Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sherlock opened the door to the police car and leapt out before it had even come to a complete halt. He sprinted up the steps to the aquarium two at a time and yanked helplessly on the double doors.

Locked. Of course.

A second later, Lestrade jogged up behind him after leaving the car parked out front. Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the glass doors, tugging desperately at his hair until he was close to ripping it out of his scalp. On a normal day, a locked door would be a minor inconvenience to him at the most. But this was not a normal day. His mind was short-circuiting every few seconds. His brain was fogged with emotions he barely understood. There was only one thought consuming his mind, and he couldn’t push it out for even one second to form a decent plan.

“Sherlock, stop it,” Lestrade said, coaxing his hands away from his hair. “We’ll find another entrance.”

“You’re a detective, loosely speaking. Figure out how she broke in!” he spat.

Lestrade looked around for a moment and then started jogging around the corner of the building. Sherlock followed behind. Soon enough, they came to a ground floor window where the glass panel had been removed. Sherlock pushed past Lestrade and ran ahead, reaching the opening and ducking to step in.

The dark aquarium echoed with ominous emptiness. Glass tanks filled with various species of colorful fish lined the walls. After straightening back up, Sherlock found himself at a fork in the hallway. He had to choose between one of four different directions. Two led further into the oceanic exhibit. One exited it. And the last one led to a theater.

“Which one is it?” Lestrade asked, after he’d caught up and climbed in behind him.

“Sharks. The painting had a shark in it.”

“This way.”

They sprinted down the darkened hallway furthest to the left, which was lit only by the reflective glass tanks and the daylight filtering in through the ceiling windows. With each step that brought them closer to the shark exhibit, Sherlock felt more and more like throwing up.  It was as though an invisible weight was attached to his ankles, dragging him backwards, slowing him down to ensure that he didn’t make it in time. His heart had risen into his throat and his lungs had decided they were incapable of holding an adequate amount of oxygen.

At last, they turned a corner and found themselves surrounded by massive glass tanks that stretched from floor to ceiling. Various shark species prowled the tanks around them, completely unaware of the events unfolding right in before their dark, beady eyes.

Lying belly-down on the floor, surrounded by a patch of dark, blood-stained carpet, was –

“John,” Sherlock croaked, frightening himself with the sound of his voice.

He skidded to a halt and crouched down beside him. Rolling his limp body over onto his back, he discovered not the tan, beaming face of his one and only conductor of light, but pale, bloodless skin, and white, chapped lips. His dulled eyes were partially rolled into the back of his head, and his eyelids had drooped half-closed.

“Oh my god,” Sherlock breathed in disbelief. “No . . . No, no, no, no, no.” His shaking hands hovered over his chest, where a massive, dark red circle was seeping through his clothes.

Beside him, Lestrade picked up the phone lying at his fingertips. “He’s already called an ambulance. It should be here any second.”

Sherlock lifted John’s head onto his lap and lightly patted his cheek. “Can you hear me? John?” He lowered his ear to the tip of his mouth. Panic and relief flooded through him simultaneously at the very faint breath he felt there. He pressed two fingers into his neck, feeling his own body go numb when he found nothing there. Digging in a little harder, he picked up the slightest patter of a weak pulse.

He removed his hands from John’s cheek and neck to tear his cardigan open. The moment his hands left him, his head rolled limply to the side in his lap.

“ Help me! ” he bellowed at Lestrade, who was standing horror stricken at the sight of the drained, nearly lifeless body in front of him. Sherlock’s vision went blurry when a sudden, unexpected burst of wetness pooled in his eyes. He blinked it away, wiping the side of his face into his shoulder.

Lestrade crouched down beside him, ready to assist.

“K-Keep pressure on the wound,” Sherlock said shakily, placing a hand over the scarlet circle on his chest.  Just like John had taught him. John. His amazing, wonderful companion. His blogger, his boswell, his best friend, his everything.

His hand was shaking atop John’s chest until Lestrade placed his hand over it, leaning all his weight onto it to prevent further blood loss. With his other hand, Sherlock cupped John’s jaw and turned his face back towards him.

“John? I’ve got you. It’s okay,” he rambled desperately, more to convince himself than anything else. “This isn’t how you go. I won’t have it. You hear me?”

