out. The fresh slide was blatantly within his reach, but Molly handed it to him anyway.

Sherlock drew some of the liquid from the tube with a dropper, transferred it to the surface of the slide and placed it under the microscope.

"This bolt – the bolt our intrepid assassin loosed at me in the mill – is different than the others," he muttered, adjusting the lens as he leaned forward again.

"How?" Molly asked curiously.

Sherlock looked up, blinking; Molly got the sense that he had already forgotten she was there. She thought he was about to admonish her for talking, but to her surprise he actually answered.

"The murder victims were shot with twenty-inch carbon bolts with fixed broad-heads from a compound crossbow with a mid-game draw weight," the detective replied in an intense rush. "The bolt that was fired at me came from a small-game recurve bow and had a sixteen-inch aluminum shaft with a removable broad-head. It could not have delivered a kill shot over the distance from which it was fired unless the aim was perfect. With both hunter and prey on the move, it was an impossible shot, which the assassin would had to have known beforehand."

Molly frowned. "Then why would he have bothered trying? He gave himself away by shooting at you, and almost got caught for nothing." (She focused hard on the problem so she wouldn't have to think of Sherlock as "prey.")

"Well-spotted, John," Sherlock said, a trace of pride and excitement in his voice. "That is indeed the question."

"Molly!"

"Hm?" Sherlock said absently, returning to the microscope. "Oh, yes – of course. Anyway, the less-than-lethal mechanics would suggest the introduction of another agent at work – I immediately suspected poison."

Molly gaped at him. "A poisoned arrow?" It sounded like something out of a fantasy story.

"A poisoned bolt – specifically, a bolt broad-head that had been poisoned," Sherlock corrected. "Given the assassin's predilection for using the feathers from an African helmeted guinea fowl as fletching, that gave me a starting point for identifying the agent used. Examination of the broad-head showed a powdered substance had been applied using plant sap as an adhesive; I have ascertained the plant sap to have been harvested from the roots of Devil's Claw, a ground-growing plant found in the Kalahari Desert (where the helmeted guinea fowl can also be found). The poison itself appears to have been derived from a plant belonging to the genus Boophone, what species I don't yet know but will soon – I suspect the species Boophone disticha, which is found in Sudan and South Africa and is a slow-acting poison commonly used by San hunters to bring down their prey…not an efficient way to achieve that end as it is said to take the animals four or five days to succumb to the effects of the poison, though it would be an effective way to cause a human enemy to suffer."

Molly stared. "Oh, God…that's…that's horrible." The thought that Sherlock had come so close to being pierced with such a weapon…

Not looking up from the scope, Sherlock somehow shrugged without giving the appearance of shrugging. "Effective," he said dismissively.

Molly studied him in silence. The buoyancy that had come over him while explaining about the poison seemed to have dissipated suddenly, leaving him as flat and lonely and burdened and forlorn-looking as…as…

As he had been That Day…the day he faced Jim on the roof of the hospital and wound up jumping.

And, just as she had felt emboldened to speak to him on a personal level then, she did again now.

"Sherlock," she asked suddenly, "where's John? I haven't seen him in ages."

She knew it was the right question when she saw his shoulders tense.

"I should think that would have been obvious, Molly," Sherlock replied curtly, still poring over the slide. "He's still recovering from having dislocated his shoulder three weeks ago."

"I ran into him at the coffee shop downstairs yesterday," Molly said gently. "He wasn't wearing the brace, he was going to work, and when I asked he said he was feeling much better."

Sherlock ground his teeth. "Better, not recovered."

"He asked me how you were," Molly pointed out. "You live in the same building–"

"Because, obviously, I've been here a great deal, working," Sherlock said sharply, enunciating the last word with a finality that caused Molly's courage to ebb at once. She really wasn't a confrontational person at heart (though she had a lot more personal courage than many suspected), and she could see Sherlock was not going to open up about whatever was going on between him and John.

But she couldn't stop herself from asking, "Are you okay?"

Sherlock's eyes shifted to the side, then he raised his head from the microscope and looked at her full on. A wave of déjà vu swept over her.

What do you need?

You.

"No," Sherlock said slowly. He turned his head away to stare down at the surface of the worktable. "No, I'm not okay."

And she found herself asking, "What do you need?"

"Molly?" He raised his eyes to hers, his expression intense.

She swallowed. "Yes?"

"Would you…"

He stopped, looked down, then slowly rose to face her.

"Would you like to…"

"... have dinner?" She finished hopefully, but Sherlock spoke at the same time.

"…come with me to West Sussex Friday next?"

Molly blinked. "I…what?"

"I need to take the 5:02 from London, Victoria, Friday," Sherlock continued, reaching for his coat. "I require the help of…" he paused, searching for the right term, then settled on, "an assistant."

Puzzled, Molly asked, "Is it for a case?"

He hesitated. "Sort of."

"But John–"

Sherlock's eyes shifted away. "Would not be…the right person for this particular venture."

Molly thought fast. I'm on the schedule for work, and what would Tom think? He's already jealous of Sherlock. I really should say 'no,' or at least ask if we could do it another day.

"Yes, I'll come," she heard herself say instead.

John was surprised when his phone rang while he was getting ready for work the next morning. He seldom received calls before 7am. Puzzled, he answered without first checking the incoming number.

"Hello?"

"John."

"James!" John exclaimed, delighted to hear Sholto's standard, deadpan greeting (never a "hello" or a "hi;" always simply a man's name, either his first or his last). "This is a pleasant surprise."

"How have you been getting on?"

"Well," John said truthfully. "I've been getting on well…and you?"

As John filled his former commander in on what had been going on with him over the past few months and questioned the man on the news from Yorkshire (which consisted primarily of home improvement projects and dutifully performing the physical therapy exercises John had prescribed), he wondered privately what the phone call was about. As pleased as he was to hear from his friend, he knew full well that James was not really one for idle chitchat, and had no great love for talking on the telephone regardless. Not wanting to make the man uncomfortable, John kept his end of the conversation light, giving no indication that such a call was anything out of the ordinary, and waited patiently, knowing Sholto would come to it in his own good time.

Eventually, he did.

"John," the retired major said after a short lull, his tone hesitant, "you told me that – once you were 'landed somewhere,' that is – that I was…"

He paused, and John finished for him. "That you were welcome to come stay with me whenever you like… yes, I…" He stopped suddenly, realizing what the man was asking.

"Really, James? That would be brilliant!" He grinned. "When will you come?"

"Thursday evening, if that's all right." Though less effusive, the smile in James's voice was apparent. "I hope that's not too short of notice?"

John thought fast. It was Monday; he would be able to take Thursday afternoon and Friday off, he was sure. "Not at all. How long will you stay? What's the occasion?"

"I'd like to stay through the week-end, if that's all right. As for the occasion…do you remember BM*?"

John blanked for a moment, then it came to him and he began to laugh. "Oh, God…do I! God, how he hated that nickname!"

"Yes, well, who can blame him?" Sholto replied. "He's being awarded the Military Cross at Buckingham Palace on Friday afternoon; he asked me to attend and was rather hoping you'd come along with me."

"He certainly deserves it, and I would love to," John said warmly. "BM" or "Bomb Magnet" was so named because he had been caught in more bombing attacks in Helmand province than anyone in the regiment had ever heard of. The last one had not been so lucky for him – his leg had been so badly mangled that John had been forced to amputate it below the knee. Before he had lost consciousness, however, BM had arranged for the troops to be removed from the vicinity by helicopter, thus avoiding additional casualties.

John worked out the details with Sholto and then rang off. He checked his watch; he still had time for tea before leaving for work. He set his phone down and stood, carefully stretching his left arm and shoulder as he made his way to the kettle.

He had had to keep his shoulder immobilized for three full weeks following the incident at the mill. Physical therapy and range-of-motion exercises would continue throughout the summer, but John was feeling markedly better and counted himself lucky when he was finally able to dispense with the sling towards the end of the second week of June.

It had been a very dull, often irritating month. With his dominant arm bound up, the doctor had been unable to work on any of his projects around the flat. He had returned to work after only three days off, where he found he had to rely on the nurses for assistance with some ordinary examinations, refer more complicated in-office procedures to one of the other physicians, spend ridiculous amounts of time typing up his reports one-handed (with his non-dominant hand, no less), and endure endless questions from curious patients about how he had injured his arm (he made up a story about falling off a ladder, figuring none of them would believe the truth; he was such a poor liar, however, that, unbeknownst to him, more than half his patients assumed it was something far more embarrassing and one even suspected an injury resulting from some sort of bizarre, autoerotic activity).

What bothered John most, however, was the strange and sudden shift in his slowly mending relationship with Sherlock. He had – to his own surprise – seen very little of the consulting detective during the weeks subsequent to the events at the Docklands.

John's feelings about Sherlock were terribly mixed. More than Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, more than Harry or Mike, more than a desire to be a doctor again, more even than London itself, it had been Sherlock who had drawn John back from his self-imposed exile to Yorkshire.

When he looked back on the evening he had begun by looking at a flat with Sherlock Holmes and ended by killing a man to save Sherlock's life, John thought he could point to the exact moment when he realized he had come "home:" it was when, upon entering 221 behind Sherlock after chasing a cab through a maze of city streets and rooftops, he had unconsciously removed his coat and, casually and unthinkingly, hung it on a hook in the hallway for the first time while Sherlock flung his own over the end of the banister.

The degree of comfort, that feeling of being at home – finally – was something he had given up looking for and had certainly never expected to find when he had agreed to meet the strange man in Bart's lab the next evening at seven o'clock in Baker Street. John had gone because his curiosity had been piqued, because he had felt enough of an interest in the stranger to draw him, for the first time in months, out of the well of depression in which he had been living. He had been intrigued by Sherlock the more he saw of and learned about him, but he had not thought he had found a new flat, let alone a best mate and a new purpose. But when he had run behind Sherlock on that mad, unnerving, exhilarating chase after the cab, something in the universe had seemed to shift – he had almost heard the click – and he had somehow sensed the rightness of his place behind the detective. It was a feeling he had never experienced before, not in medical school, not in the Army – a feeling of this is where I'm supposed to be, this is what I'm supposed to be doing, and this is who I'm supposed to be doing it with. And later, when Lestrade had declared his fervent hope/belief that Sherlock Holmes, a great man, might someday be a good one as well, it had felt like a commission.

Most were perplexed by it, a few sensed it, but none fully understood the bond between them. John didn't fully understand it himself – he and Sherlock were as different as day and night, as chalk and cheese, as high desert and low rain forest – but he trusted whatever the connection between them was, even when he didn't always trust Sherlock himself. That was why he was able to accept and forgive what Sherlock had done to him at Baskerville (even though it had shaken him).

But when Sherlock had left him behind – had faked his own death and later told John that it was because he hadn't trusted in him to keep his secret – it had done more than shake John. It had thrown him into a crisis of faith.

How could he have got it so colossally wrong?

While he was in Yorkshire with Sholto, John had thought about it a great deal. Had he just been so eager to find a purpose that he had latched onto this brilliant man and imagined something between them that did not exist? He had needed Sherlock. But Sherlock, apparently – despite what John once believed – had not needed him.

It was a sobering thought – no, more – it was excruciating. Mycroft had been right – John did not trust easily. He had admired other people besides Sherlock, of course, and that and his own razor-sharp instincts were all that allowed him to hold onto the barest thread of hope that he hadn't been a mere sidekick all along – a glorified personal assistant to an eccentric, egomaniacal genius, unique only in his ability to put up with said genius. John never kidded himself that he measured up to Sherlock's brilliance, but he had believed there had been an instant connection, a reaction when they met that had raised them both to something greater when they were together than when they were alone. The fall and the events that followed it had shaken that belief, badly.

Being betrayed, let down and disappointed by the people he cared about the most was nothing new to John. His trust was not gained easily, and once lost, he never extended it again. When he had fled London last November he had not been sure he would return, and he certainly never expected to re-form a connection with Sherlock. But time, distance and healing had given him new perspective and, though he knew it wouldn't be easy, he finally decided that the extraordinary, defining friendship he had once believed in was worth taking another look at, even at the risk of further pain. And so he had returned "home," while at the same time approaching Sherlock with extreme caution – obtaining a job, moving into 221c, keeping his distance even as he wanted to reach out, by forging a life apart from the detective. He had been unable to help himself, even when he knew Sherlock was bewildered by his reserve.

But after the mill…things had felt different to John. After a few false starts he and Sherlock had fallen back into step as though they had never been parted. It had felt extraordinary, and John didn't regret a moment of it – not even the danger. For the first time he began to feel that things might actually get back to normal for them – or at least, to whatever "normal" for him and Sherlock was.

John apparently was the only one who felt that way. In the days following their Docklands adventure, Sherlock had become distant. John had a distinct impression the detective was actively trying to avoid him; he had begun skipping Sunday dinners with Mrs. Hudson in 221a, and when he and John chanced to pass in the hall, he would shift his eyes from the doctor's in a way that almost seemed…guilty…and find an excuse to hurry away.

Why would he be guilty? John wondered now as he finished his tea. Then he answered himself. He wouldn't. You're ascribing feelings to him he doesn't possess. The truth is that he's probably just busy, and he's cutting you out as he always has when he hasn't needed you to hand him his phone or help him with research or act as his muscle. The sooner you accept that, the better.

Sighing, John washed his empty tea mug and prepared to leave for work.

"So that's him," Sherlock said, a faint note of disapproval in his tone. "Major Sholto."

"Mm," Mrs. Hudson replied. "Seems a nice young man.

Ostensibly drying while Mrs. Hudson did the washing up, Sherlock narrowed his eyes from behind the curtain over the landlady's kitchen window at the two men as they descended the front steps and began looking round for a cab.

It was Thursday evening. Sholto had arrived earlier in the day; he and John had spent the afternoon catching up in 221c and were now on their way to dinner. John had brought Sholto to 221a to introduce the major to Mrs. Hudson and invite her to accompany them (Sherlock, to the landlady's disapproval when she had learned of it, had managed to give the impression that he was not at home), but she deferred on the grounds that "you boys need to catch up" (it had made the normally impassive Sholto smile ever so slightly to hear himself referred to as a "boy").

Once they had returned to 221c, Sherlock hung about in 221a, getting under Mrs. Hudson's feet and finally caving to her insistence that he have tea with her, trying not to listen to John's occasional shout of laughter from downstairs as he and his old commander reminisced.

"If they're such good friends, why does he barely even mention him?" he said now as he watched the two men walk off, apparently having given up the attempt at a cab (really, a good coat and an imperious hand-wave is the best way to go about it, Sherlock thought).

Mrs. Hudson looked surprised. "He mentions him all the time to me. He never shuts up about him!" She laughed affectionately. "Hand me that cup, love, will you? There, just to your right."

"About him?" the detective demanded as he dutifully complied.

"Mm-hmm." Mrs. Hudson frowned as she examined a chip in the cup's handle. "Oh, dear. Sherlock, you don't treat precious things carefully enough sometimes!"

"Yes, but it's definitely him that he talks about?" Sherlock said impatiently, passing her the matching saucer.

Mrs. Hudson gave a small, hopeless sigh as she took it from him. "Mm-hmm."

Sherlock sniffed. "I've never even heard him say his name."

"Well, the poor man's almost a recluse – you know, since–"

"Yes," Sherlock broke in shortly.

"I never expected to meet him," Mrs. Hudson went on, setting the last of the clean dishes in the rack and stretching the tea towel over the back of a chair. "John says he's the most unsociable man he's ever met."

"He is?" Sherlock was outraged. "He's the most unsociable?"

"Yes. I wouldn't go so far as to say unsociable, though…a bit reserved, certainly…"

"Ah, that's why he's bouncing round him like a puppy." He meant to sound derisive, but it came out sounding bitter.

Mrs. Hudson glanced up at him sharply. Sherlock, realizing she could see through him, glanced away sullenly as her gaze softened and she offered him a sad, sympathetic smile, affecting to look out the window once more.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said gently, laying a gnarled hand whose touch could not be made ungentle even by the severest bout of arthritis, "you needn't be jealous. John loves you, you know."

Sherlock was startled. "We're not–"

Mrs. Hudson sighed in exasperation. "I didn't say you were."

They were silent a moment; then, Mrs. Hudson suggested, "You know, you could go with them tomorrow. It would mean a lot to John, I think."

Sherlock didn't look at her. "I wasn't invited. And even if I were, military ceremonies interest me not at all. Besides…I have a…a case that needs my attention."

"Sherlock–"

"I really do have a case," he insisted, and swept out of 221a without another word.

It was still dark when the train left King's Cross. Sherlock got them a compartment to themselves; any would-be commuters that stuck their heads in took one look at the tall, pale, brooding figure with the forbidding expression and hurriedly backed out again with a muttered apology, not daring to ask if the seats next to him or Molly were taken. This suited Sherlock down to the ground. He sat leaning his head against the window, curls mashed between the glass and the side of his face, eyes blank.

Molly wondered for the hundredth time what exactly she was doing here. Far from filling her in on his plans, Sherlock barely seemed to notice she was there. She attempted to speak to him only once, asking if he would like her to have a look at the folder he held loosely in his pale hands that had been handed to him at the station by the woman she recognized as the assistant to Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock had replied "No" rather rudely and gone back to staring unseeingly through the window. Molly had left him alone after that.

She wished she had brought along a book to read.

Three fraught hours later they descended from the train into a picturesque market town overlooked by a restored medieval castle. It was a lovely day, and Molly instantly was charmed by the stunning surrounding landscape, the quaint shops, and the majestic castle brooding over it all. Sherlock didn't seem to take note of any of it, striding through the small station to the nearest taxi rank as though on autopilot. Molly hurried after him; it seemed as though he had forgotten she was there, and she feared he would leave without her if she did not keep up. She slid into the back of a taxi beside him just as he was giving the driver directions to an intersection in the heart of the town.

Molly finally broke her silence as the taxi pulled out of the station car park.

"Sherlock," she began, hesitant but firm all at once, "why am I here? Truly?"

He was silent for so long that she thought at first he wasn't going to answer; then, with his face turned to the window, he replied, "You are here, Molly, to help me obtain information from a potentially reluctant witness."

This only raised about a hundred more questions, but in the end Molly settled on, "And does this…witness…know we're coming?"

It was unnerving, the way he refused to look at her. "No."

"How did you know where to come, then, and when?" Molly wondered.

She saw how, in the faint reflection of his face in the window glass, his eyes narrowed and his lip curled.

"Because," he spat, "my dear brother provided me with the necessary information."

Troubled by his uncharacteristic lack of verbosity, she said no more.

The cab let them out at the corner of a narrow but busy street lined with cars, trees and small, brick shops. Sherlock threw some notes at the driver and sprang out. Not waiting for Molly or holding the door for her, he strode off down the pavement as though he knew exactly where she was going, though she was reasonably sure he had never been here before. Seizing her purse, she scrambled after him.

He was moving so quickly, coattails flying out behind him, that Molly almost had to trot to keep up. When he turned abruptly to enter a small, dusty-looking chemist's, she almost stepped on his heels.

At first Molly thought Sherlock had made a mistake – it was a common little chemist's, nothing more, stocked with over-the-counter medicines along the walls and currently occupied by two or three harried-looking mums of bored-looking, snotty children fidgeting in their chairs as their mums waited to collect prescriptions that would, presumably, cure their snottiness. Sherlock, looking tall and imposing and utterly out of place, spared them one disdainful look as they all gaped at him in astonishment, then stood back near the wall to wait as they took their turn with the chemist's assistant.

Bewildered, Molly managed to get out one word – "But–" before Sherlock glared her into silence. Hastily she looked away from him and watched the young man behind the chemist's counter as he passed out medicines to each mum and lollies to each child in turn, earning grateful smiles all around. Molly noticed he had a rather thick, East London accent, but was careful in his diction.

When the bell had rung behind the last customer, Sherlock, without a word to Molly, pushed himself off the wall and stepped up to the counter, the folder Mycroft's assistant had given him tucked under his arm, hands deep in the pockets of his Belstaff coat.

"Can I help you?" Said the young man behind the chemist's counter, his eyes fastened on the computer screen before him as he swiftly typed up some notes. He was tall and thin – as tall and thin as Sherlock himself. He had a rather long, angular face that was clean-shaven, clear, lively, light blue eyes, and pale ginger hair that was neatly cropped and combed.

"Yes, I rather think you can…Wiggy," Sherlock drawled.

Startled, the young man looked up, saw Sherlock, and froze, his expression turning shocked and guarded all at once.

"Shezza," he said slowly, staring.

Chapter Text

"Tyger Tyger, burning bright, / In the forests of the night; / What immortal hand or eye, / Could frame thy fearful symmetry?"
―William Blake, from The Songs of Experience Collection

July 2014

Despite their former comrade's incredulous joy at seeing two of his favorite but most notoriously asocial superior officers in attendance at his awards ceremony, John and James resisted all efforts to get them to linger at BM's reception. They might have been more inclined had the affair been made up solely of members of their old regiment, but there were enough openly curious civilians present, gawking at their scars and whispering indiscreetly behind their hands at these two reluctant tabloid frequenters, to make both men feel distinctly uncomfortable and on display; they made their apologies – and their escape – as soon as they felt it was polite.

Though James seemed more comfortable in his skin than he had been, John figured he wouldn't be up for the tube and had sprung for a cab back to Baker Street. It being a fine day, though, the major did agree to get out at Regent's Park and walk the rest of the way back. It reminded them both of the healing rambles they had taken together across the moor in Yorkshire, and the quiet talks they had enjoyed. It did John's heart good to see and hear how much brighter, more mobile, and more hopeful for the future his friend was.

"How does it feel – being back in uniform?" John ventured to ask as they meandered past the Open Air Theatre. Despite the fact that he had, like John, been invalided out rather than retired, Sholto had been given special permission to don the uniform for formal occasions, and he had chosen to do so for BM's ceremony.

"Bit…surreal," James admitted, looking straight ahead.

"Doesn't feel natural anymore?"

"Oh no, it feels natural, all right," Sholto declared. "Too natural, is the trouble. Despite all the time that's passed I still have difficulty admitting to myself that I'm never going back."

John understood. "I can imagine."

James looked at him sidelong. "Yes, I rather imagine you can."

They sauntered on in a pensive silence for a moment; then, with the air of forced cheerfulness common to one endeavoring to change the subject, Sholto asked, "We've talked a lot about me, but what have you been up to these days, John? Any interesting cases with your Mr. Holmes? I notice you haven't updated your blog since he returned."

John looked out over the expanse of grass toward the boat lake; it really was turning out to be a lovely day. "Well, I haven't really been going out with him much…rebuilding my life in London has been occupying a lot of my time," he said evasively.

"And solving cases with Holmes is just a hobby, is it?" Sholto asked shrewdly. "Didn't strike me that way before."

For a moment John didn't answer. Then he said, slowly, "Well…I have a bad habit of putting all my eggs in one basket, as it were. Surgery, the army, Sherlock…hasn't always worked out so well for me, has it?" He gave a sardonic laugh. "In fact, you could say it's always come back to bite me in the end."

He stopped a moment and stared at the boats bobbing along on the surface of the lake. Sholto paused and looked as well.

"I'm trying to be a bit more…cautious, this time around," John said finally.

Sholto smiled grimly. "No one who knows you could name 'an abundance of caution' as one of your defining characteristics."

"Yes, and look where it's got me, time and again," John said, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice.

"You always manage to land on your feet in the end, though."

John began moving along the path again; Sholto fell into step beside him. "So it would seem. But, if we're talking in clichés, I'd say it's more like I always manage to keep my head above water – or, maybe, come up for air one more time just before I drown. Maybe I'm thinking I'd like the latter half of my life to be a little less dramatic."

James glanced at him. "And yet you came back to London."

John quirked his lips. "I would have been hard put to find a job as a doctor in your remote little village, James."

"But that's not why you came back," the major insisted.

Before he could stop himself, John huffed out his breath in frustration. He wasn't well known by many, but those who did, he sometimes felt, knew him too well.

James laughed. "I'm not trying to exasperate you, John, I assure you. Just trying to figure out where your head is, that's all."

John gave in and laughed, too. "I'm afraid I don't really know myself. But I do think maybe it wouldn't hurt me to…spread my interests around a bit."

Sholto grew serious again. "It's not in your nature to give only part of yourself to something, John. You're one of those people who can't live with a divided heart. You must know this about yourself."

John did know it, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

"You were asking about cases," John reminded Sholto, aware that his own attempt to change the subject was far less graceful than his friend's had been. "There is an ongoing one, as it happens – in fact, I popped my bum shoulder out last month while helping Sherlock on it."

One thing about James Sholto, John thought gratefully as he began filling the other man in on some of the details of the case…he never pushed an issue once he'd had his say. He'd made his point; now he would step back and let John figure out the rest, listening if that was what John required, leaving it alone if John didn't wish to speak of it. He was a restful person to be around, the doctor reflected.

"So this serial killer takes down his marks with a crossbow," Sholto remarked as they approached 221 Baker Street. "I've been following the case in the media, of course, but that's one detail they left out."

"Yeah," John replied, pausing on the pavement outside 221 to fish through his pockets for his keys. (He wasn't used to wearing a suit anymore; he missed his Haversack, but it was too warm for it now.) "They wanted to keep that detail quiet while they ruled out false leads." He felt safe enough sharing information with Sholto who was, of course, well accustomed to the concept of non-disclosure. "Definitely related to Moriarty….all the targets had something to do with him, if only in a peripheral way, and nothing, apparently, at all to do with one another. No one around here is a big believer in coincidence. Damn!"

His keys seemed determined not to make an appearance.

"Sounds like he was particularly interested in firing a shot off at Holmes."

"Greg and I noticed," John grunted, patting his front trouser pockets. No luck. "He took that shot at Sherlock in the Mill on the fly, and gave away his position doing it. The risk for such an iffy shot seemed big enough to indicate it being personal."

"A crossbow," Sholto mused. "That's impressive shooting. I'm not sure even you could pull that off, John."

"You don't know the half of it," John said distractedly. "Ah ha!" He had finally located the keys in his inside jacket pocket. "The shooter uses feather fletching on the bolts instead of vanes, which Sherlock tells me makes keeping the bolt on target even more challenging. Odd choice of feathers, too…handmade from the tail of an African helmeted guinea fowl. Remember those birds, James? No shortage of them during our tours." Extracting his keys from his jacket pocket (they hid, that was the only explanation, surely), John started towards the steps of 221.

But Sholto remained rooted to the spot, staring at him. "Feather fletching from an African helmeted guinea fowl?"

The sharpness in his tone arrested John in his tracks; puzzled, he turned back to face his old CO. James's scarred face wore the intense expression he knew so well.

"Does that mean something to you?"

"It might," James said tersely. "Tell me – did the tips happen to be dyed blue?"

John gaped at him. "James…how the hell can you know that?" he demanded, recovering himself.

"John, I think I know who your shooter might be," Sholto said urgently. "My commanding officer when I was with the First Bangalore Pioneers, 'Tiger Jack' Moran…a spotless career up until–"

He broke off, thinking hard; John, impatient to hear more, forced himself to wait silently – he could almost see the wheels turning in his old friend's mind and didn't want to disrupt the process. Finally James met his eyes again, his expression hard.

"It can't be a coincidence," he finally declared. "Let's go in…I'll tell you everything, and then I think we'll want to speak to the officer in charge of the – John!"

The unexpected shout was so uncharacteristic of James's usual calm that John hardly had a chance to register it before the other man had tackled him to the ground, temporarily winding him.

"James, what the hell–" John gasped, then froze when the larger man rolled off him, coming to rest flat on his back on the pavement. The late-morning sunlight glinted off the buttons on his uniform, and something else – the shaft of a metal bolt protruding from the man's chest, the blue-tipped feathers still quivering from their recent flight.

"James!"

At that precise moment, the door to 221 opened and Mrs. Hudson stepped out.

"I thought I heard you boys coming back. I put the kettle on–" She broke off when she saw the major lying on the ground with John kneeling over him. "Oh, my – John, what happened?!" she gasped.

"Mrs. Hudson, ring for an ambulance," John commanded, pulling off his jacket. "Quickly!" he barked, when she stood frozen and staring.

"Yes–yes–" Hand at her throat (but strong and determined for all that), she vanished back indoors, much to John's relief – she was now out of the line of fire and help would soon be on the way. He turned back to his patient.

"Stay with me, James, I'll get you sorted." John wadded up his jacket and pressed it to the wound. In seconds it was saturated…the blood was coming fast. Too fast.

John felt as though a bucket of ice had suddenly flooded his stomach when he realized the bolt had hit James's pulmonary artery. There was nothing he could do, nothing a full team of paramedics could do even if they were to arrive at this very moment. Unless an operating theatre staffed by a team of trauma surgeons prepped to go were to materialize magically around them, the major didn't stand a chance.

No. No. He would not accept this. He couldn't. He was Captain John bloody Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart's bloody Hospital, for God's sake. There was no way, no way he was going to just sit here and watch helplessly while another friend died in front of him. Shifting his suit jacket to find the driest side, John repositioned it around the wound, pressing down hard, careful to leave the bolt in place even though, oh God, it didn't fucking matter, he might as well pull the damn thing out for all the good leaving it was doing because blood was pulsing up around it, soaking into James's uniform, drenching John's suit jacket and turning it into a sodden, spongy mass, seeping between the doctor's fingers–

No…no, God, no!

"John." It came out garbled; Sholto choked on the blood that was already rising in his throat and began coughing.

"No," John tried to rap it out in his "captain" voice of old, but it came out in a gasp. "No, don't talk…James, just…just…"

"No." James coughed; blood sprayed over John's shirt, face, hair. "No…you–" The major choked helplessly.

Tears rose in John's eyes, but he wasn't aware of them as he stared down at his friend, trying desperately to hold the blood – the life – in his body. "James," he said shakily, "stay with me, yeah? Please. You'll make it. You'll make it."

James, his face already waxy from the blood loss, shook his head slightly. His fierce green eyes bore into John's. "No. You...okay," he whispered.

Then, incredibly, he smiled.

"It's…okay." He coughed again, then nodded once. "Good…death."

"No," John pleaded, though he knew it was useless. "James, no."

But Sholto did not speak again.

Chapter Text

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." – John 15:13

"Looked a bit of a weirdo if you ask me. Often are, these vigilante types." [Spots John glaring at him.] What are you looking at?"
―Chief Superintendent, from The Reichenbach Fall

July 2014

The chemist's assistant (Wiggy?) reluctantly ushered them into a small office at the back of the shop. He pushed the door to, but did not close it all the way.

"Got to keep an ear out for the shop keeper's bell," he explained. "My boss is on a buying trip…won't be in 'til lunch."

"She places an unusual amount of trust in a drugs prisoner out on license*, doesn't she, Billy?" Sherlock said with a smirk, rather rudely over-pronouncing the "B" in "Billy."

The young man glanced sidewise at Molly and then away again, flushing, though whether at the nickname or the revelation of his background she couldn't quite tell.

"Here…er…have a seat," he said awkwardly, motioning Molly to an old, wooden swivel desk chair and hurrying to clear piles of paperwork from a pair of straight-backed wooden chairs for himself and Sherlock. Molly glanced around quickly as she took the seat…the office was small and very crowded with piles of paperwork and files on the floor, the small desk, on top of the two small filing cabinets, the dusty windowsill and even the radiator cover, but she got the sense that the young man knew where everything was. He gave off an air of being brisk and quick-witted. Though he looked to be about ten years younger than herself, he seemed a confident sort – or would have done, she thought, if he weren't squirming uncomfortably under one of Sherlock's famous, figurative full-body scans.

"My, my, we have come up in the world," Sherlock drawled, sounding annoyingly like his brother (an observation that would have infuriated him were Molly to voice it).

The young man swallowed. He glanced at Molly again. "Er…" he began.

"Molly," she supplied, since it looked as though Sherlock wasn't going to make introductions.

"I'm Bill. Would you like some tea?" He motioned awkwardly towards a small kettle on top of the radiator cover with a trying-to-be-helpful diffidence that, bizarrely, reminded her for a moment of John Watson.

"Er…no, thank you."

"I wouldn't suggest you have anymore caffeine yourself, Bill," Sherlock suggested snidely. "Clearly you've been up half the night swotting away at your books. Finding the 'law and ethics' course a bit hard going, are we? Quite dull compared to 'actions and uses of drugs,' I'd wager."

Bill stared at him, wide-eyed, and Molly quickly thrust her own amazement to the side to try to deflect the gathering storm of deductions. "Um, Sherlock–"

Sherlock started as though he had forgotten she was there. He recovered himself. "Ah, Molly," he said, as though she had just wandered in. "Allow me to introduce you to Bill Wiggins, late of my Homeless Network, currently an inmate of HMP Ford where he has been given clearance to leave the grounds in pursuit of his goal to become a pharmacy technician – an endeavor which includes study and an apprenticeship, thus his presence at this shop." He popped the "p" in that provoking way of his.

At this flood of information, Molly and Bill gaped at him in astonishment. Sherlock paused briefly and, narrowing his eyes at the gob-smacked young man, continued.

"A privilege he would not have had at this time (having not yet passed his Full License Eligibility Date) were it not for the direct intervention of my dear brother, who in turn would not have intervened had John Watson not been involved."

Startled, Molly's eyes flitted back to Sherlock. "John?" she asked, bewildered.

Sherlock nodded once without meeting her gaze. "Before Mycroft arranged for his transfer, Wiggins here occupied the cell next door to John's at Frankland."

Molly looked at Wiggins. "You knew John?"

She was surprised at the way the young man's sharp features suddenly softened in a look that was somehow both fond and sad all at once. "The 'Doc,' yeah." He stopped. Swallowed hard. Turned his eyes back to Sherlock.

"I…I tried to look arter…after him, Shezza, the way you said, before…before all that went down, you know. When we wound up in the nick together, I really did try."

Wiggins folded his lips and looked away. "Mostly, though, he wound up looking after me."

Thinking about John's compassionate side, Molly put in, "I'm sure you looked after each other."

She was trying to be comforting, but Bill did not look up. His mouth tightened. "It were mostly on his side," he mumbled.

"Yes, yes, all very touching, I'm sure, how wonderful," Sherlock cut in impatiently, ignoring Molly's frown. "That's not why we're here, Wiggins."

Brandishing the folder he had carried with them on the journey from London, he added, "I'm here for the information that this," and he slammed the folder down on the small, cluttered side table next to the younger man, "leaves out."

Bill stared at him with a puzzled frown for a moment; then, when Sherlock simply sat staring at him, waiting impassively, he slowly reached for the folder, opened it, and extracted a file. Molly could not see what was in it from where she was sitting, but she did notice that the young man appeared to be looking at photographs – and she noticed the way the color suddenly drained from his face. Hurriedly shoving the pictures back into the file, he dropped it back onto table quickly, as though it was a hot dish that had burned him. When it landed, one edge of a photograph slipped out, revealing a partial image of a man's torso – a man who appeared to have been beaten bloody, Molly saw with a quick intake of breath.

"I don't know what you're on about," Wiggins said, jerking his eyes to the side, away from the file. "If…if you have that, then you know everything. I don't know what I could add."

"Don't you," Sherlock replied evenly. "I've been over the evidence in that file, Wiggy. It doesn't add up, and I know you were there."

"Course I was there," the young man said tersely. He lowered his ginger brows, glaring up at Sherlock. "So what? That doesn't mean I have anything else to tell yer about what happened."

"Oh, I believe that is precisely what it means," Sherlock replied easily, pale gray eyes burning as he snatched up the file and withdrew a photograph of (Molly could just see over his shoulder) a supine body with a torn-open throat. "Starting with the fact that John Watson is not guilty of the manslaughter of prison officer Gary Harris, despite what the official record says."

"What?" Molly gasped, but Sherlock didn't even glance towards her, instead keeping his steady gaze fixed on Wiggins, who had gone even paler, the sullen, defiant look on his face evaporating and leaving behind one of fear in its place.

"I…how…" the young man stammered.

"Harris was stabbed by a left-handed assailant," Sherlock rushed on, moving his right pinky finger over the bloody image, the other fingers on that hand curled loosely inward. "John is left-handed, the imbeciles were correct when they ascertained that, but after he was shot he–"

Sherlock stopped suddenly, mid-sentence, so abruptly that Molly stared at him in shock. The detective was frozen like a setter on point; his eyes, narrowed intently, suddenly went wide. Molly could almost see the flow of information flooding his brain.

"Hand me the file," he demanded suddenly, thrusting a hand out towards Wiggins. "Quickly!"

Startled, Wiggins picked up the file and held it out. But instead of taking it, Sherlock locked his eyes on the chemist's assistant himself.

"Oh," Sherlock breathed. "Oh." He screwed up his eyes and seized his curls in both hands. "Stupid, stupid!" He dropped his hands, whirled to face Wiggins and said sharply, "Tell the truth, now. All of it – leave nothing out. I will know if you do."

Wiggins gaped at him, looking like the proverbial deer in the headlights. "I–"

"Now," Sherlock snapped. "I already know almost all of it, anyway." Molly stared at him, wide-eyed at his intensity, then back at Wiggins. For a long, tense moment, the two men's eyes were locked in a mesmerizing gaze; then Wiggins, shoulders slumping in defeat, bowed his head, his hands dangling limply between his knees as he hunched forward, and began to speak.

November 2012

"Let's say a patient presented you a script for a hundred milligrams of Lopressor," John said. "But you're out of Lopressor. Which could you use as a substitute: Toprol, generic Metoprolol, or Propranolol?"

Bill hurriedly scribbled the names of the pharmaceuticals down as the doc read them off, then sat back and stared down at the words, frowning fiercely and chewing his pencil rubber as he called up what he knew about each drug. The picture wasn't coming together; something wasn't right. Finally he looked up at John and saw the man seemed to be hiding a smile. Bill thought he could guess why.

"You havin' me on, Doc?" He demanded, his trademark grin creeping in to replace the frown of concentration. "None of 'em!"

John laughed. "Good job!" Wiggy hugged himself with pleasure; it was good to hear the doc laugh again. He hadn't been doing much laughing of late.

They were in the canteen, combining dinner hour with study time. Bill was always studying these days; he almost never bothered going to sosh anymore unless the doc was there, and these last couple of months he mostly wasn't. The doc had managed to out Harris's smuggling ring, Bill still wasn't quite sure how, and while Harris was able to sidestep some of the shit after it hit the fan, enough stuck to him that he did get reprimanded – an official warning for looking the other way. No more than a slap on the wrist, really, especially considering how the whole operation had been his baby to begin with. But it did mean that he lost the profits from the smuggling, profits he'd come to count on to supplement his income.

After that, Jorkins had started keeping a closer eye on Harris, and looking out for the doc – and for Bill himself. For a screw, Bill thought, Jorkins was all right, though the doc didn't fully trust him (Bill sometimes thought the doc didn't trust anybody, or maybe he was just afraid to). But then Jorkins's wife had a new baby and Jorkins went on parental leave. It was prime opportunity for Harris to take revenge. The screw was a bloody mean fucker, and he knew how to provoke the doc, set him up so he'd have an excuse to bang him up. Bill wished the doc wouldn't make it so easy for Harris, but he was kind of a hot head these days. When he was with Bill, helping him with his studies or just hanging about, he was as kind and patient as ever, but outside the library he'd started reminding Wiggy of a surly cur that'd been kicked around too much. Bill himself was usually pretty brash and mouthy, but Harris scared him, and the storm he could feel brewing between the screw and the doc scared him even more.

The doc had just finished his third three-week stint in solitary; he was finally back on the wing. Bill hoped that would be it for awhile, that Harris would start to lay off him a bit. He had missed the doc, and also worried about him – Bill didn't think the man could take much more before he finally cracked. He was starting to look mental.

This particular day – the day it all went to hell – was feeling wrong already. Bill had studied, he really had, but he wasn't doing quite so well as usual with answering the questions the doc was putting to him. It wasn't because he didn't know the material – he did know it. No, it was more that he was distracted by the doc himself. John was perfectly patient as always, but he looked like hell. His voice was calm and steady, yet his face was white and strained, with deep, dark circles cut into the skin under his eyes. His posture was all wrong, too…normally he held himself with military straightness, but these days he sort of hunched in on himself a bit, sort of defensive-looking. The doc never said, but Bill figured his back was probably hurting him from all the shots to the kidneys Harris kept giving him with his baton.

He'd also gone from being one of the stillest people Bill knew to one of the twitchiest – his left hand trembled and spasmed constantly even though he tried to hide it by tucking it under his right arm; whilst sitting, he constantly jogged his right leg up and down. He didn't seem to be aware that he was doing these things, and Bill didn't have the nerve to point it out to him.

And then he was so damned quiet. You'd think the man had had enough of being on his own with all the time he was spending in solitary these days, but when he wasn't with Bill or one of his two visitors he tended to stay in his own pad. Even worse, when Bill would go looking for him there, the doc never seemed to be doing anything – he'd be sitting on his bunk, hands in his lap, staring off into space in the barmiest way. When Bill spoke to him, he'd startle – Bill would actually have to call him out a couple of times before the doc seemed to really hear him – and then he'd shake it off with a smile, saying he was just thinking. But his smile seemed so forced these days, something he put on to stop Bill from asking too many questions, and in truth Bill wasn't sure he wanted to know what the man was thinking about.

Bill was pulled out of his own thoughts when the doc spoke again, consulting his notes.

"OK," John began. "Suppose a patient came in with a script for an albuterol inhaler. What condition would you expect–"

"Well, well, well. Stuck minding the baby again, Watson?"

It was Biddle, one of Cartwright's toadies and Harris's lackeys.

Biddle was the hands-off member of the Worthington Bank Gang. He had a big mouth and a malicious sense of humor, and he was the type of oily bloke who always managed to be away from the thick of things when trouble started. He wasn't any bigger than the doc, but he didn't have the doc's tough, compact build, strength, or personal courage. Biddle was the sneaky sort who would take cheap shots but avoid a one-on-one fair fight at all costs, so though Wiggins and John both stiffened as he drew near neither of them looked up, knowing they could expect nothing more from him than some crude comments (even though he was pretty pissed off at Bill for saddling him with the nickname, "Chicken Biddle"…the other lags took great pleasure in calling out, "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!" when he passed).

"Right," the doc continued, determinedly not looking in Biddle's direction. "Now, Wiggy, the patient comes in with a script for an albuterol inhaler, yeah? So, why would he need that prescription? What's he got?"

Bill couldn't help glancing nervously over when Chicken Biddle casually swung his leg over the bench to straddle it just a few feet away from them at the table, a big smile on his face, making a great show of looking expectant.

"Wiggy," John prompted gently, still not acknowledging Biddle.

Bill dragged his eyes back to the doc. "Erm…ask me again, doc?"

"What might a patient be prescribed an albuterol Inhaler for?" John repeated patiently.

Damn, but it was hard to think with that smug bastard grinning at him. "Erm…he's…hypertension?"

"Think about it and try again," John said calmly. Bill flushed and Biddle guffawed.