His vision once again went hazy, but he didn’t fail to notice small droplets of water falling onto his lap. He wiped his face onto his shoulder again. Leaning down, he pressed his forehead onto John’s, feeling nauseous at the coldness of his skin, and whispered nonsensical nothings into the small space between them.

“For god’s sake, please be alright.  Please . . . This isn’t how you go. You’re too stubborn to go like this.”

“Sherlock, I think the paramedics are here.”

Sherlock lifted the limp torso into his arms and rocked back and forth in desperation. When John’s head lolled back from lack of support, he tucked his nose into the base of his neck, focusing on the faint, beating pulse that remained there, slowing down ever so slightly.  

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. It’s okay . . . Please be okay,” he whispered, doing nothing to stop the next droplets of water from rolling down his face. “You can’t do this to me. I love you too much to lose you like this.”

He vaguely registered the sound of footsteps that seemed to be closing in on him from all directions.

“Sherlock,” came Lestrade’s voice, seemingly from an entirely different world. A hand was placed on his shoulder.

“Sir, we need you do step back please,” came an unfamiliar voice. He buried his face into John’s shoulder and wrapped his arms tighter around his torso.

“Sir.” Two more hands were placed on him. He didn’t want them. He didn’t want anyone touching him.

“No,” he mumbled when they pulled on him. “No. NO!” Two pairs of arms latched onto him and forcefully peeled him away from John. He struggled weakly, but Lestrade quickly wrapped around him from behind, holding him still.

The paramedics unfolded a stretcher and rolled it towards John. His knees went weak at the sight of his nearly lifeless body being lifted manually onto it like he weighed nothing. Were it not for Lestrade holding him up, he likely would have collapsed.

“Let’s go,” came his soothing voice when they began to roll John away. With an arm around him for support, Lestrade guided him back outside, following the stretcher.

Once outside, a ramp was lowered from the ambulance, and John was rolled up onto it. Sherlock felt bile rising again in his throat at the sight of one of his limp arms dangling loosely over the edge of the stretcher. Behind him, Lestrade’s comforting hands squeezed his shoulders.

“He’ll be alright,” he said to him. Normally, Sherlock would scoff at the making of false promises just for the purpose of consoling someone. He verbally tore his clients to shreds for doing it all the time. What was the point of promising something that was completely out of their control anyway? To safeguard their feelings? To protect them? How stupid.

But now. Now , he understood. When it was his John in the stretcher, there was only one thing he needed to hear. He couldn’t bring himself to reply to Lestrade, so he graced him with a slight nod of acknowledgment.

A paramedic jumped down from the ramp and approached them. “Are either of you immediate relatives?” he asked.

“Partner,” Sherlock said. The man nodded his head and gestured towards the ambulance.

“I’ll follow behind in the car,” Lestrade said. With one final comforting pat, he turned to jog back to the front of the aquarium where he’d left his police car. Sherlock followed the paramedic back up the ramp.

Inside, various kits were being opened, screens were beeping, and hoards of medical terminology were being thrown around by the two paramedics hovering over the stretcher.

“John and I are both A+,” Sherlock said quickly, as they began unbuttoning John’s shirt.

“We have plenty at the hospital. Please just have a seat, sir.”

He lowered himself onto one of the side benches inside the vehicle. He noticed John’s arm was still hanging over the edge of the stretcher. He hesitantly reached out to hold his hand, but the man who had allowed him inside stepped forward to assist his colleagues, and in doing so, blocked his path. Sherlock returned his own hand to his lap and sat quietly, feeling utterly and completely helpless.

As he watched an oxygen mask being placed unceremoniously over John’s mouth, only one coherent thought formed in his mind;  If John Watson dies, Mary Morstan will find no mercy from him whatsoever.

Chapter Text

Of all the places Mary had expected Jim to bring her after the aquarium, she never would have guessed Cardiff. Admittedly though, the cottage was quite cute. It was the perfect place to lay low for a bit, gather their resources, and keep everyone safe. It was spacious and isolated enough for both of their comfort . . . this could work out very nicely, she thought.

That was, until she realized Jim expected her to live there with two of his other hitmen, Matthew and Andy. Having grown up in an orphanage, it would have been easy enough for her to get along with the other two, were it not for the fact that Matthew was perhaps the most obnoxious, moronic person she had ever known Jim to hire.

She and him had already been acquainted with each other many years ago. Both of them had been assigned to be snipers at the pool all those years ago, when Jim had met up with John and Sherlock.  Even back then she and Matthew had barely tolerated each other. She had no idea why Jim even bothered to keep him around (besides the fact that he was admittedly excellent at his job). She couldn’t ask him, unfortunately, seeing as all three of them were under very specific orders from Jim not to question anyone else about their missions.

Now Andy, on the other hand, was easy enough to get along with. He was a young, quiet-natured guy approaching 30. He did his work neatly and quietly, and often retreated back into himself as soon as he returned home. Mary knew very little about him compared to Matthew, but that was exactly the way she preferred it. She only had to tolerate working with these people on occasion, not befriend them.

Mary wrapped the ties of her robe around her protruding belly, and walked, (well, nearly waddled) to the kitchen of their shared cottage. She selected a tea bag and filled her kettle with water. As it heated up, she leaned back and pressed a hand into her lower back. She had felt a throbbing ache at the base of her spine since she had woken up that morning. This, of course, was in addition to the dull soreness she’d been feeling in her belly for awhile. God, she couldn’t wait to have this baby out of her.

Looking around the kitchen, a filthy pot that was left out on the stove caught her eye. Beside it was spilled box of oats, and splotches of dried milk. She looked over to the couch in annoyance, where Matthew was lying with his computer on his belly, and one leg kicked over the top.

“Would it absolutely kill you to pick up after yourself?” she said.

In response, he crushed his empty can of soda with his hand and tossed it onto the floor.

“Oh, for god’s sake. We are living in a pig’s sty because of you.”

“If it bothers you so much, come pick it up yourself,” he said without looking up from his screen.

She glared at him, knowing that he knew fully well that she could not bend down and pick it up if she wanted to. She looked over to Andy, who was sitting in the window sill, also buried in his computer. Although he was wearing headphones, she knew he was alert and aware of everything going on around him. He always was. She shot him a pointed glare as well. Sometimes his self-isolating tendencies were just as irritating as they were appreciated. It wouldn’t kill him to step in and help her deal with Matthew every once in a while.

Behind her, the water in her kettle started to bubble. She turned back to the counter to get out her cream and sugar. As soon as she reached up to the cabinet above her, she felt a heavy pressure in her lower abdomen. The pain in her back began throbbing relentlessly. The baby felt much heavier inside her all of a sudden . . . much too heavy. . .  She placed a hand over her belly in shock, shaking her head in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening now. She was only eight months pregnant. Her eyes widened as the pain in her back slowly migrated around to her front, and soon she felt an intense tightening in her abdomen. Her other hand flew to her belly as her first real contraction hit.

*****

The blinding, white, fluorescent light burned John’s retinas even from behind his closed eyelids. Ever so slowly, his nerves reawakened, and he regained feeling in his fingers and toes. Then his arms, his legs . . . As his consciousness slowly drifted back to the surface, he took note of his surroundings.

He was in the hospital, of course. The intense whiteness burning into his eyelids made that obvious enough. That also explained why he felt no clothes on his body except the paper thin material of a hospital gown. Underneath, he could feel tight bindings around his torso. Bindings for his . . . Of course. His bullet wound - which he received from . . . right.

Mary. The aquarium. Sherlock.

Sherlock? He had found him, then. Of course he had . He knew he would.

He felt an IV drip in his left hand, which was resting on his lower stomach. His other arm was at his side, being gently stroked by long, warm fingers.

Keeping his eyes closed, he sighed and rolled his head to the side, facing where he knew Sherlock must be sitting.

“Hey,” he whispered. The fingers continued idly stroking the back of his hand.

“Hey,” he heard in return. He felt Sherlock brush his fringe off of his damp, sticky forehead. When long fingers gentry trailed down his face a moment after, John caught his hand and held it in place over his chest.

When he did so, Sherlock could feel John’s heartbeat thrumming softly under the gown. He looked at the man lying before him, feeling a tightening in his chest. The man who normally walked with the confidence of ten men despite his size, now looked incredibly small and frail, lying in the white hospital sheets with an IV in his hand and the soft beep of the heart monitor behind him. His skin had regained some of its color since he had first discovered him at the aquarium, but still remained sickeningly pale. His eyes remained closed, as though opening them would drain him of too much of the energy he’d regained since he’d been operated on.