"Might as well give it up, Watson," the lag drawled lazily. "If you're looking to make a mini-doc out of this strung-out kid, you can forget it…he ain't got the brains."

Wiggins winced. John never even blinked. It was as though Biddle didn't exist for him.

"Think about it, Wiggy," the doc said again. "Who would benefit from the use of an albuterol inhaler?"

Determined not to let the doc down (or Biddle show him up), Bill scrunched his eyes shut to block out the image of his ugly, grinning face and thought hard.

And just like that, it came to him.

"Oi! He's asthmatic!" Bill exclaimed, eyes popping open.

John grinned. "Right you are."

That wiped the grin off Biddle's face momentarily.

"Making a trained monkey out of him," he said coldly, glaring contemptuously at Wiggins, who reddened again under his gaze. Then a thought seemed to occur to him and he grinned again, turning back to the doc.

"But you'd know all about monkeys in training, wouldn't you, Watson? Seeing as how you were the great detective's pet and all."

Bill shot a nervous look at John, who had gone frighteningly still. It took a lot to get the doc riled up – he rarely wasted his anger over mere words – but Bill knew you did not badmouth the Detective to him.

"Oh, yeah," Biddle went on easily, not recognizing the danger signs. (He might have thought John's stillness was more evidence of the man trying to ignore him.) "Cartwright told us how he'd heard how you followed him around, looking up to him like you was in primary school and him captain of the rugby team or whatnot…did everything he said, too."

John said nothing, but Bill could see by the sudden whitening of his knuckles how his fingers tightened around the edges of the textbook he was holding.

"How'd a doc like you get mixed up with someone like him, anyway?" Biddle continued maliciously. "Helping him nab those kids."

The doc's nostrils flared ever so slightly.

"Hell, you probably guarded the door while he shagged them before he poisoned them, didn't yer?" Biddle went on. Bill caught his breath as John drew himself up to his full height. "Or did he let you watch while he–"

Bill had always been known as a quick lad, but even he didn't realize he was capable of forming a course of action and executing it as fast as he did that day. A split second before the storm brewing inside the doc could break loose, Wiggins acted first, snatching up his own paper cup of bad tea and flinging it in Biddle's face, giving the cup an extra flick as it left his fingers so that it spun round, flinging sticky tea all over the man's head and shoulders and leaving him spluttering. He hoped by doing this to create an instant diversion – Harris was on duty and had been casting a surreptitious eye at him and John at regular intervals, no doubt looking for an excuse to pick on the doc again. By drawing the screw's already-focused attention on himself, Bill figured Harris would come over immediately to break things up before John had a chance to throw himself at Biddle and tear him apart. Bill guessed he'd get a day or two banged up in his pad for it, but if it spared the doc another working over or stint in solitary, he would count it well worth it.

God's sake, Bill thought. The bloody tea wasn't even hot anymore, but Biddle was roaring like a bull as he sprang to his feet.

Harris popped up instantly, like some sort of malignant jack-in-the-box.

"All right, gents, break it up now," the screw drawled, interposing his ever-ready baton between Biddle and the doc, who had also got to his feet. "You all right, Biddle?"

"Little fuck about burned my face off!" Biddle snarled, snatching a bunch of paper serviettes from the table and beginning to swipe at his face and neck.

"It weren't even hot!" Bill protested, spreading his hands wide.

"Starting to take after Papa Watson here, are you, Wiggins?" Harris sneered, jabbing John's chest with the end of his baton. "Turning into a scrapper like him, are you? We'll be giving you a nice long holiday in solitary, next."

"Lay off him, it wasn't his fault," John said sharply, glaring at Harris. "Sir," he added belatedly, in that pseudo-respectful way that never failed to piss the prison officer off. Bill groaned inwardly.

"He started it–" he began, pointing at Biddle, but Harris, seeing that they had attracted the interest of the other prisoners, cut him off and called out to the other prison officer present.

"Massio!"

A much-younger screw on the far side of the canteen looked over questioningly.

"Keep an eye on the lags here," Harris barked. "I'm going to escort these rowdy lads back to their pads. Sosh is over for them."

Massio nodded once and turned back to the room at large. Harris rounded on John, Bill and Biddle. He motioned to the door to the landing with his baton.

"You three, ahead of me now. March!" he ordered.

Bill and the doc exchanged glances, then the doc nodded slightly and moved ahead of the others to the landing. Bill followed him closely, feeling decidedly uneasy. He didn't like having Harris and his baton behind him.

His uneasiness increased dramatically when the screw directed them to proceed down the corridor of the first floor landing instead on up to their own wing. He had never been in it himself, but Bill knew through the grapevine that there was an empty cell on this level where Harris brought prisoners to have them get up close and personal with his baton without witnesses. The doc himself never spoke of his own visits here, but he always came away from them looking decidedly the worse for wear, and seeing where they were going, he went on high alert, glancing anxiously around at Bill.

Bill's heart hammered in his throat as Harris herded them down to the very end of a long corridor and through a door to an single, empty cell. Harris came in last and closed the door behind them. Bill could not keep himself from looking to John for reassurance; the doctor offered him a small, encouraging smile, but he looked worried.

"So, boys," Harris said, tapping his baton against his left palm. "You want to tell me what the hell that was all about, eh?"

"I was minding my own business–" Biddle began, but Bill, his voice a bit higher than usual with nerves, spoke up at the same time: "We was – were – having dinner, and I was swotting–"

"Shut up!" Harris barked, and they fell silent at once.

"You're the troublemaker, Watson," Harris sneered, turning on John. "This has you written all over it. What's your story, hm?"

The doc sighed with the air of one who knows full well what he says will make no difference, but he straightened and began to explain it dutifully like a soldier giving a report. "Bill and I were finishing dinner and going over his homework. Biddle came up and started giving us shit–"

"All I said was, Watson here was so stuck on Holmes like some bloody puppy, he probably looked the other way while the nonce diddled those kids after they snatched 'em," Biddle said loudly.

The doc set his jaw and clenched his fists while Harris snorted with laughter.

"Don't see why you'd object to hearing what's only the truth, Watson, honorable as you are," Harris said with a savage grin. "Everyone knows that detective of yours was a fraud and practically a murderer as well as a bloody coward…doesn't surprise me at all that he'd be capable shagging a couple of helpless–"

Well, it was to be expected, Bill thought grimly, hanging onto John's arm before he could pop Harris again (the screw was already flat on his back with a busted lip and a couple of loose teeth). The doc was a loose cannon these days; insult Sherlock Holmes to his face into the bargain and you deserved whatever you got. But it wasn't Harris that Bill was worried about…the bastard was already sitting up, wincing as he wiped his face with his sleeve and looking both murderously angry and scarily pleased with this development. No, it was what the screw would do to the doc that had Bill's nerves in a tangle.

"Guess you haven't had enough time in solitary, have you then, Watson," Harris snarled, using his forearm to wipe the blood from his face. "How's another three weeks strike you?"

"No."

It was as if all the air had been sucked from the room: Harris, Biddle and Wiggins all did a double-take and simply stared at John, who had shaken Bill's arm off and stepped away from him as though to draw the screw's attention entirely onto himself. He stood, calm and straight, expression cold, looking Harris right in the eye.

"What did you say?" the screw demanded. Bill looked nervously from John to the guard and back again.

"I said 'no,'" John replied flatly. "I'm done going down there."

Like most bullies, Harris was put wrong-footed by a victim who fought back. John's sudden, matter-of-fact defiance both infuriated him and, down deep, frightened him – which only made him angrier and more desperate to assert his dominance.

"You smart-arsed little shit," the prison officer hissed. "You think you have a right to tell me what you'll do or not do? You have no rights here, and you'll do what I bloody well tell you!"

The doc rocked back slightly on his heels, squaring his shoulders as he did so. His eyes burned like blue flames. The stony expression dropped off his face and, amazingly, he smiled – a smile that was somehow far more chilling, Bill thought, than the glare had been. Biddle seemed to think so, too, and he actually backed up a step so that he was just behind and to the left of Wiggins.

"Yeah?" John said pleasantly. "Why don't you try and make me?" He spread his hands slightly in a gesture that was almost inviting, encouraging Harris to take a shot at him.

There was a long, fraught moment of silence as Harris nervously pondered this, desperately trying to figure out how to save face. He knew he couldn't beat the doc in a fair fight. Presently his eyes shifted to Biddle's, and he flicked them at Bill. "Biddle," he said quietly.

Bill missed whatever message passed between them, but apparently the doc didn't. His eyes widened and he whirled back towards Bill with a shout. "Wiggy, get back!"

But Bill had no time at all to react. Biddle suddenly punched him hard in the small of the back and then again in the side, driving the wind out of him.

Next thing he knew, he was flat on his stomach on the concrete floor, his right arm twisted painfully up with his wrist between his shoulder blades, Biddle's knee pressing into his back. "Step back, Watson! BACK!"

Bill struggled to jerk free but froze, eyes wide, when he felt the point of a homemade shiv pressed to the underside of his jaw – a paper blade.** Biddle hissed in his ear, "One wrong move, kid, and I'll use this to pin your tongue to the roof of your mouth."

The doc, staring at him in horror, backed away at once, hands up to signal he wouldn't be trying anything else. A look of defeat came over his face as Harris cackled.

"Good decision, Watson," he smirked. "And since you're proving just how trainable you are – guess Holmes drilled that into you, or the army, yeah? – I'll give you a choice: three more weeks in the hole, or this." And he held up a length of rubber tubing.

John hesitated. "And if I say 'neither?"'

Harris answered easily, "Then charming Billy boy there gets both."

Heedless of the homemade spike at his throat, Bill began squirming frantically. "No! Doc, no!"

"I told you, keep still!" Biddle pressed the sharp tip of the paper blade harder against the soft skin beneath his jaw; Bill felt a trickle of blood slide slowly down his neck. The doc shook his head slightly at him in a warning to the younger man to keep still. Reluctantly, Bill gave up struggling, his heart pounding in fear.

With a weary sigh, John drew his left arm out of the sleeve of his sweatshirt with his right hand, then used the same hand to draw the garment up over his head. He got to his knees and lowered himself to the floor as Harris, grinning, stepped up to him, brandishing the hose.

"I was kind of hoping you'd go this route. I know you hate solitary worse, but I could use the exercise." And he raised his arm high above his head.

The horror of the next few minutes (and it really was only a few minutes, though at the time it had all seemed endless) was to haunt Bill Wiggins's dreams for the rest of his life: how the doc, his face brave and stoic and sad and resigned all at once, submitted to a brutal beating that, had it continued, might well have wound up killing him, for Harris was so incensed and so driven to make John show a reaction that he seemed to have forgotten all about the danger to himself if he did not hold back. How Bill, so appalled by what was happening, managed to unbalance a distracted Biddle (who was also taken aback by Harris's rage) and, before he could regain his balance, Bill nutted him in the jaw from below and broke free. How Bill had then thrown himself at Harris to stop him, taking a wild swing at the distracted screw and hitting him in the throat and, oh God, he truly did not remember grabbing the paper blade away from Biddle when he got loose, nor did he remember having it clenched in his fist when he threw the punch. The shiv, roughly the size and shape of a stubby pencil and exceedingly sharp, had gone easily through the screw's jugular with a wet pop; Harris uttered a garbled, liquid scream, and then blood was spouting from his neck like a fountain, spattering Wiggins's face in a warm spray, and he would never forget the feel of the hot blood on his face and hands, the sound of the point as it had impaled Harris's throat, and the awful feel of it in his hand as it had pierced the man's skin.

Biddle began howling in terror but John, who had been apathetically absorbing Harris's vicious blows just seconds earlier, was suddenly galvanized into action. He lunged at Biddle immediately, dislocating his left knee with a swift, sure kick that caused the man to halt his own cries with a sharp gasp. Before he could suck in a breath to yell again John got him in a chokehold, cutting off his air and applying just the right amount of pressure to render him unconscious.

But Bill was only dimly aware of this…already half hysterical at what he had inadvertently done, he began a fast descent into shock, scrambling backwards until his back hit the wall hard enough to bruise it, staring with horror at the lifeless Harris as he began to hyperventilate. On one level he was aware that the doc had quickly crawled over to the body – checking for Harris's pulse and peeling back his eyelids, inspecting the bloody, gaping wound in his throat with a grimace – but his blood was rushing in his ears like a fast-moving river and his sight was blurry.

Next thing Bill knew there was the fierce sting of a hard palm across his face, and his teeth seemed to rattle in his head as he was roughly shaken by the shoulders, a sharp voice fiercely demanding, "Snap out of it! Snap out of it and look at me, dammit!" He got the feeling John had been calling to him for some time.

Half-blind with tears, Wiggy had looked up to see the doc somehow transformed from the beaten figure he had been just moments ago. Battered and bloody as he was, his dark blue eyes were ablaze with an inner fire that could not be contained; he seemed to have grown somehow in the space of ten seconds.

"I killed him! Ah, God, doc I killed him!" Wiggins cried, finding his voice in his panic. "I-I didn't mean–"

"I killed him." The doc's voice had been low, deadly, intent. "Do you hear me? I killed him. He drove me to it. Sixty-three fucking days in solitary with only a couple of short breaks, and then the prospect of another three weeks along with him beating the hell out of me…I snapped. You got that?"

Wiggins stared at him. Had something happened to the doc's memory? To his own? He heard again the "pop" as the spike punctured Harris's throat and shuddered. "No," he said slowly. "No, that's not the way it was. You…I–"

The doc's fingers dug painfully into his shoulders, hurting him, silencing him.

"They think you did it, you'll not get out of here. You'll not go to uni, you'll get a longer sentence. Me, they won't do much to me, not after it all comes out, the way Harris has been after me. "

"They…they won't believe–"

"They will, once we get our story straight. They will because Biddle there," and here the doc cast a venomous look at the unconscious lag on the floor as he spat out his name, "will back us up. It will be to his advantage if he does, and I'll bloody end him if he doesn't."

Wiggins moaned, burying his face in his hands. "Doc, you can't cover for me…I'm a murderer!" Tears rose in his eyes.

John shook him so hard Bill thought his head might come off. "You're not, you little fool, do you hear me? You're bloody not! Harris had it coming! He'd have killed me; he might have killed you after! You didn't mean to do anything; he drove you to it. You have everything, everything to lose, and I have nothing. There's nothing more they can take from me, I have nothing left to lose, but you…and you didn't kill him, dammit – I did. This is all on me. Do you hear me? Do you?!"

"No…no, that's not how it was..."

"I'm the one who killed him. Say it."

Wiggins stared. "No…no, I–"

John grabbed his chin so hard that, later, it sported finger-shaped bruises. "Say it!"

"You…you…"

John glared. The kind "doc" was gone; there was no mercy in that gaze. "Say it," he hissed. Then, as Wiggins stared at him, distraught and hiccoughing, his voice softened, and his eyes gentled. "For me. Say it, Wiggy."

"You…you k-killed him." And Bill began to weep.

Suddenly his "doc" was back. "Good lad. That's a good lad." The fingers digging into his shoulders relaxed, and an arm came round him instead, kind and fatherly (or the way Wiggins imagined would be fatherly – he hadn't the experience to know). "It'll be all right. It will. I'll be fine, and you'll be fine, and it's all for the best. It's not your fault, any of it. It's better this way. It is, trust me. I'll look after you."

And, stunned and sickened and shocked by it all, the traumatized Wiggins had sobbed on John's shoulder until Biddle came round. John had settled Bill against the wall and then turned on Biddle, and the dire threats he had uttered to the other man had had Biddle almost pissing himself in fear and falling over himself agreeing to back John's story – which, after all, portrayed Biddle himself in the best possible light, anyway, since it put all the blame on Harris for forcing Biddle into acting as his muscle.

July 2014

Sherlock stood facing the small window, his hands braced on either side of it and his head bowed, as Wiggins recounted the horrific scene.

The brash, mouthy and street-smart young homeless man Sherlock had once pressed into the information-gathering business was now almost overcome with emotion; Sherlock heard him slide off the chair onto his knees on the floor as he broke down completely, utterly, hiding his face in his hands.

An affable, lazy youth, uncaring of earning the good opinion of others, Sherlock thought dispassionately without turning around. Not unkind, but unambitious and concerned primarily with his own interests. Look at him now: focused, driven, also empathetic and guilt-ridden…sentiment, I suppose. Well, John does tend to have that effect on people.

The thought stung, and Sherlock made an awful, choked sound deep in his throat; he became aware that Molly, tears streaming down her own face, had impulsively knelt beside the distraught youth on the floor and put her arms round his shoulders.

"Harris kept hitting him," Wiggins choked behind his fingers. "He kept hitting him and hitting him and hitting him. He was so mad, mental...he kicked the doc over when he wouldn't yell and started using his baton on him...and the doc, he was just…taking it. Just laid there, taking it. He weren't moving, or yelling, or trying to fight back or nuffin. The look on his face…it was like he dint care anymore. And Harris, he was so mad…it was like he couldn't stop himself. I thought he was going to kill him. And the doc wasn't fighting back, and I couldn't stand it no more. I just–"

"Stop," Sherlock said tonelessly from the window. He was utterly still but for his long fingers digging harder and harder into the windowsill. "Stop talking."

As Molly attempted to comfort Wiggins, her heart clenched with pity, for him and for John. John had clearly wanted Wiggins to forget all that had happened, to put it behind him and go forward, but it was also clear that the youth had done anything but – he was fearfully cut up; the guilt had obviously been eating away at him.

"…I got so angry, so s-scared, I just snapped," Wiggins whispered despite Sherlock's injunction, apparently unable to stop himself now that he had finally voiced his awful secret aloud; his words poured out like a dam had been released. "I don't know how, but I got the shiv away from Biddle, and then I went at Harris – to stop him, just to stop him! I didn't…I didn't mean to–"

"But you did mean to let John take the blame," Sherlock snarled, whirling around from the window to face Wiggins and Molly.

"He made me. He made me!" the young man choked. "I – I never wanted him to take the blame, but he made me let him."

"And every imbecile at the hearing believed it." Sherlock's eyes were icy.

Wiggins wiped at his eyes with his sleeve as Molly rubbed circles on his back. "Jorkins…one of the other screws – I mean, prison officers – he testified on the doc's behalf. So did the prison doc. And Biddle backed up the story." He sniffed heartily and looked up at Sherlock. "Other prisoners came forward, then, too…Harris was dead, and nobody liked him. Mean fucker." His mouth twisted as he tried to bring himself back under control. "Everybody liked the doc," he added softly.

Sherlock felt something twist in his chest. He ruthlessly pushed it down.

"That explains, then, why the board were so lenient with the add-on to John's sentence," Sherlock muttered, narrowing his eyes as he looked over Bill and Molly's heads. "I knew it had to be more than just Mycroft's involvement–"

At that moment his phone chimed – incoming text. Even at this pivotal moment, Sherlock Holmes was incapable of not responding to a text alert. Automatically he fished his phone out of his pocket and swiped his thumb across the screen to unlock it.

He felt a prickle of unease when he saw the message.

The Yard, now. John needs you. –GL

"Molly, cope," he commanded, gesturing vaguely at Bill, and, leaving a bemused Molly crouched on the floor beside Wiggins, he swept out of the office and through the shop door, slamming it behind him with a bang that made the bell jingle madly.

Chapter Text

“Each one of us here today will at one time in our lives look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question: 'We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed?' For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don't know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted. And so it is those we live with and love and should know who elude us. But we can still love them - we can love completely without complete understanding.”
-Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It & Other Stories

July 2014

"He's in there," Lestrade said quietly.

Sherlock followed his gaze. There was Lestrade's office; Sherlock looked across the hall through the glass wall and door to see John sitting in a chair perpendicular to Lestrade's desk, facing the wall. He was sitting very straight, both feet on the floor, hands on his knees. His left profile was facing them, and the ragged scar stood out on his pale face like a brand. His features were set in an expressionless mask.

Sherlock had got on the first train back to London after leaving West Sussex. When the train stopped in Crawley there was a delay while two men in suits boarded and made their way to Sherlock's compartment. Sherlock raked them over with his eyes as they entered: unarmed, £800 suits, meticulously groomed nails and hair, expensive sunglasses, the right-handed man wearing fine-grained leather driving gloves. Glancing back through the window, Sherlock spotted a black Jaguar parked in the fire lane in front of the station. Knowing Mycroft sent them, he rose at once to accompany the two agents before they could speak.

Mycroft did occasionally have his uses – once they were settled in the car and on their way, the one agent (he introduced himself as "Plummer" – Sherlock promptly deleted this information) was able to provide the detective with electronic copies of John's statement, the early findings from the crime scene, and a possible name for their elusive assassin – John Sebastian Moran*.

"We had already created a profile for an assassin that was very likely ex-military, a former officer who had likely been, shall we say, invited to resign his commission, aged late forties to early fifties, left-handed and a large-game hunter with a gambling addiction." Mycroft, who met Sherlock at the Yard, was now filling him and Greg in on the information he had compiled in the approximately three hours since the attack at Baker Street.

"Obviously an accomplished marksman with unusually steady hands," Mycroft went on, voice pitched low. He, too, was surreptitiously watching John as he spoke. "I'm sure before long we would have arrived at Colonel Moran – known informally as 'Jack' or 'Tiger Jack', formerly of the 1st Bangalore Pioneers – but Major Sholto solidified the identification."

"Why 'Tiger?'" Lestrade asked quietly. He too had eyes on the still figure in his office.

"Moran indulged his penchant for hunting large game while he was abroad whenever possible," Mycroft explained. "Eight years ago, while serving in an advisory capacity during a training mission with one of the Gorkha regiments in India, one of the Colonel's men was supposedly attacked by a tiger. Moran fired at the animal, wounding it, and then proceeded to follow it down a drain in order to finish it off."†

Lestrade whistled. "Sounds bloody reckless to me. And aren't tigers endangered?"

"The Colonel had a reputation for recklessness, indeed," Mycroft said, dragging his eyes away from John to glance at the file in Lestrade's hands. "His admirers described him as having 'nerves of steel,' a rather kinder term for it."

Nerves of steel. The hair on the back of Sherlock's neck prickled oddly, but he didn't move his eyes from John.

"As for the tiger," Mycroft continued, "Moran has, ostensibly, legitimately gratified his passion for hunting with allowable large game including bear, kudu, antelope, hartebeest, moose and the like. In fact, it was his desire to increase the challenge to himself in this area that led him to trade the rifle for the crossbow during his safaris. But given that tigers are unlikely to attack a human unprovoked, it does bear out the rumors that the Colonel and some of the men in his regiment regularly indulged in poaching."

Closing the file, Greg swore softly and tapped it against his other hand. "Mycroft…this is the record of an honorable solider!"

"On the surface, yes," Mycroft said testily. "But there were too many…shall we say, disturbing incidents. Incidents where he ordered or even led new recruits into battle under questionable conditions, and accusations of insubordination. The difficulty was in proving such allegations, and Moran was both bold and, perhaps, fortunate – his actions admittedly produced high amounts of casualties, but they also produced positive results. It wasn't until his name was connected with instances of Middle Eastern prisoners being tortured and abused that he was finally given an SNLR*† discharge."

Lestrade glanced back through his office window at John again. "And it was Sholto who was instrumental in bringing that about, you say?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied. "Major Sholto is – was – an honorable, by-the-book soldier: stern, no nonsense, committed, and able to divorce himself from emotion in the performance of his duty. But he was not a cruel man. The chances Moran took with his own men concerned him, but his fears were deemed groundless because of the results these actions produced. No doubt Moran's distinguished background – the son of an ambassador, educated at Eton and, later, Oxford – made his superiors reluctant to take Sholto's word over Moran's."

"No doubt," Sherlock murmured, curling his lip.

Mycroft went on as though his brother had not spoken. "At any rate, Moran's authorization of the use of torture to extract information from prisoners disgusted Sholto, and with the media attention that was given the topic during the time, Moran was, ultimately, discharged under less than honorable conditions."

Sherlock added somewhat bitterly, "Though because he could not be directly linked to the actual execution of the crimes, claiming his orders had not extended to the extreme methods employed, he was not charged with war crimes himself."

"Well, quite," Mycroft admitted.

"So how did he wind up working with Moriarty?" Greg broke in.

Mycroft paused before answering, his eyes still fixed on John.

"It was a blow for Moran when he was dismissed from the army," the elder Holmes said finally. "Additionally, the SNLR on his record ensured that finding gainful employment geared to his, shall we say, unique talents would be all but impossible. Bitter and depressed, he found redress in another of his preferred pastimes: cards. It became a way for him to acquire funds; unfortunately his skill at cards did not equal his skill at marksmanship, and before long he was heavily indebted to some of the least savory money lenders that frequented London's underworld at the time."

"Which is when Moriarty approached him," Sherlock commented, finally turning away from the window to face Lestrade and his brother.

"Indeed," Mycroft acknowledged, inclining his head. "Moriarty recruited Moran for select assassinations – he was most likely the shooter of General Shan during what Dr. Watson so quaintly named 'The Blind Banker' case – and eventually became chief of staff of Moriarty's criminal empire."

"Bloody hell," Lestrade said quietly. "What a fall from grace."

"Moran no doubt saw it as a rise in fortune, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said coolly. "Part of what made Moriarty so dangerous was his ability to psychologically manipulate people. He recognized Moran's abilities, saw that he was embittered at being mustered out of the army, and gave him what he craved most – a purpose, and an outlet for his propensity for strategy and violence. As far as Moran was concerned, Moriarty gave him a second chance at life, and in return, he gave Moriarty his own single-minded loyalty."

Sherlock shifted uneasily and glanced back through the office window at John.

"I don't understand something," Greg said after pondering this for a moment.

"Just one thing?" Sherlock said snidely.

Lestrade chose to ignore this and addressed his question to Mycroft. "If Moran's such an uncanny marksman, how did he manage to miss John? And why didn't he take a second shot after having missed him the first time?"

"Because, Inspector, I don't believe Moran was targeting John," Mycroft replied heavily. "Sholto certainly thought so when he caught sight of the shooter in the window of the empty flat across the street from 221 Baker Street, and died thinking he was protecting John. But I believe that Moran has been watching 221 for some time, and when he saw Sholto with John, he made a spur-of-the-moment decision to take his revenge on the man who, as he sees it, ruined his career."

"He tipped his hand, then," Lestrade said. "If he was targeting Sherlock from that location, he won't be able to now."

"If Moran had been targeting me at Baker Street, Detective Inspector, I'd be dead by now," Sherlock observed coldly.

"Well, you said yourself that he's had John in his sights several times already," Lestrade retorted. "The night you met Moriarty at the pool, and later at Bart's on the day you jumped and Moriarty shot himself…obviously it's not John who interests him, so…"

"No, perhaps not," Sherlock murmured, almost as though he was talking to himself. "But there's something…something he's planning, something I've missed." He ground his teeth in frustration.

"Be that as it may, we now have something to work with," Mycroft broke into his brother's brooding smoothly.

"And I have a forensics team going through that empty flat with a fine tooth comb," Lestrade put in.

"Hopefully a team made up of your least inept officers," Sherlock sniffed. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"And on that note, I will return to my office," Mycroft said. "You may keep the file, Detective Inspector; I expect you'll keep me apprised of any developments."

"Likewise, I hope," Lestrade risked saying, and Mycroft offered a noncommittal smile as he turned to go.

"Of course you'll keep me apprised, I'm sure, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft smiled faintly again. "Of course." He left without another word.

Greg scowled after him, then turned to Sherlock.

"All right, Sherlock. We've already talked to Mrs. Hudson, and once the forensics team has compiled their report I'll see you get a copy. In the meantime…John's made his statement; I think it's best you take him home now." He started towards his office.

"Lestrade."

Greg paused, puzzled, turning to face the younger man. Was that a note of…uncertainty in Sherlock's voice?

"You wouldn't want to come along now and see how the team's getting on yourself?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

Lestrade frowned. Sherlock knew how the procedures worked, for all he might claim to have forgotten. "Wish I could, but I'll be tied up here for awhile. I'll come by later tonight, though; bring the report myself. Maybe some dinner too, yeah?"

Sherlock looked at him searchingly, then nodded once. "Do."

Lestrade offered him a wan smile. "Right." He sighed and tiredly ran a hand over his face as they started for his office.

Just outside the office door, Lestrade paused, turning to Sherlock who was uneasily staring at John through the glass.

"Listen, Sherlock," Greg said hesitantly. He waited until Sherlock was looking at him again before he continued. "John's pretty shaken up. He's…this is just one more thing, and, well…" He sighed. "Just…look after him, all right?"

The detective stared at him for a long moment, feeling uncertain, even afraid.

"I…don't know what to do," Sherlock confessed, his voice low.

Lestrade blinked, astounded at this admission of ignorance from the proudest, most arrogant man he knew. Covering quickly, he said simply, "Just be there for him, Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled. "Spare me the platitudes, Lestrade. What does that even mean?"

Lestrade huffed. "You're the genius. You figure it out."

And before Sherlock could protest, Lestrade pushed open the door to his office, shoved the lanky detective through the doorway, and stepped back into the corridor.

"I'll leave you to it," Lestrade murmured, and, nodding to John, he pulled the door shut behind him.

Sherlock stood frozen and uncertain. His heart hammered in his chest. His tongue felt like wood.

John, who hadn't moved when he came in, now slowly looked round at him. When their eyes met, Sherlock inwardly winced. Though pale, John's face was perfectly expressionless, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. It was as though the deep blue was a vast expanse of stormy sea, and John himself a tiny speck on a raft in the middle of it, far from reach.

What to say. What to say. Whatever he said, Sherlock knew it would be wrong, it was always wrong–

In the end he fell back on convention. His tongue loosened and, stupid and pointless as it was, he said simply, "I'm sorry."

John blinked, slowly. The thousand-yard stare faded and he seemed to see Sherlock. He nodded once in acknowledgement.

So far, so good, then, Sherlock thought with a slight sense of relief."Let's go home," he ventured.

John rose to accompany him without speaking.

As they crossed the bullpen, Sherlock noticed that it was very quiet…every Yarder present – officers and support employee alike – was watching them as they passed. One by one they nodded to John, a few murmuring respectfully, "Dr. Watson." John, close behind Sherlock with his eyes cast down, didn't seem to notice, but Sherlock did – it was a vast difference from the suspicion and speculation with which the doctor had been viewed previously. He cast his mind about to ascertain the reason, and it came to him at once – they were grateful to John for saving Lestrade's life at the mill.

A dull lot, but at least they have wit enough to value one of the few competent detectives among them, he thought grudgingly.

The cab ride back to Baker Street was silent, John gazing unseeingly out the window, Sherlock taking advantage of the presence of the cabbie as an excuse to not speak, instead using the time to try to figure out how he was supposed to behave when they arrived at their destination. He did not know what he was to do with a shocked and grieving John. He was not accustomed to being called upon to provide support to others. He was not used to thinking of others too deeply on an emotional level at all.

Actually, I'm not accustomed to having a friend.

And then, seemingly unbidden a memory surfaced – one Sherlock thought he had deleted. On Christmas Eve in 2010 he had received a text message from Irene Adler that had him believing she was dead; a few hours later Sherlock, Mycroft at his side, had identified what he had believed to be her body at St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

Sherlock had been…perturbed…by the supposed death of The Woman. She had got to him in a way no other woman ever had. Though no match for his own, the workings of her clever mind ran similarly to his, and to him she would always be the Woman.

It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler, he told himself. All emotions, romantic love in particular, threatened to upset the balance of a precise mind like his. Though such feelings were excellent for drawing the veil from the motives and actions of others, as a lover Sherlock believed he would place himself in a false position; to allow such sentiment in was to introduce distraction, distraction that might throw doubt upon all his mental results. A crack in one of his own slides would not be more disturbing than such an emotion in a nature like his.

And yet –there remained but one woman to him: Irene Adler. In Sherlock's eyes she eclipsed and predominated the whole of her sex.**

So, yes…the idea that she was gone from the world was one he had found somewhat…unsettling.

His mind full of the void The Woman's loss left in his world, Sherlock had returned to Baker Street alone. Mycroft had not accompanied him, and he had been glad – he had not wanted company.

When Sherlock arrived at the flat he had found John sitting in his armchair, reading a book (or at least pretending to be reading). He had forgotten John, but had not been surprised to find him there, or disappointed. He had glanced around, seen the miniscule signs that his flatmate and his landlady had been going through his things

(searching for drugs)

and had been irritated. He had responded to John's ubiquitous query ("You okay?") with a biting remark and had gone to his own room, slamming the door behind him and shutting the doctor out. He had wanted to be alone.

That is – he thought he had wanted to be alone. Now, glancing sideways at John beside him, still staring through the window, Sherlock wondered – had he really?

Sherlock had retreated to his room not so much out of his irritation with John and Mrs. Hudson for searching the flat for drugs, but because he had not wanted to answer John's question

(You okay?)

or the ones that would be sure to follow.

(What are you thinking? Can I help? Do you want to talk about it?)

Much to his own annoyance, Sherlock hadn't really known what he was thinking; there was nothing John could do to help, and Sherlock certainly didn't want to talk about it. And so he had escaped to his room and closed out John and everything else.

In retrospect, though, Sherlock realized that John had helped him. Thinking back to that snowy Christmas Eve, Sherlock realized now that, as he had made his way back to Baker Street, he had not so much forgotten John as he had taken John's thereness for granted, much like the flat itself. It occurred to him now that he would have had no right to think so – hadn't John had a date that night? Sherlock thought he remembered the presence of the boring teacher (or had it been the one with the nose?). And yet he had not been surprised to see John in his chair waiting for him. In fact, he would have been surprised had John not been in his chair waiting for him. Surprised and – Sherlock furrowed his brows – yes, disappointed. The flat was his refuge, but it would have been a cold and

(lonely)

empty one had John not been there. And though Sherlock had sequestered himself in his room and then his Mind Palace, he had always been aware, on some level, of John's presence in the flat. He had known without even thinking about it that John had not gone to bed that night, lingering in the sitting room to be as close to Sherlock as possible without invading his space. Though the other man had never looked up from his book when Sherlock had come out to use the bathroom, Sherlock had been aware of John's awareness of him, and his readiness to put the book away the moment Sherlock indicated he wanted or needed his attention. In the morning, Sherlock had partially emerged from his Mind Palace to find himself in his armchair – and to find a mug of steaming tea and a plate of still-warm toast on the table next to him. He had known without thinking about it who had put it there, and he had known without looking that, while keeping a respectful distance, John was not far off. He knew it because John was never far off. Sherlock could count on him being there like he could count on the sun rising, whether it showed through the clouds or not.

Sherlock realized now that, while he had taken it for granted at the time, he had counted on that solid, steady, yet (mostly) silent presence. Mycroft with his judgment and his admonitions about caring would have made him feel he had to present a certain front; Mrs. Hudson with her tea and tears and sympathy would have distracted him. Sherlock could ignore John while being strengthened by his steadfast presence at the same time. John helped him to think – or not think, just as Sherlock liked. The doctor had a grand gift for silence, and, during his time away, Sherlock had missed John's simple, stalwart presence as much as he had his actual interactions with his friend – sometimes more.

Was this what being there entailed? Sherlock wondered.

He risked another surreptitious glance at John. The thought of trying to verbalize comforting platitudes made him feel uneasy; the thought of patting John's back and saying "I'm here for you" made him feel awkward. But John had not done these things when it was Sherlock who was reeling from the violent death of someone he deemed important – he had simply been there. It followed, then, that maybe the same John who had been there – who had once miraculously seemed to enjoy Sherlock's presence enough to prefer his friendship above all others – would not need those things himself, but only for Sherlock to be present.

In short, for Sherlock to be there.

That he could do, the detective decided as the cab pulled up to the kerb in front of 221. Yes…he could do that.

And so for once Sherlock paid the cabbie himself before ushering John indoors quickly, not allowing him to linger on the step where Sholto had died.

In the hallway, he paused to hang up his jacket in order to give himself time to think. 221c had only one bedroom; John no doubt would have offered this bedroom to Sholto, who would in turn have refused it on the grounds that John, with his bad shoulder, needed to sleep in a proper bed. Therefore it was easy to deduce that Sholto's things would spread about the sitting room, there for John to see as soon as the doctor entered the flat. Better, then, for John not to enter the flat until someone had gathered Sholto's belongings together.

Sherlock was wondering how this could be managed when, with impeccable timing, Mrs. Hudson, having heard them come in emerged from 221a. She still appeared shaken herself, and when she saw them her eyes at once filled with tears.

"Oh, boys. Oh, John."

She put her arms around John, who had just hung up his jacket. Still expressionless and dry-eyed, he returned the hug in a painfully perfunctory way.

"Some tea would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock broke in before she could say anything else. The landlady drew away from John and looked at him. She seemed to read something in his eyes.

"Of course, dear. Would you…?"

"Upstairs, I think," Sherlock said quickly. John looked at him, looked toward the door of 221c, swallowed tightly and gave a slight nod. Without a word he began to ascend the stairs to 221b, his right leg dragging slightly. Sherlock waited until he was nearly the whole way up before turning to Mrs. Hudson.

"Major Sholto's belongings," he began.

She saw at once where he was going with it.

"I'll gather them together and settle them on the far side of the couch until John's ready to deal with them," she said quickly in a low voice.

Sherlock looked at her proudly. Clever old woman.

Aloud, he added, "John has a prescription for muscle relaxants. Bring them up with the tea, he took a hard knock to his bad shoulder when Sholto tackled him to the ground. You'll probably find them in the bathroom or, barring that, a kitchen cupboard."

Confident she would do as he directed, he turned without waiting for a reply and followed John up the stairs to 221b.

Upon entering the flat he found John already seated on the couch, one hand propping up his head as he gazed blankly ahead of him. He looked so lost and alone it made Sherlock's chest hurt. The detective cleared his throat uncomfortably and, after a moment's hesitation, went and sat in his own chair.

As the silence stretched out between them, Sherlock glanced surreptitiously at his friend, who had not moved or acknowledged his entry. John's face was carefully expressionless. Sherlock knew that expressionless face was put on to hide something, and he thought he could deduce what.

"I hope you're not being so tedious as to blame yourself," he said abruptly. John blinked and looked at him, startled. Sherlock continued sharply, "We know from Mycroft that Moran was almost certainly aiming at Sholto, not you."

John looked down. After a long moment he murmured, "I couldn't find my keys."

Before Sherlock could think of an answer to this Mrs. Hudson entered carrying a tray of tea things. Setting the tray down on the table next to Sherlock's chair, she poured two cups and added milk to both and sugar to one. Handing the latter cup to Sherlock, she brought the cup without sugar to John along with a prescription bottle of pills.

"Here, love," she said tenderly, handing him the cup. Numbly, he took it from her; she then opened the medicine bottle, shook out two pills, and handed him these also.

"Swallow these, dear. They'll help."

John blinked slowly at her. "Help?"

"Your shoulder, dear," she said gently.

John looked down at the pills cupped in his left palm. "Oh. Right." He popped them in his mouth, swallowed them dry, then chased them down with a sip of tea. He offered her a hollow smile that did not reach his eyes. "Ta, Mrs. Hudson."

Hovering over him for a moment, Mrs. Hudson hesitated. She leaned down and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "You're welcome, love." She straightened and glanced at Sherlock, but he refused to look at her, instead staring ahead with his fingers steepled before his face. She looked back at John, who was once again staring blankly ahead of him; he seemed to have forgotten she was there, and the presence of the teacup in his right hand. Nor did he appear to notice when Mrs. Hudson took it from him and set it before him on the coffee table.

"Well," Mrs. Hudson said finally. "I'll just…let you get your bearings." She lingered at the door to the sitting room, though, seemingly reluctant to leave them.

Suddenly she brightened a bit. "I'll make some soup and bring it up later."

Unperturbed by the lack of response from either of her tenants, she exited the flat and descended the stairs to her own, glad to have something to do.

Once Mrs. Hudson's footsteps had died away, silence overtook the flat – a silence that Sherlock was not wholly comfortable with. John, on the other hand, still sat staring into space, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. Sherlock suspected the doctor was lost in a sort of "John" version of a Mind Palace – out on patrol in Afghanistan with James Sholto, perhaps.

"So what was he like?" Sherlock asked abruptly. He said it rather more loudly than he intended, but it worked – John startled slightly, jolted out of his distant thoughts, and blinked at Sherlock in surprise and confusion.

"Your Major Sholto," Sherlock clarified. "What was he like?"

John frowned at him, clearly puzzled. "Why have you suddenly taken an interest in another human being?"

Sherlock was surprised by how much that question hurt, though John evidently had not intended to be hurtful – there was no bite in his tone at all; only faint curiosity. And it was a fair question – Sherlock usually wasn't curious about other people who had nothing to do with him or the Work. But in a way, Sholto had had something to do with Sherlock, because he was – had been – important to John.

Sherlock paused, thinking. He was no good at this – sentiment. Normally he never ran out of things to say – as John was fond of saying, Sherlock always had something to say, would outlive God trying to have the last word. But now his tongue was tied – in the land of friendship, Sherlock had always been a foreigner, and he had counted on John's fluency in the language to help him get by. John was Sherlock's interpreter; no one else had ever had the patience. (Then again, he had never clicked with anyone the way he had with John.) Nevertheless, it had always been John who had made up for the gaps in Sherlock's knowledge, who had supplied Sherlock's deficiencies, and who had gladly given freely while expecting nothing back.

Now, Sherlock realized, he needed to be the one to give for a change.

"He was important to you," he said finally, "and so I want to know about him."

It was so bloody difficult, and at first he thought he'd said the wrong thing – John stared at him, then his face twisted oddly and he blinked hard and looked away quickly. Sherlock felt uncertain (did I do it wrong?) but forced himself to stay quiet, to wait (two things that did not come naturally to him). John closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose, then looked back at him. Sherlock saw that his expression was somehow softer, warmer, and he fought to hide his sense of relief, instead trying to appear receptive.

And perhaps it worked, for John, staring down at the tea before him, took a deep breath and began to speak.

He told Sherlock a tale of a fearsome, brooding soldier whom everyone respected whether they liked him or not – and many did not. A fierce warrior who often came off as the coldest son of a bitch imaginable, but who yet cared deeply for each of his men and considered it his sworn duty to do his best by them. A man who could cut a careless underling to ribbons verbally without ever uttering a derogatory insult, whose icy stare could turn one's knees to water. A brilliant strategist, utterly fearless and intensely loyal. A gruff, laconic man who could be painfully blunt, but who possessed also a dry humor John appreciated. A man who did not make friends easily, but once you earned his friendship (and you did have to earn it), he was on your side for life.

As Sherlock listened to John speak, his voice colored by admiration, sadness and affection by turns, he realized he was learning not only about James Sholto – he was learning about John, and about his own place in John's mind and heart.

Sherlock never interrupted and he asked no questions, but it was clear that he was listening intently. When John at last fell silent the detective sat quietly for a time.

"I…regret I was not here, when…" Sherlock's voice trailed off uncertainly.

John, who had been staring through the surface of the coffee table, glanced up at him. "Where were you today?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "I was…following up on a lead. For a different case."