Sherlock spread his hand atop his chest and basked in the comfort of feeling the small, steady thumps from inside him.

“You okay?” came John’s voice, spoken so softly he could have imagined it. He once again gaped at the man in front of him in complete astonishment.

“Am I okay? John, did the bags of blood they put in you somehow fail to reach your head?”

John’s thin lips stretched into smile at that – an incredibly strained and oh, so tired smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

With the hand that was still stroking John’s right hand, he gave his fingers a light squeeze. “I’m as okay as I can possibly be, given that several hours ago, I thought that I had lost you for good.”

John grinned again. “I love you too much to leave you for good,” he mumbled tiredly.

Sherlock felt his heart constrict and moisture welling up in his eyes - something that had happened far too many times in the last several hours. He had forgotten all about the nonsense he’d sputtered over John’s limp, dying body back in the aquarium. But John had heard. And he’d remembered.

Sherlock wished desperately that he would just open his eyes. Ever since he had been allowed into his room, he’d longed for the moment when those long, blonde lashes would flutter open, and he’d be blessed with the sight of the deep, ocean blue irises he’d fallen in love with. But, this was alright too, he told himself. As long as John’s heart was beating, he was satisfied.

He stroked his thumb once over John’s chest, where his hand still remained, feeling every steady thump that resonated from within him. It was then that he realized John was still holding onto his wrist. And not just because he wanted to be in contact with part of him; he was taking his pulse, taking comfort in the softly beating proof that he was alive, just as he himself was doing.

Sherlock’s throat tightened once again. He lifted off his chair to press a kiss to John’s sweaty hairline, and then another one over a closed eyelid. Beneath his hand, he watched John’s chest rising and falling steadily as he drifted back into a deep slumber.

*****

A few days later, John was discharged from the hospital. Sherlock supported him with a steady hand on his back as he guided him into the cab waiting outside for them.

“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock said as soon as they climbed in. Collected in his lap were all the gifts John’s visitors had brought him during his stay: a plate of cookies from Mrs. Hudson, flowers from Molly and Greg, and a card from Mike Stamford. During the ride, John wove his fingers into Sherlock’s and leaned his head against the cool window in exhaustion. He knew he had been lying in a bed for the past few days, but there was nothing he wanted more at the moment than to take a proper nap . . . in a proper bed, in his proper home, which was now 221B Baker Street, as it always should have been.

When the cabbie pulled up, Sherlock helped him out and walked with him up the steps to their flat. When the door opened, nearly all the tension and stress that had been contained in John’s body seeped out of him. He inhaled the familiar smell of old wood and paper, chemicals, and something he couldn’t quite identify, but made it his home. Stepping inside, the first thing he noticed was two large suitcases and an overstuffed duffel bag in the middle of the living room floor.

“Sherlock, you . . .”

“Well, I figured you’d want to come straight here instead of returning to your old flat to pack your things first. Now you never have to go back there again.”

“So this is what you did when I forced you to go home to change your clothes and have a proper shower?”

“Mostly, yes.”

John grinned and turned to gently pull Sherlock forward by his shirt.

“C’mere.”

He pecked a soft kiss onto his waiting lips. “Thank you,” he whispered.

When he pulled back, Sherlock smiled in that way that beautifully crinkled the skin around his eyes. He took his hand, and together, they walked into their shared flat. Flatmates, one again. But this time, also partners, in every sense of the word. The two of them against the rest of the world, just like it always had been and always would be.

Chapter Text

For the next several weeks, Sherlock only took cases if they were a nine or above. And even then, he only accepted them if he thought it could be solved within the day and no dangerous criminals were involved.

Of course, John wouldn’t have minded if he went out more, but Sherlock had made it clear that his top priority was to be there for him while he healed. That meant turning down case after case, and staying boxed in day after day.

John felt bad for all he was making Sherlock miss out on, but was also pleasantly surprised at how well he had taken on the role of a caretaker. Sherlock had his tea ready every morning, bought the milk the first time he was asked to, and always faithfully waited outside the bathroom door while he replaced his bandages. Sherlock was as attentive a caretaker as he was a lover. Listening to his needs, asking him what he wanted, but at the same time, never overstepping.

John had moved into his bedroom the first night he’d returned to Baker Street, and had been sleeping there every night since. Sherlock, always having had the whole bed to himself, naturally had no concept of “sides” or sharing the covers equally. Not that John minded, although the number of times he’d taken an accidental elbow his wound during the night could be reduced.

If John had only one complaint, it was in the ways Sherlock chose to keep himself occupied during the long stretches of days with no cases.  He had to be stopped from shooting up the walls again on more than one occasion. He’d forced John to sit through enough martial arts history documentaries for a lifetime. He’d even invited Lestrade over one afternoon for the sole purpose of seeing how many times he could nick his wallet and return it without him noticing.

But John never uttered a word of complaint. He didn’t blame Sherlock at all for expressing his boredom in these ways. He himself had grown antsy within his first week back from the hospital. However, it had been weeks upon weeks now. His bullet wound was healing wonderfully. He was back on his feet and operating nearly at 100 percent. He truly believed himself to be ready to take cases again.

However, there was one problem. When they’d returned from the hospital, Sherlock was eager to begin tracking down Mary immediately. But he had also committed to staying home with John while he healed. There was only so much detective work he could do from the flat, and he couldn’t be in two places at once.

He’d reluctantly sought out Mycroft’s help, who agreed to put his best men on the task full time. Fortunately, this meant Sherlock was free to fully commit to taking care of John. Unfortunately, it put John entirely at his mercy. With Sherlock’s eyes constantly on him, he could not go anywhere or do anything without his approval first. Of course, it was all in the name of love and wanting to ensure that he was fully healed before he put himself at risk again. But Sherlock’s coddling was starting to get a bit irritating. He had tried telling him he was ready to be out and about, but Sherlock had yet to be convinced.

He wanted to go on a case so badly. Every time a client appeared at their doorstep, he was torn between hoping it'd be so dull Sherlock would refuse and hoping it’d be interesting enough that he'd possibly invite him along.

Unfortunately for them both, no clients had come for several days in a row now, and Sherlock was getting antsy himself. John could tell by the way he was currently sitting with his chair turned towards the wall, filling up an entire corner of the flat with various, elaborately folded paper airplanes. On his lap was an almost empty notebook.

“I do hope you’re planning on picking those up when you’re finished.” John said, from where he sat slumped in his own chair, typing on his laptop.

“What for?” Sherlock said, throwing another one.

John sighed in defeat and turned back to his computer screen. He had a new blog draft pulled up titled “221Bored.”

He had the common sense to keep all the Mary business off his website, at least until it was all sorted out. But he couldn’t resist updating his loyal readers about the absolute nightmare of constant boredom he was enduring because a certain overprotective detective wouldn't let him step foot outside the flat. He didn’t mention his bullet wound because that would open a can of worms he’d rather stay away from. He instead made up an injury about a broken ankle. He rather liked his fiction, if he said so himself. The story of how he’d gotten it was admittedly a bit over the top, but honestly, writing it was just something to keep him occupied at this point. Plus, who wouldn’t want to hear about the shenanigans The Great Sherlock Holmes got up to in his flat when he was bored out of his mind?

He glanced up at Sherlock again and found him folding an unnecessarily elaborate paper airplane made of at least two sheets of paper.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, you have no idea what you’re doing.”

Sherlock shot him an offended look. “What?”

“Do you know nothing about aerodynamics? Just because your plane is pretty doesn’t mean it’ll go far.”

Sherlock pouted down at his plane and then tore out a sheet of paper from the notebook. “Go on then. If you’re the master.”

“I am.”

John took the paper Sherlock had handed him and folded his best airplane, crisp, narrow, and pointy, just like he’d done as a kid. Meanwhile, Sherlock folded another over-the-top one.

“Mine will go much farther.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Winner gets to choose what we watch tonight.”

“You’re on.”

Together, they tossed their airplanes towards the couch. John’s flew in a fast, straight line until the front point hit the patterned wallpaper and dropped down. Sherlock’s curved and hit the window.

“That’s not fair. There was a draft!”