John nodded. "It's…fine. Yeah."

A pregnant silence fell. John seemed to be struggling with himself. "Sherlock–" he began, and stopped.

Sherlock, who had been staring at his own hands again steepled before his face, looked over at him.

John waited until the detective met his eyes before he said it.

"Thanks for…being here, yeah?" He cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. "I'm…I'm really glad you're here." He flushed a bit and looked down again.

An odd, warm sensation filled Sherlock's chest – and kept filling it, and filling it, and filling it, until he thought he might burst if he didn't let it out. He wanted to tell John how glad he was that John had come back, how sorry he was that he hadn't trusted him, had lied to him and left him behind. He wanted to tell him how much it hurt him to know that John had been hurt, and that he would give worlds to change the past. He wanted to tell him how much it had scared him – the thought of a world without John in it – on the night of the mill, and that was why he had been shutting John out these past weeks. That he was frustrated because, even though he had been leaving John behind again to keep him safe, Moriarty had still managed to reach out from beyond the grave and brush John with death. He wanted to explain to John that he would gladly give his life for him, even as the doctor had once offered up his own for Sherlock's.

Sherlock wanted to say all these things, but he didn't know how. So he stood, reached for his violin, and let the music say it for him.

And John – that brilliant idiot, fluent in the language of friendship – understood.

By the time Sherlock emerged from the music, night had fallen. Unnoticed by either of her tenants, Mrs. Hudson had come in at some point, leaving a pot of soup on the stove and switching on the a light in the kitchen as well as the floor lamp in the sitting room. Sherlock glanced at the couch; John, weary with grief and the events of the day as well as drowsy from the muscle relaxants he had taken, had stretched out on his back and fallen asleep.

Mrs. Hudson would no doubt say they needed to eat, but Sherlock figured John could use the rest – the soup could be reheated later. Quietly setting the violin aside, he pulled the throw from the back of his chair and carefully laid it over John. He intended to retreat to the desk and go over the report on Moran that Mycroft had given him, but he lingered a moment, staring down at his friend.

The left side of John's face was turned towards the back of the couch, hiding the scar, and his right arm hung, palm up, off the edge of the couch, knuckles almost brushing the floor.

After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock reached down and took hold of John's wrist. He told himself he merely wanted to fold the doctor's arm over his stomach so he would be more comfortable – perhaps even check his pulse to ensure the medication wasn't affecting him adversely with all that had happened today.

He did not like to admit to himself that he simply felt the need for physical contact, and that the undemonstrative John's being unaware of it would make it easier.

As Sherlock moved the tip of his finger over the pulse point in John's wrist, he was surprised to feel something…odd. A raised ridge of skin? Hesitating in his action of folding John's arm over his chest, he instead carefully turned the other man's hand over and cautiously pushed up the sleeve so he could look at the inside of John's forearm.

And froze in place upon seeing the thin, five-inch long scar extending down John's arm from his wrist.

It was late when Lestrade pulled up in front of 221. He emerged from the car balancing a small stack of files, a paper bag packed with three orders of pad Thai, and a six-pack of beer, and made his way up the steps. Just as he was freeing one arm to reach for the door handle, he noticed a handwritten note attached underneath the knocker:

221C

Sherlock's writing. Lestrade frowned slightly. He had expected to find his friends in 221b; evidently Sherlock meant to direct him to go downstairs instead. Shrugging slightly, he shouldered his way into the building and down the stairs to 221c. There was a light on behind the paned glass door. Lestrade knocked slightly as he entered.

"John? Sherlock?"

Sherlock was standing by the full-length window adjacent to the fireplace, looking out. He did not turn when Lestrade came in or give any sign that he heard him.

Annoyed, Lestrade carefully set the files, beer and bag of food onto the coffee table.

"Thanks for the help, Sherlock." He looked around. "Where's John?"

"Upstairs. Asleep on the couch." Sherlock's voice was curt.

Lestrade frowned. Something…something was off, but he didn't know what.

"Is he…well, how is he?"

"You tell me, inspector. You apparently know more about him than I do these days."

The bite in Sherlock's tone gave him a bit of a shock. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Lestrade retorted.

He was taken aback when Sherlock suddenly whirled round to face him, grey eyes hardened to ice.

"Were you aware that John attempted suicide while he was in prison?" Sherlock demanded.

Lestrade felt as though all the air had been sucked out of his chest.

"I…I…" he faltered.

"So you did know," Sherlock hissed. "And you didn't think it worthwhile to inform me?"

"Sherlock!" Greg protested. "Almost no one knows, not even Mrs. Hudson! John didn't want anyone to know…I don't think it's even in his official record–"

"It isn't," Sherlock bit out darkly. He turned to face the kitchen as though the sight of Lestrade was hateful to him.

"The only reason I know is because – wait, how do you know it's not in his official record?" Lestrade demanded suddenly, eyes narrowing. "Sherlock, for God's sake, please don't tell me you and that bloody brother of yours–"

"Unimportant, Lestrade. Tell me what happened."

"How the hell do you even know about this, anyway? If it's not in his official record and John didn't tell you himself – I'm assuming he didn't, anyway, since you're down here asking me about it–"

"He didn't," Sherlock interrupted. He turned to face Greg again. "I saw the scar on his right wrist…obviously self-inflicted, obviously over the radial artery while skirting the tendons and nerves – something John, as a surgeon, would know how to do – likely administered with a razor blade. Most efficient – I would expect nothing less of John." Sherlock's lip curled at that. "Considering he is still with us today I imagine that he must have been discovered fairly quickly–"

"He was," Lestrade cut in heavily. Feeling unutterably weary, he dropped down into John's chair, shoulders slumped. "There was a prison officer there who really liked and respected John. He'd been keeping an eye on him. Knew John wasn't doing well." Greg ran a hand over his face. "He found John after…well, after. Got him medical attention, then called me. We managed to keep it quiet, claim it was an accident…of course it was obvious it wasn't, but the authorities weren't about to contest it…John had been bringing too much unwanted attention to the system as it was; they weren't keen for more, and with all of us telling the same story–"

"When?" Sherlock demanded.

Lestrade sighed. "Nearly a year ago now. Last August."

Sherlock ground his teeth.

"Sherlock." Lestrade looked at him seriously. "Does John know you…deduced this?"

"No. He was asleep when I caught sight of the scar."

"Then for God's sake, don't let him know you know, yeah? He wouldn't take it well. When he's ready, he'll tell you."

"The idiot!" Sherlock suddenly shouted. "Why? Why would he do that?"

"Keep your bloody voice down!" Lestrade hissed. "I don't want Mrs. Hudson to hear–"

Sherlock wasn't listening. He agitatedly began pacing up and down the length of the tiny sitting room, barely avoiding John's chair and the coffee table with each pass.

"Sherlock."

"How could he just give up like that?" Sherlock ranted. "There's no logic in it! None! John should know better than anyone how quickly events can shift! What could possibly outweigh the benefit of him not being dead? Tell me that!"

"Stop right there." Lestrade lurched to his feet, suddenly furious. "Don't you dare judge John. Need I remind you that he wouldn't even have been in that situation if you and Mycroft hadn't gone all cloak-and-dagger on us and cut him out of the loop entirely? You utter arse, do you honestly not realize the effect your own so-called 'suicide' had on–"

Greg bit back the rest of the sentence at the sight of Sherlock's stricken face. Part of him wanted to tell this overgrown, idiot child exactly what his role had been in this whole bloody debacle. But he was not a cruel man, and he knew, anyway, that Sherlock's ravings were at least in part a parrying technique – an attempt to avoid facing his own culpability.

Jesus, what a mess.

Striving to rein in his temper, Lestrade consciously lowered his voice as he went on. "You have no idea what things were like here after you took a walk off Bart's and left us all, especially John, in a pile of shit. I know you had your own mess to deal with, Sherlock, but John's been through a hell of a lot of trauma, and it's no wonder he came to the end of his rope. "

At that, the fight seemed to go out of Sherlock and he stilled, shoulders sagging in defeat.

"But why?" he demanded, but there was a barely concealed, plaintive note in his voice this time that cooled Greg's anger at once. "Why did he choose to do it then? The worst was over…such an irrevocable action doesn't allow for any contingencies, or complexities, or…" he trailed off, uncertain. Then, looking at the floor, he added so quietly that Greg almost missed it, "…me."

Tiredly, Greg sat down again. "I don't completely understand it myself, except…I think things got too quiet for him." The detective inspector's mouth twisted ironically. "You of all people should understand that. And he didn't 'give up,' Sherlock…he lost hope. That's a different thing altogether."

Grey eyes narrowed at him as Sherlock snapped his head in his direction. He studied Greg inscrutably for a moment, then stepped over to the window again, looking out.

After awhile, Lestrade rose with a heavy sigh. "Look, Sherlock…don't bother John about it, all right? Not tonight, anyway. Let him sleep, and give yourself time to…well, to absorb this, I guess.

Sherlock did not respond. He stood stock still, staring through the sheer curtain covering the window.

Lestrade shrugged. "Right," he muttered. "Tell him I was here, yeah? And that I'll call him tomorrow."

And not knowing what else to do he left, though not without a sense of foreboding.

Lestrade's advice was probably best, no doubt, but Sherlock was far too upset and agitated to heed it. The more he thought about it, the more worked up he became – John Watson, the strongest and bravest man he knew, had attempted suicide. Had it not been for a more than usually vigilant prison officer, the doctor might have successfully deprived Sherlock Holmes of his only real friend.

The incident had occurred a month, maybe six weeks at most prior to Sherlock's return. He had almost come home to a place that would not be home because it did not have John Watson in it.

A stab of sick terror twisted his gut, but Sherlock pushed it down, and a moment later he was positively seething, ready to tear into John and rip him to shreds for almost doing such a thing to him, Lestrade's advice and the fact that the doctor was grieving be damned.

Sherlock slammed out of 221c and stormed up the stairs, drawing Mrs. Hudson out of 221a as he swept as he passed her door, startled by his loud entrance.

"Sherlock! What on earth–"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock snarled. He wanted to be yelling, throwing things even, and he was not going to let anyone stop him.

Bursting into 221b he was ready to begin cursing John out immediately, but paused, nonplussed, when he saw the sofa had been vacated, the throw tossed aside. Sweeping his eyes round the sitting room, he at once spied the object of his search standing at the desk, clothes slightly rumpled, hair disheveled.

Awakened by a nightmare, then, Sherlock started deducing automatically. Saw that I had stepped out, began casting about for something to divert his mind from the dream and the day's happenings, or perhaps went in deliberate search of information on Moran in a desire to help bring Sholto's murderer to justice. Went through the desk and found–

And then Sherlock's revving thoughts stalled as he realized just exactly what John had found, what he now held in his hands – a thick file, in Sherlock's possession courtesy of Mycroft, but not the one on Moran. No, what John was holding was his own prison file, which Sherlock had carelessly left out, unconcerned because John rarely visited the flat these days.

For a long moment, the two men stared at the file in John's hands. Then, as one, they raised their heads and their eyes met. Sherlock saw that John's were cold as ice. Still as a bomb poised to go off, he looked as livid as Sherlock had felt just seconds ago.

"You bloody nosey bastard," John ground out.

Chapter Text

 "The 'chain of errors' [AKA 'chain of causes'] is a term that describes errors in human-performed actions as the effects of a series of coincidences that result in an incident/accident. Since any chain shows no more strength than its weakest link, removal of that weakest link could potentially prevent the accident, or reduce the probability that the accident occurs, or possibly reduce the effects."
–From Reliability, Risk, and Safety, Three Volume Set: Theory and Applications, edited by Radim Bris, Carlos Guedes Soares, Sebastián Martorell

January 2013-August 2013

In January of 2013, Bill Wiggins was transferred to HMP Ford, a Category D "open prison" in West Sussex. It was what John had wanted for him – what they had been working towards – and yet he was surprised by how much he missed the lad.

Life became rather quiet for John after the turn of the year – almost too quiet. The remaining members of the Worthington Bank Gang had all, at the behind-the-scenes intervention of Mycroft Holmes (an intervention of which John was not aware), been transferred to other institutions. Harris was no longer around to torment him. There was no bright, plucky lad to distract him with nonsensical jokes or a need for tutoring or protection.

Once Bill was gone, John had no real friends among the other lags. The prison guard's death and John's apparent role in it had made the former army doctor something of a legend amongst the general prison population; to them, he was a figure set apart – tough, brave, incorruptible, somehow above them all. John had their respect, admiration, and even (to a certain extent) their trust, but he did not have their friendship – his integrity, worn simply and unaffectedly like a cloak that had been made especially for him, kept them from drawing too near to him. He was not like them and they knew it.

What John did have, however, was a new job – in December of 2012, Joseph Bell's request to have John assigned a work detail in the Healthcare Centre was approved, an appointment that suited both men down to the ground…while the "work" was nominal (John was really little more than a glorified assistant), it was still within a medical environment. Better still, he got to spend his days with Bell, who was not only a colleague with whom he could "talk shop," but a friend whom he liked and respected immensely. The long hours passed more quickly in the old man's company, and even when John wasn't in the infirmary he reaped the benefits of Bell's interest and lively concern – Joseph generously lent John his books and journals to help the younger man stay on top of medical advancements. ("For all the good it will do me," John grumbled when Bell gave him the first stack, but he didn't refuse them, either.) It felt good to stretch his mind again; John found he and Bell shared a great many opinions on medicine, politics, and life in general in common, and the tenuous connection formed by Bell's acquaintance with John's grandfather and John's with Bell's son was quickly strengthened to their mutual benefit for, kind-hearted and dedicated as he was, the irascible old doctor was very much alone in the world and he valued John's company as much as the younger man valued his.

From the outside – with Harris dead, the Worthington Bank Gang out of the picture, and his new job with Bell – it might have appeared that John's lot had decidedly changed for the better.

On a Saturday in February of 2013, Greg Lestrade visited John at the prison, just as he had every month since the doctor's conviction (excepting, of course, those months during which John had not sent him Visiting Orders). Neither of them realized at the time that they would not see one another again until August of that same year. This was because Greg's time became fully occupied with two things. One of them – divorce proceedings – John knew about. The other consisted of sudden and promising developments in his quest to clear John's and Sherlock's names and prove Moriarty's culpability in the events leading up to Sherlock's suicide and John's arrest and conviction. John did not know this because Greg, not wanting to give his friend false hopes, chose to keep it from him until things were more certain. It was a decision the Detective Inspector would come to regret bitterly.

 In April of 2013, Martha Hudson underwent hip replacement surgery. John, who had been giving her advice along the way (he even had Mike Stamford put her in touch with a well-renowned surgeon), was pleased – it was long past time, and he knew his former landlady's quality of life would be improved significantly for having undergone the procedure. But it did mean rehabilitation and recovery time, both of which were extended a bit beyond the usual time owing to her advanced age. On the advice of her surgeon and at John's insistence, rather than stay at Baker Street alone during her recovery she went on an extended visit to her sister in Surrey. John was relieved – he worried about Mrs. Hudson living alone as it was, even with Greg checking in on her regularly – but it was hard knowing he could not look forward to visits from her for awhile.

She still wrote to him often and he called her every week, but visitors are important to prisoners, and John suddenly found himself without any.

On a morning in early June of 2013 (shortly before the second anniversary of Sherlock's death), John woke, as he so often did since coming to Frankland, out of a vivid dream that he was still in Baker Street. As always his ears strained to catch the sound of Sherlock warming up his fingers with a four-octave scale, four octaves of arpeggios, and two octaves of double-stops, and his nose sniffed trying to catch a whiff of fresh-baked blueberry scones from 221a mixed with an underlying scent of chemicals from their own kitchen. Even after more than a year in this place, it took him a few moments to become completely aware of the change in his life, to remember where he was, and where he was not – Baker Street (home).

Once it all came back to him – the hardness of the narrow bunk under him, the spring digging into his back, the chill of the cell, the echoing noises from the other inmates along the corridor as they began to stir – it was as though a crushing weight settled anew on his heart the way the eagle settled down to feast from her victim each day on Mount Kazbek.

For one moment John allowed himself to feel the familiar despair and black depression; then, as he did every morning, he resolutely pushed it down, swung his feet to the ice-cold floor, and rose to meet the day.

Mindlessly he went through his morning routine – a series of stretches followed by strengthening exercises; a quick wash-up and shave at the small sink; methodically pulling on grey trousers and a grey jumper, leaving the shoes and socks until after he tidied his cell and heated water for his morning tea. He sat at his desk as he drank the tea and ate a packet of cereal with reconstituted milk while reading the British Medical Journal. When he had finished both his breakfast and the research article he was currently interested in, John put the journal down, tidied away his breakfast things, brushed his teeth and combed his sandy-grey hair. He then settled down to wait for Jorkins to arrive and escort him to the Healthcare Centre, which usually occurred shortly before 8am.

There was absolutely no reason for John to suspect anything amiss when Jorkins was over an hour late coming to fetch him, and yet his heart told him there was something wrong.

When Jorkins slid back the panel in John's cell door at around half nine to tell him Bell hadn't shown up and wasn't answering his phone (an unprecedented event) but not to worry, they were sending someone round to check on him, John knew something was very, very wrong.

And when Jorkins actually opened John's cell door shortly before eleven, John took one look at the prison officer's stricken face and knew that Joseph Bell was gone.

John requested permission to attend Bell's funeral, just as he had requested permission to attend Sherlock's. As in Sherlock's case, the request was denied.

He was not surprised.

"I think that's the last of it out here," Jorkins said quietly. "You almost done in there?"

John looked up from the battered desk in Bell's tiny office. Looking past the prison officer standing in the doorway, he saw one of the administrative staff members shuffling past, toting a heavy cardboard box. Beyond him, the tiny ward looked bare and empty.

"Just about," the former army doctor replied. He hunkered down in front of the drawer on the lower left side of the battered, green metal desk. "I have all the ledgers and requisitions forms catalogued…once I finish going through the desk that should be it."

Jorkins nodded, then stepped back out into the ward to give John some privacy.

Bell had reigned supreme in Frankland's Healthcare Centre for nearly two decades; upon his death, the duty governor elected to temporarily shut down the Centre in favor of bringing in qualified medical staff on an as-needed basis for minor afflictions and arranging for outside treatment at a local hospital for more serious ones. The small ward in which John had worked with Bell would be closed permanently; a new, larger ward was to be added in a different area in the prison. Under Jorkin's supervision, John was assigned the task of cataloging the equipment and supplies in the now-decommissioned Healthcare Centre while the records staff collected the patient files and the furniture was broken down and removed by other inmates.

Bell had been something of a crusader when it came to demanding what he described as "proper, timely treatment" for the prisoners under his care, and had often been quite vocal in his opinions. The somewhat timid duty governor was rather glad to be rid of the irascible old man whom he had often found intimidating, and announced that, rather than replace him, the board would instead assemble a new healthcare "team" – a team that would not, the duty governor specified firmly, include inmates on work detail no matter how qualified they might be. In theory, this would ensure the best and safest possible care for the men in custody, the duty governor declared (his opinion that the extra staff would expand his own empire was one he kept to himself).

In practice, this meant that John was now out of a job.

He tugged at the bottom desk drawer; it opened reluctantly with a rusty creak. John saw at once that Bell had been using it not for office organization, but as a sort of all-purpose personal storage drawer: it contained a jumbled collection of loose teabags, a packet of Hobnobs, another of paper serviettes, a pair of sunglasses, several dog-eared copies of old medical journals – the sort of detritus that has a habit of building up in long-used desks. As he felt around at the very back of the drawer, John's questing hand came into contact with a firm cloth cover – canvas? It was long yet narrow and rather stiff. Closing his fingers around the frayed edge, he carefully drew it out into the light.

Stunned, John stared down at a military field surgical kit very like the one he used to carry in the army. Fighting down the sudden onslaught of memories, he turned it over; stamped in black ink on the tan surface were the words BELL, BENJAMIN R.

So – this had belonged to Bell's son Ben, the young medic John had served with briefly who had never made it home. Joseph must have kept it out of what Sherlock would have undoubtedly called sentiment. John frowned slightly; the weight of the thing seemed wrong somehow. Turning it over, he opened it to find that the items with which it would ordinarily have been outfitted (hemostats, tweezers, scissors, scalpels, needles, wipes, etc.) had been removed, and instead the kit was now home to several large Moleskine notebooks and three rather worn photographs: an old, black-and-white snapshot of a much-younger Bell standing with a pretty and vivacious-looking woman dressed in a traveling suit at a train station, a somewhat older Bell standing on a beach with a boy that looked to be about twelve, and a formal military photo of the adult Ben, serious and earnest in his uniform.

John stared at the images. Joseph had not liked to talk about his family, but these photographs appeared well thumbed, indicating that his loved ones were never far from the old man's thoughts.

Swallowing down a sudden lump in his throat, John slipped the photos back into the pocket from which he drew them, picked up one of the notebooks, and flipped it open. In faded blue ink, Bell's spiky handwriting leapt off the page at him:

9 April 1994

First day on the job and they bring me a con who had such a serious tooth abscess that he was unable to eat, but couldn't get any kind of dental appointment for weeks. Instead my predecessor prescribed painkillers. Due to a 'clerical' error, however, he was in fact given massively strong doses of antipsychotics that were intended for another con suffering from violent delusions. Because the two men looked vaguely similar, the duty nurse didn't check their ID cards – as she was supposed to do – before dispensing the tablets. Since they were given their medication in small plastic cups and were required to swallow them immediately, neither inmate suspected anything was amiss.

Soon as I saw the poor sod I knew there had been a massive cock-up…looked like he'd been away with the fairies. The whole incident was hushed up – they shipped the lad off to another prison as soon as he was coherent and the duty governor let me know in barely veiled terms that I can't take care of these lads if I don't have a job. I can see I'll have my work cut out for me with this one.

Fascinated, John flipped ahead.

3 January 1999

Yet another example today of how the prison environment isn't always conducive to a good doctor-patient relationship. Smalls came in the ward today with a busted lip and a cracked tooth. While I was stitching him up the tosser tried to take a bite out of me! I may not be a spring chicken but he soon learned I'm not to be trifled with. Once Jorkins helped me get him under control we put him on the dog lead so I could finish mopping him up. I don't like to do that but some of them don't give me a choice. I try to let them know I'll treat them decently if they'll behave decently. Never a dull minute, though…good thing my reflexes haven't slowed. Yet!

And then, later still:

2 November 2003

One of the lads broke his leg playing football, and even though it CLEARLY was a complex fracture, that bloody Harris didn't bring him down…told the kid to 'man up,' that it was just a sprain. He's a right bastard, that one – I let him know what I thought of his triage diagnosis in no uncertain terms before contacting the duty governor and getting an ambulance called to take the bloke to hospital. I told the DG yet again that Harris has got less humanity than half the lags here put together, but I don't expect anything will be done.

It was less than a diary but more than a mere logbook, John saw as he paged through it, with multiple entries crammed onto a single page. Some were very short, just a line or two, others as much as one or, rarely, two paragraphs. All of them centered on what was going on inside the prison in the context of Bell's position, and while the aged doctor didn't talk about himself in these brief notes, they revealed a great deal about the kind of man he was in what he did and didn't say.

With a sudden morbid curiosity, John picked up the latest notebook and turned to the date he had arrived:

23 January 2012

Met John Watson in the Induction wing today. Read about him and that Internet detective in the paper, of course, but I hadn't realized 'til I saw his bullet scar that he was the same John Watson Ben served under briefly in A., grandson of Hamish McLean. Good man, Hamish – would have been a blow to him to see his lad in here. Not sure how it all happened. I have a funny feeling about this one, though – maybe it's my association with Hamish, or knowing how much Ben looked up to him, but Watson seems a cut above the others. Nothing I could put my finger on, exactly – he looked as shell-shocked as all of them do when they walk in here, but was covering it better than most. I plan on keeping an eye on him.

It gave John an odd feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, reading about himself through another's eyes. It also gave him a new appreciation for how Sherlock must have felt reading about himself in John's blog.

There was a soft knock on the doorframe. "John? Everything all right?"

Jolted back to the present, John looked up to see Jorkins standing in the doorway, regarding him uncertainly. It occurred to him suddenly that Jorkins called him "John" occasionally when no one else was near, and that he was the only one to do so since John had come to this place. The other prison officers called him "Watson;" the other prisoners (taking their cue from Wiggy) always called him "Doc." Bell had called him "Doctor" or "Doctor Watson" in the beginning; later, having fallen into a fatherly way of treating his younger colleague, he had taken to calling John "laddie." Though John had objected to this at first, he came to understand why Joseph did it, and it ceased to bother him.

Now that Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade no longer came to see him, the only time John heard his first name was when Jorkins addressed him by it. Staring at the prison officer for a moment, John suddenly saw past the uniform to an ordinary sort of the bloke – the type of man who enjoyed dropping by the pub for a pint and a match with his mates; a kind sort of person who would get up in the middle of the night to help a neighbor without complaining, or make up the difference if the person in the queue in front of him at the shop had come up short. Jorkins could have been a friend, John thought – indeed, he seemed to want to be John's friend at times, and certainly treated him with greater consideration and respect than John felt the situation warranted. But John, though he respected and even liked Jorkins, could not bring himself to trust him fully. Perhaps it was the uniform reminding the doctor too much of Gary Harris, or the obvious difference in their situations.

Or maybe it was the doctor's own wary, solitary nature. Mycroft had been right – John did not make friends easily. It took John a long time to warm up to people. Sherlock had been the exception.

Suddenly John missed Sherlock deeply and viciously – missed the way his name sounded in the other man's mouth. The pain was so acute that it tightened his jaw; he shoved it down ruthlessly before Jorkins noticed.

"Fine. Yeah, I'm good," John finally answered. He looked away, then indicated the opened surgical kit in his lap. Taking one of the notebooks up, he held it out to the prison officer. "Looks like Doctor Bell kept a sort of journal."

Stepping all the way into the office, Jorkins took the proffered book and opened it. He read a line or two and smiled. "Well, swelp me…who'd credit it, yeah?" Lowering it, he glanced at the kit John held. "Anything else in there?"

Ordinary sort of bloke indeed, John thought. He guessed Jorkins probably didn't have the imagination, or the insight into Bell as a person, to be overly interested in the doctor's terse notes about a prisoner's abscessed bicuspid here or a shipment of the wrong medication there. "Just these photographs," John said aloud, holding them up for the other man's inspection.

Jorkins glanced them over as he handed the journal back to John. "Huh," he grunted. "Nice-looking family. Pity he lost them so young." He shifted his eyes to the cardboard box on the floor next to the open desk drawer. "That the last of it, then?"

"Yeah," John said, tucking the journals and photographs back into the kit and fastening the straps. He swept the remainder of the items from the bottom drawer up and deposited them in the box. Last of all he reached for the surgical kit to lay it on top of the pile before sealing the box, but found he was reluctant to let it go.

"Would–" he started then paused. John hated asking for favors, especially in this place. But he really wanted this, so he swallowed his pride and, holding up the tan kit, forced the words out. "Would it be all right if I kept this?"

Jorkins hesitated. The answer was, technically, no. All of the ward's contents were to be turned in, including Doctor Bell's personals. But Bell had no family; it was only a harmless old logbook and a few faded photos, and John knew the other man had wanted to do something for him. He guessed Jorkins would think this a small enough request, and he was right.

"Yeah," the prison officer said finally. "Yeah, keep it."

That night, long after "lights out," John lay awake, stretched out on top of the scratchy blankets of his bunk and staring unblinkingly at the ceiling, thinking. He found himself doing this a lot lately as the thoughts went round and round in his mind.

Tonight, as so often happened, he began thinking of Sherlock. Odd, how Jorkins had brought on these particular thoughts simply by addressing John by his first name, but it suddenly occurred to the doctor that his name – John – had been the last word Sherlock Holmes had ever spoken.

Goodbye, John.

It came back to him so clearly he might almost have heard it moments ago, and John closed his eyes, his mouth, tried to close his heart and mind to keep the memories and emotions from rushing in, but it was futile.

Here, in the dead of night, John could not suppress his belief – his fear – that there was something innately, deep-down wrong with him. His adrenaline addiction ("talent for trouble," his long-suffering mother had called it) went back to early childhood. He was not stupid. He knew, on some level at least, that being an adrenaline junkie was as much of a coping mechanism as Harry's drinking was for her. John did not like to think about it, but depression did run in his family – his abusive, alcoholic father had been subject to it. When John was doing something risky, the dark specter was pushed back to the far edges of his consciousness, and he felt alive and in control.

John hated this part of himself – the part that took foolish chances and sought out trouble. He hated the anger that sometimes flared up from deep within him, burning and violent like his father's. As a child he had once overcome an older, larger boy in a fight. When the other boy, a known bully, had broken John's clarinet, John had surprised them both by tackling him to the ground. The white-hot anger that had overcome his brain had addled his senses for a bit, and when he came back to himself he found that he was sitting on the other boy and hitting him again and again. The child's face was bloody and he was crying; John had knocked two of his teeth out. It had made an impression – sickened by what he had done and horrified by the notion that he might be like his own father, John had tried, from that time forward, to channel this violent emotion into defending and helping others instead. But the monster (or so John though of it) remained; he hated it and was entranced by it, and was disgusted with himself for being entranced by it. It was one reason why he was wary of becoming too close to other people – he didn't want them to see this part of himself.

Sherlock had seen it almost at once, of course, on the very day after they met. He had seen it and accepted it and not been bothered by it at all. Sherlock had given John not only what he craved most – a purpose – he also gave him that which John believed he could never have: acceptance and understanding, a place that truly felt like "home" where he could let down his guard and simply be himself. John had never had that kind of friend before, and he knew he never would again.

And I said "danger," and here you are.

So how was it that his best friend had seen all of him so easily while John, supposedly the more "human" of the two, had obviously not seen Sherlock at all?

It was a thought that had tormented him ceaselessly – that he had felt more connected with and closer to Sherlock Holmes than he had with anyone in his life, and yet he had somehow missed that his friend had been on the brink of suicide.

What kind of a friend am I, he thought for the hundredth time, staring up at the ceiling, that I couldn't see my best mate was about to off himself? What kind of a doctor am I, if it comes to that, that I couldn't see that Joseph had a heart condition?

He seemed to hear Bell's answer in his mind.

That's foolishness, laddie, and well you know it. You're a doctor, not great God almighty.

Maybe not, John argued with the doctor in his head, but even if Bell had hidden his heart condition, there still had to have been signs. And there had to have been signs that Sherlock was planning something drastic even if he had tried to hide his secret despair. It seemed to John that all his life he had wanted to make a positive impact, but where it mattered most he failed spectacularly.

He swallowed hard, closed his eyes, and rolled over onto his side, but sleep would not come.

Now began the bleakest time John had ever known.

He had experienced dark times before, of course – intensely dark, fraught with grief and uncertainty and pain and loss and disappointment. But up to now John had never lost his autonomy. There was always something to fight for, and always at least a glimmer of a possibility for a future, no matter how faint. He thought he had hit his lowest point during those endless, miserable weeks after he had been discharged from the Army but before he had met Sherlock, when he had spent his nights in that godforsaken bedsit and his days wandering the streets between therapy appointments. The brilliant rush of vibrant color and action that had been his life up to that point had come to a grinding halt, leaving him half-crippled, alone, purposeless, pointless, and with all the time in the world to think about it. Nothing was how he had described it to his therapist and on his blog.

He thought he'd known what nothing was, but he had been able to go out and walk (or, rather, limp), to write his repressed, stilted blog posts, to fend off calls from Harry and occasionally meet up with some of his old rugby mates. He'd been able to meet Ella for appointments, and though he was a reluctant and somewhat resentful client, he realized through her that he had still had options.

Now there were no options. Wiggins was gone. Bell was gone. His job in the Healthcare Centre was gone. John spent roughly twenty out of twenty-four hours a day locked up in a room that was barely eighteen square feet, and the rest of the time being herded here and there on a schedule that never varied. He had no friends, nor even any enemies left. No one came to see him anymore. He still received letters from a few people who wanted to share their lives with him, but he had little to share in return. All he had were his bleak, dark thoughts…and his nightmares.

And far, far too much time to think.

He missed Bell. He missed Wiggins. He even missed the challenge of trying to stay one step ahead of the Worthington Bank Gang. Deep down, he also missed (though he could never bring himself to admit it) his stints in solitary, for it was there that he actually got to see Sherlock again.

Goodbye, John.

These words, always spoken in Sherlock's deep, deep voice, came back to him again and again as that endless summer dragged on. They took on ever greater significance, for less than thirty minutes after Sherlock uttered them, Sally Donovan had put handcuffs on John's wrists and his life as he knew it was ended.

One afternoon in late July (about six weeks after Bell's death), John was sitting at the desk in his pad reading one of the doctor's journals. Glancing at his watch and seeing that it was nearly time for sosh, he reached with his left hand for the canvas kit to put the journal he was currently reading away. A sudden twinge from his old shoulder wound ignited the nerves along his left arm and he swore as he fumbled the kit. He managed to grab it before it hit the floor, but one of the flaps flew open and something dropped out and fell to the concrete with a metallic tinkle. Frowning, John looked down.

It was a scalpel.

Nonplussed, John slowly picked it up, staring at it. He had believed the field kit had been emptied of all the medical gear, but apparently this one overlooked scalpel had been left behind, tucked deep into an inner pocket, unnoticed by Bell or himself or Jorkins (who would surely have confiscated it).

For several moments, John sat at his desk, turning the scalpel over and over in his hands. He remembered the first time he'd ever held a scalpel as a small boy at Granddad McLean's small surgery, and the first time he had ever used one in a biology class at school. He remembered medical school, and the day he realized he wanted to be a surgeon. He remembered his first surgery after he joined the army, cleaning shrapnel out of a kid who had been standing near a rover when it rolled over an IED.

He should turn the scalpel over to Jorkins. He could get into a great deal of trouble were it to be found amongst his possessions during a toss.* Or worse, some would-be thief might find it while John was at dinner or in the shower (the cells were never locked unless occupied); it could be turned into a weapon.

Instead, John stowed it inside his mattress.

In the end, he elected to keep it for many of the same reasons he had kept his gun: it represented a significant part of his life, a skill he had once been able to exercise freely, and a competency for which he had worked hard and of which he was very proud.

And, though John tried to keep this thought buried (just as he had when it had been his Browning he had hidden among his things), in a pinch it could provide a possible avenue of escape.

Chapter Text

“What have I become?
My sweetest friend; 
everyone I know goes away in the end.
And you could have it all:
my empire of dirt.
I will let you down.
I will make you hurt.” 
― Nine Inch Nails

July 2014

"You bloody nosey bastard," John growled. In his hands was his own prison file, which Sherlock had carelessly left on the desk. Backlit by the corner floor lamp, his hair standing up at the back, his features frozen in righteous anger, he cut a fearsome figure despite his sleep-rumpled clothing and eyes reddened with grief.

Momentarily forgetting his own anger in the face of this potentially volatile situation, Sherlock quickly swept his keenest deductive gaze over the doctor to assess the exact intensity of his ire. Unbidden, the deductions came thick and fast.

Awakened by a nightmare, saw that I had stepped out, began casting about for something to divert his mind from the dream and the day's happenings, or perhaps went in deliberate search of information on Moran in a desire to help bring Sholto's murderer to justice. Went through the desk and found the file that I left out – stupid, stupid! Pallor most likely from earlier shock, not anger…John practices measured breathing when attempting to rein in his temper, but now his breathing, though faster than normal, is steady without conscious effort. Left hand clenched, but not trembling…angry, then, but not incensed.

This was a good sign. Though possessed of a militaristic, no-nonsense demeanor, John Watson didn't actually lose his temper all that often; when he did, however, he tended to lose it all the way. Familiar with this mood, the memory of his conversation with Lestrade only moments earlier fled from Sherlock's mind as he sought instinctively to placate the irate former soldier.

"John–"

"How – how dare you and that bastard of a brother of yours go poking into my private affairs?" the doctor demanded through gritted teeth.

"Like you'd have told me had I asked–" Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

"Like you even tried!"

Sherlock snorted. "Because you would have told me if I had?" he demanded with an unbelieving chuckle.

"No! Because it's none of your bloody affair!" John slapped the file onto the desk; some of the photographs of his battered body slipped free to scatter over the desktop. Sherlock quickly averted his eyes from them.

"Whatever concerns you is my affair, John!" he burst out, surprising even himself.

For a beat John was stunned into silence, the expression on his face caught between surprise and something that Sherlock could not identify; he looked almost…touched?

"Isn't that what friends do?" Sherlock added guilelessly, injecting into his tone the plaintive note that had usually worked to soften John in the past.

He was met with only partial success this time; John's eyes narrowed again and his voice when he spoke, though calmer, was still hard.

"They express concern; they don't go sneaking around behind their friends' backs, Sherlock."

The detective sniffed. "It's proven fortunate for you that I have, in fact, made a habit of 'going behind your back,' as you put it. I can recall more than one occasion when it saved your life."

He thought this would give John pause; he was surprised when the shorter man instead let out a bark of laughter.

"Yes, while almost killing me at the same time, in most cases." The words were rueful but the tone was weary, which somehow made them sting more. John suddenly blew out a breath and, closing his eyes and dipping his chin, he raised his right hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as though he felt a headache coming on.

Sherlock was defensive. "You know I didn't know about–"

John dropped the hand and looked up, his expression flinty. "Yeah, I know all about how you 'didn't know.' Never bothered to find out, in fact. So if it wasn't important while you were off on your little adventure, why the bloody hell is it important now?"

Sherlock ground his teeth. "Don't be an idiot, John, it was always important."

John slammed his fist down on the desk and raised his head to fix him with a fierce glare. "Was it, then? So important that you never even asked Mycroft what was happening with me or the others until you set foot on English soil again?"

"Oh, God, here we go," Sherlock muttered. How the hell did we get onto this? We were talking about the file! "Look, John, I already told you…what you naively refer to as my 'little adventure' was in actuality the takedown of Moriarty's worldwide criminal network – I was deep undercover, dead to the world–"

"Oh, I know all about the 'dead' part," John interrupted bitterly. "I had a bloody front-row seat, remember?" He took a deep breath and turned away to face the window, both fists clenching and unclenching.

Sherlock cursed himself for alluding, even inadvertently, to That Day at Bart's. It was something he would prefer never to think of again, and certainly something he would prefer that John never think of again. The unpleasant sensation in the pit of his stomach that he had been trying desperately to ignore ever since he had returned – guilt – rose up again; he tried to shove away the unfamiliar feeling by going on the defensive.

"Oh, God, this again," he groaned, noting as if from a distance the way John's back stiffened at this but unable to stop himself. "Will you get it through your tiny little brain, there were lives at stake – actual, human lives, John," he finished meaningfully. "Mrs. Hudson's, Lestrade's – not to mention your own!"

The most essential of all, he thought, but did not say it aloud.

"I did what I had to do to keep you all safe and finish Moriarty once and for all," he continued instead, glaring. "I can't undo what's been done, and I wouldn't if I could!"

At that, John swung around to face him again.

"Not even how it was done, hm?" he said, voice dangerously low. "You had to do it in front of me, did you?"

That awful twinge of guilt again. "It was essential that it should be believed I was dead, and I knew that if you believed it the police would as well," Sherlock said sharply. "I explained this to you before, John; why is it so difficult for you to understand? For God's sake, can't you just leave it already!"

"Delete it, you mean?" John shot back. "My 'funny little brain' doesn't work that way, Sherlock! And anyway, you're the one who decided to go…prospecting through my records." He indicated the thick file, its contents strewn across the desk.

"Not saying anything isn't the same as letting it go, though, is it, doctor?" Sherlock said derisively. "No, you don't bring it up, but it's always there, festering, isn't it? The stoic, stiff-upper-lipped soldier, but you're more transparent than you think – which is precisely why I had to keep you out of it, for your safety as well as my own."

"My safety?!" John's face darkened. "How dare – you complete arse–"

"You're a doctor who went to war. Your best friend was a sociopath who solved crimes as an alternative to getting high. That's me by the way, hello. Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel!" Sherlock interrupted loudly. "It wasn't such a difficult leap for me to deduce that, if you knew what I was planning, you would come after me – thrust yourself in the middle of it. Nor was it inconceivable that your affectionate regard for me might tempt you to some indiscretion that would betray my secret, posing a danger to us both. So yes, while I know safety isn't what you would have chosen for yourself–"

Sherlock broke off when John's face tensed and his dark blue eyes seemed to go even darker.

"Think you're clever, do you," John said coldly, circling around the coffee table as though to put distance between the two of them. "God knows you never turn down an opportunity to show off, but about some things you're unutterably thick, Sherlock."

Sherlock merely raised his eyebrows in a disbelieving am I wrong? expression; John paused in his pacing and laughed humorlessly.

"You really do think this – this," and John waved his hand vaguely at the space between them, "is about me having gone to prison, don't you?" He was smiling slightly, but his eyes were bleak and his tone was somehow sad.

Sherlock was taken aback at this sudden shift in the doctor's mood. He sensed somehow that he was missing something important. "I don't–"

"Sherlock, you dickhead, what do you think it did to me, watching you chuck yourself off a building?" John demanded, his voice thick with frustration.

Still not able to see what John was driving at, Sherlock felt his own frustration begin to rise. "John, if your grievance is because I didn't take your PTSD into account–"

"My grievance?! You bloody–!"

"Look, I've already said I was sorry," Sherlock said defensively.

"I know. And I never brought up – Christ, what do you want from me, Sherlock?! What?" John yelled suddenly, throwing his hands up in the air. "I moved back in–"

"But not back into 221b–"

"I started going out on cases with you again–"

"One case! You've only been assisting me on one case–"

"So just what the hell do you want?!"

"I want things to go back to the way they were before!" Sherlock shouted.

He hadn't known he was going to say it – hadn't even known that he was thinking it – until it burst out of him. Stunned into silence, he and John stared at one another for a moment, nonplussed.

A moment passed; then another. Then John sighed and looked down, deliberately unclenching his fists. He said quietly, "Sherlock, you're…you're a sodding genius. You didn't really think we could just…just pick up where we left off as though nothing had happened, did you?"

Sherlock stiffened. The tone was gentle, but the words terrified him. To the detective, it sounded as though John had finally arrived at an answer to the question he had asked rhetorically last March just before he had moved into 221c – are we still friends? – and that the answer was No.

Something in his chest – Sherlock refused to call it his heart – felt wound tight, tight, so tight like an overwound clock spring, quivering and on the verge of flying apart. His eyes narrowed, and he forced himself to look straight at John as though he were a insect under his microscope.

"Ah, I see," he said, deliberately injecting a clinical coldness into his voice to cover his hurt. "I've disappointed you – again. I forgot that your continued association with me stems in part from your desperate desire to justify your own existence on this planet by attaching yourself to those with potential and endeavoring to heal them physically or mend them psychologically."

Gob-smacked at this unexpected verbal vitriol, John's jaw dropped. Direct hit.