“Funny how it only seemed to affect yours,” John said smugly, leaning backwards in his chair again.

Sherlock huffed and pushed out of his chair to retrieve his airplane, which had landed on the desk after bouncing off the window. When he reached it, he stopped and looked outside for a moment with a slight frown.

“What is it?” John asked.

Sherlock peered downwards, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

“We have a client.”

“Really? I hope it’s lower than a nine, so you don’t get to run off without me and leave me alone to go insane.”

“He’s not coming in,” Sherlock said, placing his palm and forehead against the glass. “Oscillation on the pavement.”

“So . . . a love affair then?”

Sherlock squinted. “No . . . not quite that. He’s a computer engineer in his later 20s. He’s had a recently ended long-term relationship. I can’t quite determine the cause. He’s here because of a dead loved one.  A murder mystery! Oooh yes. This looks promising.”

John sighed in disappointment. Any other day, he’d be just as eager for a new case. In fact, he’d probably already be digging out his notebook and pen to take notes. But now, all he could think of was how he’d busy himself alone in the flat once again, if Sherlock did decide to take the case.

“Boys!!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice bellowed. “A client is here to see you!”

“Send him up, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock called back. A minute later, a young man in large glasses and an oversized jacket appeared at their doorway.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” he asked apprehensively, looking unsure of whether or not he was welcome to come inside.

“That would be me,” Sherlock said from where he was already positioned in his chair, with his hands steepled under his chin.

The man smiled and entered their flat. John pulled up the same chair they always offered their clients.

“Please, have a seat. What’s your name?” he asked.

“Nicholas,” he said, lowering himself into the seat.

“What can we do for you?”

“It’s my girlfriend, Nina.”

John looked at Sherlock in confusion. He had deduced that his long-term relationship had recently ended. Sherlock squinted at him, equally as baffled.

“Are you not currently single, Nicholas?” he asked.

“Well, I suppose, technically I am now. I don’t know if you read about her in the papers or not. Nina? Nina Walters?”

John vaguely remembered reading the name in last week’s papers.

“She died eight days ago. They found traces of various drugs in her blood during the autopsy. So everyone has decided she committed suicide. But I don’t believe it for a second.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I knew her, Mr. Holmes. She never would have overdosed. She wasn’t even an addict or a user at all to begin with. I don’t know how she died, but it wasn’t a suicide. I know it.”

“That’s all?” Sherlock asked, visibly disappointed with his story. He sighed and placed his hands on his thighs disappointedly. “Sorry, Mr. Nicholas, but this seems a bit below my pay-grade, so to speak.”

“Please, Mr. Holmes. I’m telling you there’s something else going on here. I know Nina didn’t overdose. She kept a lot of things from me, but I would have known if she was suicidal.”

“What do you mean, she kept a lot of things from you? How do you know then that she wasn’t miserable with her life or secretly an addict already?”

“No, not those kinds of things. I just mean that for a few weeks before she died, she’d been sneaking off somewhere and not telling me anything about it. Occasionally she’d answer her phone and go in another room to talk. And later, she’d either refuse to tell me who she’s talking to or tell an obvious lie.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a look, wondering which of them was going to have to break the news to him. Nicholas saw the looks on their faces and rushed to clarify.

“Oh, no. She wasn’t cheating on me. We’d been together for six excellent years. Things were going great between us, actually. No, no, this wasn’t like that. It was some kind of scheduled thing. She disappeared at exactly 2:00 every Tuesday, with no explanation. She’d get mad at me if I tried to question her or ask who she was texting beforehand. Then one Tuesday afternoon, she never came back and the police discovered her body in an alley between two buildings not far from here. She’d just dropped dead, apparently.”

By this point, Sherlock was leaning forward in his seat, drinking in every word that came out of Nicholas’s mouth.

“Can you help me, Mr. Holmes?”

A small smile played at Sherlock’s lips as he caught John’s eye.

“I do believe we can. It’s not exactly a nine. But at this point, I’m so desperately bored, it doesn’t matter to me anymore. What do you think, John?”

John furrowed his brows at him. “What do I think? Are you asking me to accompany you on this case?”

Sherlock’s eyes twinkled brightly at him. “I suppose that would be alright, given the circumstances.”

“What circumstances?”