"Perhaps your efforts towards finding someone to 'reform' would best be expended elsewhere," Sherlock went on recklessly. "For my part – well, you forget, John – all emotions stand opposed to the pure, cold reason I hold above all things. I. Am. A. Brain. The rest of me is mere appendix. Or perhaps, as you once put it so succinctly, a machine."

At this, John winced and closed his mouth. His lips tightened and he looked down, swallowing hard.

"You know damned well I didn't mean that," John said in low voice. "I've regretted those words every day since – I thought it might have been part of the reason why you – why you did it, and it killed me to think you might have thought it was true – and that it was one of the last things you'd ever heard me say."

He looked up. "You must know I never believed that. I would never have stayed here if I had."

"No one ever forced you to stay here," Sherlock retorted. "I imagine one of the horrors of prison was not having someone to fix, then?"

John gasped, and his look turned murderous. "You–"

"Ah, but I forgot," Sherlock sneered. "You did find a new 'pet project,' didn't you, in Bill Wiggins?"

John stilled, his expression turning wary. "How do you know about him?"

His tone had turned menacing, but Sherlock did not heed the warning.

"It's in your file, John, you know that," Sherlock snapped. "As well as the 'fact' that you killed a guard in defense of yourself and another prisoner. But that's not true, is it?"

Now John looked worried. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, come now, did you think I wouldn't spot it as soon as I read the account?" Sherlock said, his voice rising. "I went to visit dear Billy this morning to confirm what I had already deduced–"

John's eyes went wide, then his brows lowered; he shoved the desk chair aside with a clatter and strode forward, fists clenched. "You went to see–" he began furiously.

"I hardly needed to," Sherlock broke in doggedly, not backing down. "The whole scenario smacked of your tendency to be a hero. Was it worth it, then? Did it lend some much-needed meaning to your time away?"

John went red, then white with anger, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment before he found his voice.

"You–you utter cock! I will kill you if you ever breathe a word of this–"

Sherlock gave a light, mocking laugh. "Oh, you needn't worry, John. I have no plans to post it on my own web site. You already know you can trust me to be as silent as the grave," he finished maliciously.

Now John's breathing was measured. "As if I can trust you on any subject…the friend who goes behind my back, poking into my private affairs–"

"This coming from the same man who bemoaned my keeping him out of my plans–"

"That's completely different, you arrogant arsehole! You faked your own fucking suicide!"

"Yes, faked it! Only faked it, unlike someone else I know! I would never be such an idiot as to actually attempt suicide!" Sherlock shouted.

As soon as the words had left his mouth, Sherlock realized he had finally gone too far. John recoiled as though slapped. He stared at Sherlock, wide-eyed and shocked. Sherlock could see the wheels turning in his infinitely slower brain, but he got there soon enough. His eyes darkened again and his brows furrowed.

"Greg." John's voice was dark with righteous anger. "I don't believe it. He told you, after he gave me his word–"

"He didn't. He only confirmed for me what I had already deduced for myself when I found the scar on your wrist," Sherlock snapped back, suddenly furious as the realization of how close he had come to returning and finding John was dead by his own hand flooded his mind. "Slashing your own wrist with a razor blade…really, John?" he said angrily. "Like a melodramatic housewife?"

It wasn't the first time John had hit him, nor even the hardest, Sherlock reflected later. But it was different nonetheless, for the blow came from the side, hitting Sherlock in the shoulder, and was as much a shove as a punch, as though John was thrusting the detective away from him. Unbalanced by the blow, Sherlock staggered sideways as John swept by him, out of the flat and down the stairs with a clatter.

Suddenly frightened, Sherlock bolted after him. "John, wait–"

"Piss off!" John roared. With that, he stomped through the front door and slammed it behind him so hard the entire building seemed to shudder.

For a moment Sherlock just stood there, listening to the ringing echo of that slam in the still hallway, until the silence was broken by a small sob. Glancing towards 221a, he saw Mrs. Hudson standing outside her door, both hands over her mouth, tears on her cheeks. She had heard everything.

Chapter Text

 "Sometimes a deal with the devil is better than no deal at all."
― Lawrence Hill, Someone Knows My Name

July 2014

The slamming shop door and jangling bell pulled Molly out of the frozen shock in which Sherlock's one-word command (cope!) and abrupt departure had initially left her, and she turned her attention to the weeping young man huddled on the floor of the tiny, dusty office.

It took a fair amount of coaxing to get Bill back into his chair but she accomplished it at last, and once the young man was a bit calmer Molly swiftly availed herself of the use of his small kettle to prepare a cup of strong, sweet tea for him.

Once she was sure his trembling hands had a secure grip on it, she went ahead and made one for herself as well.

As Bill's tears faded to an occasional hitch and the tremors slowly disappeared, his demeanor morphed from distress to acute embarrassment. Staring determinedly down into his mug, the chemist's assistant stubbornly refused to look up as warmth began to bloom over his cheeks and ears.

Awkwardly intent on putting him at his ease, Molly quipped, "Don't feel badly…he makes me cry sometimes, too."

True to form her joke misfired, the flush on the young man's face deepening noticeably at her words. Molly cleared her throat and tried a different tack.

"So," she ventured, fiddling with her own mug, "you knew Sherlock from…um, 'before'?"

Wiggins cleared his throat awkwardly, took a hasty sip of tea, and, lowering the mug, commenced to study it intently as though searching for something elusive in its contents.

"Shezza…yeah," he said, glancing up, then down quickly when he saw Molly watching him. He cleared his throat again. "He used to give me the odd bit of change or…or more, for gettin' information for him."

"Oh, right," Molly said, remembering Sherlock's introduction. "You were one of his 'Homeless Network,' then?"

Bill glanced up, nodded briefly, then went back to studying his tea.

After a long, pensive moment, Molly opened her mouth, closed it, then finally spoke hesitantly.

"Were you…there when…you know. That day?" Her voice was quiet, tentative.

Bill looked up at her, puzzled. "Wot? What day?"

"You know," Molly said awkwardly. "When Sherlock fell – jumped, I mean."

"Oh. No." Bill looked down, his brow knitted. Suddenly he looked up again, his face indignant. "I mean – no! Of course I bloody wasn't!"

Molly was alarmed by this sudden anger. "I didn't mean–" she stammered. "That is – you were part of his–"

"Oh. Oh, yeah. I see what you mean," Bill said, deflating slightly. "Nah…Shezza wouldn't've trusted me with summat so big as that, not with the way I was then."

At Molly's questioning look, he raised his hand and mimed breathing in a substance through his nose significantly. She flushed and nodded her understanding.

"But if his plan meant the Doc couldn't know, then it's just as well I weren't in on it," Bill continued firmly. "I'd a-told the Doc, you see."

Startled, Molly slowly set down her tea. "You would have?"

"Oh, yeah," Bill said simply. "The Doc…well, I owe him everything. And even if he hadn't done all he done – did – for me, well, I would have eventually, anyway. Told him, I mean."

The young man's shrewd eyes softened suddenly as he glanced away from Molly, thinking. "He's so…so good, see," he said finally in a quiet voice. His eyes met Molly's again. "I'd never met no one who was really good like that before. And he was so cut up about Shezza topping himself, too, you know? He didn't talk about him much, but he missed him rotten. I could tell. And I think he blamed himself for not, you know, being able to stop him."

Molly was distressed. "But he couldn't – he'd had to have known there was nothing he could have done!"

Bill snorted. "Try telling that to the Doc. Thinks he's responsible for the whole world, that one." The words were rueful, but the tone was affectionate, even admiring, and the soft glow of hero-worship in the young man's eyes went straight to Molly's heart.

She wondered again how she had missed seeing John Watson, a man capable of reaching a cynical young street tough, restoring his faith and inspiring him to new heights. Once again, she supposed regretfully, it had been her infatuation with Sherlock that had obscured her vision.

"Mind you, I liked Shezza," Bill continued earnestly. "Respected him, like. He's so ruddy brilliant. And fair. He allus – always – treated us fair, us on the streets, like. But the Doc, now…he's…no, I couldn't have kept that from the Doc. No way. And it wouldn't have hurt Shezza if I'd told him…the Doc would never had let it slip, never. Not if it meant Shezza could get hurt." There was no doubt at all in the young man's face.

Molly listened intently, striving to keep her expression open and encouraging. Inside, she was fascinated with the way Wiggins, now that he was calmer, made a concentrated effort to speak clearly and correctly, eschewing the slang to which he had obviously long been accustomed. It wasn't as though he was trying to make himself out to be someone he wasn't, either, she thought.

No…he's patterning himself after John.

She wondered if John had realized this when he was tutoring the young man. She guessed he probably hadn't.

Wiggins took another sip of tea, then met her gaze shyly.

"How – how is he?" he asked, his tone entreating. "The Doc, I mean?"

She could see he was very eager to know. "Hasn't he been in touch with you?"

Wiggins shifted his gaze to the nearby desk and began absently rearranging a pile of paperwork. "Nah. He wanted – he told me to forget about…about being in the nick and, well, everything…to put it all behind me."

He paused and chewed his lip for a moment, thinking, then added so quietly Molly almost missed it, "Can't, though."

"Sorry?"

He glanced at her. "Some of it I can't forget," he repeated sadly. Then he added in a slightly stronger, almost defiant voice, "and some of it I don't want to."

Molly understood he was talking about John. After some hesitation she said, slowly, "I don't think he can forget it, either…John, I mean."

Abandoning the pretense that he was working, Wiggins set the stack of papers aside and looked up, slightly alarmed. "He's – he's all right, inee?" He demanded. "I mean – blimey, the stuff they put him through in there–"

"He's – he's trying to be all right, I think," Molly said carefully, thinking back on what she knew of John Watson since he had returned to London in March. "He's working as a doctor again, at a clinic near Bart's. He's got his own place he's been fixing up–"

"He dinnit move back in with Shezza, then?" Wiggins asked shrewdly, giving her a sharp look.

"Well – he moved back into the same building, but not into the same flat with Sherlock, no," Molly explained. "He took the basement flat."

Wiggins narrowed his eyes, nodding slowly. "I get you. The Doc, he don't – doesn't trust easy. Shezza was his best friend. I don't 'magine the Doc would think a whole lot about being lied to." He suddenly barked out a short laugh. "I'm surprised 'e didn't take Shezza's head off for 'im!"

Molly couldn't help smiling. "I bet he thought about it."

The atmosphere seemed to ease a bit as they both chuckled.

After a moment, Molly added, "I think they're starting to get on better now, though. John's been helping him with one of his cases, anyway."

Unexpectedly Bill asked, "What, the one with Ozzie?"

Taken aback, Molly's eyes widened. "How – how do you know about that?"

Bill shrugged, seemingly unaffected by her surprise. "Saw it in the papers, yeah? Figured Shezza would be working on that one, seein' as how Ozzie was one of his top street helpers an' all."

Molly's heart began to pound. "Did you know him?" she demanded suddenly, scarcely daring to hope – Lestrade had bemoaned the fact that most of the homeless people he had spoken to were reluctant to talk to him about the victim – or anything else, for that matter. If Wiggins knew something…

"'Course," Wiggins said casually. "He was one of my best mates. We had a lot in common. He was a bit barking over that bike of his, mind you, and–"

"That bike was stolen," Molly broke in excitedly. "Do you think–?"

"Stolen? What, you didn't find it where he kipped?" Bill asked, surprised. He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. "Oh…reckon Kitty must of took it."

Molly was stunned. "Not – not Kitty Reilly?!" she gasped.

Bill stared. "Who?" he repeated. "Nah, I mean Kitty Winter…Ozzie's bird. Girlfriend," he specified in an exaggerated tone when Molly continued to goggle at him. "Here, what's wrong?" he asked, perplexed as she suddenly rose to her feet.

"What time are you finished?" she demanded.

"Half two," Bill said, looking at her as though he feared she might not be quite all there. "I has – have – a class this afternoon."

"Wait here," Molly said intently, pushing past the startled young man. "Will you just – just wait there? I've got to make a phone call." Pulling out her mobile as she hurriedly exited the office, she scrolled through her contact list, stopping at G. Lestrade.

It took a fair amount of looking, but Lestrade finally found John in a pleasant little sports pub the pair of them used to visit in the "before time" (that is, before everything blew up with Moriarty, before Sherlock's "suicide," before John's stint in prison).

John, Greg, and a number of the other Yarders would occasionally visit this particular pub for an "after case pint," favoring it because it was a comparatively quiet, dim and down-to-earth place, perfect for the "over thirty" set to come and unwind over a drink while chatting or taking in a match. Though Lestrade knew John liked the pub, it had been almost last on his list of places to look for him because he knew the doctor tended to avoid spending time in public these days, thanks the facial scar that drew him so much unwanted attention.

Even now, Greg saw as he stood in the doorway, brushing the droplets from the fine mist that had begun to fall off his shoulders, John was drawing surreptitious glances from curious patrons despite having situated himself in the farthest, darkest corner of the bar. The glances were actually what enabled Lestrade to spot him – seated half in shadow, shoulders hunched forward slightly as he stared moodily into his glass, Greg might have missed him but for that.

The DI noticed John had eschewed his usual pint for what appeared to be a glass half full of single malt scotch whiskey. As Greg slowly approached him, he could see that the doctor's brows were drawn together over darkly smoldering eyes and his mouth was set in a grim line. There was absolutely nothing about his body language that would encourage anyone to draw near, and Greg's resolve almost wavered. In the end, though, the memory of Mrs. Hudson's distressed voice over the phone, combined with the new information he had received and his own concern for his friend, decided him, and he took the stool on John's left without acknowledging him. Motioning the bartender over, he ordered himself a pint.

John never so much as twitched, but after a moment he said, tonelessly, "Did he call you?"

Greg shifted uncomfortably on the stool. "Nah. Mrs. Hudson."

At that, John did look up, blinking in surprise. "Mrs. Hudson?"

Lestrade sighed. "She heard you two arguing." He glanced sidelong at his friend meaningfully. "She heard everything, John."

John sighed, closing his eyes as he turned back to his drink. "Bugger."

"Yeah."

At that moment the barman brought Greg his pint; he paid for it and took a sip before glancing at the amber liquid in John's glass. "Not your usual…how many have you had?" He tried to keep his tone light, unsure of how John would react, but instead of getting angry John merely quirked his lips ironically.

"Been nursing this one for over an hour now," he confessed. "Guess I don't really have it in me to be a lush, family history notwithstanding." He signed and pushed the glass away, sitting back on the stool.

"Look, John–"

"I know you didn't tell him, Greg," John interrupted sharply, fiddling with his glass in favor of looking directly at the DI. "The manky git told me."

"Right," Lestrade muttered, staring down at his own drink.

After another long, uncomfortable pause, John ventured, "When you say Mrs. H. heard everything…" He trailed off, his face worried.

"Yeah, I meant…everything," Greg reiterated grimly.

Propping his elbows on the bar with a groan, John dug his knuckles into his closed eyes. "God alone knows how I'm going to explain myself to her."

Lestrade couldn't help saying, "Mate, I told you at the time that we should have–"

John sat back again with a jerk, slapping his hands down on the bar; the barman shot them an uneasy glance from the other end of the counter where he was polishing glasses in the sink. "Yeah, yeah, I know, Greg," John said impatiently. "You were right and I was wrong, is that what you want me to say? I wanted to protect her, but there's nothing I can do about it now."

Lestrade had regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth; John was right – what was done was done. "I know, John-lad, I know," he said contritely. He took a swig of his ale, then set it down and asked, low and concerned, "How are you?"

John looked sidewise at him; he seemed to understand that Greg was referring to Sholto's death that morning. God…was it only this morning?

"Fine," he said automatically. "Yeah, I'm f–" He broke off suddenly as though realizing he was anything but fine, and suddenly raised his right hand to cover his eyes as a hard, painful lump rose in his throat.

Hesitantly, Greg laid a hand on John's shoulder. When his friend didn't move to shake it off, he said in a low, intense voice, "We'll get this bastard, John, I promise you. We're going to get him."

John dropped his hand and, for the first time since Greg had entered the pub, faced the DI full on. Lestrade could see that he was pale and his red-rimmed eyes were ringed with dark shadows.

"You'll keep me in the loop on the investigation, will you Greg?" John asked, his voice firm. "I want to do everything I can to help get…Moran." His pupils seemed to constrict as he practically hissed the last word.

"'Course," Lestrade replied, puzzled. "I'll keep you and Sher–"

"No." John's voice rapped out sharply; the barman, along with several other patrons at the far end of the bar, glanced their way again.

"No," John repeated, taking care to lower his voice as he continued. "I can't be arsed about what – what Sherlock Holmes is doing." His voice was like ice. "I'm done with that sodding bastard."

Lestrade stared at him. Sherlock may have been an arrogant, rude, oblivious twat, but the thought of him and John not being friends was inconceivable. "You don't actually mean–" he began.

"I do mean it." John's voice was almost a growl.

"John, you live in the same bloody building!" Lestrade protested.

John looked away. "Not for much longer if I can help it."

Lestrade gaped at him. "But – Mrs. Hudson–"

John swung back towards him, and the dangerous energy that seemed to thrum through his body poured out of his eyes and struck Lestrade speechless where he sat.

"Greg, I'm done. I'm done," John said emphatically. His eyes narrowed and his breath came hard and fast.

He meant it. Lestrade could see it in his eyes. The doctor had had enough, and while Lestrade couldn't blame him – who else would have stuck around this long, and through so much shit as John had? – he wasn't sure if it was actually possible for these two to sever their bond while they both still lived. The friendship between them was something that defied logic, made Sherlock better and fulfilled John in a way nothing else could, for all that it could be horrifically hurtful. Somehow they had become a single entity, and it was impossible to imagine one without the other without both being diminished, as John had been diminished while he was in prison – as he still was, somewhat, for though he had returned to Baker Street and Sherlock physically, it was clear that he had not fully done so in his heart.

Greg was not a fanciful man, but even he could see that whatever bound these two men together could not now be undone. But John was a fiercely stubborn man, and Lestrade could also see that if he tried to push him now things could turn very ugly, very fast. And Greg was by no means confident he wouldn't come off worst – for all John Watson appeared to be a nice, kind, ordinary bloke (if a bit tetchy at times), there was something…something sort of untamed about him that Greg didn't really want to meet firsthand.

So he backed off, for the moment, anyway. "Right," he muttered, "right."

John nodded once, tersely.

"And I will keep you apprised," Lestrade continued, "so long as you promise not to do anything stupid."

John simply smiled enigmatically, and Greg sighed. "Right, then. We may have a new lead."

The doctor froze, his expression becoming intent again. "Yeah? What is it?"

"Well," Greg hesitated. "You know…Himself went to see an old friend of yours in West Sussex this morning."

John's expression hardened. "What the hell has that got to do with–" He cut himself off. "And how the bloody hell do you know, anyway?" he demanded.

Lestrade ignored the suspicion in the younger man's tone (though he couldn't deny it hurt). "Molly phoned me. She went with him."

John smiled bitterly. "Of course she did."

Lestrade frowned. "Come on, John…that's not fair. She didn't know where he was taking her, and it wasn't like he was going to take you."

Now it was John's turn to look contrite. "Right," he mumbled, looking away. "But I still don't see what that has to do with–"

"Turns out your old friend Bill knows our Waterloo murder victim," Lestrade said quickly.

John stared. "What, Ozzie?"

"Yeah," Lestrade replied. "And that Ozzie had a girl, and that it may have been the girl who took Ozzie's Big BMX."

John frowned. "How would that help us–"

"I told you and – told you that it was a woman who'd called the body in," Lestrade continued. "Dispatcher at 999 said it sounded like a young girl…it could be she witnessed the murder, John."

John gave a low whistle. "Bloody hell."

"Yeah," Lestrade said with a grimace. "Anyway, I want to bring your friend in, see if he can't help us locate this girl."

He was surprised when John immediately went into "protective mode," adopting a demeanor and tone Lestrade had only ever seen him use with Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson.

"Bill's a bright kid with a lot of ambition," John protested. "He got released to an open prison, he's working on his degree…I don't want that getting derailed."

"He doing more than taking classes," Lestrade informed him. "Molly told me he's working in a chemist's shop in the village near Ford."

He was taken aback when a fond, proud smile suddenly lit John's features. "Is he now," the doctor said, sounding hugely pleased. "Is he indeed?" He seemed lost in thought for a moment, then his expression grew serious again as he refocused his gaze on Greg.

"All the more reason, then, for him not to get caught up in all this," the doctor said firmly.

Seeing John's determination on this point pleased Greg – it would make the next part of his plan easier for his friend to swallow.

He hoped it would, anyway, because he had already determined that – right or wrong, come what may – he would not proceed without John's blessing.

"The kid's doing great from what I understand," Greg began carefully. "I checked him out. If he can help with our ongoing investigation in a way that helps us to apprehend a killer on the loose, so much the better, right?"

John looked wary; something about Greg's manner was setting off alarm bells. "Right?" he agreed carefully. "So?"

"So," Greg said slowly, "what would you say to Bill Wiggins getting an early parole?"

John blinked. "It would be…well, it would be bloody brilliant of course!" His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "But how would you manage that?"

Lestrade nervously reached for his glass and cursed inwardly when he saw that it was empty. Not looking at John he said, "I couldn't. But I think I know someone who can."

John waited. Lestrade shifted his eyes to his friend's face. "You know him, too, in fact."

John frowned. Then, all at once, understanding flooded his face.

"Oh, buggering fuck," he groaned, slapping a palm over his eyes.

Chapter Text

"Sometimes, a truce can create dangers that outweigh any peace."
― Charles Shift

"Compromise brings harmony to both, happiness to none."
― Amit Kalantri

July 2014

The mist that had begun to fall earlier had thickened into a drizzle, light enough to land on John's hair without soaking it at first but lending an unpleasant, "heavy" quality to the tepid air. He turned his collar up and hunched his shoulders slightly to protect his neck as he walked the relatively unpopulated pavement along Baker Street, and thrust his hands deep in his pockets. Somewhere, a clock chimed midnight just as he approached 221, and he felt a start of surprise. So much had happened he could not quite believe it was still so early; it felt like weeks had passed since he had passed this way with James, and days since the bitter row with Sherlock. He certainly felt tired enough to support that feeling.

As he fished he keys out of his pocket, John surreptitiously glanced up at the windows of 221b. There did not appear to be a light on in the sitting room, but that didn't necessarily mean Sherlock was not there. Taking a deep breath as he unlocked the front door, John hesitated just long enough to send up a quick but fervent prayer that the detective would not be waiting for him in the entryway before pushing it open. John had no desire to see him and no stomach for any more confrontations. All he wanted now was a hot cuppa and his bed.

It didn't look as though his wish would be fulfilled yet, however – stepping into the entryway, John saw that someone was waiting up for him, but it was not Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson rose slowly from the upholstered chair in the corner by the stairs as John closed the door softly behind him. He had not counted on this. Mrs. Hudson usually went to bed early.

She had heard everything, Lestrade had said. John hesitated by the door, his heart pounding. He was not ready for this conversation. But she stood between him and the door to his flat, so it looked as though he had no choice.

She approached him slowly; he could hardly bear the sadness in her face – or in her voice when she said, quietly, "Why, John?"

Not bothering to pretend he didn't know what she was talking about, John's voice was drier than usual as he shot back, bitterly, "Well, why not?"

Even as the words left his mouth, he winced inwardly. God, sometimes he sickened himself.

Even so, it came as a shock when she slapped his face.

Though the blow was hardly enough to classify it as more than a love-tap, the sting went deep. Mrs. Hudson's face as she delivered it – no anger, but intense, barely contained grief and hurt – was a sight John would never forget; he would rather have gone head-to-head with the Golem again. His landlady was a tower of strength, but in that moment when her heart had been laid bare, it suddenly occurred to him what it must have been like for her the night of Sherlock's infamous leap. He imagined Greg coming to tell her that Sherlock was dead, that John had been arrested. Had she gone to Mrs. Turner's for the night? Or maybe she had stayed in 221a, listening to the silence that would never again (so far as she knew) be broken by the sweet strains of a violin, small explosions from experiments gone awry, good-natured and not-so-good-natured rows between friends. He thought about all the months she had made that long trek to Frankland to visit him, the countless letters she had written, the gifts and packages she had sent. He thought of all the times he had pushed her away and made her worry by his reticence and tendency to withdraw into himself, and this at a time when she had been grieving the loss of a son.

Suddenly John utterly despised himself, and that was why, when she raised her hand again, he flinched his eyes shut and stayed still instead of drawing back.

A moment passed, then another. John tentatively opened his eyes; Mrs. Hudson had both hands over her mouth and was staring at him, eyes brimming with tears. He tried to smile at her, and she dropped her hands with a sob. "Oh, John–I'm so–I'm so sor–"

He held his arms out and she fell into them with a little broken sound.

Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Hudson was seated in the flowery, wing-backed chair in her sitting room; on the matching footstool before her, John sat holding both her hands in his own. Keeping his eyes on his knees so he would not have to see her face, John told her about his time in prison.

There were things he couldn't bring himself to share with her – things John fully intended to take to his grave, such as how he had stayed awake all through his first night at Frankland, shivering on the floor with his back to the wall as he tried to comprehend the jarring change his life had taken. How the light in the infirmiry had shone into his eyes as Joseph Bell had sung an old Scottish folk song while stitching up John's slashed face. How Harry's hazel eyes had glared into his as he comprehended that she believed him to be guilty of the crimes for which he had been imprisoned. How visions of Sherlock had kept him from going stark, staring mad during those long, lonely hours in the dark. These were things he found difficult sharing with his therapist, who at least was not emotionally involved.

While John did tell Mrs. Hudson about Harris and the Worthington Bank Gang, Wiggins's departure, and the death of Joseph Bell, he did not elaborate on those long, lonely months leading up to the day he decided to use Benjamin Bell's scalpel to end his life. He did not want Mrs. Hudson to blame herself for not visiting him – hearing Greg beat himself up for not sharing with John his progress on proving Moriarty's existence was bad enough. But when she asked again in a trembling voice, "Why, John? After everything we'd been through with Sherlock, what could have led you to do such a thing?" he did share with her what he had not shared with anyone else, not even Greg or Ella Thompson.

"I got a letter," he said quietly, still looking down at their joined hands, "from my lawyer. I was culpable in the death of the guard–"

"But you weren't," Mrs. Hudson protested. "I heard you talking to Sherlock–"

"But they thought I was," John said, looking up at last. "It's what I wanted them to think. With the…'mitigating circumstances,' the charges were reduced to manslaughter. Better than a murder charge, but still a conviction. With the threat of scandal hanging over them the board wanted to keep it quiet, so it took awhile to work out what disciplinary action they were going to take, but they finally did and…well, my lawyer sent me the notification that they were adding two years onto my sentence."

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Oh, John."

The doctor looked down again. "Two years…I got off easy, considering," he said heavily. "I knew that. I knew, too, that, in the grand scheme of things, two years might seem negligible. But…at the time I'd only been in eighteen months. It felt like I'd been there a bloody lifetime, and then…" his voice broke a little and he closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. Mrs. Hudson said nothing and just squeezed his hands tight in hers.

When John was sure he could continue without losing control, he went on. "I should have been thankful that was it. I know it. I wasn't sorry I did what I did for Wiggy – I'd do it again – but…" He swallowed hard. "It was like someone had just told me the year and a half I'd already served didn't count, and oh, by the way, we're tacking an extra six months on for good measure." He forced a small, hollow-sounding laugh. "I looked ahead at the next decade and it seemed like a century and suddenly…it just didn't seem worth it."

John's voice trailed off. There was a long silence during which he did not dare to look at her. Finally, he gathered his courage and looked her in the eye.

"It was…a mistake," he admitted. "I was stupid. I'm sorry."

Mrs. Hudson looked upset. "If you'd just told me, John, that you were near this kind of thing. You'd stopped writing–"

"I know."

"After all we went through…you could have called, you could have talked to me."

"Yes. I am sorry."

She sighed, shaking her head sadly. "Look, I understand how difficult it was for you after... after..."

John sighed and looked away. "I didn't want to worry you, Mrs. Hudson, so I…I just locked it away. I locked it all away like I was locked away. And it built up, and then it just got harder and harder to face it, somehow…until I just didn't want to face it anymore."

He bit his lip, then turned his eyes back to hers. "D'you know what I mean?"

Tears in her eyes, she let go of one of his hands to reach up and gently touch his scarred cheek. He bowed his head slightly and closed his eyes as he lifted his own hand to place it over hers.

On a Saturday afternoon a fortnight after James's death, John was putting the finishing touches of paint round the doorframe of his small bathroom while pondering his living situation.

He hadn't yet nerved himself up enough to tell Mrs. Hudson he planned to move out, though he knew he would have to eventually. He figured he had time – John knew it wasn't going to be easy to find affordable digs within striking distance of work, and compounding the problem was his reluctance to enter into another flat share.

Of course, work might not be an issue much longer – Dr. Sarai was due back from parental leave in October, and then John would be out of a job. If he couldn't find another in London, or if the expense of a London flat proved too much for his budget, he would have to start looking farther afield.

John sighed and set the paint can down on some newspapers he'd spread out to protect the newly tiled, black-and-white floor, taking a moment to examine his handiwork. It had been a bugger of a job to strip the walls of no less than five layers of peeling paint and paper, but he had accomplished it at last, and the fresh white paint he was now applying over the primer coat was doing wonders for brightening the small space up. The lighting could stand to be improved, but the place was really coming along.

Probably time to replace that mirror, too, John thought, noting the faint brassy streaks in the glass. Catching sight of his own reflection, his eyes found the scar. His mouth tightened and he looked away abruptly.

"Good time for a break," John muttered, pulling off his work gloves and dropping them onto the floor next to the can of paint. He fitted the lid back onto the tin, washed his hands, and headed out to the kitchen.

Sitting down at the small kitchen table a few moments later with a cheese sandwich and an apple, John looked round at the flat he had worked so hard on and put so much of himself into. He hoped he wouldn't have to leave London, but he hated the idea of leaving this place almost as much.

On the night of Sholto's death, John had actually considered leaving Baker Street the very next day. He was sure Greg or Mike Stamford would allow him to kip on a sofa if he asked, and he knew Harry would be more than happy to have him come and stay with her. But Greg's bedsit was tiny, Mike was a married man whose wife might not appreciate a mate of her husband's moving in for an indeterminate length of time, and Harry would be sure to drive John mad in no time flat. It was easier to stay in 221c for the time being if he could manage it, and what John preferred to do, anyway – apart from the fact that he loved Mrs. Hudson, Baker Street, and the life he had once led here, he would miss his small flat. It was a cozy space, it was his own, and he was proud of the work he had done on it.

John sighed through his nose and took a bite out of his sandwich. At least Mrs. Hudson should have no trouble renting the flat out now, though John pitied the poor sod who wound up living under the same roof as Sherlock Holmes.

Since the night of their apocalyptic row, John had seen Sherlock only once, at Sholto's funeral – at least, he thought he had. James's younger sister, Alice, had asked John to say a few words in the chapel at Brookwood. Though reluctant, John had agreed, and as he returned to his seat after delivering a short and, to his thinking, rather inadequate elegy for the brave, dedicated, stalwart soldier whom he had admired so much, he had glimpsed a tall figure in a long coat at the back in the act of slipping out the door. The light was behind it, making it difficult to make out its features, but John had been sure he had seen curly hair and a popped coat collar…

Apart from the memorial service, the only real evidence John had of the detective's presence these days was a great deal of frenzied violin playing from upstairs. Sherlock tended to favor Schubert when he was angry or upset, and John had heard "The Bee" more times than he cared to remember over the past fourteen days.

Moodily, John took a bite out of his apple. Both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade approached him with great wariness these days and John was sorry for it, but not so sorry if it meant they'd stay off his back. The space between John and Sherlock was not so much a rift as a gaping chasm, but the only time Mrs. Hudson had even come close to addressing it with John had been yesterday, when she said she had missed him coming to Sunday dinner the week before and hoped she'd see him this Sunday. As Sherlock also regularly attended these meals, John had declined in a curt voice much unlike the one in which he usually addressed her, and she had dropped the matter at once.

As for Greg…when he and John had met for a pint the other night, the DI had tried once more to talk John out of leaving Baker Street, and when he'd started to regale John with some rot about how Sherlock had lashed out at him not in contempt, but in fear of losing his friendship, John had grown stroppy, reiterating once again that he was done with Sherlock Holmes, and that if Greg wasn't all right with that then maybe he and John should call it quits as well.

Wincing at the memory of the hurt on Greg's face, John set down his half-eaten apple, suddenly a little queasy. He hadn't meant it, but even so it had been a rotten thing to say to Greg, who had been at his side every step of the way during John's trial, who had worked tirelessly in his off hours to clear John's and Sherlock's names, and who had made the long trek to Frankland whenever possible to visit. John had apologized at once and Lestrade, that splendid bastard, had forgiven him on the spot, making John feel guiltier than ever. The doctor felt even sicker when he recalled the look on the DI's face when he awakened in the prison Healthcare Centre after his stupid stunt with the scalpel – a heartbreaking mix of grief, pain, anger, guilt, and downright fear that John remembered all too well, since he had seen it in the mirror after Sherlock's leap.

John put his elbows on the table, careful not to knock the slowly browning apple to the floor, and put his face in his hands. His insides burned with guilt thinking about what he'd put Greg through. And about what he'd almost put him through along with poor, dear Mrs. Hudson, who had already been through it with Sherlock. John did not understand why this wonderful woman found him worthy of her affection, but she did, even as she found Sherlock worthy, and John hated that he hadn't thought of the possible affect on her should another of her "boys" take his own life. At her age, the shock might even have been too much for her.

Once John had "come back to his senses," as Greg referred to it, he had insisted that Mrs. Hudson not be told out of fear of what it might do to her – but also out of shame. For the former solider was ashamed of his suicide attempt, so much so that he hadn't even told Ella about it yet (though he knew he probably should). And then to have Sherlock refer to it so cavalierly, so derisively–

Near his right elbow, John's phone buzzed, jerking him out of his thoughts. He glanced down at the screen: Lestrade.

Sliding his thumb across the touch screen, John lifted the phone to his ear. "Greg."

"John-lad." Greg's voice was almost…jovial. "Could you come on down to the Yard? I have something here I think you'd like to see."

John stood and looked down at his paint-spattered clothes. "Now?"

"Right now, yeah," Lestrade replied, sounding a little excited. "I think you'll be glad you did."

"But why–"

"I'll show you when you get here." Greg's voice sounded like he was smiling. "It's a surprise, sort of. Just get here when you can, yeah?"

John sighed, a trifle exasperated. "Right. Just let me have a quick shower first and a change of clothes and I'll be right there."

"Good." Greg rang off.

Rather than the faint suspicion combined with sullen guilt he had come to expect, John was surprised when, upon arriving at the Met, the Yarders he encountered offered him friendly greetings or a polite nod. He was too curious about what had Greg sounding so chuffed to ponder the change too deeply, though, so he pushed his puzzlement aside and headed directly towards Lestrade's office. He frowned when he found it empty.

Sergeant Donovan, striding past on high heels with a tall stack of files in her arms, paused when she saw him.

"They're down there, doc," she said, jerking her head toward the hallway where John knew there was a conference room.

"They?" he asked, puzzled, but she had already taken off again. Shrugging slightly, John went to the conference room she had indicated and tapped lightly on the closed door.

"Come in," Lestrade's gruff voice called.

John pushed the door open. It was a fairly typical office conference room with long windows covered with vertical blinds, white walls (one of which was taken up with a white board covered in writing), and a long, faux wood laminated table in a cherry finish surrounded by ten black mesh chairs. Greg had shoved a couple of the chairs opposite the door to one side so that he could stand, leaning on his hands as he studied an array of photographs scattered over the table's surface. He looked up when John entered and grinned.

"Greg," John greeted him. "Why–"

"Friend of yours?" Lestrade interrupted, glancing to his left. John followed his gaze to see a tall young man standing in the far corner of the room, wearing black jeans, a white-flecked grey jumper over a maroon polo, and a broad grin. "All right there, Doc?"

John goggled at him. "Wiggy?" Bewildered, he looked back at Lestrade like he couldn't believe his eyes. "What the hell–?"

Before he could get another word out, Wiggins, with a quick laugh, leapt forward and gave John a rough, one-armed hug. Relenting, John grinned and seized the younger man's shoulders in a grip of good comradeship.

"Well, bloody hell! That's me blown," John said with a laugh, looking over at Lestrade. "Greg, how in the hell did you manage–?"

"Got paroled, Doc!" Wiggins exclaimed joyfully. "God, it's bloody good to see you…now we's – we're – both out, yeah?"

His grin was so infectious John couldn't stop smiling himself. "That we are," he agreed. "You look good, kid," he added, giving Bill a once-over.

It was true. Though still thin, Wiggins had filled out some and no longer appeared scrawny. His clothing, though casual, was neat and well cared for. He was clean-shaven and his hair was neatly cropped, and John noted that the waxy pallor the younger man had had when the doctor had first met him had given way to a healthier hue; this last, along with the diminishment of the hollows under his eyes, gave credence to the fact that, despite the traumas he had experienced, Bill had not gone back to the drugs for solace.

"It's brilliant to see you," John added sincerely, "though I didn't expect it to be this soon." He looked at Greg again who raised his brows and gave a rueful shrug.

"Those in higher circles can get things done faster than those of us with boots on the ground," he replied meaningfully.

John's smile didn't disappear, but it did become rather forced. "Yes, well, passing over the 'higher circles'…" he turned back to Wiggy. "I hear you've been doing well for yourself. Studying hard, are you, and working in a shop?"

The lad drew himself up proudly. "Yeah…comin' along great, though that bloody 'law and ethics' class is a bit dull. 'Actions and uses of drugs' is ace, though, and once this case is over I expect I'll have more time to–"

"Ah, yes, the case," a deep baritone drawled off to John's left. He snapped his head around to see Sherlock leaning against the far wall, sliding a cigarette from its pack in one hand and tapping it against the other. "Perhaps we can dispense with the sentiment and get on with it." There was a faint resentment in his eyes as he watched John with Bill.

"Sherlock, I told you, you can't smoke in here." Lestrade's voice was strained; he deliberately avoided John's eyes.

"Your keen detective skills should alert you to the fact that I've not actually lit one, Lestrade."

"What the bloody hell is he doing here?" John growled, glaring at Lestrade.

Bill, sensing the tension in the room, glanced uncertainly from one man to the other, his signature grin fading. "It's…it's Shezza's case, innit?"

"It is my case," Sherlock began, but Lestrade interrupted sharply, "It's the Met's case, actually, and Sherlock's consulting with us on it."

"I couldn't be arsed if it's yours or his, seeing as how I don't 'assist' on cases anymore," John said coldly, looking straight at Lestrade.

"But…hang on a mo'," Wiggins sounded confused. He looked from John, to Sherlock, to Lestrade. "You said–"

"Regardless of your personal feelings, John, I need an assistant," Sherlock cut in loudly.

John still wouldn't look at him. "Get Anderson to do it, he's ready, willing and able," he snarled.

Sherlock snorted. "'Ready and willing' perhaps, but 'able' is another matter entire–"

"Enough!" Greg barked. He glared at them all, then, looking at John, said in a normal voice, "John, would you mind stepping into my office for a moment?"

As John accompanied Lestrade out of the conference room he heard Wiggins mutter, "That went well."

John, fuming, strode ahead of Lestrade into the DI's office. He waited until Greg shut the door behind them before rounding on him.

"Dammit, Greg, I told you I don't want–"

Lestrade held up a placating hand. "John, wait a moment."

John snapped his mouth shut and waited, his eyes steely. Greg, for his part, slumped his shoulders with a sigh, bringing up both hands to rub at his face while he gathered his thoughts. When he let his arms fall so that he could meet John's unrelenting gaze, he looked tired.

"John," Greg began finally, wearily dropping into a chair in the corner (John remained standing stiffly, ignoring the chair opposite). "We need to get Moran. You know this. Sherlock's our best chance for doing that, and you know that, too."

John raised his chin stubbornly. "I don't see what that has to do with–"

"The hell you don't!" With the air of one whose patience is gone Lestrade slapped his palms onto the arms of his chair, glaring at John. "The hell you don't, John! Look, you may want to stick to your belief that Sherlock thinks of you as some sort of errand boy or…or ruddy bottle-washer, but–"

"Of course he does," John snapped.

"…but," Greg spoke over him loudly, "he needs you!"

That shut John up for a moment. He stared at Greg, surprised and a little sullen.

Lestrade continued, his voice stern. "John, you're one of my best mates, and I hate to say this to you, especially after all you've been through, but you're being a right arse."

John flared up at once. "Oh, I like that–" he began defensively, but Lestrade again put up a hand to cut him off.

"Just stop," the DI insisted firmly. "Look, you're so bloody pissed off at Sherlock Holmes – and you have every right to be, mind you, I'm not saying you don't – that you're not acknowledging what's good about him, and it's not his amazing brain – it's the loyalty and friendship he feels for you, John. It's one of the best things about him, if not the best. You may not want to believe it's genuine because it'll make it that much harder for you to cut yourself off from him, but that's how it is and to say otherwise is rubbish."

He paused to look earnestly at John; the doctor's expression was still mulish, but at least he seemed to be listening to Lestrade.

The DI went on, his voice quieter now.

"You've been through a hell of a lot at the hands of the Holmes brothers – more than most people could take. More than I could take and stay sane, to be frank. And the truly bollocks thing is that the bastards didn't even mean to cause you harm."

He was still angry, but John couldn't help quirking his lip a bit at that, recognizing the truth in it.

"What I'm trying to say, John," Lestrade said intently, looking him in the eyes, "is that if you want to cut off your association with Sherlock, I won't blame you or try to talk you out of it or say a word against you, ever. But I'm asking you – please, help him out on this one case. We need to get this bastard, and Sherlock works better with you, and he thinks better with you."

When John didn't answer, Greg urged him again. "If you won't do it for Sherlock, or for the good of the public, then do it for your friend Sholto – and for that kid back there." Lestrade jerked his head in the direction of the conference room.

John looked concerned at that. "Wiggy? Why? What's wrong with him?" he asked quickly.

"Nothing," Greg hastened to reassure him. "Only we need his help in finding this witness, and he's skittish around cops and made it clear he'd feel better if you were involved."

Gritting his teeth and clenching his fists at his sides, John turned away abruptly, measuring his breathing. Finally, after a long struggle with himself, he gave a curt nod and turned back to meet Lestrade's gaze.

"Fine," he said tersely, his eyes burning. "Fine. This one last case, and then that's it."

"Good," Lestrade breathed out in relief, and nodded in his turn. "Good."

But even as they smiled uneasily at one another, they both wondered if Greg was asking too much.

Chapter Text

“Simon: You're in a dangerous line of work, Jayne. Odds are you'll be under my knife again, often. So I want you to understand one thing very clearly: No matter what you do or say or plot, no matter how you come down on us, I will never, ever harm you. You're on this table, you're safe... 'cause I'm your medic. And however little we may like or trust each other, we're on the same crew. Got the same troubles, same enemies, and more than enough of both. Now, we could circle each other and growl, sleep with one eye open, but that thought wearies me. I don't care what you've done, I don't know what you're planning on doing, but I'm trusting you. I think you should do the same. 'Cause I don't see this working any other way.

River: Also, I can kill you with my brain.” 

-From Firefly

---

 

September 2014

John was already on the tube before he realized he'd left his umbrella back at the clinic, and his hope that he would beat the rain home proved futile. He had turned the collar of his green rain jacket up to protect his neck, but it was useless – the heavy drops plastered his blonde hair to his head, turning the saturated strands a dark amber, and ran down his neck to soak the collar of his shirt. Resigned to a thorough drenching, John's quick-march was now less about avoiding the downpour and more about getting home and into dry things – and to a fortifying mug of steaming tea.

The former soldier's steps slowed, however, as he approached 221 Baker Street, and a feeling of such intense déjà vu swept over him that he literally halted in his tracks, forgetting the rain, unsure for a moment what year it was, or even if what he was seeing was real.

A tall figure with slicked-back hair stood in front of Speedy's Sandwich Bar & Cafe, half-turned away from John. Enveloped in a navy trench coat, the smart suit he wore was further sheltered by a large, open umbrella. Beneath the black canopy, the umbrella's owner raised a lit cigarette to his lips and took a long drag. There was a clear plastic wallet tucked under one of his arms and a briefcase at his feet, close to his knee.

"You don't smoke."

"I also don't frequent cafes."

John froze, heedless of the pouring rain. He glanced around; across the street from Speedy's a black Jaguar waited, the driver apparently engrossed in a newspaper, but keeping a surreptitious eye on the café. John looked back at Mycroft. He was sure the government official knew he was there, but remained deliberately turned away to give John the option of going into 221 without acknowledging him.

For a moment John considered doing just that. The burning anger that began in his stomach seemed to shoot up through this throat and make his eyeballs turn hot, but then the reaction died down to a simmer, enabling him to take a more appraising look at the situation.

It had been almost a year since John had confronted Mycroft at the Diogenes Club after learning about the Grand Deception (as he privately called it), when John had threatened to kill the elder Holmes should he come near or interfere with the doctor in any way ever again. At the time John had meant it, and he knew Mycroft had taken the threat seriously. So far as John knew the elder Holmes had heeded the warning, for John had neither seen him nor heard from him in any way. This did not mean, of course, that Mycroft had not been keeping a weather eye on the former solider in some form or another, but if that were the case, the government official had been careful not to tip his hand.

That he was here, now, obviously indicated that Mycroft had something to communicate – something important enough to risk John's ire (though John imagined the rather burly driver in the black Jag was there to serve double duty as a bodyguard should the situation warrant such action).

John figured he had three choices: he could punch the bastard (thereby drawing the chauffeur/bodyguard onto himself), he could stalk past him into 221 without a word, or he could find out what he wanted.

For a moment, John wavered with indecision, but finally curiosity won out. He approached the elder Holmes, stopping several feet away and waiting until the taller man turned to face him. "Well?"

Mycroft met his eyes and nodded briefly. He then dropped the cigarette and ground it out under his foot, closed his brolly, and swept up his briefcase in one smooth motion as he strode into Speedy's without a word.

John hesitated a moment, then grudgingly followed. It was just as well – there was no way he was going to invite Mycroft Holmes into his home.

At Mycroft's bidding, the waitress brought them tea, leaving the pot on the table for them. Though he was chilled from the rain, John stubbornly made a point of not touching his own cup. "Well?" he repeated.

In answer, Mycroft opened the plastic wallet and rummaged through it until he found a long, white envelope. He drew it out, laid it on the table, and pointedly pushed it towards John. Then he sat back, placing his hands in his lap so that they disappeared beneath the table, and waited, looking at John expectantly.

John studied him a moment, then looked down at the envelope. It was addressed to him, and the return address letterhead proclaimed it had come from the Home Office.

Frowning slightly, John looked up at Mycroft without touching it. "What's this then?"

"A cheque in the amount of £255,000, made out to John H. Watson," Mycroft replied evenly.

John blinked, then his face hardened. "You can take it back and bugger off. I don't want–"

"It was not issued by me," Mycroft interrupted. "It was issued by the Home Secretary. It is the settlement you have been awarded in compensation for a miscarriage of justice leading to twenty-one months of wrongful imprisonment."

Taken aback, John paused, then stared down at the envelope.

"I never put in a claim for compensation," he said finally.

"No, but your lawyer did on your behalf," Mycroft replied smoothly.

John was silent for a long moment, still staring at the rather innocuous-looking envelope.

"Two-hundred and fifty-five thousand pounds," he said softly, as though he were speaking to himself. "So that's what a year and a half of my life is worth, is it?"

"An independent assessor was engaged by the Secretary of State to determine the, ah, 'appropriate' amount," Mycroft replied, sounding faintly apologetic. "A maximum amount* may have been considered, but numerous…factors…were used to determine the final award."

Which is a rather delicate way of saying that they docked the amount because of what happened with Gary Harris, John thought ruefully.

Not making any move to take the envelope, John asked sharply, "I told you to stay out of my affairs, Mycroft."

"And so I have," Mycroft replied calmly. "After a fashion. But yes, I did speak to your lawyer about applying to the Claims Assessment Team on your behalf, then left him to it."

"But you wanted to bring the cheque to me yourself," John said tonelessly. "Why? As a 'good faith' gesture? To garner favor?"

To his surprise, Mycroft gave a knowing smile. "Nothing near so devious, I do assure you, John. I recognize the futility of such gestures, and am knowledgeable enough of human nature to 'deduce,' as my brother would say, how such an attempt would be received by you – particularly after our last meeting."

John did not smile back. "Why, then?"

"Two reasons, actually," Mycroft said with a sigh. "The first being that I wished to ensure you actually received the cheque. Your lawyer has informed me that, while he has attempted to contact you numerous times, you have not responded to his enquiries."

John narrowed his eyes, displeased at this discussion of his affairs without his knowledge. He couldn't deny the truth of the statement, though – he had indeed received a number of envelopes in the post from the lawyer Mycroft had provided for him when his case had gone to trial, as well as official-looking missives from the British government which he suspected had to do with his incarceration, and had left all of them unopened in the bottom right-hand drawer of his writing desk. He had no doubt he would have done the same with the envelope on the table before him now. He did not acknowledge this out loud, however, though he could see by Mycroft's slight nod that he didn't have to.

John felt his fingers curl inward slightly. He felt like tearing the cheque up there and then and throwing it in Mycroft's face.

Instead he asked, "What's the second reason?" He could hear the bite in his own voice.

To his surprise, Mycroft's eyes flitted away from his own; he looked…diffident, uncertain.

"I understand you are interested in finding…new accommodations," the government official said hesitantly.

John just waited, pressing his lips together tightly to keep himself from asking how the bastard had known. The only person John had told was Greg, and he knew Greg would not have gone to Mycroft with the information. Mycroft being a Holmes, it probably had something to do with John's shirt cuffs or the way he had tied his shoes.

After a moment, Mycroft shifted his eyes back to John's and said slowly, "I suppose I wanted to ensure you received the settlement because…well. I wanted you to know you have options."

John blinked. "Options?" he said stupidly.

Mycroft sat back, laying his hands flat upon the table. "This money is rightfully your own, John," he said plainly. "Does it truly compensate you for the time you lost or what you have been through? No. The maximum amount, had you received it, would hardly have accomplished that, nor, I wager, would any monetary amount. But this is what our government, in its infinite wisdom, has chosen to bestow upon you for your 'trouble'. I know full well that you would reject any compensation that I had a personal hand in, but I assure you, apart from instructing your lawyer to begin the proceedings on your behalf for a claim you would not make for yourself, I had nothing to do with this."

Mycroft paused, as though expecting John to make an interjection. When the doctor did not, he continued.

"This sum is certainly nothing near what you deserve, nor will it make you a wealthy man. But it does mean that you are not bound to remain in Baker Street, nor that you have to take just any employment in order to remain in London. It's even enough to enable to you to start over somewhere abroad, should you so desire. This is what I mean by 'options,' and why I wanted to ensure you received it."

John's surprise showed openly on his honest face.

"I don't…understand," he admitted finally. "You want to make sure I have some sort of…autonomy? That I can leave Baker Street, if that's what I want?"

Mycroft nodded once.

"Did he put you up to this?" John demanded abruptly. "Your brother?"

"Sherlock?" Mycroft frowned. "I did not discuss it with him – indeed, we don't discuss you at all now. I don't imagine he'll be pleased with me should he learn of our conversation, considering that he does not want you to leave at all."

John was not at all certain of that himself, but he passed over the remark to ask instead, "Then why make sure I have this kind of…freedom? If you're so sure Sherlock wouldn't want that, I mean?"

"'Freedom,'" Mycroft said musingly. "Yes…that is the right word, isn't it?" He seemed to be speaking to himself, his gaze turned inward. Then he straightened and focused on John again.

"My nation comes first, John," Mycroft said simply, "and, though, you may find it difficult to believe, Sherlock comes second. There is little I would not do for him."

He let that sink in for a moment before adding, "But I think it is important, this time, at least, that I put you first."

John barked a short, humorless laugh. "Why?" he asked bleakly. "So you can assuage your own guilt?"

Mycroft rose, tucking the wallet under one arm and draping his folded trench coat over the other. "On the night we met, Dr. Watson, I observed that you had the potential to be the making of my brother. But I have come to believe that he – we, in fact – could easily be the unmaking of you."

Sliding out from the table, he paused next to John, raised his brows and remarked, "And that would be a shame."

With that, he departed the café.

John sat for a long time with the envelope and pot of cooling tea on the table in front of him, thinking.

A slim, pleasant-looking woman with short blonde hair looked up and smiled from behind the reception desk when he entered the surgery. "May I help you?"

"I'm looking for John Watson," Sherlock replied, removing his gloves one finger at a time as he stared over her head.

"I'm sorry, you've just missed him," the woman replied. "He won't be back until tomorrow…would you like to leave him a message?" She reached for a nearby message pad.

Frowning, Sherlock shifted his gaze to her, automatically deducing.

Only child, linguist, clever, part-time nurse, shortsighted, guardian, bakes own bread, disillusioned lib dem, secret tattoo, size 12, appendix scar, cat lover, romantic…hm, vaguely more interesting than most, attractive (so far as that goes), he thought, faintly interested. Curious undercurrent of danger, even violence…she's not what she seems. I'm surprised John has not asked her out on a date; the fact that they're colleagues has not stopped him from such idiocy in the past. Unless…

He paused, forgetting the woman entirely as his thoughts turned to John.

Puzzled, the woman's smile faded. "Something wrong?"

"Hm? No," Sherlock replied. "I was just…thinking."

It had suddenly occurred to him that John had not dated at all since he had returned to London. Strange Sherlock had not noticed it sooner, but then he didn't set much store on romance himself. John, however, enjoyed female company, so why–?

Unbidden, the answer came to him.

It's the scar. He feels self-conscious.

Sherlock quickly shoved the thought away. Surely not! Diminutive, ordinary-looking John never had the least compunction about flirting with the most attractive woman in the room; he wouldn't let something like a scar be a blow to his confidence, would he?

Unless it's not so much the scar as what it represents…he's a former convict now, has done hard time–

Biting his lip, Sherlock turned away abruptly. "No message," he said shortly.

"You're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?" she asked suddenly, halting him in his tracks.

"John spoke of me, then?" he asked hopefully, turning back towards her. But he was disappointed.

"No, I've seen you in the papers," she replied. "And–" She flushed suddenly, then offered a sheepish smile. "Well, I've read John's blog," she admitted. "He doesn't know that, but I think the stories are cracking!" She gave him an admiring smile.

"He hasn't mentioned me at all, then?" Sherlock insisted. He felt oddly hurt.

"No." Now her smile was sympathetic, as though she somehow understood what he was thinking.

He again made to leave and she again stopped him. "You don't do cases together anymore, then? I haven't seen anything new on John's blog since…well, since–"

Sherlock's jaw tightened, but he felt compelled to answer.

"No," he said stiffly. "That is – we're working on one now, but it's a one-off."

"I see." She sounded as if she really did.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from her knowing ones and glanced around the nondescript surgery. "I suppose the pleasures of the medical profession are what thrills the good doctor Watson these days," he remarked, striving to keep the bitterness out of his tone.

To his surprise the nurse's face fell a bit.

"I wouldn't say that," she said carefully. "A bit slow for him, I think, being a GP when he was once a surgeon. And of course it hasn't been easy for him since…he got back. Well, you understand, I'm sure."

Sherlock frowned at her, puzzled. "Not easy for him?"

"Well, most of the patients love him," she explained. "But we do get the odd one now and then who, when they realize who he is, get a bit…well, blinkered."

Sherlock narrowed his beryl eyes as this sunk in.

"But as I said, you'd know all about that yourself, yeah?" the nurse said sympathetically. "It's a damn shame, but even with your name officially cleared you still have some dim people who can't stop believing you're guilty."

Sherlock stared at her. She was right, of course, but he paid it no mind – he did not allow what other people thought of him bother him. John, on the other hand…

Suddenly he remembered a snippet of conversation with John from a day not long before it all went to hell.

"It really bothers you."

"What?"

"What people say."

"Yes."

"About me? I don't understand – why would it upset you?

John had not answered Sherlock's question, but Sherlock understood suddenly how the doctor must have felt, because he knew what he was feeling at the thought of John being reviled by the public: sick, angry, and helpless…as though someone had hurt him, Sherlock, personally, and he wanted to hurt them back.

The detective swallowed. Was this how John had felt when the press finally did start to turn on Sherlock as he had predicted?

"John was exonerated of all charges," he said stupidly. "Why would people believe he's guilty, knowing that the Met and the government don't?"

The nurse stared at him. "Gosh. You don't know anything about human nature, do you?"

Sherlock lowered his head to look at her.

"Mmm, nature? No. Human? No," he said bitterly.

Without another word he turned on his heel and left the surgery. If tearing down a good man because one couldn't accept facts was human nature, then Sherlock Holmes wanted no part of it.

“So what now, John?” She asked as he added milk to his tea.

He looked up enquiringly. “Now?”

She smiled a little. “You've been distracted all evening. There’s something you want to tell me, I think.”

John stared at her, startled. His ears turned red as he looked away guiltily. “It’s getting late,” he said evasively. “Maybe we should talk about it la–”

“John.” Her voice was stern.

He sighed. “Right.”

They were having tea together in John's sitting room, watching telly. John couldn't keep his mind on the program; his thoughts kept returning to the conversation with Mycroft – and the cheque now in his possession.

He turned back to look at her seriously. “Look, Mrs. Hudson…you know I…I’ve been happy here–”

“Oh.” Her eyes grew large and she raised a hand to her heart.

John winced, but went on doggedly. “–I’ll always be grateful for all you’ve done for me, and I promise I’ll stay in touch–”

“John.”

He stopped talking.

Mrs. Hudson looked at him intently. “Love, don’t you think you might be being…well, a bit hasty?” she asked seriously. “I mean, one row…”

John’s expression hardened. “I think what took place earlier could be classified as more than just an ordinary ‘row,’ Mrs. H.”

At this, Mrs. Hudson dropped her eyes. “I know, love…I know,” she said heavily. “You’ve every right to be angry and upset, of course; it’s just…well, you know I hate to see you leave,” she finished earnestly, raising her eyes to his. “I suppose I’m selfish enough to want both my boys near,” she added with a brave attempt at a smile.

John put his hand over hers. She turned it so it was palm-up, entwined her fingers in his, and gave them a gentle squeeze.

The days were getting shorter; it was dark by the time Sherlock got back to Baker Street. Keeping hold of his mobile in one hand as he threw a number of bills at the cab driver with the other, he hurried through the rain and up the steps to 221.

He knew that John was in as soon as he saw the saturated rain jacket hanging on its hook in the hallway and turned his steps immediately towards 221c. Knocking at the door, he called out impatiently, letting himself in when there was no response.

Incredibly, John was asleep on the sofa. Sherlock surmised John's shoulder must have been aggravated due to the damp weather and that the doctor, normally a light sleeper, had taken a muscle relaxant before settling down for a kip. John lay on his back, head angled towards the back of the sofa, mouth slightly open, right arm flung out with the palm facing up. His shirt was untucked and his feet were bare.

As Sherlock cautiously approached the sofa, the detective's eyes were drawn at once to a torn-open envelope on the coffee table accompanied by a typed missive on official-looking letterhead, what appeared to be a folded cheque, and a somewhat rumpled bit of notepaper that Sherlock recognized at once as Mycroft's personal stationery.

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock positioned himself so that he could read the note without actually touching it. His brother's precise, elegant handwriting leapt up at him from the crumpled page.

John,

You told me once that the late and unlamented James Moriarty referred to you as my brother's "pet." You may not know this, but he had a name for me as well – the "Iceman." The name was, I assure you, not misapplied. I have ever viewed bravery on a par with stupidity, integrity as nonexistent, sincerity as suspect, fidelity as corruptible, and loyalty as ephemeral.

Nevertheless, I have come to understand that I have, perhaps, given Moriarty too much credit in his assessment of human nature. To wit: I may be an "Iceman," but you are certainly not a "pet," for you possess all those qualities I have named in abundance. And, at the risk of devolving into mere sentiment, I can in truth say that you have provided me with a new view of human nature that I actually can begin to believe in.

My mistakes regarding you, John, are legion. This you know only too well. I have hesitated in offering my apologies for them–not out of a misplaced pride, but because I know how little effect they will have, and to voice them seems inadequate to the point of disrespectfulness. Nonetheless I do offer them, and without asking or expecting a forgiveness to which I am not entitled.

There is nothing I can do to make right what I have done and what I have failed to do; no restitution that can be enough. That said, I do assure you that, whatever you decide to do next, my resources are always available to you.

Sincerely,

Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock's heart began to pound. Shifting his eyes to the typed letter, he saw it was a short, dry note from the Home Office informing Dr. John H. Watson that the enclosed cheque in the amount of £255,000 was his settlement for wrongful imprisonment.

Whatever you decide to do next.

Backing up quickly, Sherlock returned to the foot of the stairs, pulling the door shut softly behind him. Then he took a deep breath and rapped sharply; he heard John stir and grumble, and a moment later the disheveled doctor opened the door with one hand while trying to smooth down his hair at the back with the other. When he saw who it was he froze and his expression turned guarded. "What?"

Sherlock tried not to show how much this hurt. "Bill Wiggins has been trying to reach you."

John's wary expression gave way to one of concern. "Phone's charging in the bedroom…something happen?"

For answer, Sherlock held out his own phone. There were three words on the screen:

Found her. –Wiggy

John opened the door wider so Sherlock could come in and began tucking in his shirt. "Be right there," he said, disappearing down the short hallway to his bedroom.

Once he was out of sight, Sherlock fired off a quick, angry text:

Making amends for your failures by further interfering in my life? –SH

A moment later, a soft ping announced an answering text.

Perhaps there is some wisdom in the rather twee expression, Sherlock…"If you love something, set it free..." –MH

Pressing his lips together, Sherlock deleted the texts and furiously shoved the phone into his pocket.

Chapter Text

"My dear Watson," said the well-remembered voice, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."
–Sherlock Holmes in "The Adventure of the Empty House," from The Return of Sherlock Holmes

September 2014

The rain had stopped by the time the cab let them off in the Bayswater area. John climbed out after Sherlock, pulling his old Army First Aid kit with him. He was uneasy because Bill had asked him to bring it. He had not responded to John's enquiry as to whether he was injured, and John had been so preoccupied with worry that he had barely registered Sherlock's uncharacteristic silence during the drive.

The directions Bill had texted to John's phone led them along a road towards Leinster Gardens. It is an expensive-looking area, with a long terrace of four-storey, white-plastered Edwardian buildings lining the road.

Out of place in these posh surroundings, a street person crouched on the wet pavement with his back against a wall on a deserted corner. He was huddled in a filthy blanket that stank of alcohol and urine; John wondered vaguely how he could bear to have the thing drawn up over his bowed head even in the damp weather.

As they approached him, the street person called to them in a hoarse voice. "Oi. Spare any change, guv?"

Sherlock paused, his eyes narrowing. John, distracted, just tightened his lips and continued past him, anxious to catch up with Wiggy.

"Oh, come on, guv," the homeless man grunted plaintively. "Don't be like all the rest, yeah?"

Unable to resist the plea, John turned back with an impatient sigh, tucking his kit under one arm while rummaging through his coat pockets with his free hand. Withdrawing some small bills and loose change he had got back from the cabbie, he dropped it in the urchin's upended cap, then straightened to go.

Before John could fully withdraw his hand, however, the homeless man's own shot out of the blanket and locked around his wrist. John stiffened at once.

"Oi!" He said sharply, jerking his arm away. "What are–?"

He broke off, jaw dropping, for in a twinkling the "street person" had thrown off the blanket and was on his feet, and John found himself face to face with a grinning Bill Wiggins.

"Not a bad disguise, yeah Doc?" he boasted. Jerking his head towards Sherlock, he added, "Doubt even Shezza could have done better!"

Sherlock snorted. "I assure you, I could. I knew it was you as soon as I saw the scuffs on the toes of your trainers," he drawled.

Bill frowned, looking petulant. "You never did!" he said indignantly as Sherlock smirked.

"None of that, now," John said sharply. "You tell me how you're hurt!"

At that, the young man's face became serious as he turned back to John. "Not me, Doc." He tossed the smelly blanket aside and swept up the cap. "This way." He began walking along the road.

"I'll be wanting that cash back!" John called after him irritably. Bill just laughed without looking back.

Glancing at one another in bemusement, John and Sherlock followed him.

Bill led them along a deserted road lined with a long terrace of four-storey, white-plastered Edwardian buildings. John hoped they didn't have far to go – now that his concern for Wiggy had eased, he became aware once again of the tense silence between Sherlock and himself.

His wish was granted: ahead of them, Bill stopped abruptly. "Here," he said.

John stared around, puzzled. "I don't see–"

"Ah," Sherlock exclaimed, stepping into the road so he could get a better view of the tall houses. His face was alight with the joy of discovery.

John frowned. "What?"

"It's the lie, John," Sherlock breathed. "The lie of Leinster Gardens – hidden in plain sight." His eyes were fixed, fascinated, on the house fronts.

Bill nodded solemnly, looking at John. "People live 'ere for years, an' no one notices nuffink – nothing," he corrected himself.

"Do you see it, John?" Sherlock demanded softly. "Hidden in plain sight."

Puzzled, John followed his gaze to a couple of the adjoining houses in the middle of the terrace. They looked no different than the houses on either side of them, except…

"No lights on," John observed. He glanced back at Sherlock. "So?"

"No lights, no," Bill agreed. "Nor yet no doorknobs, nor yet no letter boxes."

Furrowing his brows, John looked and saw that this was so. He looked up at the opaque windows.

"Painted glass," he said slowly. "But…why–?"

"Twenty-three and twenty-four Leinster Gardens," Sherlock said. "The empty houses!"

Tearing his gaze away from the buildings to look sharply at John, Sherlock answered his unspoken question. "They were demolished years ago to make way for the London Underground, a vent for the old steam trains." He looked up at them again. "Only the very front section of the house remains. It's just a façade."

John looked up, amazed. "Kitty was living here?"

"Nah," Bill said with a shrug as he sauntered, unimpressed, towards one of the two adjacent doors. "No room. She just agreed to meet yer both here, see?"

He pushed the door open and started inside. "Mind yer heads…it's a bit cramped," he warned. Then, shooting a teasing grin at John, he added, "Well – you mind your head, anyway, Shezza. Doc should be fine."

Amused, John snorted and gave the younger man a playful shove. "Mind your manners, you young pup," he said good-naturedly. Bill grinned like a silly boy, but it faded when he spotted a fleeting, wistful look flicker so briefly over Sherlock's face that it was gone before John could register it.

Once inside, John looked around with interest. All that remained of the original house was a long, narrow corridor running along the front. On the wall inside the door was an empty socket for a large electric plug, and beside it a fuse box. The space was dimly lit, John could see, by what appeared to be a battery-operated camping lantern at the far end of the corridor. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see it was sat on an upturned wooden box; around it were a number of similar boxes. On one of these, facing away from them, sat a hunched figure.

Sherlock zeroed in on it at once. "Well done, Wiggins," he murmured, and began to stride towards the still figure.

Bill grabbed his sleeve. "Wait a mo', Shezza," he warned. Sherlock paused, surprised, as Bill turned to John. "Doc…you come first, yeah?"

Bemused, John glanced at Sherlock, who merely raised his eyebrows and gave a terse nod. With a slight shrug, John moved in front of the detective and followed Bill down the corridor, pulling his torch out of his pocket as they advanced.

As they slowly approached, the huddled shape gradually morphed into that of a young girl facing away from them with her knees drawn up. A battered, bulky fleece jacket obscured her figure, and dark red hair spilled down her back below a floppy brimmed hat. She tensed visibly as they approached, but did not turn to face them.

Wiggins shot a warning glance at Sherlock and John and held up his hand in a "stop" gesture. As they halted, he turned to the figure and cleared his throat.

"Kitty?" Bill said softly. His tone made John think of a rider trying to soothe a skittish horse. "I brought th' Doc."

When she did not acknowledge him, Bill laid a careful hand on her right shoulder and gently pressed until she reluctantly turned to face them. She raised her head slowly, wincing at the glare from John's torch.

The doctor drew in his breath at the sight of the deep, infected gash on the outer right side of her neck.

John thought ruefully that he hadn't expected he'd ever do field surgery again – though, in fact, this was hardly that. Because the wound on Kitty's neck was already two days old, the doctor had to scrape off some of the recently knitted flesh along the sides to make it bleed again so he could clean and disinfect it properly. Throughout the procedure, Kitty stayed still, silent, and stoic, only wincing slightly now and then. Bill sat next to her and held her hand, gazing into her face with such a soppy expression that John was hard put not to smile and Sherlock snorted and rolled his eyes.

"This is Kitty Winter," said Bill unnecessarily, waving his free hand in introduction as he glanced at Sherlock. He looked very pleased with himself. "What she don't – doesn't – know – well, there, she'll speak for herself." He grinned sunnily at John, then looked back at Sherlock. "Put my hand right on her, Shezza; only took me a half-dozen tries!"

"I'm easy to find," the girl retorted, "for them as knows where to look. Hell, London gets me every time." She had a pretty, fluttering voice that was sorely at odds with her wise and weary demeanor. She sat with her hands between her knees, shoulders hunched forward in a defensive posture as John applied butterfly stitches to the middle and both edges of the cut.

Kitty reminded John of a flame on a candle. Her slim, waif-like figure and pale, intense face was overpowered by thick, fiery red hair that hung round her face and down her back. Though quite young, there was a haunted, ageless look of sorrow and bitter experience in her over-large, watery grey eyes.

"I gather we have your good wishes, Miss Winter," Sherlock said, narrowing his beryl eyes in that way John knew meant he was pleased.

"He killed my Ozzie. If I can help to put him away, I'm yours to the rattle," Kitty said with fierce energy. There was an intensity of hatred in her white, set face and her blazing eyes such as John had never seen in a woman.

"Why didn't you go to the police, Kitty?" John asked gently.

Whether they would have been able to find Kitty Winter without Wiggy's help might have been debatable, but it quickly became evident that they certainly would never have induced her to speak without him. It was obvious the girl's reticence around the police far outweighed Wiggy's own, and she had refused outright to go to New Scotland Yard. At Bill's urging she had finally agreed to speak to Sherlock and John in the company of Bill alone, and in a neutral location of her choosing.

She shook her head vigorously. "Don't want nuffink to do with them," she said fiercely.

Then the anger fled her face, leaving fear in its wake and a youthfulness much more suited to her years.

"Besides," she whispered, and shivered. "I…I ain't safe, now."

Sherlock looked closely at her, paying special attention to the turned up collar of her battered fleece jacket and low-slung slouch hat, then her hairline, then the area near her left eye. He stood and walked closer to her. He did not reach out to touch her, but Kitty shrank back a little as he loomed above.

"Sherlock," John said warningly.

"You saw him shoot Ozzie," Sherlock said, ignoring John.

Kitty swallowed. "Yeah."

"But he didn't see you."

"Not…not then, no," Kitty whispered. "I were back behind the wing wall, getting changed. He didn't know I was there."

"But you followed him," Sherlock said with certainty.

Kitty began to weep quietly. "He killed my Ozzie! And I saw him…he were on the roof of the pier, gathering up his pack."

"And so you leapt on Ozzie's bike and went after him." Sherlock's voice grew more intent.

"Yeah. I–"

"Which direction?" Sherlock interrupted sharply.

"He were heading toward Westminster," she choked. "But I didn't get far. He saw me and–"

"And fired at you," Sherlock finished, and before she could pull away he swiftly removed her hat and lifted her hair away from the left side of her face.

Bill gasped and John was on his feet in an instant. "Christ. Here, let me see."

"No!" Her eyes stricken, Kitty jerked away from Sherlock and scrambled to her feet.

Wiggy took her arm. "Here, let the doc look, Kitty. He already done – did – your neck, yeah?"

John coaxed her back down onto the crate and did a quick examination. The scar began just below and to the side of Kitty's left eye, at the point of her cheekbone. It ran along the side of her head back toward her left ear, leaving a deep groove that she had endeavored to keep hidden with her hair. The scar was not as long as John's own, but it was just as deep and, like his, had obviously become infected at one point. He shuddered. A little to the right and the bolt would have hit the girl in the eye.

"I went arter him, but then he took arter me," Kitty said, trembling. "And he's kept arter me…I was hoping he hadn't got a good look at me–"

"Between your distinctive hair and the bike you would have been easily recognizable," Sherlock interrupted.

"I had to keep the bike! It were Ozzie's – he loved that bike!"

"'Course you did, girl," Bill said comfortingly. He patted her arm.

"Was he responsible for this, too?" John said sharply, indicating the fresher injury on her neck.

She nodded miserably. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"You've been playing cat and mouse with him since May," he stated.

Kitty gave a watery laugh. "Maybe that first night, but I been the mouse ever since," she said, her voice strained. "If I didn't know the streets so well he'd a-got me by now."

"Dear God," John said softly, staring at her. She blinked in surprise at the horrified sympathy in his face, puzzled as to how to take it. Her obvious confusion over how to process simple concern made John's heart twist.

"I did phone it in that – that night that Ozzie–" Kitty swallowed and looked down, visibly steadying herself before looking up again. "I couldn't – couldn't just leave Ozzie there," she finished tearfully.

Sherlock was impressed. "No mean feat," he said, "staying ahead of–"

"–the Ghost," Bill interjected. Sherlock looked over at him sharply.

"That's what we on the streets calls him," Kitty supplied, and Bill nodded.

"Would you recognize him if you saw a photograph?" Sherlock demanded.

"I'd never forget that face," the girl said bleakly.

"I'll need you to map out for me every location in which you spotted him," Sherlock declared.

Kitty, pale and fearful but determined, nodded. "That I can do," she said firmly, her eyes hard. "If it'll help you to corner him, I'll do whatever you ask."

"There's a pattern here," Sherlock said tersely.

"Mm," John said noncommittally as he stared idly through the front windows to the slowly lightening street below, sipping at his tall coffee and trying to feel more awake.

True to form, Sherlock seemed unaffected by their sleepless night. Having removed his shoes and socks and exchanged his jacket for a blue dressing gown, he was currently standing on the sofa and perusing a large map of the city he had stuck to the wall. The coffee table behind him was strewn with photographs, handwritten notes, and typed pages. Occasionally Sherlock would reach back to grab one of these and, with his characteristic disregard for Mrs. Hudson's wallpaper, stick them to various areas around and below the map with pins. He also used a pen to make crosses at various point on the map, concentrating on the areas around the City of Westminster and the Docklands, muttering to himself all the while – or rather, presumably, to John, as the doctor caught his name occasionally interspersed with the running commentary.

John barely listened. He was aching with tiredness and trying to work up the energy to go down to his own flat and have a shower and change of clothes before heading off to the clinic. He was also thinking about Wiggins, and Kitty Winter.

While Sherlock had been busy elsewhere back at Leinster Gardens, the doctor had taken his bag out again and without a word pulled out some antiseptic and a prescription pad on which he dashed off a script for an antibiotic. He handed them, along with all the cash he had on him, over to the girl, saying simply, "You'll be fine, Kitty."

And as she took the proffered gifts with suspiciously shiny eyes, she understood he wasn't just talking about the cut on her neck. He meant about everything.

Wiggins, hovering protectively near, had whispered to her, "See? I told you he was all right!"

The girl, who had seemed unnervingly wary of John in particular at first, shooting him odd look from the corners of her eyes, had relaxed completely and given the doctor a timid smile.

Wiggins had looked so proud and confident that John had felt his throat tighten. He had initially been worried about sending Wiggy back to his old haunts…the lad had come so far, and John had hated the thought he might be tempted by old habits to abandon everything for which he had worked so hard. But now the doctor knew he needn't have worried…though Bill seemed delighted to be out "adventuring," he also seemed strong and confident and wonderfully comfortable in his own skin. He also, John noted with amusement, seemed more than a little besotted by Kitty, who in turn kept turning her eyes to him in admiring amazement, as if she were having difficulty in believing this clean and steady lad was the same person she had known three years ago. John had hated seeing that old look on her young face, and he couldn't help hoping that association with the newly paroled and personally driven Wiggy would be good for her – show her that she, too, perhaps, could have a different kind of life. There was something scrappy about her that John found appealing.

"John? Are you listening?" Sherlock's impatient voice cut into his thoughts. John started guiltily.

"What? Oh. Sorry, I was just…thinking," John said lamely.

Still standing on the sofa, Sherlock had half turned towards John to glare at him. He snorted. "Better leave the thinking to me, John. It's really not your area." He turned back to the wall, oblivious of the dirty look John threw him. "As I was saying, I can't see the pattern in Moran's movements – it's too nebulous."

He gritted his teeth and tugged at the curls on the left side of his head as John came over to look at the map with him. Sherlock stepped off the sofa and to the floor via the coffee table and spun to face the map from the middle of the floor as though to get a better view.

"No clear pattern…no clear motive," Sherlock muttered.

John chewed his lip a moment, then glanced at him. "You said you spent your time away working on taking down Moriarty's network," he began.

"I did take down Moriarty's network," Sherlock snapped.

"You couldn't possibly have taken down all of it," John argued. "You might as well say you took down the Mafia! If Moran realizes it's you who's been making a huge dent in his illegal profit margins–"

Sherlock glared at him. "It may not be possible to take down the Mafia – at least as a concept – but a single crime family may be taken down, however nefarious. I'm telling you, John, when the big fish – Moriarty – was netted, the smaller but still significant ones that darted right and left out of that net were finally recovered through Mycroft's and my efforts. All but one, that is – John Sebastian Moran."

"Revenge, then?" John asked, trying to ignore the reminder that Mycroft had known the whole bloody time. "For destroying his…'business,' as Moriarty called it?"

"No, no, the victims don't make sense," Sherlock huffed dramatically, turning his eyes back to the map. "Why these victims? If it's about revenge for putting a halt to his criminal enterprise, why not come after me, or Mycroft? Though Mycroft does have protection in place for both of us, we know from Sholto's death that Moran has had ample opportunity target me effectively."

He was still looking at the map, and so did not notice John's wince at these words.

"And yet…you're right, John," Sherlock continued, narrowing his eyes at the photographs of the victims below the map. "The murders do have a personal feel to them – even, perhaps especially, Sholto's. This is further supported by the fact that Moran is almost certainly working alone, likely by necessity and not choice."

With a small sigh, John followed Sherlock's gaze to Sholto's photograph. "Maybe he thinks 'alone' protects him," he said pointedly.

Grey eyes snapped to John's face, narrowing thoughtfully. John, already wishing he hadn't spoken, tensed. He could not read the expression on Sherlock's features.

The silence spun out for a minute, then two. When Sherlock finally replied, his voice was lower than usual. "John. When I said that…I knew it wasn't true. I…" He cleared his throat. "I agree with what you said that day. That 'friends' protect people. I know I would not…be here, without that protection."

Whatever reaction Sherlock might have expected, it was not the one he got – he looked shocked when John reeled back, stung.

"John. What–?" Sherlock sounded bewildered, but John felt as though he had been punched in the heart and didn't register it.

"You bloody–" he got out in a choked voice, then stopped abruptly, snapping his mouth shut. Clenching his teeth, John stared down at his feet, struggling to steady his breathing. When he felt more in control he raised his head and glared at Sherlock.

"Yeah, I realize now you weren't really alone when you tricked me out of the lab that day," he said coldly. "I thought you were, and that used to keep me up nights, when I was in my cell, but I know now you had your real friends nearby, didn't you? Molly, Mycroft…even about twenty-five tramps, yeah? The people you trusted."

Sherlock's eyes went wide and his already pale face went whiter. "God, John – I didn't mean–"

But John turned away, not caring, for the moment, if he was being unreasonable. "I've got to get ready for work. You don't need me, anyway."

And, for the second time in as many weeks, he stormed out of 221b.

After a shower, a hasty breakfast, and a brisk walk along the quiet street toward the Baker Street tube station less than an hour later, John felt much calmer, and he began to wonder if maybe he had overreacted. His steps slowed and he paused, thinking it over. Sherlock had seemed genuinely shocked and distressed at John's interpretation of his words; perhaps he had meant something else by them?

John had reacted as he had because, after all these months, it still hurt that Sherlock had not trusted him enough to let him in on his plan. John had trusted Sherlock utterly, but Sherlock had as good as admitted he did not trust John in return. It was that very lack of trust, John felt, that had led to intense grief – not to mention incarceration.

"I can't get past it," he'd told Ella Thompson during a therapy session. "I'd have killed or died for that bloody bastard, and he told me to my face that he left me to grieve for two bloody years because he didn't believe I could keep my mouth shut."

"Why did you go back to Baker Street, John?" Ella had asked quietly. John had caught his breath.

"Because I'd loved that son of a bitch like a brother," he admitted. "I suppose part of me hoped…well, that maybe my faith in him wasn't misplaced, after all."

"Have you talked to him about it?"

He hadn't, of course. John was too reserved, too male, too British, maybe, to open up like that, even to his best friend. Or were those just excuses? John's father had not approved of his children crying or showing emotion – especially his son – and John had learned early in his difficult household to keep what he felt under wraps so as not to draw too much attention. Perhaps Ella was right, and John had grown to rely too much on his own reserve as a way of protecting himself from hurt and disappointment.

"There's stuff that you wanted to say, but didn't say it," Ella had suggested, and she was right, but John had only replied, "I find it difficult…that sort of stuff."

So he found it difficult to tell the people he cared about what they meant to him…did it matter? He knew how he felt. Did he really have to come out and say it? Christ, he had offered to sacrifice himself for Sherlock at the pool; the git should know how John felt about him…shouldn't he?

But then, thinking back to that night at the pool, it suddenly came back to John how, when Sherlock – awkward, halting – had tried to thank him for what he'd offered to do, John had sought to relieve the tension by making a joke in response.

John then thought back to a time before that, when he had accompanied Sherlock on "The Blind Banker" case. He remembered the way that Sebastian Wilkes, that smug git with whom Sherlock had gone to uni, had expressed incredulity when Sherlock had introduced John as his friend; John, thinking that Wilkes had been undermining his worth, had defensively supplied that he was Sherlock's colleague. He had meant that he was Sherlock's colleague in addition to being the his friend, but now, recalling the hurt that had flashed quickly across the detective's face, it suddenly occurred to John that perhaps Sherlock had thought John was correcting his assumption of friendship.

And then John remembered something else – a snippet of conversation with Sherlock that had taken place not long before it all went to hell:

"It really bothers you."

"What?"

"What people say."

"Yes."

"About me? I don't understand – why would it upset you?

That would have been the time to tell Sherlock because I don't like when people run down my best mate, you prat. But in the end his shy reticence had won out and John had merely changed the subject. Sherlock knew he was John's best friend, anyway – or so John had thought at the time.

Now, remembering the genuine puzzlement on Sherlock's face, the former army doctor wasn't so sure.

"He doesn't think the way we do," Greg had said last March when John had phoned him from Yorkshire to ask about the emails Sherlock had been sending him. "In many ways he's still a kid, deep down…I think he stayed away because he thought it wouldn't matter to us all that much…he misses you, and he's trying to reach out, and he doesn't know how."

Blowing out a breath, John looked at his watch. It was almost half six; his first patient wasn't due until half ten. He had planned to get caught up on paperwork, but that could wait – he had something far more important to do.

Turning on his heel, he purposefully headed back down the street towards 221.

John didn't know if his friendship with Sherlock could be saved, but he realized now there was no chance at all if he kept his guard up. He owed it to Sherlock to at least tell him how much the detective's friendship had meant to him, and why the apparent charge of untrustworthiness had hurt him so much. If nothing else, maybe they could–

"Ow!"

John involuntarily slapped at the sudden stinging sensation at the back of his neck with his right palm. He felt something small under his fingers and pulled it away from his skin; it was a bit late in the season for wasps, wasn't it?

Bringing his cupped hand up to chest level in front of him, John stared down at the tiny object.

It was not a wasp. It was dart.

It was a dart fletched with small, neatly trimmed, blue-tipped feathers.

As a sudden, intense wave of dizziness swept over him and began to overwhelm his senses, the significance of this slammed home.

"Oh, sh–"

And then the pavement was rushing up to meet him at an alarming rate of speed.

Chapter Text

"Rare as is true love, true friendship is rarer."
–Jean de La Fontaine

September 2014

Sherlock tried to focus on the list Kitty had provided after John stormed out, but found himself having a difficult time concentrating.

Abruptly blowing out his breath, the detective gave it up as a bad job and stomped over to his chair. Flopping down in it, he rested his elbows on the arms and steepled his fingers under his chin as he leaned back.

Sherlock didn't understand. He had tried to say something nice to John, but had apparently upset him instead, to the point where John had walked away. Sherlock had wanted to let John know that he, Sherlock, knew he wouldn't be here at all without him, but somehow he'd mucked it up and John had misunderstood.

Sherlock always mucked up things of that nature.

He supposed it was to be expected. John was the first and only real friend he had ever had; he didn't know how to be a good friend. He didn't even really quite understand how friendship "worked." Self-proclaimed sociopath and all that.

The specter of the Fall stood between them, thick and heavy, holding them apart. They never spoke of it. Indeed, Sherlock just wanted to forget about it. John, for his part, certainly didn't seem inclined to bring the subject up, either. Time was said to heal all wounds, but it was becoming clear that this wound would not heal on its own.

The problem was, Sherlock didn't know what to do.

He realized he needed to do something. He had caused this problem; therefore, it was his responsibility to fix it. But how?

Best to approach it like a case, a puzzle he could solve.

Fact: jumping off the roof of Bart's had been traumatizing for John – but if Sherlock had not done so, Moran would have shot him.

Fact: John had spent much of the following two years in prison due to the fact that Moriarty had framed him along with Sherlock for the kidnapping of the Bruhl children – but Sherlock had not known about that (his lip curled, thinking of his brother).

These were things John had been able to get past – he had said as much when he had returned to London after his sojourn in Yorkshire. What John could not seem to get past, however, was Sherlock's statement that he had stayed away and never contacted him because he had feared that John would somehow, inadvertently, betray his secret.

Sherlock felt his stomach twist at the mere thought of that statement. The bollocks thing about it was that it hadn't even been true, not really. It had been what he had told himself to make things easier, back when he thought he'd be home in a few weeks, or a few months, or by the end of the year. The truth was, he feared John would have tried to come with him – would have insisted on coming with him. This wasn't one of their ridiculous London adventures; John could have been killed. And as for the detective playing dead – well, Sherlock had kept forgetting that part. He hadn't thought of people actually grieving for him. To him, he had just "been away." Eventually he would go home, and things would go back to the way they had been before. Except they didn't, and they weren't.

Could he explain all this to John? He had tried before without success. It wasn't really his area.

He was beginning to fear that maybe it couldn't be fixed.

With a sigh, Sherlock rose and stood before the wall again. Best to get back to work. He'd tried talking to John; John had made his position quite clear.

At that moment his mobile went off. Sherlock blinked, recognizing John's personalized alert. At once hopeful and wary, he grabbed up the phone – and everything narrowed to one single, all-important point.

He was unprepared for what he saw: a photograph of John, clearly unconscious, lying on his back on a planked floor. There was a bloody scrape on his forehead.

The phone pinged again. Heart in his throat, Sherlock opened the text with shaking fingers.

Come and play.
The Mill.
JSM
PS. Got something of yours you might want back.

John thought at first that he had fallen asleep in front of the telly again. His neck was stiff and he had a mild headache – in fact, he ached all over, and his mouth felt full of cotton wool. He tensed slightly when he perceived from behind his eyelids that the room was dark, but a faint flicker of light reinforced the notion that he had fallen asleep while watching television, and he calmed.

Then he tried to stand up, and felt the handcuffs restraining him.

John's eyes flew open in a panic and, when he perceived a cold, damp, darkened space, a wave of horror swept over him.

It was all a dream. I'm still in prison. Harris is alive and I'm in solitary. Sherlock is still…dead. Oh, God, Sherlock is still DEAD!

Pulling on the cuffs, John began to hyperventilate.

Suddenly, a bright, white beam of light struck his wild eyes painfully, causing him to squint them shut.

"Hey, hey," said a man's voice somewhere over his head. "Take it easy, will you? You'll pass out at this rate."

Blinking rapidly in an attempt to accustom his eyes to the light, John looked around, trying to get his bearings.

Instead of a lonely, subterranean prison cell, he was in a large, square, empty room, heavily shadowed in the corners, but faintly lit in the center by streetlights beyond a window coated in thick dust. Off to his left was a door topped with a murky fanlight, opening onto what appeared to be a pitch-dark hall. From the light of the camp lantern in the hand of the figure in front of him, John could see striped paper hanging from the walls in ribbons, and cobwebs clinging to the corners of the ceiling. Looking down, he saw that he was sitting on bare planking; a glance behind revealed that the handcuffs secured his wrists to an old-fashioned radiator that was bolted to the floor.

"Feeling a bit wonky, are you?" said the mild tenor voice. "Sorry about that. It's rather difficult to get the dose right for a human being, and I expect I gave you a bit too much. You went down faster and stayed out longer than I thought you would. Got a few nasty scrapes, too, and some bruises, probably." The voice sounded faintly apologetic as its owner set the camp lantern onto the floor, then seated itself nearby, facing John with its arms folded.

John stared at it, blinking, until the figure finally came into focus.

In the beam of the lantern sat a man who looked to be in his late forties to early fifties. He had a roundish face, quick, pale blue eyes, and short hair that had once been straw-colored but was now mostly silver; some of it stood up a bit at the back, as though its owner was in the habit of ruffling it absently. Though he was seated, John could tell the man was around his own height, and had a similar build – compact and sturdy with no extra fat, athletic in the way habitual runners are. He was wearing faded jeans, brown hiking boots, and a black canvas jacket. John looked into his face; the features were pleasant – not handsome, but not displeasing, and very English. His skin had once been fair but now was rather leathery from excessive sun exposure, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes suggested a great deal of time spent squinting off into the distance.

Though a rather ordinary-looking bloke at first glance, the straightness of his posture, even in repose, and the set of his shoulders, along with the weight of hard experience and responsibility in his eyes, identified this man to John at once as a career solider – no, more – an officer.

A prickle of unease crept up John's spine. Though the man's hair and eyes were a shade or two lighter than his own, he might have passed for John's elder brother – the resemblance was that close.

Having waited patiently until John had seen him, the man nodded gravely. "Captain."

John licked his lips. "Colonel," he replied, and was relieved to hear the steadiness in his own voice.

The man quirked a small smile; he seemed almost gratified. "Jack Moran," he said cordially.

John raised his brows. "You'll excuse me for not offering to shake hands," he quipped, giving the cuffs a significant rattle behind him.

Moran gave an apologetic shrug. "Yeah, sorry about that." Though somewhat regretful, his tone made it clear that he had no intention of remedying the situation.

There was a slight pause as the two men continued to study one another in mutual fascination. John couldn't help feeling puzzled…there was no malice whatsoever in the assassin's face; rather, an avid curiosity, as though he had been waiting to meet John for a long time.

"Shouldn't I call you 'Tiger,' or 'Tiger Jack'?" John asked finally to break the silence, which he was beginning to find unnerving.

Moran grimaced slightly; he looked a little embarrassed. "My men gave me that name," he said diffidently. "Rather like your men got into the habit of calling you 'Lionheart.'"*

John blinked, then flushed. This was not something he told people. The man clearly had done his homework.

"So, you're the mysterious 'Crossbow Assassin,' yeah?" John asked instead of commenting.

Moran smiled fondly. "It's an elegant weapon. I got too proficient with a rifle; it wasn't a challenge anymore. I started using a bow for hunting. It takes more skill, and it's…well…more personal."

"Moriarty didn't approve of it for his assassinations, though, I take it?" John asked sardonically.

Moran shrugged. "Well, in many ways Jim could be quite conservative." He sounded...fond, almost indulgent.

"Funny, I never saw that side of him," John said ironically. He glanced around. "So what is this place then?"

He didn't expect Moran would tell him, but was surprised again when the other man answered promptly.

"Camden House**."

John frowned. "Camden…?"

"Camden House," repeated Moran. "It stands opposite your quarters on Baker Street."

John struggled to place it. "The abandoned building that Moriarty planted a bomb in...it's been up for sale for ages," he said slowly.

"Was up for sale," Moran corrected. "And I'm the one who actually planted the bomb. It's been bought and is undergoing renovations. The first floor is almost completed. We're on the third floor. No point in yelling out, though you can if you like," Moran added as John straightened suddenly. "You've been out of it for awhile. They're done for the day now."

John glared at him. "But they'll be back."

"Yes, tomorrow," agreed Moran, unperturbed. "I expect they'll find you then."

John held his gaze. "Find my body, you mean."

Moran raised his eyebrows. "Unless you have some medical condition I don't know about, I should hope not," he replied mildly. "No, I'm sure you'll be very much alive – though hungry, thirsty and stiff, I should imagine – and they'll turn you loose then...or find someone with bolt cutters to turn you loose, anyway."

John stared. "You don't mean to kill me, then," he said after a moment. He wasn't sure he believed that, but–

"No," Moran said calmly.

"Then why did you bring me here?" John asked, bewildered.

"To get you out of the way, Watson," Moran explained, as if this should have been obvious. "Circumstances being what they are, I've had to move up my plans. I mean to finish my business in London tonight, then leave England for good. You would try to hinder me in that, and not being one to repeat my boss's mistake of underestimating you, I decided it was best to put you on ice for awhile – for both our sakes."

John's blood began to pound in his temples. "And what business do you intend to finish tonight?"

He thought he could guess, and, sure enough, Moran confirmed it.

"To kill Sherlock Holmes," the ex-colonel said simply.

Got to keep the bastard talking while I try to work out a plan, John thought desperately. Aloud he asked, "Wouldn't it have been safer to kill me?"

"Oh yeah," Moran said promptly. "Simpler, too. But I don't want to kill you."

John blinked. "Why not?" he asked, nonplussed.

Moran's mouth twisted on one side in a self-deprecating way; John again felt that flicker of uneasiness, knowing he had worn that identical expression himself on numerous occasions.

"Jim Moriarty would call it 'sentiment,' I suppose," Moran said with a shrug in the embarrassed tone of one admitting to a weakness.

"Sentiment?" John was stunned. "I've never even bloody seen you before!"

"I've seen you many times," Moran replied, his face solemn.

John had to think a moment. "The pool," he realized.

"Yes."

"That was you who pulled me out of the boot and then strapped me into a vest of explosives." John's voice lowered to a growl.

Moran inclined his head. "Guilty as charged."

"And you were the one holding the rifle, afterwards, when Sherlock arrived."

Moran dipped his head. "I had my sights on your heart, above the detonator, so that I could drop you without setting off the Semtex if Jim gave the order. I thought you were a bloody marvel that night, incidentally – the way you held it together."

Now the pieces were starting to fall into place. "It was you who blew up that old woman." John's outrage began to creep into his voice.

"I did," Moran confirmed without a trace of remorse. "And it was me who had you in my sights that day in front of the hospital."

At this, John's train of thought abruptly derailed. "What?"

"At the hospital," Moran reiterated. "When you were standing out front, talking on your mobile with Holmes the day…" he trailed off, his face clouding over.

The day Sherlock jumped, John thought.

"…the day Jim shot himself," Moran finished quietly, and John was stunned to see that now there was regret in the man's eyes.

"I was told I was never in any real danger," John said, his voice a bit fainter. "I was told that Mycroft Holmes had 'invited you to reconsider.'"

Moran frowned. "I don't know what you were told, but I had you in my cross-hairs, Watson, and I was ready to pull the trigger the moment the boss gave the word. Would have, too, though I'm glad it didn't come to that. After Holmes jumped, I didn't stick around to see if Big Brother would show up."

"So why didn't you kill me anyway?" John asked coldly. "Your boss was dead."

Moran glared at him. "Orders were orders, and contrary to popular belief I don't kill people for pleasure. I have no problem with hurting an enemy – man, woman, or kid – or hunting for sport, or following orders. But I don't kill people for the hell of it, Watson, any more than you do."

John clamped his mouth shut.

Moran paused for a moment, thinking, and the anger faded from his face.

"Besides…it would have been like killing myself, wouldn't it?" He smiled bitterly at John.

John froze. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he said softly.

Moran snorted. "Come on, Watson. You know. You said it yourself in that blog of yours – his John Watson, you called me. And you were right – I was to Jim Moriarty what you were to Sherlock Holmes."

John found himself breathing hard. "Sherlock is nothing like Moriarty. And I'm nothing like you."

"Don't kid yourself," the sniper replied derisively, shifting his weight where he sat while still staying well out of reach of John's feet. "We have similar backgrounds, similar personalities…hell, we even look a bit alike. Only real difference between us is that I accept what I am and you never have, which is why you went to medical school…you wanted to see if you could make yourself become a do-gooder."

"What the hell are you on about?" John demanded through gritted teeth.

Moran smiled. "I know you want to protect him – Holmes. From the 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune', as it were. Is that the doctor in you, I wonder? Or something else. The soldier's weakness – hero-worship†. I know all about it...I have it, too, more fool me. Jim Moriarty took me on when no one else would. He gave me a purpose when I had nothing left."

"He used you."

"You think I don't know that, mate? I'm no more stupid than you are, whatever our respective genius bosses might say. I know Jim used me, just like Holmes used you." Moran laughed bitterly. "You don't seriously mean to tell me you actually believe what you wrote on that blog? That the guy actually 'values your friendship?' That he does, 'despite himself, care'? God, tell me you're not that naïve!"

John was so angry now he was having trouble keeping his voice steady. "Sherlock Holmes helps people," he said sharply. "He's saved lives, rescued kidnapped people, brought down–"

"Happenstance, Watson! Good God, am I really having this conversation with you?" Moran sounded exasperated now. "Jesus, you should know better than anyone that the man's chief aim in life is not to be bored! Just like Jim…it was the luck of the draw that put the two of them where they ended up. Jim could easily have wound up being the consulting detective, and Holmes the consulting criminal. Just like it was the luck of the draw that you ended up with him and I ended up with Jim Moriarty. It could easily have gone the other way, you know."

Now John laughed incredulously, jerking his restrained wrists against the cold radiator as he did so. "You're a bloody madman if you believe that," he said, voice heavy with derision. "Sherlock Holmes may be a callous, arrogant bastard, but he's–"

"A sociopath," Moran interrupted. "Just like Jim Moriarty was. And sociopaths can be charming, manipulative bastards."

"If you believe that, then why did you put up with him?" John demanded. He vaguely remembered asking Greg Lestrade the same question about Sherlock a lifetime ago.

"The same reason you put up with Holmes – he gave me my fucking life back!" Moran snapped, his customary calm slipping.

John was shocked into silence. Moran seemed to be struggling to find words. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer, quieter.

"You think you're the only one whose old man knocked him around? Yeah, I looked you up, which is more than your friend Holmes probably ever did," Moran said, staring at John intently. "I know all about it, Watson…lousy home life where you barely knew where your next meal was coming from – or your next broken nose. A violent drunk for an old man, an apathetic mother who took off–"

"My mother died when I was fifteen," John said through gritted teeth.

"Clawed your way up from the rubbish heap to try to make something of yourself, put it all behind you...found a home in the army, until you lost it all…you think you're the only one who had no future when he got back to England?" Moran went on, ignoring his interruption. "At least the MoD arranged that dreary little bedsit for you – they gave me shit. Just an SNLR that ruined my chances of finding any decent work."

"Because you're a bloody murderer," John said, his voice shaking.

Moran's brows lowered. "I'm a sniper," he corrected coldly. "I follow orders, that's all."

"Were you following orders when you slaughtered those Iraqi prisoners?" John bit out.

"So I'm merciless to my enemies and the enemies of my country," Moran snarled. "That used to not be a flaw in a soldier during wartime."

"Never mind that some of them were women and kids," John said, clenching his fists behind him. "And what about Ronald Adair, then, and Ozzie, and the others? Enemies in a foreign land, were they?"

Moran's nostrils flared. "That was retribution. They all had a hand in Jim's death, either directly or indirectly. I had to avenge that. It was my duty, my honor to avenge him, and don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing had it been Holmes, and you in my place."

Ignoring that for the moment, John shot back, his voice rising, "And James Sholto? He had nothing to do with Moriarty's death!"

Now a look of pure hatred swept over the assassin's face.

"That ruddy bastard ruined my career. The army was my world, my life, and he took that away from me! He had it coming; there was no way I wasn't going to take that shot when it presented itself."

"He reported you because you were torturing prisoners!" John yelled.

"I was interrogating enemy combatants, and brothers in arms are supposed to have one another's backs, not sell them out!" Moran shouted hoarsely.

"And Kitty?" John demanded. "The girl who saw you at Waterloo Bridge," he clarified at Moran's blank look. "What was she in all this?"

"Collateral damage," Moran replied coolly. "I had no wish to hurt her – she even turned out to be useful in some ways – but I was afraid she could identify me. I hadn't planned on starting the endgame this soon – it forced my hand, you and Holmes finding her. Once I realized my cover was already blown I backed off."

John looked at him with utter loathing. "You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Don't you?" Moran retorted. "Kill any cabbies lately, have you?" At John's shocked look, he smirked. "Oh yeah, Jim knew all about how you took out Jefferson Hope…an elderly, dying man who was unarmed–"

"He was about to kill Sherlock!" John snapped.

"Was he? Seems to me Holmes was about to kill himself," Moran returned. "Hope had no weapon, Holmes could have walked out at any time and he knew it – that old man couldn't have stopped him. No, your one had to prove how clever he was."

Moran laughed humorlessly.

"Boneheaded thing to have done, and something Jim would have done in that situation, too, I have no doubt," he said, that frightening fondness creeping back into his voice. He looked back at John again. "And if he had done where I could see it I would have done the same thing you did – that's the point. So don't think I'm judging you."

The sniper held John's gaze for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was low.

"We're soldiers, Watson. That's who we are. It's what we do. You know that, or you would have if you hadn't wasted so much time playing doctor. Shame, that – had you followed me you could have been just as good a shot with your natural ability, just as fearsome a warrior. But in spite of yourself you know the truth, which is why you raised your hand for hazardous duty – something docs don't normally get. You're like me – you need the noise and the excitement and the danger to make you feel alive. And you need a superior officer, someone brilliant and rare and worthy of your loyalty, just as I did."

Moran paused, then quirked a smile. "Just our luck we chose a pair of psychopaths for our COs, yeah?"

John closed his eyes and took three deep, steadying breaths. When he felt his heart rate calm, he opened his eyes again and took in Moran, who continued to watch him.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said clearly, "is my friend."

Moran looked at him curiously.

"Did you know what he was planning, that day on the roof of the hospital?" Moran queried, and it infuriated John that the man sounded almost pitying. "I ask because I didn't know what Jim was planning."

John pressed his lips together, refusing to answer. He didn't need to: Moran already knew the answer.

"Can't say I'm surprised," the sniper said, and he at least had the decency not to look smug. "It shocked the hell out of me when Jim pulled that trigger. I definitely would have stopped him had I known. But I didn't know, because a commander isn't required to tell a subordinate his strategy, and it's not our place to expect it."

"Sherlock Holmes," John repeated, breathing hard and biting off the words, "is. My. Friend. Not my 'superior officer'."

"No?" Moran smiled. "Didn't trust him implicitly, did you? Didn't obey his every order, however petty? Didn't risk your neck for him time and again?"

John raised his chin defiantly, and Moran laughed. "Of course you did. All those things and more, and so did I. Why? Because they – Moriarty and Holmes – were the commanders we chose for ourselves. That's you and me down to the ground, Watson. Smart, dedicated, loyal 'lieutenants,' especially if we find someone we deem worthy of following."

Moran paused and waited while John squirmed where he sat for a moment, wrestling with his thoughts. Finally, the doctor looked up again.

"All right," he conceded reluctantly. "All right. Maybe I did – unconsciously – assign that role to Sherlock."

Moran smirked.

"But," John continued strongly, "it doesn't change the fact that Sherlock's my best friend – something Jim Moriarty was not capable of being to anyone."

Moran looked at him seriously.

"You're in a worse place than I am if you believe that, Watson. I never made the mistake of believing Jim was my friend, so him keeping me in the dark about things or lying to me couldn't hit me as hard as it hit you. But you seem determined to hang onto the illusion."

Looking at the man, John suddenly pitied him almost as much as he feared and hated him – John, at least, had had something to believe in. "Am I?" he said shrewdly. "Or are you afraid that I'm right – that Sherlock does value my friendship? Because if he does…that would mean your loyalty and faith in Moriarty were misplaced, Moran. Let me guess – you're using me to lure him out into the open, aren't you? And Sherlock, the idiot, will take the bait." John felt very confident as he said it. "Let me ask you...would Moriarty do the same for you?"

He could tell he'd hit a nerve by the way the sniper's face suddenly twisted and went red with anger. "Sherlock Holmes," he hissed, "cares about nothing but his puzzles."

He struggled with himself a moment, then schooled his features again. John grudgingly admired his control.

"I think you and I could have been friends, Watson, in other circumstances," Moran said finally. "If the men we served hadn't been bitter enemies, that is. I wonder if it wouldn't be kinder for me to put a bullet through your head right now, seeing as how I'm going to kill Holmes before this night is out?"

He stared at John intently, eyes narrowed. John stared back, heart pounding, face set.

Moran sighed, then rose to his feet.

"Well. I'd better be off," he said briskly. "I have an appointment with your boss in a little under ninety minutes, and while it won't take me half that to get there I do want some time to get ahead of him…it's my turf, but he's been there before."

"Moran…"

The sniper started towards the door, but paused and turned to face John one more time.

"Goodbye, John. I don't expect we'll see one another again, unless you make the mistake of coming after me in a misguided attempt at revenge. And it would be misguided, I assure you…you may be as capable as I am, but you're not as well-trained. And I would hate to have to kill you."

And, spinning on his heel in a motion eerily reminiscent of John's, Moran left the room.

"Moran, wait," John called desperately, but all he heard was the sound of the other man's footsteps, retreating down a flight of creaky stairs.

"Moran!"

For one of the few times in his life, John Watson lost his head. Though he knew, dimly, that it was futile, he began to struggle fiercely, violently yanking his wrists on the metal cuffs until they began to bruise and bleed.

He needed to calm down, he needed to calm down and bloody think, dammit, but he couldn't, couldn't think, damn it all he couldn't think – that was Sherlock's job. He was just the assistant, the sidekick, the pet, the hero-worshiping soldier in search of a superior commander on whom he could lavish his admiration and loyalty, wasn't that what Moran had said? But John knew the truth, and he had acknowledged it at last.

For better or for worse, John Watson's place was at the right hand of Sherlock Holmes, come what may. James Sholto had once told John he was a "born second-in-command." He had served under Sholto and it had been good, but it wasn't until he'd met Sherlock had he felt his true purpose in life click into place.

It wasn't true that Sherlock didn't need him. Sherlock needed him in a way the army hadn't, than James hadn't. And even if he didn't, John needed him – needed to be at his side and a step behind.

But it wasn't true that Sherlock didn't need him – he knew that now. Had known it all along, in fact.

And now – just like before – John wouldn't be there when Sherlock needed him most. Panicked at the thought, he yelled for help, hoping against hope that someone passing on the street below would hear as he thrashed frantically against the cuffs...he would break his thumbs if he had to.

"Doc, stop! Stop, Doc, stop!"

John froze. His ears were ringing. "Who the hell–?"

A torch switched on. He saw a flash of red hair.

"Kitty?! How in the hell–"

"I followed you," Kitty explained hurriedly. "Bill told me to keep an eye on you…he were in class today, but I got a message to him an' he's on his way. Then I came in…I were in the next room over, I couldn't get out to call for help without him seeing…" She aimed the torch's beam behind him. "Oh, God, Doc, your hands! Look at your poor, poor hands!" she cried.

John guessed he had torn the skin on his wrists straining against the cuffs, but he couldn't feel it – the adrenaline was surging through his body.

"Never mind that," he said hastily. "Kitty – he's going after Sherlock – Shezza. I have to go after him, stop him!"

Her eyes widened, then a determined look came over the young woman's elfin face. "Hang on. Just – hang on."

And before John could ask her what she was planning, she swept off her hat and seized one of the grips holding her hair behind her right ear; it immediately fell down into her face, but she just shook it back while she scraped the plastic off the ends of the grip with her broken, dirty fingernails.

"I done this before," she said breathlessly, bending the bobby pin to a ninety-degree angle. "Stand up, Doc."

"Clever girl," he praised, scrambling to his feet. It was a bit awkward, positioning his hands on either side of the cast iron pipe so Kitty could reach the locking mechanism on the cuffs, but he managed it.

It took her only a couple of minutes, but they were minutes fraught with tension. John forced himself to stay still and say nothing to hurry her as the girl, her tongue between her teeth and perspiration making her red fringe stick to her forehead, manipulated her makeshift key into the single-locks. As her movements increased, so did John's anxiety until – with a sudden clink – the cuffs popped open and John's hands fell away from the radiator.

"Well done, Kitty!" Without waiting to rub his wrists he grabbed one of hers and pulled her after him so abruptly she dropped the cuffs with a clatter. The girl stumbled slightly, then regained her footing and focused on keeping up with him. John spared a moment of admiration for the steadiness of her nerves and her quickness as they tore down the stairs – she could sprint as fast as he could.

They burst out of the door like a pair of joke snakes from a can and onto Blandford Street, which was dark and deserted. John took a moment to try to get his bearings.

"Where…where…" he muttered, looking round wildly. He didn't want to waste any time making a wrong turning.

"Where you looking to go?" Kitty asked breathlessly.

"Baker Street."

"This way!" She took off running, John close on her heels.

Moments later, they were dashing up the steps of 221. John swiftly patted his pockets in search of his keys – they were gone, as was his phone. He grabbed the knocker and rapped loudly, continuously, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other all the while.

"All right, all right," he heard Mrs. Hudson's voice from within. "I'm com–"

She gasped when, upon opening the door, John and a small, red-haired girl darted inside.

"John!" she cried, her hand flying to her throat. "What on earth–"

"Mrs. Hudson, quick, where's Sherlock?" John cried. "Is he here?"

"He's gone out, dear. Left about twenty minutes ago." She was mystified by his urgency.

John whirled away and swore viciously.

"John," Mrs. Hudson began reprovingly, but the doctor interrupted her breathlessly.

"Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's in trouble. I need to find him, go after him, but I don't know where! Did he say where he was going?!"

The landlady caught his panic and her eyes flew open wide. He knew the answer before she uttered it.

"No, he – oh, John!"

"Dammit, dammit, where, where?" John ground out, clenching his fists and bringing them down hard against his thighs.

Mrs. Hudson gasped. "Oh, John, your wrists…"

But John ignored her, trying to remember what Moran had said before he left.

I have an appointment with your boss in a little under ninety minutes, and while it won't take me half that to get there I do want some time to get ahead of him…it's my turf, but he's been there before.

That had been about thirty minutes ago. It had to be in London, then. But where–

And then another snippet of his conversation with Moran came back to him.

I had no wish to hurt her – she even turned out to be useful in some ways – but I was afraid she could identify me.

He had meant Kitty. How would Kitty have been useful to someone like Moran? Wiggy had said no one knew the secret places of London like Sherlock did, except for Kitty Winter. Moran probably had hideouts all over London, some of which he had assuredly found by following Kitty. John could only think of one that Sherlock knew as well.

The Mill.

"The Mill!" He cried aloud. "He took my phone – Mrs. Hudson, call Greg – tell him Moran is after Sherlock and they're meeting at the Mill. Call Mycroft, too!"

She was already hurrying to her flat. "But what about you?"

"I'm going after them," John said grimly.

"But John–"

"Mrs. Hudson, there's no time–"

"There's time for this! Wait just a moment–"

She disappeared into 221a. Against his better judgment John waited, pacing up and down as Kitty watched, wide-eyed and silent.

Seconds later, Mrs. Hudson came hurrying into the entryway again, carrying something wrapped in a cloth.

"Here," she said breathlessly, pulling aside the cloth and shoving the object into his hands.

John looked down incredulously. It was his pistol. And it was loaded with a full magazine.

"Mrs. Hudson," he gasped. "I thought when the Yard searched–"

"I got there first," she interrupted, her voice grim and purposeful. "I was holding onto it for you. Now go, John and for heaven's sake be careful!"

John wasn't normally one to display affection impetuously, but after tucking the gun into the back of his trousers he seized Mrs. Hudson's shoulders and kissed her soundly on the cheek, much the way Sherlock had often done.

"Mrs. Hudson, you're a saint," he declared, releasing her and making for the door. "Call Greg! And look after Kitty!"

Without waiting for an answer, he sprang down the front steps, slamming the door shut behind him.

Once on the pavement, he stood for a moment at a loss, the chill air fogging his breath before his face in short exhalations, his heart thudding in his chest like it was trying to escape. He felt as frantic and horrified and desperate as he had on that awful day three years ago, when he had come rushing back to Baker Street to find Mrs. Hudson alive and well and realized that he had been separated from Sherlock deliberately. He had raced back to find Sherlock, but he had not been in time to save him then. Would he be in time to save him now?

John glanced around frantically. He feared a cab would be too slow, but it was his only real option. But there were none on the street this time for him to hijack from some other would-be passenger, claiming to be the police. If Lestrade or Mycroft could get there first…sheer terror rose in his throat, threatening to choke him.

Oh God, oh God…I can't do this again, I can't, I can't!

But he had no choice.

John was just about to sprint off to try to find a cab elsewhere when a revving engine stopped him in his tracks. He whirled about to see a single headlight racing towards him. Stunned and staring, he gaped in astonishment as a motorcycle skidded to a halt right in front of him, kicking up mud and gravel. The rider lifted the helmet off to reveal a frantic Bill Wiggins.

"Wiggy?! "

"Doc!" Wiggins cried in relief. "Thank God, you're all right! Kitty rang me up from a payphone, said you was in trouble, so I borrowed my mate's bike and–"

"Wiggy," John cut him off, not giving a rat's arse just then as to where Wiggy had got the bike or how he'd got the message. "Do you know how to get to the Docklands?"

"Do I?" the younger man retorted. "I should say so…many's the time I kipped–"

"Sherlock's there and he's in danger! Can you get us there in twenty minutes?"

Wiggins stared at him, stunned. Then his expression set.

"Hop on," he said tersely, and settled the helmet over his head again.

John could have kissed him. He swung up behind him and grabbed his shoulders. "Go!"

Wiggins kicked the bike into gear and gunned the engine.

Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson, said Mycroft's voice in his head.

John ignored it. He already had, long ago.

Chapter Text

"Forgive me, T'Lar. My logic is...uncertain, where my son is concerned."
–From Star Trek III: the Search for Spock

September 2014

As before, the last vestiges of daylight were fading when Sherlock ascended the stairs from the basement to the threshing room. But what had then seemed mysterious, inviting, and thrilling with the promise of adventure now carried a sense of foreboding and doom. The abandoned machinery seemed menacing in its enormity and stillness, like prehistoric creatures that had been frozen in the act of going about their daily lives. The shadowy doors in the brick walls, metal corkscrew chutes, chipped and peeling columns, and gaping chasms in the floor, which before had seemed rich with intrigue, now held the threatening air of potential blinds behind and within which merciless enemies could conceal themselves.

A couplet from a poem he had learned at school – he had deleted the name of the author, and indeed thought he had deleted the poem – kept replaying annoyingly in his head: "And was Jerusalem builded here/Among these dark Satanic Mills?" When he was with John this place had seemed a New Jerusalem, a paradise of potential discoveries; without John, it felt more like the deadly, endless pit.

Impatiently Sherlock shook the fancy away. Such morbid, septic thoughts would only bring his reason stuttering to a halt. He needed to focus, to hone all his considerable mental powers into one all-important objective: John's safe recovery.

Attempting to conceal himself seemed pointless at this juncture. Sherlock stepped up onto the platform on which the previously boarded-up main entrance, now inadequately barricaded with yellow police tape, opened. The dim light here would not hide him, nor did he try to hunker down or seek safety behind the nearest column. Not knowing where Moran was positioned, he did not know the likeliest place of safety; additionally he guessed Moran was not interested in cutting him down just yet.

Besides…Sherlock was here to ensure John's safety, not preserve his own life.

As he waited, the detective suddenly thought of three separate times he had left John behind in order to face an enemy alone: he had gone with Jefferson Hope to learn the answer to a mystery; he had gone to the pool where Carl Powers had died to seek out his arch-enemy; he had gone to Bart's rooftop to match wits with the mind most like his own. All three times Sherlock had been excited, eager, and alive with anticipation and the thrill of risk-taking. That feeling would not have been so intense with a companion, however stalwart and trustworthy, nor would the presence of his one great friend leave Sherlock with the freedom to take whatever chances he would. Without John by his side, the detective had been free to wager it all.

Now he was alone again, but there was no thrill, and no eagerness to play the game. Now the stakes were higher than ever before, for it was his friend's life for which he was gambling instead of his own.

Suddenly Sherlock remembered something else about those three instances where he had left John behind: all three times, his friend had been there in the end, giving his all to keep Sherlock from harm.

Clearing his throat, he raised his deep voice so that it echoed through the cavernous space.

"Got your invitation…I believe this is the correct address?"

Immediately a light came on, fiercely bright, near the lift on the first level. Sherlock shaded his eyes, peering up.

Camping lantern – too bright to be battery operated…gas powered? Likely.

A figure stepped up to the railing; with the lantern behind, its features were shrouded.

"I'm surprised my simple strategy was able to fool such a clever man as yourself, Holmes," Moran said. "It's a common enough trick for a shikari…tie a goat under a tree and wait for the tiger to show up." The sniper glanced around. "Looks like this derelict mill is my tree, and you my tiger."

Sherlock glared at him with hate. "And I suppose that makes John your 'goat,'" he said acidly.

"Well – in a manner of speaking." Moran's voice was infuriatingly calm. "Though I didn't tether him here."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. "Where, then?"

"Does it matter?" Moran said reasonably. "We both know the real reason you've come."

Sherlock's voice dropped an octave. "Oh? And why is that?" The t at the end of the word was clipped in the still, dusty air.

There was a sound of boots on a hardwood floor as the figure above walked along the platform until he was directly opposite Sherlock, his face emerging from the gloom as the angle of the light shifted. "Because you want to see – again – if you're clever enough to bet your life."

Moran stopped to let Sherlock view his face at last. It gave the detective a start to see how similar this man was, in both his looks and his bearing, to John. Tensing, Sherlock subtly tightened his fingers around the butt of the revolver concealed in his right coat pocket. Perhaps not subtly enough: Moran casually shifted his stance so that Sherlock could clearly see the deadly looking black crossbow he held casually across the front of his body, a bolt loaded on the string and pointing toward the floor before the man's feet. A five-bolt quiver was attached underneath the front of the weapon parallel to the string: six bolts altogether. As a plan began to form in his brain, Sherlock hoped that Moran's confidence in his own skill had led him to eschew backup weaponry, though it would be folly to count on that.

He refused to be intimidated. "John Watson. Where is he? What have you done with him?"

Moran gave a short, bitter laugh. "That poor, deluded sod. Do you know he actually believes you're his friend? Even after everything you've done to him, caused to happen to him, he still believes it. I should have put him out of his misery while I had the chance."

Sherlock's jaw tightened. "And I'm to believe you didn't?" His heart pounded at the thought.

Moran shrugged. "No, I didn't. Going soft in my old age, I suppose. At any rate, he's safe and sound and a stone's throw from home – across the street from 221, in fact; I left him tied up in Camden House."

A sudden inrush of conflicting emotions assaulted Sherlock all at once. He felt anger at his own stupidity for letting his concern for John lead him into such an obvious trap. Fear that the assassin wasn't telling the truth – that John was here somewhere, helpless, or worse, dead in the empty house opposite 221 Baker Street. But one emotion quickly overrode the others: relief, simple, giddy, and profound. He had detected the ring of truth in Moran's negligent reply, and knowing that John was out of harm's way caused the tight feeling in his chest and the knots in his stomach to loosen all at once. However this confrontation ended, he would be content knowing his friend was safe.

Aloud, he asked, "Why now?" He tried to keep his voice neutral.

Moran offered a rueful half-smile; it again reminded Sherlock uncomfortably of John.

"You and your brother have made England too hot to hold me, as it happens," the sniper said frankly. "Killing you was the last item on my 'to do' list; once that's done I can be on my way."

Sherlock took a casual step sideways out of a dusty sunbeam into shadow, obscuring Moran's aim. His eyes narrowed. "Right then. Next question: why at all?"

Moran raised his eyebrows. "Isn't it obvious?" His tone was mild.

"To avenge Jim Moriarty?" Sherlock clarified. He shifted his position again, and now the sniper's aim was partially blocked by a grain chute.

Moran inclined his head. "Just so."

"All right." Sherlock nonchalantly slid his other hand into his left coat pocket. "Enlighten me, then: why go to all this trouble for a man who never viewed you as more than a tool? A useful tool, certainly, but a tool nonetheless."

Above him, Moran began casually to walk along the platform, keeping pace with him.

"Holmes, that doesn't hurt a bit," he said easily. "Unlike your own 'second,' I'm under no illusions about where I stood with my CO."

"And where was that, precisely?"

Moran paused near the railing, turning to face Sherlock voice full on.

"At his right hand," he said calmly, "until he finally went where he didn't need one anymore."

"So certain he did need you, are you?" Sherlock's tone was scathing.

Moran frowned. "He sought me out, Holmes."

"Yes, I should imagine so. Disenfranchised soldier drummed out of the service for conduct unbecoming an officer, skilled sniper, sinking further and further into debt as a result of his gambling addiction…I'm sure for Moriarty it was like finding a damaged, neglected, but still-useful tool hidden away in a drawer."

"Rather like you with Watson, eh? You should have heard him, insisting over and over again that you're his friend." Though Moran's tone was still light, Sherlock thought he could detect a tenseness that hadn't been there before.

John had said that to Moran? Sherlock's throat suddenly felt tight.

Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know…you've got John. He felt bile rise in his throat at the memory. He wished, suddenly and viciously, that he had dropped Moriarty off Bart's roof when he'd had the chance. He paused briefly before he responded to ensure his voice would not shake.

"Not quite. I did come in response to your personalized invitation, after all."

Moran snorted. "You came because you couldn't resist squaring off with me; it's in your nature. Don't tell me Watson was anything more than another card on the table."

"Oh? If you believe that, why did you deal him in?"

Moran was silent, his eyes ablaze and his face working.

"You think I place no importance on friendship, or on John," Sherlock continued smugly. "That wasn't what your boss thought."

"And what did he think?" Moran's voice was low and dark now.

"Didn't you know?" Sherlock lifted his brows mockingly. "He used John, along with two others, as incentive to get me to kill myself. Did he not tell you? Or did he just," Sherlock paused, drawing it out, "give you your marching orders with no explanation, forgetting you the moment you fell in line, like the piece of machinery you were?"

He glanced around meaningfully at the ancient, silent equipment rotting away in the threshing room. He noted the tightening of the assassin's jaw.

"John and I shared living quarters," Sherlock said. "You say he wasn't my friend? We shared meals together, faced danger together. Argued and made it up and laughed together."

Though he was meant to be goading Moran, Sherlock couldn't quite keep his voice from wavering, just a bit, on that last word. He'd never laughed with anyone the way he had with John. The emotion in his voice stung Moran even more than his words.

"My brother told me caring isn't an advantage," Sherlock went on, almost forgetting for the moment that Moran was there. "It's true John was a liability to me, simply because I cared – Moriarty knew that, and used it. I'd say it was worth it, though." He looked up again. "I couldn't have used that ploy on him, could I, Moran? Not on a resource he could easily replace–"

Though he had been prodding Moran like a sore tooth, he was surprised to hit the nerve so quickly.

With a snarl, Moran abruptly raised the weapon and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud twang, a swish, and a silvery tinkle of broken glass as the bolt smashed through the remains of a broken window to the left of Sherlock's head. Instantly, Sherlock leapt behind the nearest column and whipped out his revolver. Though he was nowhere near as good a shot as John he could hold his own, and though neither the light nor the angle was optimal, the timing was – one of the crossbow's disadvantages was that it would take a moment for Moran to set another bolt. Sherlock fired at the figure above him, but Moran was already moving. Another tinkle of glass followed the gun's explosive report and the light abruptly vanished – all he had managed to hit was the camp lantern. Damn.

Sherlock dove behind a grain chute just as Moran released a second bolt; there was a heavy metallic thunk as it punctured the sheet metal exactly where his head had been a second earlier.

That's two, Sherlock thought grimly as he raced across the threshing room floor toward the eastern side of the Mill, aiming for the lift. He heard Moran scrambling on the catwalk above, fiercely hauling on his bow's cocking stirrup. Sherlock flew underneath the platform just in time – a third bolt shot straight down into the floor behind him, missing his right heel by mere inches and burying itself in the floor. That's three.

The lift's ancient gate was partly drawn back. Sherlock wriggled through it into the well, stashed the revolver in his pocket, seized the cable in his gloved hands and began to scale the shaft using his feet against the wall to propel himself upwards. He remembered from his last visit here that the lift itself had been suspended on the second level; Moran was on the first. If Sherlock could get there before the sniper could reload he might have a chance at a clear shot – that is, if the decades-old cable didn't give way and bring the lift crashing down on him first… a shudder seemed to pass through the entire shaft as an ominous creak came from somewhere above his head.

Anticipating the detective's plan, Moran was waiting; the sniper loosed another bolt at him just as Sherlock's head emerged from the shaft. His over-eagerness cost him – Sherlock jerked back into the shaft just in time, the sudden movement almost causing him to lose his grip on the cable. There was another warning groan from the heavy lift above. Not wanting to lose time reloading, Moran dropped the bow, charged up to the door, flung the gate shut with a rattle and rapidly retreated.

Another creak followed by a hair-raising screech of metal-on-metal, and Sherlock realized why – heart in his throat, he swung backwards on the cable, using his feet to propel him from the wall, and slammed into the gate as hard as he could. If the thing hadn't been almost entirely rusted through it would have been over then and there; as it was it gave way under Sherlock's weight and, releasing the cable, he broke through it and onto the landing just as the cable above the lift snapped and the lift plunged down to the ground level with a horrific crash.

The palms of his leather gloves were burned through from the friction of the steel cable, his clothes were torn from crashing through the rotted gate, and he coughed and gagged on the thick dust permeating the air. But he dared not stop even to get his bearings – with the light gone and Moran nowhere to be seen, he was a dead man if he remained where he was. Thinking fast, he began running away from the stairs toward the far end of the platform before the sniper could finish cocking the bow again.

He had been right not to keep still – he had not gone more than five steps when a puff of air whisked by his left cheek and a fifth bolt embedded itself in the wall just ahead of him. Sherlock ducked and redoubled his speed. That came from the head of the stairs, he thought. Only one bolt left.

Impulsively, Sherlock pulled the revolver out and spun about, coat flying, to fire in the direction of the stairs; he had no idea if he had hit anything – he could see nothing through the heavy cloud of dust from the broken remnants of the lift – but he hoped to discourage pursuit at least for the moment. He fired once more and hissed in frustration when the weapon jammed.

No time to stop and clear the malfunction – not when he wasn't sure where Moran was.

Sherlock came to the far end of the first level without incident – a minor miracle considering the floor's instability. Leaning against the wall briefly to get his breath back, it suddenly occurred to the detective that the flooring on this side of the building – the side away from the Thames – was less degraded than the side near to the river, else he would never have made it this far, not without extreme care. He remembered John and Lestrade dangling above the threshing room floor over and above where he was now. The thought made him shiver, but it also gave him an idea.

Reaching out blindly, his fingers found an opening in the railing – the platform opened onto a narrow catwalk along the wall, a mere three feet wide, connecting this side of the first level to the other on the far side of the threshing room. If Moran took a shot at him while he was on it Sherlock would be a sitting duck, but the dusky gloom was further enhanced by the choking dust as well as the distance, and he guessed the sniper wouldn't be eager to fire his last bolt without being sure of a kill shot. Crouching low, the detective began making his way across the narrow metal platform, hoping desperately that it would hold his weight.

It was a harrowing journey – not knowing when the catwalk might give way as suddenly as the lift had done, nor wanting to make a noise that would give away his exact location and draw Moran's fire, Sherlock crept along as inconspicuously as possible. Upon reaching the other side he began to breathe more easily and, careful to keep close to the wall, he moved along the platform towards the stairs at the front, gun at the ready. When he passed the room where Lestrade had shown him and John the metal door someone had used to join this building with the next, he continued on to the next room closest to the stairs, pressed himself against the closed door for cover, and paused to catch his breath and try to clear the jammed revolver.

The nurse at John's surgery had observed that he knew nothing about human nature. Sherlock was willing to concede that this was true – but he did know John Watson. Observable similarities aside, Moran's convictions be damned, John Watson was nothing like this man who was hunting Sherlock now. At their core they were two different men entirely – Moran might not think so; John himself might doubt it in his darker moments, but their ideals and beliefs were diametrically opposed. This was not something Sherlock merely thought or deduced – he knew it, plain and simple. Strong moral principle, Sherlock's own moral compass…Moran was not capable of serving in that role to anyone, and certainly not to Jim Moriarty.

So – there was one fundamental difference between John Watson and John Sebastian Moran. Might there be others – differences he could use to shake the sniper?

Sherlock had deduced another almost straight off – while both men were cool-headed under fire, Sherlock knew that John's steadiness came from a different source: his compassion, integrity, loyalty and dedication. Moran, on the other hand, seemed to shut off his feelings so that he became as intent and focused as a predator on the hunt for its prey.

So: if John used his emotions to help him focus, and Moran focused by shutting his emotions off, might not the latter's nerve be shaken if he were prevented from shutting them off?

Moran would never have got as far as he had in the military had he not been very, very accomplished at keeping his cool, but Sherlock had managed to visibly rattle him, however briefly, by the mere intimation that his faith in Moriarty, rather than John's in Sherlock, had been misplaced.

Use that.

"Well, well!" Sherlock said mockingly. "Have the old shikari's nerves lost their steadiness? Whatever would the late, unlamented Jim Moriarty say?"

A low, stealthy sound came to his ears – not from the direction of the stairs on the west side of the building, as he had expected, but from the very room by which Lestrade had entered the Mill from the east weeks ago. A door creaked open; an instant later, steps crept along the first-level platform beyond – steps which were meant to be silent, but which reverberated hollowly through the empty space. Crouching back against the wall, Sherlock bit his lip in frustration as he fumbled to clear the jammed gun.

"Dear me…what does one do when a good hunting dog is no longer…useful? Put it down, I suppose" Sherlock observed, sounding bored. He gritted his teeth – the damned gun was just not clearing. If I have to I can use it as a club…

Peering through the gloom, he saw Moran's vague outline in the doorway, a shade blacker than the blackness beyond. The sniper stood for an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing, onto the landing.

Sherlock waited until the sinister figure was within three yards of him; then, like the tiger to which Moran had compared him, he sprang onto the marksman's back and hurled him flat on his face. Moran was up again in a moment and used the stock of his bow as a club to knock the gun from Sherlock's hand and send it skittering over the edge of the platform to the threshing floor below. Sherlock swore as Moran let out a triumphant cry and leapt at him, but before he could seize the detective by the throat Sherlock ducked away and sprinted towards the stairs, the sniper hot on his heels.

Counting his steps, Sherlock leapt over the sagging beams he had taken note of on his prior visit. The ploy worked – the weakened woodwork collapsed under Moran's weight just as those on the eighth storey had given way when Lestrade had ventured onto them. The former colonel plunged through the faulty flooring with a yell and a crash.

Sherlock hoped against hope that the bastard had broken his neck, but it was perfectly conceivable that he hadn't – the drop wasn't high enough to ensure instantaneous death. Mrs. Hudson – Lestrade – John – none of them would ever be truly safe if Sherlock didn't end this here and now, and so, pulling out his torch as he ran, he continued his mad dash down the stairs. Without stopping to check on Moran he sprinted past, determined to find his gun.

In his haste and anxiety, Sherlock did not remember that this floor was also unstable. An ominous crack reminded him too late – a fraction of a second later, a rotted board gave way as he set his right foot down on it, sending his lower leg plunging through the splintered wood to his knee and holding it fast.

Stupid, stupid! "Damn!" Frantically he pulled at the trapped limb, struggling to free it – then froze when he heard the ominous sound of the bow's cocking stirrup locking in place as Moran set his last bolt into the flight groove.

Sherlock turned his torch toward the sound; just a few yards away Moran stood, surrounded by bits of wood and debris from the shattered floor above. Dark blood gleamed along the side of his head and face in the torch's beam; his nose looked slightly askew, and he was bearing all his weight on his left leg so that the tip of his right foot only gingerly brushed the ground. But his arms and hands were steady as were his eyes, and there was no mercy in that cold gaze.

"Now I have you." His voice was a guttural growl as he cuddled the butt of the weapon into his shoulder. In that moment he did not look or sound like John at all. Despite the danger he was in, Sherlock could not quell a triumphant smile.

"John is nothing like you," he told the sniper. "He would never have allied himself with a spider such as Moriarty."

"So you think you're better than Jim Moriarty, do you?" Moran shifted the cocked crossbow, resettling it into his shoulder; his right eye gleamed as it peered along the sight.

The unexpected question gave Sherlock pause. It was true that this was something that had worried him from time to time in the past, but now…thinking of John, his heart swelled. Speaking clearly and with absolute conviction he declared, "Perhaps I wasn't. But I do know this: John Watson makes me…better than I am."

He'd told a lot of lies in his life. If these were to be his last words, he wanted them to be true.

Moran's face twisted in sudden malice, envy, and grief. "What you are is a dead man," he hissed, sliding his left hand up the fore grip of the weapon and tightening his finger around the trigger.

And then, in a moment eerily reminiscent of the night Sherlock confronted Jefferson Hope at the Roland-Kerr Further Education College, a gunshot rang out and impacted Moran's chest dead center at the exact moment the assassin released the bolt, continuing through his body and burying itself in the wooden beam behind him, splintering the wood as its victim fell to the floor.

The flight of the bullet had knocked Moran off balance at the last possible instant, altering the bolt's trajectory enough so that, instead of burying itself in Sherlock's heart, it tore a gaping hole in the upper left arm of his Belstaff coat and continued on without piercing his flesh.

With a mighty effort, Sherlock jerked his leg free, tearing his trousers and scraping his calf along the broken edges of the floor. Without bothering to turn and look for the shooter – he already knew who it was; the how he could find out later – he hurried over to where Moran lay, face up and unmoving. He stooped to take the man's pulse, but there was no need – the man's eyes were glazed, fixed unseeingly on the ceiling far above, and there was a widening splotch of blood positioned directly over his heart. Sherlock deduced the sniper had been dead before he hit the floor.

The detective straightened and looked back across the threshing room to see John Watson standing at the top of the basement stairs. His pistol was still raised and aimed towards the body at Sherlock's feet, but when Sherlock gave him a slight nod, he slowly lowered the weapon to his side. Eyes tracking the movement, Sherlock sucked in his breath when they landed on John's wrist – both his wrists; the skin was shredded, bruised and bloody.

Restraints – he did that to himself attempting to break free of restraints so he could get here in time.

Sherlock felt his throat tighten again. With rare humility he wondered what he had ever done to deserve such loyalty, and though he was not one to make vows, he silently vowed to himself that he would never take John for granted again.

Looking at his friend, a bright, warm thing began to bloom in Sherlock's chest, growing and pushing outward until it seemed to take over his very being – like sunlight, making him feel light yet heavy, elated yet humbled, joyful yet overwhelmed.

He cleared his throat. There was so much he wanted to say, but in the end he said only, "Good shot."

He tried to infuse everything he was feeling – all the tenderness and gratitude – into those two words. What he wanted was for John to smile and say, "Yes…yes, must have been" – just as he had that first night – as a sign that things really were all right between them now, that Sherlock was forgiven, and that they could start again.

But John did not say that. He did not say anything, in fact, but only stared, grim-faced, at Moran's unmoving body.

Sherlock frowned a little. "John?"

John gave no sign he had heard. The fingers of his right hand fell open suddenly, allowing the pistol to slide out of his grip and clatter to the floor. John blinked and stared down at it as if surprised.

"John!" Sherlock was alarmed now.

The doctor looked up at him; his eyes were oddly huge in his white face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. He looked…stunned, Sherlock thought.

Slowly, John looked down again. Puzzled, Sherlock followed his gaze.

His breath caught in his throat when he spotted them – three blue-tipped feathers nestled snugly against the black fabric of John's jacket, clearly marking the place where the bolt had entered his body.

Chapter Text

"He fell as gently as a tree falls. There was not even any sound, because of the sand." –From Le Petit Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

September 2014

John stared down at the bolt nock protruding from his abdomen.

Abdominal wound. That's…a bit not good, he thought disjointedly. A sudden wave of dizziness passed over him, and an odd, unpleasant warmth bloomed in his middle. He swayed on his feet. More than a bit, actually.

A sudden, sharp blow across the front of John's legs made him think for a moment that Moran had had an accomplice after all, and that said accomplice had just struck him with a board. But no – blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear his fogging vision, John realized he'd dropped to his knees on the planked floor. He felt himself falling as the strength flowed steadily out of his body like water from a pitcher.

That's going to hurt, he thought vaguely as he pitched forward.

Only it didn't – suddenly Sherlock was there, halting his descent. John had time to feel a profound relief that he wasn't going to land on his face for the second time that day before the pain hit, deep and excruciating, as though the bolt lodged in his stomach had been heated to a white-hot temperature. He was unable to keep back a sharp cry as Sherlock eased him down onto his back on the dusty floor.

"John! John! Oh, God–"

John blinked up at the cobwebby ceiling far above. He tried to take a deep, steadying breath, but the movement caused the bolt to shift slightly, sending a jolt of stabbing pain ripping through him. He tried but failed to bite back another cry of anguish.

Kneeling beside him, Sherlock's mobile was in his shaking hands, his fingers flying over the touch keypad as he dialed rapidly. He lifted the phone to his ear and John could hear him speaking, but could not make out what he was saying; it felt like his ears were filled with water.

Then, as though his head had broken through the surface of a pool, the sound returned in a cacophonous rush: his dulled senses became hyper-aware, and John could hear himself gasping for breath. He tried again to calm his breathing.

Sherlock dropped the phone and grabbed John's hand in both his own.

"John! John, tell me what to do!" There was real panic in the detective's voice.

Gently detaching his hand from Sherlock's, John raised his head and shakily probed the area around the bolt, grimacing and hissing in a breath as he touched the wound. Gasping with the effort, he leaned his head back again as he looked up at Sherlock.

The detective read the doctor's self-diagnosis in his eyes: prognosis negative.

Sherlock's brows lowered; he suddenly looked furious.

"Shut up!" he cried, his tone outraged. "Shut UP! This isn't how it ends, John do you hear me?! You don't get to die! Now tell me what to do!"

John couldn't help huffing out a laugh, counting the pain this caused as well worth it. A fierce affection for this mad friend of his surged through him, and he resolved to fight with all he had.

"Scarf," he said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock blinked, then understanding rushed into his face and he hurriedly removed his blue scarf. Holding it above John's torso, he looked uncertainly into the doctor's face.

John swallowed. "Position it…around the bolt and…and press down. Don't…don't try to remove the thing, or touch it…just…just leave it."

"I'm not stupid, John!" The detective tried to cover his panic with a lofty tone.

John huffed another laugh. "Where do you get that idea?" he quipped, but then gasped and arched his back as Sherlock, following his instructions, arranged the scarf around the bolt and pressed down hard. Frightened, the detective started to let up on the pressure again but John quickly put his hand over one of Sherlock's, holding it in place.

"No, it's – it's all right," he gasped. "Keep the pressure on."

A moment passed in silence.

"John, open your eyes!" Sherlock said urgently.

John did. He hadn't realized he'd closed them.

Sherlock, his reddened hands still pressing his now sodden scarf into John's abdomen, was staring into his face. His usual cool mask had been stripped away; his face was white, his jaw trembled, and his eyes were red and watery. "John, please…don't, just…don't…"

He didn't seem to know how to finish, but there was no need – John understood, and in that moment he thought it was worth getting wounded – even fatally so – to get an uncensored glimpse of Sherlock's heart…a heart that, as it turned out, was as great as its owner's brain, after all.

Best friend, John thought sluggishly, his eyes slipping closed again despite his best efforts to keep them fixed on Sherlock's face. Best friend for real.

"John!"

At Sherlock's distraught cry, John struggled to open his eyes once more. Remembering how he had felt at the sight of Sherlock's bloody form on the pavement in front of the hospital, he felt overcome by remorse – not for the world would he wish such a thing on his friend.

John knew, though, that the outcome was out of his control. He suddenly understood what James Sholto had been trying to say while he had bled out beneath John's hands in front of 221 Baker Street. Taking Sherlock's hand in one of his own, John squeezed it gently and offered what poor comfort he could.

"S'OK," he whispered faintly as his dimming vision blurred the sight of Sherlock's stricken face. "S'OK. It's…a good death."

It was, too. To die protecting someone else, holding the hand of the friend he had most loved – yes, that was a very good death, indeed.

When a frantic Mrs. Hudson called to tell him that Sherlock had gone haring off after Moran (like an idiot; so of course John had gone haring off after Sherlock, also like an idiot), Lestrade promised himself that he would knock their bloody heads together once he got hold of them.

Twenty years as a cop does a lot to desensitize a man, but Lestrade still had to fight down a rush of panic as he leapt to his feet and charged out of his office, mobile clutched tight in one hand, alternating between grilling Martha for as much information as possible while at the same time barking orders to his people.

Donovan was the only one not galvanized into action by Lestrade's sharp commands. Secretly he was pleased that she was the only person on his squad whom he couldn't scare the hell out of, but right now it was damned inconvenient.

"What?!" he snapped (meaning why the hell aren't you moving?).

She stood her ground. "It's him, isn't it?" Her attractive but involving face was set in lines of disapproval.

Lestrade didn't have time for this. "It is, and he's cornered our 'Crossbow Assassin' at the Mill," he told her curtly. "Get moving, you're driving…and we're going armed on this one."

Her eyes went wide at she hastened away.

Lestrade gritted his teeth and swallowed hard in an attempt to send his hammering heart back to its proper place. He leapt out of the passenger seat almost before Donovan had brought the vehicle screeching to a halt. Around them, numerous other sirens sounded as additional police cars, including an armed unit, converged near the front entrance of the Mill.

"Clear the area! Clear the area now!" Lestrade shouted as he made a beeline for the taped-off entrance. "Cordon off the outside perimeter and cover the exit of the building on the left!" He realized that Donovan was hard on his heels. Good woman.

In front of the entrance, near a motorcycle tipped onto its side, a frantic Bill Wiggins jumped from one foot to the other; it was as though his feet wanted to take off but their owner was desperately trying to make them stay in place. A motorcycle helmet dangled by its strap from his left hand; the young man's hair was mussed and his face was white as paper.

"I were about to break in," he gasped as Lestrade ran up to him. "Doc told me to wait here, but there was a shot, a gunshot–"

Greg shoved him aside roughly. "Get out of the way and stay back or I'll thump your bloody skull for you!" he cried harshly. He glanced back at Donovan, who was holding a large torch in both hands. "Keep up!"

Drawing his pistol, Greg tore through the police tape barricade and kicked the rotting doors in with one blow. Weapon drawn, he charged ahead, all the while knowing this was not one of his smarter moves. Sherlock would blame it on "sentiment," he thought crazily.

Lestrade burst onto the landing above the threshing room, pausing as Donovan swept the open space before them with her torch. They both froze as it landed on the three people whom they were seeking.

This place had been the scene of one of the most terrifying moments of Greg Lestrade's life, but the way his heart had dropped then did not compare with what he felt now as he took in the devastating sight of a very desperate-looking Sherlock Holmes kneeling above a frighteningly still John Watson, lying flat in a slowly widening pool of his own blood. Sherlock appeared to be trying to hold the blood in his friend's body with his scarf while he pleaded with him in a broken voice to open his eyes.

Not far off, the body of their assassin lay lifelessly on its back, a crossbow clutched in its hands.

Just under half an hour later, Mycroft Holmes stood beside his black town car, leaning on his ubiquitous umbrella as he observed the post-crisis cleanup taking place in and around the Mill. The Yarders swarming over the scene were purposeful in their movements but not frantic, talking quietly amongst themselves. It was fully dark by this time, but flashing lights, both from the police cars and the large yellow ambulance into which paramedics in orange vests were currently loading a stretcher holding an inert, gravely wounded patient, illuminated the scene.

A grim-faced, Lestrade, hands deep in his pockets, approached the Mill's main entrance from the direction of the ambulance. As he was about to step into the path of a slow-moving police car it whooped its siren briefly; he jerked his head at it to pass before continuing on. At the top of the steps leading into the main entrance of the Mill waited Philip Anderson, dressed in blue coveralls and white shoe coverings, with Latex gloves covering his hands. As Lestrade stepped up to meet him, the forensic technician moved in close to speak with the DI; Mycroft could not make out his low murmur but thought it sounded like a question. Lestrade offered a muted reply, and both men looked gravely back at the ambulance before disappearing into the Mill. Anthea passed them on the steps as she exited the building.

As cool and impeccably put together as usual, Anthea clicked calmly on high heels over to Mycroft. "It really is over now, sir."

Mycroft knew she was talking about Moran, but he did not look at her. Instead, he watched as his brother attempted in vain to board the ambulance with the unconscious John Watson while not less than four of Mycroft's people held him back. Mycroft could just make out Sherlock's broken, desperate voice: "Let me through! Let me through! He's my friend! He's my friend!"

"Yes," Mycroft said with a sigh. "It's over. And it's all come full circle, I'm afraid."

Chapter Text

"Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?"
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

John couldn't remember what he was meant to have done to land himself in solitary this time. Harris being Harris, it could have been anything, really. The prison officer would have found any excuse to bang him up…John could have looked at him the wrong way, or stepped out of line on the way to sosh, or spoken too loudly, or–

A sudden, sharp pain through his gut cut short both his thoughts and his breath; he instinctively bit back a groan as he tried to fold in on himself. Ah, yes – he remembered now. Before he'd been dragged down here, Cartwright, Biddle and Hayward had had him down on the floor, kicking him. Though he'd curled himself into a fetal position so that the majority of the vicious blows landed on his back, he took a few nasty kicks to the stomach – bad ones. The pain was excruciating, and he thought he might have a fever; he was burning and freezing by turns in the dark, dank chill of the isolation cell. John swallowed and automatically began to diagnose himself.

Severe pain on left side of the abdomen under the rib cage; pain in left shoulder – residual from my old shoulder wound, aggravated by the blows? Could be, but could also be irritated nerves due to the injury affecting the left side of the diaphragm originating from the same location.

"Possible ruptured spleen," he muttered aloud. It was too dark to tell if his vision was blurred, but he was definitely light-headed and having trouble staying focused–

"No," a deep voice broke into his scattered thoughts. "You are suffering from peritonitis."

John turned his head to the side on the tattered bare mattress and momentarily forgot the pain in the sudden flash of pure joy that shot through him when he saw Sherlock. Even knowing he wasn't real couldn't stop John from tearing up in his gratitude.

"Back again, are you?" he said huskily.

Sherlock frowned slightly. "I…I haven't left."

John's brow furrowed. That was odd. Whenever he encountered Sherlock in this desolate place, he always saw the detective sitting in his accustomed leather-upholstered chair from Baker Street, leaning back casually, one leg crossed over the other, elbows on the arms of the chair and fingers steepled before his face. He always presented in profile, only meeting John's ardent gaze with occasional, sidewise glances.

This version of Sherlock created by his sensory-deprived mind was different. Instead of his accustomed Le Corbusier armchair, he was sitting on an uncomfortable-looking plastic straight chair or stool – it was difficult for John to tell precisely because the detective was actually facing John this time, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and focusing his full deductive gaze on John's face with an intensity that matched the doctor's own. Sherlock was wearing his usual suit, but now it was rumpled and his curly hair was disheveled. His face was white and strained and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked…well, he looked positively shattered, and John frowned, puzzled as to why his mind would conjure up an image of Sherlock in such a state, especially when John had never seen him so before.

No matter. He was here – that's what was important.

"John?" Sherlock said. Oddly, his voice was hesitant, unsure. "Are you with me?"

John shook his head slightly in response to Sherlock's query. "You're with me."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look puzzled. He seemed discomfited at the way John kept his gaze locked onto his face, as though he feared Sherlock would disappear if he looked away.

A sudden bite of pain flared through John's midsection and radiated up to his shoulder, causing the doctor to wince and catch his breath. He heard Sherlock shift.

"John…"

"I think I may have…a ruptured spleen." John repeated in a faint whisper.

"I told you, you have peritonitis, John, complicated by–"

John huffed a laugh, even though it hurt. "I'm giving myself two possible diagnoses, now, am I – one as me, one as you? That's…different." He opened his eyes again and was relieved to see that Sherlock was still there, sitting straighter now and looking pale and alarmed, but wonderfully, reassuringly present.

Sherlock leaned forward, reaching for John's hand. "John, listen to me–"

"No!" John cried, jerking his hand away. Sherlock drew back, startled. "Don't touch me! You always disappear when I try to reach you–"

"John, I'm not going anywhere, I promise you!" Sherlock raised his hands to his head in sudden agitation.

John closed his eyes in despair. "You're not real."

"Then what am I?" He sounded so familiarly frustrated that John thought for a moment he had to be real, but he was determined not to give into false hope yet again.

"An image my mind created to keep me from going mad in here," he replied through gritted teeth.

Sherlock stared at him in wonder. "John…are you saying you've created a Mind Palace for yourself?"

John closed his eyes and turned his head away. "No…a mind prison."

He couldn't stop trembling. This cell was so cold…but he was hot, too. How could he be so sodding hot and cold at the same time? But he had experienced this before, hadn't he? He vaguely remembered how, after he was shot and developed a rampant infection, he'd had a raging fever. They'd wrapped him in a water-circulating cooling blanket; the sensation had felt like this…shivering and burning, burning and shivering.

Maybe he wasn't in the isolation pad, after all…maybe he was back in the Healthcare Centre under Joseph's watchful eye. Wait, didn't he have the flu? Or had that been another time?

His breath stuttered in his chest as a wave of grief nearly bowled him over. Joseph was dead. Joseph was dead and Sherlock was dead.

Above and around him, voices he couldn't quite recognize faded in and out, murmuring words he couldn't quite understand:

"…hyperpyrexia …peritonitis…sepsis…class of toxin…"

"...dehydration…electrolyte imbalance…septic shock…seizure…"

"...antibiotics… can't use anti-pyretics due to…IVTM catheter to the subclavian…external cooling measures…"

For a moment he thought he was an intern again. He must have fallen asleep between shifts. He wondered idly who the poor sod was that they were talking about.

A deep voice somewhere over his head: "...John? ...hear me?"

He didn't know. He didn't think so.

His eyes burned in their sockets like live coals buried deep in his skull. Unable to bear it any longer, he tried to claw them out with his own hooked forefingers, but a pair of long, slim hands closed round his wrists, restraining him.

"John, stop. Stop!"

He forced his eyes open and gazed blearily through the heat-haze at a drawn, white face, dark curls on end. It looked like Sherlock – a distraught Sherlock – but it couldn't be Sherlock, because Sherlock was dead.

"Please," he whispered to the apparition. "Please…my eyes…"

The ghost Sherlock reached for the light switch. He froze, fingers centimeters from the switch, when John cried out in alarm.

"No! God, no...don't…don't put out the light." John's voice sank to a cracked, pleading whisper.

"I'll dim it," the Sherlock ghost said tensely. "See? I'm just dimming it."

The glare that had been spiking through his head eased, but he could still see. John sighed in relief.

"Thank you."

He jerked into wakefulness on the couch in 221b, heart pounding and brow sweaty. He didn't remember lying down for a kip, but he must have done. Blinking to clear his foggy vision, he spotted Sherlock sitting in his own chair across from him. He wasn't playing the violin or reading. He didn't even appear to be wandering the corridors of his Mind Palace, but was instead staring at John intently in the most disconcerting way.

John hated when he did that. He opened his mouth to tell the wanker to bugger off, but instead asked suddenly, "Did you remember to get milk?"

Sherlock blinked. "Did I…what?"

"Milk," John said impatiently. (God, his throat hurt. So did his head. So did everything, come to think of it…was he ill? He couldn't remember.) "Did you pick up the milk while you were out like you said you would?" He demanded.

Nonplussed, Sherlock stared at him. "I – no."

John groaned. "Christ, why do you have to be so fucking lazy?"

As he turned his head away he caught sight of the strangest look on Sherlock's face – it seemed to be a mixture of frank bafflement, faint amusement, and deep concern. Too tired to try to suss out the meaning behind that look, John wearily closed his eyes.

God, he felt awful.

He didn't realize he was sobbing until Sherlock's voice, full of anguish, broke through the dark fog surrounding him.

"John. John. For God's sake, what is it? Tell me! Shall I call your doctor?"

John gave a hollow laugh that was partly a sob. "You can't…he's dead. Heart failure...I missed it somehow...oh, God."

Blinking the water from his burning eyes, he turned his face towards the apparition in his cell. "Back again?" he asked, voice rough with tears. "I must really be cracking up…seeing you even when I'm not in solitary now."

He didn't understand why the detective should close his eyes at that, looking strained, nor why he whispered in such a hopeless, defeated sort of way, "Oh, John." But it hurt, and he already hurt so much, so John averted his eyes.

"Got a letter from that lawyer your brother set me up with," he ground out. "They're adding two years onto my sentence. Two sodding years. I've served eighteen months already and it feels like a bloody lifetime." Feeling the tears threatening to make a reappearance, John squeezed his traitorous eyes shut. "I have no hope of getting out here for at least eight years, and that's if I'm really lucky." He swallowed hard, and his voice sank to a whisper. "Even if it was less I couldn't…God, I just can't. I can't do it anymore, Sherlock."

Opening his eyes again, John looked seriously at the vision of Sherlock in the cell with him. He felt so sick and so miserable and so defeated that he spoke candidly in a way he could never have done if the vision were real.

"The day you jumped off Bart's rooftop was the worst day of my life," he told the Sherlock-vision flatly, and he marveled at the way his foolish mind made it pale and wince. "That's the only reason I haven't topped myself before this – I didn't want to put anyone else through that, especially not Greg and Mrs. Hudson – God, poor Mrs. Hudson!" John closed his eyes again as a large, hard lump rose in his throat; he had to fight to swallow it down so he could continue. "I hate to – I hate - but I can't do this anymore, not even for her, I just can't. I can't!"

"John–"

"I hate myself for it, but I've reached the end of my rope, Sherlock." John opened his eyes and looked earnestly at the stricken vision of his friend.

"I've made up my mind. I have the means now…the scalpel Joseph left behind," John whispered. He smiled weakly. "You bloody idiot...so brilliant, and so full of contradictions. I would have followed you to the ends of the earth, mad child that you were." He closed his eyes. Swallowed. "Seems only fitting I should follow you one last time."

He was surprised when the apparition suddenly sprang up, the sound of the chair's metal feet screeching in a shockingly real way across the bare floor; the sound hurt John's oversensitive ears and he flinched. Before he could protest or draw away, one of Sherlock's hands closed about his own wrist; it felt solid and icy, and John wondered if, instead of a hallucination, he faced a ghost. But before he could wrap his head around the thought Sherlock's face was leaning in close, and his silvery eyes were fierce as he spoke in a low, harsh whisper.

"Listen to me. Are you listening? I. Am not. Dead. I'm not dead, and neither are you, though you already tried to…to f-follow me." Sherlock's voice quavered briefly, and he swallowed. "You're hallucinating, John…I don't know exactly what you're seeing, but I can guess–"

"You never guess," John whispered with a slight smile.

Taken off guard, Sherlock smiled back briefly, then grew grave again as he continued. "I do when what's in front of me is so obvious I don't even need to deduce it. You already tried to die once, John, but you're still alive, and so am I, and you're not in prison anymore. Your idiot doctors told me not to agitate you by trying to challenge your delusions, but you can't despair because there's no need, John! You can't give up in your mind because you're alive, and if you'll only fight to keep on living you'll see that you're free, you're safe, you can come home. John, for God's sake, believe me – the worst is over!"

His voice had risen to a quiet, impassioned shout, and oh, how John wanted to believe him. But hope was a dangerous thing. He turned his face away.

"No, it's not. It will never be over, never."

A thin, burning, vile liquid filled his nose and mouth, gagging him, choking him, he couldn't breathe–

"John?" The voice sounded foggy, as though its owner were half asleep. "What–? Oh, God. Hang on, just…"

There was movement at his side, then he was being lifted into a sitting position. It hurt and he couldn't keep from groaning, but at least now he could breathe. He swallowed and then gagged again slightly at the feel of a nasogastric tube in his throat.

"Hold on, John." There was a click, and a moment later the sound of a door opening and rubber-soled shoes on linoleum.

"What–? Mr. Holmes, the patient should not be hauled around like a–"

"So you imbeciles would prefer I allow him to choke on his own vomit?!"

"Oh – oh dear. Hold on, I'll be back in a tick…" The footsteps hurried away again.

John suddenly knew that voice. "Sherlock?"

The supporting arm behind his back moved up and down slightly. "You with me, John?"

"Hm." John wearily rested his head against the steady shoulder. It stiffened a moment as though its owner was surprised; then the arm holding him up firmly drew him in closer.

In that moment, John didn't give a damn if people talked. He wasn't sure what they were waiting for, but he was content to remain as he was, leaning trustfully against his best mate, absorbing his warmth and strength into his own cold, failing body.

After a long silence, he heard a whisper.

"You shouldn't have come between Moran and me, John. I'd…I'd trade places with you, if I could."

"Like I'd let you," John huffed. He heard a low chuckle and smiled slightly in return. They lapsed into silence again and John dozed.

Next thing he knew he was being lowered to the mattress; a woman's voice told him they'd have him cleaned up in a tick. All but naked under the cooling blanket, he shivered at the sudden exposure, and again as a damp flannel smelling faintly of alcohol was used to wipe him down. He instinctively tried to pull away when a dampened oral swab flavored with mint was swirled briskly around the inside of his mouth, but relaxed when he realized what it was. He tried to open his eyes, but winced at the light. With deft hands, the nurse covered him with a fresh sheet and left.

"Sherlock." He was almost too tired to get the word out, but down near his feet a low voice answered.

"I'm here, John. I'm here."

He didn't say so, but he wished he could lean against that warm and familiar shoulder again. It had been ages since he'd felt so at peace.

As though sensing his thoughts, a hand closed over his foot through the blanket.

Shivering and burning, burning and shivering. Sharp pain, morphine, dull pain; sharp pain, morphine, dull pain…rinse and repeat. He skipped through his memories like some sort of bloody Time Lord, or maybe it was his surroundings that kept shifting, for wherever he was – the Afghan desert, a dreary bedsit, an untidy yet cozy flat in Central London, a rundown house in Chelmsford, a prison cell – he was always sick, always freezing and burning, always hurting. Too weak to sit up, hating the dark but unable to abide the light due to his too-sensitive eyes, confused and befuddled.

He knew, on some level, that he was really in hospital, but he constantly forgot why he was there. "What happened? Will you tell me...what happened?"

Sherlock was always, always there to answer him, but he didn't know if it was a real Sherlock or one his mind had created, and he couldn't make sense of the answers.

He was propped with pillows on his right side; the lights were dimmed. He started to shift on his bunk, but groaned at the agony this caused.

"Are you in pain?" Sherlock was there in the cell with him again, sitting closer this time.

"They hurt me," John whispered, quite without meaning to.

The detective looked murderous. "Who did?"

"All of them."

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. His throat hurt. It almost felt as though there was a tube in it, but that couldn't be right…

"Harris had me down on the floor and was kicking me…no, wait. That was my dad, wasn't it?"

"Your…?" John opened his eyes. Sherlock looked horrified.

"Yeah, that was my dad, a long time ago...I forget. He was just one," John explained. "But your 'fan club' now…there's five of them I think – I can't remember."

His eyes had slipped closed again. When he opened them, he was gratified to see that Sherlock was still there.

John held out his hand. "Hey."

Sherlock blinked, nonplussed. John didn't blame him...he was surprised himself. It wasn't the sort of thing he did. He was even more surprised when Sherlock actually took his hand, both because it wasn't the sort of thing Sherlock did, and because John thought he could actually feel the cool, long-fingered hand in his own.

Strange dream. So realistic. "You feel real."

"I am real, John."

"Well, real to me, yeah." John chuckled, then frowned, trying to focus his thoughts. He was so sodding hot. "That is – I know you for real. Knew you for real. I told you that, didn't I? Or was that something I thought of…After?"

"You told me," Sherlock said solemnly.

John sighed, closing his eyes again. He gave the hand in his a gentle squeeze. "I know you're only in my head, but I've missed you, you know? You were my best mate."

"You've said. Why, John? Why am I your best friend?"

He opened his eyes. The Sherlock apparition looked shy, curious, and eager to know. John hesitated. But really, what could it hurt now?

"You told me once…that you weren't a hero," he said lowly. Then, with a short laugh that was almost a sob, "There were times I didn't think you were even human!"

Sherlock smiled sadly. His eyes had misted over.

John grinned, then grew serious again. His eyes filled with tears, but he made an effort to speak steadily.

"Let me tell you this, you daft bugger: you were the best man, and the most human human being that I've ever known."

Sherlock, hanging on to his hand, looked stricken. "John…"

"I'm fucked up, Sherlock. I've always been. I don't let people get close because I'm afraid. Afraid they'll find out how fucked up I am. Afraid I'll hurt them. I could, too – hurt people, I mean. I'm angry, Sherlock. I'm an angry person. Sometimes I get so angry it's hard to contain it. I was always like that. Maybe it was my fucked-up family life that made me that way, I don't know. People like me…God knows why. They think I'm a bit of all right, but they don't see…see what I'm like, inside."

John blinked back the tears, took a deep breath, and looked intently into Sherlock's grey eyes.

"You knew me – knew me right away. I never felt like I had to hide with you. I could breathe deep, I wasn't on edge. You knew how fucked up I was and you were all right with that." His voice broke a little. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much."

Sherlock, holding onto his hand for dear life, closed his eyes, closed his mouth, and bowed his head.

"Who are you," he demanded hoarsely. "Who the hell are you?" He struggled to face this apparition, but his arms seemed to have become boneless things he could no longer control.

"Dr. Watson, you need to calm down…you'll tear your staples–"

He didn't give a damn if he hurt himself if he could only throttle the smarmy bastard in the Westwood suit who stood by the door, smirking at him.

Suddenly Sherlock was there, holding him down. John was so weak the detective had only to lay his hands on his shoulders to immobilize him. John batted ineffectually at his arms.

"Dammit, Sherlock, let me go! I have to – don't you see he's…he's somehow the cause of all this!"

Moriarty made a strange sound at that, as though John had said something hurtful. Manipulative cock.

Still bending over John with his hands on the doctor's shoulders, Sherlock looked over his own shoulder at Moriarty. "Get out, Mycroft," he hissed, "can't you see your presence is agitating him?!"

John froze, his eyes darting incredulously back to Sherlock's. "Sherlock, what are you on about?" He cried roughly. "That's him – that's Moriarty!"

Now both Moriarty and Sherlock were looking at him in shock. Moriarty actually looked relieved for a moment, then had the audacity to take a step towards him.

"John, I assure you, I am not–"

But John wasn't fooled by the reassuring tone. "You murdering bastard," he ground out. With sudden strength he knocked Sherlock's hands aside and pushed himself up, crying out at the pain that ripped through his abdomen as he did so. "You killed him! You killed us…I don't care what I have to–!"

Then Sherlock, who had staggered back in shock at John's sudden lunge, was pushing him down again. "John, John, stop–!"

A woman in a white lab coat appeared suddenly. "Nurse, we need a sedative here, please!" She turned to Moriarty and took his arm. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes – he evidently does not recognize you. You had better leave."

As Moriarty exited John cried out, "That's not Mycroft, you bloody idiots! It's Moriarty, and he's getting away! Sherlock, you have to run…he'll kill you–"

"John, Moriarty is dead. He killed himself." Sherlock looked distressed, but not for the reason he should have been.

John stared at him wildly, his eyes wide and wet. "So did you!"

"I faked mine, John, remember?" Sherlock's voice rose.

"Mr. Holmes, it's no use trying to reason with him."

And then a man dressed in white approached the IV pole on John's left, a syringe in his hand. John panicked – if they sedated him, he would not be able to protect his friends, protect Sherlock…

"Sherlock…Sherlock!" he gasped. "For the love of God, don't let them–"

"I'm so sorry, John." Were his lips actually trembling?

The room faded away to be replaced by a surprisingly clear image of a nine-year-old Harry, her sandy blonde hair fought into two plaits that bounced on her shoulders as she skipped rope, chanting: "Spider, spider, on the bus...soppy Jane that made a fuss..."

Moran was standing over him, crossbow in hand.

"You're like me," he hissed, "you're like me. Say it."

"I'm not like you," John said harshly, but he was terrified nonetheless.

"You're a tool, Watson. Nothing but a fucking tool, and you know it! Holmes doesn't give a damn about you, any more than Jim Moriarty gave a damn about me."

"Yeah?" John ground out, opening his eyes to glare at him. "Then why did he run into an obvious trap when you used me as bait? Would dear Jim have done that for you?"

With a cry of rage Moran released the bolt – but, to John's horror, the sniper was aiming at Sherlock, who had, seemingly out of nowhere, suddenly materialized.

"No!"

John leapt between them. A white-hot bolt of pain exploded within him like a supernova, blotting out his vision.

He blinked hard, trying to clear his foggy eyesight. Near the door, Mycroft stood glowering down at a middle-aged woman whose face was as white as her lab coat.

"If he dies, you'll never work again." Mycroft's voice was chilling in its precise softness. "I'll see your medical license is revoked permanently…you'll never practice medicine anywhere, I promise you."

"You really are an Ice Man," John murmured as the doctor, looking frightened, scuttled away. "But not when it comes to Sherlock. I think I can forgive you just about anything, owing to that…that you give a damn about Sherlock."

Seeing John was awake, Mycroft stepped closer to the bed. "Sherlock is not the one who is ill, John." His voice was almost gentle.

John frowned. "But why should you give a damn about me?" he asked, bemused.

Mycroft's lips moved into a slight, sad smile. "To 'give a damn' about Sherlock is to 'give a damn' about you, John…and vice versa, I believe."

John closed his eyes. It was incomprehensible.

The next time he opened them, he was mildly surprised to see Harry sitting on a bunk opposite to his own (odd, that, since his was a single-occupancy cell). She was sitting with her knees together and her hands folded in her lap in a hunched posture reminiscent of their childhood. The illusion was further enhanced by the evidence on her face that she had obviously been crying, though she wasn't now.

When she saw him studying her, she said timidly, "Do you know me this time, John?"

He didn't know what she meant, but when he tried to ask her he found he couldn't speak – his dry throat wouldn't let him form the words. She went on without seeming to notice.

"You have no bloody idea, do you…how much you mean to me?"

John just looked at her.

"I remember when they brought you home," she said, her voice trembling. "I'd been so lonely, and I was so excited to have a little brother. I loved holding you, and wheeling you about in your pram, and looking after you. I never cared when they had me mind you. And as you got bigger you looked up to me like I was the sodding queen. That…made up for so many things."

She gave a watery sort of laugh, then seemed to swallow back the tears.

"You were the one bright thing in that awful house. You can't possibly know how much I loved you…or how much you scared the hell out of me, John."

She looked at him seriously with bloodshot eyes; he tried to say her name, but again his voice caught in his throat.

"I remember one summer we spent with Granddad McLean in Scotland," she said in a low voice, looking down at her folded hands. "You were seven, and I was thirteen. I was supposed to be watching you while Granddad was at the surgery – he was only semi-retired then. I was in my room, reading, and then it was lunchtime and I went to look for you."

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath before continuing.

"I went into the garden to find you, and you were up in that old sycamore tree. Remember that tree? It got blown down in a gale the following winter. You were about seventy feet off the ground by the time I spotted you, and climbing higher all the time."

She looked up again and tried to smile, but her eyes were haunted.

"I thought I'd die of fear right on the spot. I wanted to scream your name, beg you to come down, but I was scared that if I startled you you'd fall. I saw you fall in my mind, John – I imagined it so vividly. I could see your little body twisting as you fell through the air, hear the crunch when you landed, and pictured you on the ground, all bloody and broken."

Now her voice was trembling, and she had to blink back tears.

"When you'd reached the ground again, I was so relieved I could have cried – and so fucking furious with you for scaring me like that. I screamed at you. I slapped you so hard you fell down." She let out a sob. "Just like Dad might have…"

Harry took a deep breath; her voice was calmer, but full of self-loathing as she continued. "To this day I can remember the look of shock on your face when I hit you. You didn't cry...you just stared at me, so surprised and bewildered and hurt. Only a moment earlier you'd come up to me looking so proud of yourself...and I hit you. You didn't understand why I was so upset and angry. I hated myself so much..."

John tried to corral his skittering thoughts. Odd that he couldn't picture this, when his mind so obviously recalled it.

"It seemed like you never had any fear," Harry continued, crying in earnest now. "You kept getting into these situations…the White Knight, charging round with his sword drawn, out to save the world. You'd even provoke Dad so he'd go after you instead of me...it was like all the fear you should have had but didn't went into me. I couldn't stand the thought of you being hurt, or…or worse. And then you joined the bloody army."

She laughed again, and this time it had a slightly hysterical note. She put her hands over her face and spoke through her fingers.

"I know you thought I was selfish, that I was so angry and upset because I thought you didn't have any thought for me – that I felt like you were abandoning me. It's what I wanted you to think, John. I didn't want to admit that it was because I was scared out of my wits. When Clara told me they called to let us know you'd been shot, it was like my worst nightmare come true."

Even though he was sure this wasn't real, his heart was moved so that John finally was able to make his parched tongue form the words.

"I miss you, Harry. I've always missed you."

She got up then and came to him. He closed his eyes as she brushed the damp hair back from his burning forehead and pressed her lips against his wet brow.

The fever waxed and waned. During one of the waning periods he found he could remember who he was, and where and why.

"Sher-lock." He had to clear his throat to get it out; it sounded more like a croak. He was drenched in sweat and shivering.

He heard someone rise from across the room and approach his bed. "John?"

The voice was timid, feminine. "Molly?" She came closer, and he could just make her out in the dim light. "Timezzit?" It felt late.

"Just gone half two in the morning," she said softly. "Sherlock's in the lab…been going nearly nonstop, what with sitting with you and trying to isolate the subspecies of boophone disticha that Moran's arrowhead was coated with. He asked me to sit with you while he–"

"Poison," John mumbled. "Lovely."

"It's not a fatal poison on its own," Molly hastened to explain. "But it seems to be interfering with the medications they're using to treat the peritonitis, including the antibiotics."

"Mmhm," John mumbled, closing his eyes. He tried to think about this, but then he could feel his face flushing as his body began to warm again. His ears started ringing, and when Molly said his name her voice sounded far away.

Hours later – or maybe it was only a few minutes – he thought he could hear Sherlock's voice, low, sharp, and stern.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"There wasn't time…he was only lucid for a minute or two–"

"And I missed it…I might not get another chance to–"

"Sherlock, don't think like that–"

The voices sped up, faster and faster, then slowed down unbearably, and all the while they moved farther and farther away, until finally John could no longer hear them.

Then came a time when he was not confused, when he knew exactly where he was and understood all too well what was happening to him. It was as though the fever, instead of befuddling his senses, now sharpened them to razor acuity. But being in his right mind was no comfort to him, for he was in far more pain than he could ever remember being, and he felt so weak and sick and run down and utterly demoralized that for once his powerful survival instinct failed him utterly, his steadfast courage faltered, and he wanted nothing more than for all of it to end.

"No more," he whispered without opening his eyes when he heard what he thought was a nurse shifting nearby. "Please, just…just let me go."

It was a weak plea, a far cry from the please, God, let me live thought he had once had in a distant desert, and he didn't really expect a response. He didn't even realize he'd spoken aloud until a long, cool hand closed firmly about his wrist and another came to gentle rest on his burning forehead. He heard a deep voice growl into his ear.

"Never," it said fiercely. "Never…never…"

Time no longer had meaning. Medications, X-rays, vitals. Medical personnel in and out at all hours. Burn and shiver, struggle to breathe. And Sherlock, ever present.

"Don't die…please don't die."

"But…aren't you the one who died?"

"Oh, John…"

"Don't be dead. Could you do that, for me?"

"I will if you will."

A huge weight was sitting on his chest; he struggled for breath despite the heavy oxygen mask that was now clamped to his face.

"…O2 sat is down to 76%"…"CPAP is not providing enough support…"

"…he's choking! Can't you…?"

"…please, Mr. Holmes, we're doing all we…"

"...extremely shallow…pulse…BP 160/90…risk…sudden respiratory failure…"

"…need to intubate…etomidate…20 mg…"

There was a sound of rushing air in John's ears and the world faded out in a very final sort of way.

A tall, spare figure was bending over him like a reed in the wind.

"Joseph?" His voice was cracked; the fever was dehydrating him dangerously despite the saline drip.

"Yes, laddie. I'm here."

John blinked hard several times, and Bell's face slowly came into focus. The old man looked grave as he sat down on the bed beside John. John rolled his head to the side in order to see him better, and found he was in a bed in the prison Healthcare Centre.

"Do I have 'flu again?"

Bell sighed heavily. "No, laddie, I'm afraid not. Toxic-metabolic encephalopathy."

John stared at him. "Bloody hell."

"Yes."

"How–"

"Took a bolt to the stomach while saving your friend," Bell said in a businesslike way. "The broadhead was coated in some class of poison – your friend mentioned it, but I didn't quite–"

"Joseph." 

Bell stopped talking and looked at John expectantly.

"How – how did I get here?" John was beyond confused by this point.

"Isn't it obvious, laddie?" Bell said impatiently (John thought it was remarkable how much like Sherlock he sounded at that point).

John stilled. "You mean…coma."

"Not quite," the older man said reassuringly. "But your reticular activating system has definitely been affected, which means–"

"Which means it may take me a while to come out of…this. If I ever do."

"Aye."

John sighed. "I wish you hadn't gone."

"Couldn't help it," Bell replied briskly. Then, sighing, he laid a gnarled hand on John's wrist. "John, I really wish you hadn't pulled that trick with Ben's scalpel."

Ashamed, John closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. It was stupid. I hurt Mrs. Hudson, and Greg."

Bell nodded. "You mustn't give up like that again, laddie. There are people who need you."

"Nobody 'needs' me," John said hollowly.

"Yes. They do," Bell said sternly. "You may not have a lot of friends, John, but the ones you have are devoted to you. You've been through a lot, but you're a survivor. You pick yourself up and go on. I guarantee you that mad friend of yours wouldn't be able to, not if something happened to you."

"Sherlock?" Confused, John shook his head a little as if to clear it. "Isn't he…?"

"No, he isn't, and if you weren't so befuddled from the fever and the infection and the damned poison you'd know that. Don't let it take you, laddie. Keep fighting."

Bell glared at him a moment, then his eyes softened; he patted John's hand again and stood up.

John tried to reach for him, but his hand felt like it weighed fifty pounds. "Joseph, don't go–"

"I have to," Bell said firmly. "But remember, laddie…I'm proud of you."

He smiled, and John closed his eyes against the sudden pain in his heart. He thought he heard the soothing, melancholy strains of "The Blue Mountain's Lullaby," but when he opened his eyes again Bell had gone.

"Watson, report."

"Sir," he responded at once. He tried to sit up, but fell back.

"At ease, Captain." The voice sounded like its owner was amused.

John gasped. "James!"

Sholto smiled. He was again the shrewd commander John had known – not a trace of scarring remained. Dressed in a plaid shirt and khaki trousers, he looked somehow lighter and freer than John remembered ever seeing him. "How are you, Lionheart?"

"About ready to stand down, I think," John admitted. God, it's good to see him.

Sholto frowned. "Don't you dare, soldier. You're nowhere near done yet."

"That's what I'm afraid of. I'm so bloody tired."

"John…don't give up. I know it's hard, but you're close to winning this battle."

"Yeah?" John's lips quirked. "What about the war, mate?"

"I've never known you to walk away from a fight, even when it was in your own best interests," Sholto said with a slight smile. "I don't think you could if you tried."

John tried to answer, but a sudden spasm of pain cut off his breath and made him curl inward.

"It's all right, John." The Major's voice seemed to be echoing down a long tunnel, and John could no longer see him. "Just rest. You may be off duty for now, but you haven't mustered out yet…plenty of time to stand down later."

Chapter Text

October 2014

On the twenty-second day, the fever finally broke.

On the twenty-third day, John commenced breathing on his own. His medical team eased up on the sedation; he woke long enough to be extubated, then collapsed back into exhausted unconsciousness. Coma.

Before dawn on the twenty-fourth day, a weary, wide-awake Sherlock Holmes sat at John's bedside, studying his friend with his most penetrating deductive gaze. The detective had crammed himself into the tiny, uncomfortable plastic chair with his legs drawn up to his chest (his heels barely skimmed the edge of the seat) and his arms wrapped tightly around them, chin almost touching his knees. He was, as usual, here outside normal visiting hours; the nurses studiously pretended not to notice this. (It helped that, owing to the violence of his earlier delirium, John was in one of the few private rooms in the Critical Care Unit to mitigate the possibility of his disturbing other patients.)

Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had wanted to see him, but John had been deemed too unstable for visitors. Harry, as family, had been allowed short visits; Sherlock's continual presence was suffered only at Mycroft's direct intervention.

It occurred to the detective that he, of all John's friends, perhaps had the least right to be there, though neither Mrs. Hudson nor Lestrade seemed at all put out by his privilege. They took it for granted that Sherlock's right outweighed theirs. Sherlock assuaged any personal guilt over this by telling himself that John would not want his friends to see him in such a state – incoherent, vulnerable and suffering. No, that particular penance belonged to Sherlock alone.

It had been a very heavy penance, indeed.

A nurse came in to change out one of John's IV bags and check his drain. She smiled at Sherlock but did not speak. She wore blue scrubs, and her straight, dark hair was in a long braid down her back. She had deep brown eyes and beautiful olive skin. Watching her, the deductions rushed, unbidden, to Sherlock's mind:

From Oman…lives in a nurses' quarters for convenience but goes to Bristol at weekends where her husband and son – no, a son and a daughter – reside. Husband is from Pakistan; this has created a rift with her Hindu family–

He shook his head to clear it. How was it that he, of all people, could see so much – and yet, at the same time, so little?

The nurse did a quick check of John's vitals, offered Sherlock another smile – a reassuring one, this time – and exited. Sherlock listened as her rubber-soled shoes moved softly along the quiet corridor until they faded out of his hearing.

The relative silence was a marked change from the flurry of activity that had surrounded John almost continuously over the last three weeks, with doctors and nurses continually coming and going. And John himself – delirious with fever and dazed with pain – no, Mrs. Hudson, especially, should not have seen him like that. She could not have borne it.

Sherlock had hardly been able to bear it himself, but he had been unable to tear himself away. He told himself it was because, as John's "best friend," his place was by John's side, offering moral support. Secretly, though, he was terrified that John would slip away the moment Sherlock took his eyes off him. His watchfulness came at a price – at times he suffered only a little less than John, witnessing his friend's pain. Between the peritonitis, the massive infection, the raging fever and the hallucinogenic properties of the toxin, John's reason had been badly shaken and his psyche stripped bare in a way the deeply private man would have abhorred.

During those dark and painful days, Sherlock had come to know more about his friend than he ever had. He came to know some things about himself, too – some not-so-comfortable truths. He already knew he was a selfish, self-centered person. He had not realized that he had come to rely on his own powers of deduction to tell him what he needed to know about a person. He had not realized that he had come to believe that, if it wasn't something he could deduce for himself, it was unimportant and therefore not worth knowing.

Looking down at the wasted form of his best friend, Sherlock realized that he had been missing many, vitally important things.

Hesitantly, Sherlock sat up properly in his chair, putting his feet on the floor as he leaned forward, and carefully laid his hand on top of John's. The touch was tentative, for he knew that John was not a demonstrative man. (Nor was Sherlock, come to that, but just now it didn't seem to matter.) He noted absently that John's hand was small but neat, and very strong with dexterous fingers, work-worn with a few calluses here and there, the pads of his fingers a little dry, as most doctors were, from continual hand-washing.

These hands had saved lives and taken them in defense of others, tended to people's hurts, painstakingly typed stories that were read by thousands of people, and made countless cups of tea. Many of those cups of tea had been prepared for Sherlock, just as the stories were written about Sherlock, and the lives were taken to protect Sherlock. These hands had saved Sherlock's life more than once, had tended to Sherlock's hurts and, occasionally, inflicted a few (well-deserved, no doubt) by literally knocking the detective onto his arse.

In short, these were hands that had been devoted in their service to others, and Sherlock had taken up a great deal of that service.

He moved his eyes up to John's face. The oxygen mask that had replaced the ventilator had in turn been replaced by a nasal cannula. His face, though haggard from the fever, looked more peaceful than it had since that night at the Mill. His lips were dry and chapped.

"Your doctor says you're better," Sherlock said abruptly. "If that's true, why are you not waking up?"

John didn't stir.

Sherlock cleared his throat a little. "John? I know you're in there. I know you can hear me."

Truthfully, Sherlock didn't know any such thing, but the doctor said it was very possible, and Sherlock secretly hoped. Nervously, he cleared his throat again.

"John. There are things I wanted to say, but didn't say them. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade…Greg – yes, I do remember his name, thank you; I just pretend to forget it because it drives him mad."

He paused here, hoping John would open his eyes and give him a reproachful look, but John slept on.

"As I was saying," Sherlock continued a trifle unsteadily, "they thought I should say them to you. Say them now. But I find it difficult, this sort of…stuff. And…it's stupid, I know, but I've been…reluctant to say them, for fear that you, in your idiocy, might interpret it as my giving you permission to 'let go', or some other such rubbish."

To his immense surprise, Sherlock sniffed. "Because I don't," he said almost spitefully. "Give you permission, I mean. Not that you're even waiting for that, or taking it into consideration. I don't imagine you're much interested in what I should prefer, these days. Can't say as I blame you.

"But it doesn't make any difference, anyway. Your doctor says the worst has passed, and she's 'cautiously optimistic,' or some such rot. And yet you still haven't got round to waking up."

Sherlock turned his face away from the still form on the bed, directing his next words to the wall.

"I'm not one for offering apologies, which is a great pity since I no doubt owe you at least a thousand. You see…I took it for granted that you would always be there."

He paused again. John continued to slumber.

"I faked my death, in part, to ensure your safety. I left you behind for the same reason. I suppose I could tell you that I thought of you often, that your presence in my Mind Palace provided me help of an inestimable value on a daily basis. I am tempted to tell you this in hopes that it would mitigate your…frustration with me."

Here Sherlock forced a small smile. "High-functioning sociopath, remember," he tried to snark, but it felt hollow. "We can be quite…manipulative."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment; his voice sank to a near-whisper. "I've lied to you so much already, though, John – to your detriment more than to my advantage, I've come to understand – that I am loathe to do so now, even to be kind, or to gain your favor. The truth is…the truth is that I didn't think of you very often while I was away. That is – I did on occasion, but I actively tried not to do so. Your presence in my Mind Palace was beneficial from time to time. But it was also distracting, because it reminded me of what I was missing: loyalty. Trust. Camaraderie. I kept you safely locked in an inner room in my Mind Palace, and if it was dull for you there I could convince myself – reassure myself, in fact – that your life without me was also dull. Dull and safe. You would not be targeted by my enemies, at risk of simple, everyday dangers or ills, yet ready for me to return at any time. I hid from the knowledge that I missed your companionship exceedingly, and that I…I work better with you than without you."

Sherlock opened his eyes again, focused his attention on his friend's still form, and spoke more strongly.

"The point I'm trying to make, John, is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant and all-round obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I never expected to be anybody's friend, let alone someone's best friend…and certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing."

He paused again and took a deep breath before continuing.

"John, I am a ridiculous man ...redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. You saved me…in so many ways. And whether you wake up or not, you should know that…it has been my honor. My honor to know one man in my life who is…wholly good."

Sherlock paused. The pressure in his throat was growing, and his jaw felt it might crack from the tension in it. He tried but failed to keep the desperation out of his voice as he uttered his next words.

"You said I…I knew you, John. That you never had to hide with me…that you could breathe deeply.

"You're not the only one who felt that way. It was a relief to…" Sherlock faltered, closed his eyes. "It was a relief to have a friend who knew how 'fucked up' I am, and who was all right with that – who accepted me as I was, rudeness and heads in the fridge and all."

He paused again, but John never even twitched. Sherlock swallowed hard.

"It was I who was so alone John, and I who owe you – so, so much.

"I am a supremely selfish man, John. You know this, so it won't surprise you if I ask you to do just one more thing, for me. And you might as well know that I hope to take advantage of your own unselfish nature by asking it.

"So do me a favor and just...stop it. Stop…this." His voice broke a little over the last word. "You've nearly always done what I've asked of you, John, however ludicrous the request might be. Please…don't stop now. I'm not as strong as you are…don't, for God's sake, do to me what I did to you."

Steadying himself, he tried for a lighter tone, but was shocked when it came out rather watery instead. "Besides…you wouldn't want me to become bored, would you?"

Closing his eyes against the stinging sensation behind them, Sherlock again averted his face.

And then he felt it – a twitch of the hand beneath his own, and a movement on that side of the bed. Sherlock's breath caught. Pulse racing, he turned back to his friend almost fearfully, poised on the edge of hope.

"John?" his voice trembled as John's eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened. They took a moment to focus, then found Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock?" The voice was a bit faint and rather hoarse, but lucid.

The heart Sherlock so often denied having began to pound so hard he could feel it in his ears; he looked eagerly into John's eyes. They were tired and a bit befuddled, but they were wondrously, gloriously clear. The glazed, glassy look that had claimed them since John had been admitted to hospital was gone entirely, and the detective knew that John could actually see him – and could see where he was even if he didn't yet understand why he was there.

The detective released a slow shaky, breath. "Yes, John. I'm here." His voice was husky.

John's eyes were wide, solemn, and uncertain, like those of a child emerging from a nightmare. "Sherlock. I had…the most bloody awful dream. I dreamt that you died. That you…killed yourself."

Sherlock's stomach twisted as he waited for John to go on – to talk about his arrest and conviction.

But once again, John Watson surprised him. He simply stared at Sherlock with those strangely vulnerable, too-large grey-blue eyes, waiting for the other man to say something.

And then Sherlock understood, finally, that the worst part of the whole wretched business for John was not his own wrongful incarceration, but Sherlock's death. Eyes stinging, the detective leaned over and awkwardly straightened John's blankets. He tried to keep his voice steady – not an easy thing to do when one has to force it out past a large lump in one's throat.

"It was only a dream, John. I'm alive, and you're alive, and we're safe. Sleep now."

John looked at him searchingly for a moment, as though seeking reassurance, then obediently closed his eyes. Hardly a moment passed before his breathing became deep and even.

It took Sherlock a moment to remember what the horrid, familiar-but-long-unfelt prickling in his nose and behind his eyes meant, but once he identified it he barely managed to hold on until he was sure John was asleep.

Then, dropping his forehead to the mattress, he gave way to the first entirely honest tears he had shed since he had been a boy and his beloved dog had been put down.

He thought he was being quiet about it, but John appeared to hear him even in his drugged sleep – there was a slight whisper of the bedding as he shifted, a sleepy murmur of "s'all right…m'all right," and then weary fingers come to gentle rest in Sherlock's tangled curls. "We're gonna be all right."

It felt like a benediction.

Chapter Text

Outnumbered a million to one
All of the dicks in this dick town
Can't keep Johnny down
Men piled up in a towering mound
None of them once has found a way
To keep Johnny down.
–"Can't Keep Johnny Down" by They Might Be Giants

November 2014

Sherlock wasn't quite certain how much John remembered from his febrile state – it was something of which neither spoke in the days following John's return to lucidity.

When he had awakened fully for the first time after recovering his senses, the doctor had requested that Sherlock "take him through" the weeks of his incapacitation, and the detective had dutifully obliged, focusing solely on the medical aspects. The detailed litany did not include an account of the delirium or hallucinations, however; nor did the doctor ask about them. Perhaps, if John recalled anything at all of those fevered visions, he assumed they had been dreams. Perhaps he didn't remember them at all.

Sherlock might have believed the latter had it not been for one all-important, incontrovertible fact: that the rift that had existed between him and his dearest friend, that maddening, distressing rift the genius detective had been helpless to bridge, seemed to have dissipated entirely.

They tried to get him to go home – Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Mike – even John himself.

"Brother, how does your watching him sleep benefit John?"

"Love, there'll be nothing left of you if you don't have a proper meal!"

"Hate to tell you, mate, but you could definitely use a shower."

"Sherlock, don't you think you're having too much caffeine? You're awfully…well, jittery."

"Mate, when's the last time you had a full night's sleep in a proper bed? Those chairs in the visitors' lounge won't do your back any favors."

He had but one reply to them all: "I'm not going anywhere."

The level of nastiness he injected into his tone depended on the person to whom he was speaking.

A week after John regained consciousness, his doctor came in to tell him that he had been bedridden too long, and it was time to start moving him towards sitting up and standing.

Sherlock was aghast. John was still on a morphine pump and supplemental oxygen. "To what purpose?" he demanded.

"Pneumonia," John whispered, his throat still raw from the ventilator. He looked resigned, if not enthusiastic.

The doctor nodded. "The longer he's flat on his back, the greater the risk," she explained, her voice serious as she addressed Sherlock. She glanced back at John. "And, in the fragile state he's in already…"

John made a face at the word "fragile," but didn't comment.

"…well, it's best if we don't go there," the doctor finished apologetically.

The next day, Mrs. Hudson arrived after lunch for her daily visit. She took the seat closest to John while Sherlock hovered in a corner of the room, watching his friend's face as the doctor listened, smiling slightly, to their landlady as she prattled on cheerfully about this and that, catching John up on the doings of the neighbors and their favorite television shows. John sporadically drifted in and out of a light doze as she spoke, but she never seemed to mind, just holding his hand in her own.

Late in the afternoon, a nurse and two orderlies entered the room.

"Ready to sit up for a bit, Dr. Watson?" the nurse asked brightly as one of the orderlies lowered the rail on the side of the bed nearest the door.

John shifted slightly and turned his head toward Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm going to be busy for a bit while they put me through my paces," he said lightly. "Why don't you let Sherlock take you home? You can feed him up, and maybe make the manky git take a shower for me, while you're at it," he added with a slight grin.

Sherlock's mouth dropped open in indignation, but before he could retort, Mrs. Hudson stood up.

"He's right, dear; you could do with a good scrubbing," she told the detective reprovingly. "And you could definitely use a good meal!"

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled, stepping forward. "I'll come back tonight, though."

He made it sound almost like a warning, and John huffed out a laugh.

"And I'll be back tomorrow, love," Mrs. Hudson added, leaning over to kiss John's cheek. John smiled and squeezed her hand.

As Sherlock escorted Mrs. Hudson into the hall, he couldn't help frowning slightly in consternation when he heard John say grimly to the nurse, "All right, let's do this."

This became the pattern over the next three days: Mrs. Hudson would arrive with a "proper" lunch for John. Before dinner, members of John's medical team would arrive and John would send Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson out. They would return to Baker Street, where Sherlock would shower and change while Mrs. Hudson prepared dinner. Sherlock would force down a portion of whatever she was serving without tasting it, his mind elsewhere, and as soon as possible would return to Bart's where he would find John, newly bathed and looking grey-faced and exhausted, fast asleep. John, whose sleep patterns were off, would wake around nine or ten and be up for a chat or a bit of telly, but would not talk about what had taken place during the hours Sherlock was away.

On the second day, as Sherlock hailed a cab outside Bart's, he caught a glimpse of Lestrade hurrying into the hospital. The detective did not appear to have spotted him or Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock deduced that he did not know John was engaged in physical therapy at this time and would probably be sent out again.

When the same thing happened the next day, however, Sherlock became suspicious.

On the fourth day Sherlock settled Mrs. Hudson on a bench outside the hospital, telling her he'd be back directly. He hovered just out of sight in a doorway until Lestrade appeared and pounced on the other man before he could enter the hospital.

"Afternoon, Detective Inspector."

Greg jumped. "Jesus! Sherlock, you gave me a turn–"

Sherlock glared at him. "Come to visit John, Lestrade? You might want to try him later…at present he is about to be engaged with his physical therapy team."

Lestrade looked flustered. "Is he, then? Well…" he trailed off, shifting from one foot to the other, but made no move to leave.

Sherlock huffed. "Honestly, Inspector, it's fortunate for the undercover division that you chose not to go that route…you couldn't deceive anyone. John isn't much better…he implied that no one could be present during this hour, and yet here you are."

Lestrade sighed then, throwing up his hands. "Fine. I come to support John through his sessions."

Sherlock was outraged. "Why you?" he demanded rudely.

Lestrade refused to take offense. "He's worried about you, Sherlock. You never leave the hospital. Besides," he added, hesitantly, "I don't think he wants you to see him like that…he thinks you've been through too much already."

There was a long silence. Then Sherlock said abruptly, "Mrs. Hudson is seated just outside. Kindly escort her back to Baker Street."

And before Greg could respond, he pushed past the inspector and strode back into the hospital.

He faltered only slightly when he thought he heard Lestrade say, "You're a good man, Sherlock," but he didn't look back.

Moments later, Sherlock burst into John's room just as an orderly was raising the head of the hospital bed.

"Greg," John exclaimed before he looked up. "I was wondering when–"

He broke off in confusion when he saw Sherlock.

"I'm your best friend," Sherlock said suddenly. He flushed at how childish it sounded, but glared at John almost defiantly.

John looked astonished. "Sherlock–"

"You said so, John," Sherlock insisted. "You said I'm your best friend."

The nurse and orderlies watched in confusion as the two men stared at one another. Then John's expression softened suddenly.

"All right," he said gently. "All right."

He took a deep breath and turned to his nurse. "This is my best mate, Sherlock Holmes. He'll be helping me out today."

The nurse blinked, then recovered. "All right, Mr. Holmes," she said briskly. "You can be the one to support John while we get him on his feet…we're going to have him take a few steps this afternoon, if he's up to it."

Pale but determined, Sherlock stepped forward.

One would think, Sherlock mused afterwards, tha one would become accustomed to seeing a friend in pain. But he didn't – it was still just as difficult as it had been from the moment he'd realized John had been hit at the Mill.

Sherlock caught himself – not true. Those weeks when John had been hovering between life and death and Sherlock had been helpless were definitely worse. Now, John was on the mend, suffering, yes, but suffering towards a purpose – recovery – and Sherlock was glad, even honored, to be permitted to support his friend as they worked towards that purpose, together.

"…the hell?!"

John's voice, bewildered and heavy with sleep, froze Sherlock in the act of sliding into the fresh shirt Mrs. Hudson had brought him from home. Worried John was having a nightmare, Sherlock turned quickly to face the bed.

Since he'd been moved to the general ward three days earlier, John had been allowed to trade in the hospital gown for his own pajamas. Now free of all but one of the IV lines and dressed in the long-sleeved t-shirt and plaid flannel trousers he preferred to wear to bed, he looked much more comfortable.

He still looked far from well, however. Sherlock noted anxiously his friend's pallor, the gauntness of his formerly roundish face, and the dusky shadows below his hollowed eyes. He observed the way John, awake and propped up slightly on his left elbow, held a pillow tight against his abdomen with his right arm to splint the slowly healing incision. His anxious blue eyes, widened slightly with shock, were fixed on Sherlock, but there were small pain-lines around his mouth.

"John. Are you– do you need the doctor? I can call–"

"Turn back around," John interrupted sharply.

Sherlock blinked. "What–?"

"Turn. Around." His voice was low and gruff, and his breathing a bit labored.

Frowning, Sherlock did as he was told. Behind him, he heard John hiss in a breath – and then he understood. Sherlock's arms were in the sleeves of his shirt, but he had not yet pulled it all the way on; his upper back and shoulders exposed. Pressing his lips together he paused to let John get a good look; when the doctor said nothing, Sherlock hiked the shirt up and turned to face him again, buttoning the front as he moved toward his friend's side.

Seating himself in the chair on John's left, Sherlock took up the control and pressed a button to raise the head of the bed. "Lean back," he commanded.

Keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock's face, John did as he was told, carefully lowering himself down to the mattress as it rose to support his head and shifting the pillow he held over his stomach. His eyes searched Sherlock's.

"Those scars. They looked…deliberate."

Sherlock steepled his fingers before his face, elbows resting on his knees. "Well, you would know."

"You didn't have them before…before. They're newer…maybe a year?"

"A little more than that," Sherlock agreed.

There was a long pause during which John did not look away once. "Tell me," he said finally.

And so Sherlock did – all about Baron Maupertuis and the Serbian side of Moriarty's network. He saw John's eyes widen slightly in surprise as he started to speak – probably at the readiness with which Sherlock spoke, promptly and with patience, so different from former days when, to the detective, an adventure finished was an adventure too dull to bother recalling.

John might also have been surprised at the simplicity with which Sherlock told his tale, with none of the usual flourishes or preening at his own cleverness. In truth, Sherlock knew he would never be able to speak of that time with pleasure or pride. He didn't like speaking of it now, or even thinking of it, for to do so was to remember that, while he had been routing out factions of Moriarty's far-reaching web in Florence, Tibet, New Delhi, Tehran, Hamburg, Amsterdam, and Brussels, John had been languishing in a prison, grieving, abused, alone and reviled.

John listened without interrupting until Sherlock had reached the point in his narrative that included his interrogation in the Serbian prison, then a look of such pain crossed his features that Sherlock faltered. "John?"

John closed his eyes and shook his head slightly. "I should have been there with you."

The very thought of it made Sherlock's stomach roil, though the beating he had received did not compare with what Harris had done to his friend. "If you had, you would have been served the same way – or worse, used to pressure me into speaking."

John opened his eyes and glared at him. "You shouldn't have been alone in all that."

"I wasn't alone," Sherlock confessed. "Mycroft was there, undercover as a Serbian soldier, during my interrogation. Once I had managed to divert my questioner's attention with a few paltry deductions about his wife's extracurricular activities, he revealed himself and arranged for our extraction."

John's expression turned murderous. "You mean he just stood by and watched you being tortured without doing anything?" he demanded, breathing hard through his nose.

"Not quite," Sherlock said sourly. "He actually sat by – with his feet up, no less."

He paused when he noticed John had begun reflexively clenching and unclenching his fists. Tensing up was not good for him in his present condition, and Sherlock hastened to reassure him.

"As much as it pains me to admit it, it was the most logical course of action," he admitted grudgingly. "Had he attempted to intervene earlier he would have given himself away, and then we both would have been up to our necks in it."

John was not mollified. "I could never have stood by and watched that."

Sherlock smiled at him then – a fond, sad smile. "No. You could not have. You would have thrown yourself at my interrogator with all the righteous anger you possess while I was still chained and unable to assist you. You might have killed him, but the noise would, no doubt, have brought another dozen soldiers down on top of us."

He had not meant it unkindly, and the look of deep hurt in John's face appalled him. "John – I didn't mean…"

John, closing his eyes again, shook his head slightly, and Sherlock trailed off, recognizing his friend's need to pull himself together.

After a moment, John looked up at the ceiling. In a low, weary voice, he said, "I would have thought I was as trustworthy as your brother."

The words, the tone, the way he wouldn't look at Sherlock, and the utter disappointment in John's face and voice stung the detective so deeply that his eyes misted. "Of course you are, John!" he cried softly.

Blinking hard, he looked down to where his hands were clenched into tight fists on his knees. The sting of his fingernails biting into his palms helped him to hold himself together. He huffed out a long, deep sigh and forced himself to look at his friend. "But you…have a kinder heart."*

Slowly, John turned his head to meet Sherlock's eyes. He watched him, face solemn, still, and waiting.

Sherlock swallowed. He felt the color rise in his face, but kept his eyes fixed determinedly on John's.

"I do trust you," he said plainly. "More than Mycroft. More than anyone. I would, and I do, trust you with my very life – completely and unequivocally."

Biting his lip, Sherlock looked down again, shoulders hunched. He took a deep breath before jerking his chin up and looking intently at John with hard, desperate eyes. "With my life, yes – but not with yours."

John blinked. A muscle twitched in his cheek, but other than that his expression did not change, nor did he take his eyes from Sherlock's.

"I told you once that I didn't have friends," Sherlock went on doggedly. "It was true – until you, I never had friends." He hesitated. "Well, there was Mrs. Hudson and, I suppose to a certain extent, Lestrade – but I had no peer, and certainly no best friend, as you so childishly and quaintly put it in your often painfully simplistic way."

John huffed a short laugh at that, and Sherlock paused, catching his humor and smiling slightly in his turn. Then, thinking over his last words, he sobered again.

"I am not…kind, John, as you once observed," Sherlock said slowly, remembering the time he had bluntly informed Molly that her new "boyfriend" was actually gay. "Nor am I gentle. Besides the fact that I am rude, outspoken and selfish, my…my regard–"

He stopped abruptly. "Regard" wasn't the really right word, though, was it? Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration. The realm of sentiment was a foreign one to him. But John – patient, loyal, John – simply waited, not hurrying him. That helped Sherlock to gather his thoughts.

"My…affection…is harsh. Rough. Brutal, even. I have been without friends because there are few whom I find worthy of bestowing my affection on – and there are fewer still who are able to bear it.

"I don't know how to be someone's 'best friend,' John, or even how to receive someone's friendship. I wanted to protect you, and so I excised myself from your life without anesthetic, never realizing the effect it would have on you because I had never lost anyone whom I considered to be…essential."

Pausing again, Sherlock closed his eyes, thinking with pain and longing of Redbeard. But he would not insult John with such a comparison. "You and I have been in tight places together before," he went on in a near-whisper. "But I have never felt so…helpless…as I have since I turned to face you in the Mill and found you with a poisoned bolt lodged in your stomach – a bolt that had been meant for me."

He opened his eyes and looked solemnly at John, his jaw quivering. "This was something I could not think my way out of, John. You were in mortal danger – a hair away from death – and there was nothing I could do to tip the balance. Only then did I get a glimpse into what you must have felt the day I…fell."

Sherlock drew in a breath and bowed his head. He heard John shift a bit in the bed.

"Sherlock–"

"I can't trust anyone, anyone with your life but myself, John," Sherlock went on in a rush, staring at the black-and-white tiled floor between his shoes. "Not even you. And now it transpires I can't even trust myself, for look what happened to you while I was gone!"

"Sherlock–"

Sherlock abruptly brought his fists down forcefully onto his thighs. "I could have murdered Mycroft when he told me you had spent the entire time I was away in prison. I wanted to kill him. The most important thing to me, and he couldn't even – and yet, it wasn't as though I trusted him with your life, either. No, I miscalculated. In my arrogance, I believed that Moriarty barely took note of you, apart from using you along with Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to try to force me to take my own life. It never occurred to me that he would implicate you along with me when he undertook to destroy my name – stupid, stupid! He was brilliant and he was mad, and in the end he understood better than I that one thing – sentiment. Lacking a heart himself, he yet recognized what I did not – that I do indeed have one, however much I might wish to deny it. And he burnt it out of me after all, or nearly–

"Sherlock. Look at me, please."

Sherlock stubbornly kept his burning eyes on the floor, breathing hard.

"Please," John repeated.

He could not ignore that plea. Slowly, Sherlock raised his head. John's dark blue eyes were soft.

"Sherlock. You did tip the balance," he said gently.

Sherlock frowned in confusion.

"I knew you were there, you git," John said fondly. "When I was…out of it. I know I was – that my thinking was all wrong, but on some level I always knew you were there."

Sherlock paused. "Yes," he said finally. "I was there. Nearly the whole time, in fact."

John smiled a little. "I should hope so."

Sherlock did not smile back. "And when you were…in a coma…I made a ridiculous little speech. I actually spoke to you, ludicrous as that may seem."

John's expression turned serious again. "I know. I was there."

"I asked you to do one more thing for me," Sherlock continued. "I asked you...not to die."

John reached out, then, and laid his hand over Sherlock's wrist. "I heard you."

Unable to meet his friend's gaze, Sherlock focused instead on the hand resting on top of his. The bandages were gone now, but the cuts left behind when John had tried to break free of the restraints Moran had put him in were still healing.

"It's a dangerous thing to be my friend, John."

"Sometimes," John acknowledged. "But as you always say, I'm addicted to danger. And even if I weren't…somewhere along the way, Sherlock, we've become soldered together, permanently. Greg tried to tell me that, but I was still angry and didn't want to hear it. Deep down, though, I knew I didn't want to undo it."

Sherlock looked up then. "Are you still angry?" he asked almost timidly.

Taking a deep breath, John kept his eyes on Sherlock's.

"When I woke up, after he – Moran, I mean – drugged me, for one moment…well, I thought it was all a dream – that you hadn't really come back, and I hadn't really had my name cleared. And I realized that – well, as awful as it was to have my best friend lie to me like that, it was even worse having him be dead."

Sherlock swallowed hard.

John looked at him solemnly. "That doesn't mean that I'm not still basically pissed off with you. That will come out sometimes–"

Sherlock nodded. It was no less than he deserved, after all.

"But," John finished, "you're not dead, after all…and that's a gift I refuse to take for granted anymore." He managed a small smile.

"Nor will I," Sherlock replied, his throat thick. "Moran made the mistake of thinking your friendship meant nothing to me."

"I made that mistake, too. I'm sorry," John said quietly.

"No…I am the one who owes you a thousand apologies, my dear John, for not giving you reason to believe in my friendship. I will not make that mistake again. And, as I am apparently your best friend, while I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion, neither will I make the mistake of doubting your choice again – however misguided it may be."

Sherlock could almost track John's slow but steady return to health from day to day. His friend's color improved as did his appetite, and he began to look less gaunt. He stayed awake for longer periods, talked and laughed more, and his daily rambles round the hallways slowly became stronger and less shuffling, and he leaned less heavily against Sherlock as they made their rounds.

To John's great joy (he was becoming almost as bored as Sherlock), his doctor began to talk of his release. Mrs. Hudson expressed her hope that he would be home in time for Christmas, and gladly volunteered to undergo pre-discharge teaching from the nursing staff.

To everyone's astonishment (including his own) Sherlock volunteered to do it with her.

One evening, Sherlock broached the subject of John's moving back into 221b with him.

John looked up in surprise. He had been reading a book when Sherlock suddenly closed his laptop, straightened in his chair, and made the observation that it would be more cost-effective for John to vacate 221c and return to his old quarters upstairs.

For a long moment, John just studied Sherlock. Then he said, gently, "I've become rather attached to my little flat, Sherlock…I've put a lot of myself into it, you know."

Sherlock worked hard to keep the hurt off his features, but he could not prevent a lump from rising in his throat.

"Besides," John continued, looking down at this book, in which he was using his thumb as a bookmark, "I think it's a good thing for Mrs. Hudson to have the extra rent money – I mean, yeah, maybe someone else would take it on now I've improved it, but I'm not sure they'd stay long with you and me living in the place – or that we'd want them to!"

He laughed a little, but Sherlock merely nodded and opened his laptop again. He stared at the screen without really seeing it.

Several long moments went by. Then John said, tentatively, "I was thinking, though…fond as I am of my chair, it doesn't really blend well with my couch."

Sherlock looked up. John was looking at him seriously.

"So I was wondering – if it's all the same to you, that is – if we couldn't move it back up to your sitting room?"

He smiled then and added, "Providing it won't block your view of the kitchen, that is."

And then Sherlock understood what John was really saying, and his heart warmed.

"I think I could manage to make room for it." He tried to sound loftily magnanimous about it, but found he couldn't keep from smiling.

John grinned.

Chapter Text

"In every life, no matter how full or empty one's purse, there is tragedy: it is the one promise life always fulfills. Thus, happiness is a gift, and the trick is not to expect it, but to delight in it when it comes – and to add to other people's store of it.

"What did these people do when their families shrank? They cried their tears. But then they did the vital thing: they built a new family, person by person. They came to see that family need not be defined merely as those with whom they share blood, but as those for whom they would give their blood."
–The wedding toast from Nicholas Nickleby, 2002

December 2014

On the day before John was to be discharged from hospital, Mycroft arrived personally to extend the offer of a car to fetch him home. Said offer was made by the elder Holmes with an uncharacteristic, almost shy hesitancy, as though in anticipation of a rebuff. Indeed, Sherlock had immediately opened his mouth to refuse with an acid retort, but John – to the shock of both brothers – cut him off with a pleasant, "Yes, thank you, that would be lovely."

For once, the Holmes brothers (and Mrs. Hudson, who was present at the time) were speechless, but John did not elaborate on his reasons for accepting the offer, which had a great deal to do with the discussions with his therapist on the healing power of forgiveness in addition to his own experiences with the phenomenon from his personal perspective as a seasoned medical professional.

Sherlock recovered his voice first. "John, you can't be serious–"

"Sherlock," John interrupted him smoothly, "I wonder if you and Mrs. H. could give me and Mycroft a minute."

Mycroft raised his brows. Mrs. Hudson's eyes went wide. Sherlock, for once, looked gob-smacked. John merely waited.

Finally, Mrs. Hudson bestirred herself. "Come on, Sherlock," she said, rising to her feet and taking the detective's arm. I could fancy a cuppa. And so could you, I dare say."

She tugged him towards the door. Sherlock, looking stunned, intensely inquisitive and warily possessive all at once, narrowed his eyes first at his best friend and then at his brother before allowing her to lead him away.

John waited until the sound of their footsteps receded along the ward before he turned to Mycroft, lips quirked in a small smile. "I'm surprised he went without argument."

Mycroft looked faintly surprised himself. "I imagine you rather caught him unawares."

John nodded toward the chair Mrs. Hudson had just vacated. "Have a seat, Mycroft."

The civil servant looked with distaste at the plastic seat, but settled into it without comment, crossing one leg over the other and resting both hands atop the handle of his ubiquitous umbrella.

For a moment, the two men regarded one another in silence. Then John cleared his throat.

"I understand thanks are in order."

Mycroft again raised his eyebrows, this time in question. Without taking his eyes from Mycroft, John responded by lightly tapping the inside of his left elbow with the first two fingers of his right hand.

"Ah. Indeed." Mycroft cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Well. Since the notion that a universal blood donor type exists has been recently refuted, in life-threatening situations where the blood type of the recipient remains in short supply, a donor with type O negative blood cells such as myself may, in a pinch, be called upon to–"

"Yeah, Mycroft, I'm aware," John cut in, smiling slightly at the other man's discomfiture; it was amusing to see that being caught off-guard could send him into "deduction mode" like it could his brother. "Doctor, remember?"

"Yes. Well." Mycroft cleared his throat again. "Does Sherlock know?"

John snorted. "Are you serious? He'd be appalled!"

"And you're not?"

"Doctor, Mycroft, remember? Scientist that he is, Sherlock wouldn't be able to resist needling me with observations that I'm likely to suffer sudden and intense urges to randomly start swilling down knickerbocker glories or taking over small nations, but blood is blood and has nothing to do with the character of the person in whose veins it runs. Providing it was 'clean' I'd accept Moriarty's blood for me or a patient if necessary."

As soon as those last words were out of his mouth John flinched – that hadn't come out quite as he'd intended. But Mycroft understood (or, at least, seemed to be thinking of other things).

"I don't know," the elder Holmes said drily. "Sherlock might actually be pleased to think that you and he share blood – finally, a brother he could be chuffed about having."

John smiled gently. "It's not blood that makes Sherlock and me brothers."

He expected Mycroft to grimace at such a blatant expression of sentiment, but was surprised when the government official merely said, "No, I suppose not," with a rather wistful expression.

A sudden flash of insight overcame John in that moment, and he suddenly realized that, for all he might be able to function in society with greater ease than his little brother, Mycroft was actually the more emotionally backward of the two. Sherlock, John had come to understand, had dealt with his loneliness by making himself as disagreeable as possible, striking out before others could strike him. Mycroft merely isolated himself from humanity at large, disdaining to involve himself with the messy matters of the heart.

John pitied the lofty genius, suddenly and deeply, and for a moment he wondered what Mycroft would think if he knew that John's true motivation for accepting his subtle, humbly offered overtures was more for Sherlock's sake than Mycroft's or even John's own. For John knew that, if he didn't forgive Mycroft, neither would Sherlock, and while Mycroft might not think so, John understood better than either of them that Sherlock needed his big brother. And from the loneliness the doctor now glimpsed in the Ice Man, he guessed that Mycroft needed Sherlock, too.

As though sensing they were nearing the deep and treacherous waters of sentiment, Mycroft smoothly changed the subject.

"You are aware that Sherlock knows about your 'compensation' from the British government?"

Now it was John's turn to look disconcerted. "He…he does?" His brows furrowed. "Did you tell him?"

"I assure you I did not," Mycroft replied calmly. "I meant it when I told you that I would not discuss the matter with him. Sherlock must have uncovered the information on his own."

John sighed inwardly, imagining the bloody wanker going through his things. "He didn't tell you how he found out, then?"

"No. He did, however, display some anxiety that you might avail yourself of the opportunity to leave London."

Letting out a slow breath, John leaned back against the pillows. "He needn't. Whatever I decide to do next, Mycroft, my plans won't include me moving out of Baker Street. It's my home." The only home I've ever had, I sometimes think.

"Permanently?" Mycroft's expression was neutral, but John thought he could detect a note of brotherly concern behind the mask. "You may wish to marry one day, John…start a family of your own."

John huffed out a short laugh at that. "Harry notwithstanding, I've come to realize only recently that I finally do have family. Any woman I marry would have to accept that I'm a package deal, I think."