“That you’ve been healing remarkably , and if I keep you boxed in here any longer, I fear you might take after my example and start blowing up the walls.”

John suppressed a smile at that. He wasn’t exactly at that breaking point yet, but he wasn’t about to correct him.

“Wait,” Nicholas said, pointing between them in confusion. “I thought Dr. Watson always accompanied you on your cases.”

John grinned at him. “Check my blog later today.”

“So what do you say, John?” Sherlock asked. “I admit you’ve been healing remarkably. Are you up for taking the case?”

John’s lips slowly stretched into a grin that matched the cheeky one plastered onto Sherlock’s face.

“Oh god, yes.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock spent the next full day digging up every scrap of information he could find on Nina Walters. He spent hours hunched over his laptop and making phone calls, doing his best to track down every place she had been the past few months in an effort to work out what she had been hiding from Nicholas. Across the desk, John sat engaged in similar work. Sherlock finally clasped his hands together and listed off his findings for him.

“She spent excessive time at the library, as I discovered by methodically pulling a few strings, gaining access to their computers and database, and digging up a few late fees.”

“No red flag there,” John interrupted, eyes scanning back and forth across his screen. “She’s studying law. She was supposed to take her exams in a few months, so it makes sense that she’d be at the library a lot.”

“Excellent work, John! How did you uncover that information?”

“Facebook.”

Sherlock frowned at the smug smirk that overtook John’s face - the one he wore whenever Sherlock overlooked the obvious solutions in favor of the cleverer ways of extrapolating information.

“Anyway,” he continued, slightly grudgingly. “She also visited her mother in Wales the week before her death. And her niece in Scotland the week preceding that. Oh, and Nicholas was wrong about her not having any addictions.”

John looked up from his computer in combined disbelief and curiosity.

“She regularly stopped in the same coffee shop two to three times a day.”

John glared at him. “Not funny. You of all people should know that.”

“As I’ve told you countless times before, I am a user, not an addict.”

“Whatever, Sherlock. You know how I feel about it, and you know better.”

“Never mind that now. We have more pressing issues. Such as the fact that I have uncovered where Nina disappeared off to every Tuesday at 2:00.”

John held his gaze a moment longer, but dropped the issue in favor of his burning curiosity. Sherlock smirked, knowing full well how and why he had won that encounter.

“Go on, then.”

“She had been seeing a psychologist by the name of Culverton Smith, and for whatever reason, wanted to keep it a secret from her boyfriend.”

“That’s all? And here we were thinking she was cheating on him.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Still possible.” This earned him another disapproving glare. “Anyway, I made the effort to get Smith’s contact information and called his office. Unfortunately, I could not get much information about Nina due to some confidentiality nonsense.”

“And that came as a surprise to you?”

“Why would her privacy still matter at all? She’s dead.”

“Rules are rules, Sherlock.”

“Well, the rules are stupid. Regardless, we are going to need to find out more about these therapy sessions one way or another. I already strongly suspect that Smith knows something of vital importance to solving her murder.”

“You sure? Alright, then. How do you propose we get information from him without breaking all kinds of ethics laws?”

“Who said we were going to go about it in an ethical way?”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock. At least let me pretend I’m not going against every code of conduct I swore to as a doctor by helping you with this.”

“Here’s what we are going to do. I’m going to make an appointment with Culverton Smith as a fake patient. I’ll keep him distracted long enough for you to break into his office and get Nina’s counseling records.”

“There are . . . so many things wrong with that plan, Sherlock. For one, won’t he recognize you from the phone call?”

“I only spoke to his secretary. Smith himself has never heard my voice, so won’t recognize me at all. I will also be using a fake name as an extra precaution.”

“What if he threw out her records, since he’s not seeing her anymore?”

“Then they’d still be in his computer. If that becomes an issue, send me a text. I’ll apologize and fake a work emergency so I can reply and give you the possible passwords I’ve deduced.”

“Won’t anyone else see me slipping into an office I have no business being in?”

“I’ve scouted out the building. Due to the layout, you won’t have to worry about any other eyes being on you.”

“Why am I the one breaking into his office? Isn’t sneaking into places you aren’t supposed to be and going through people’s things your forte?”

“Oh, come on. Won’t it be fun for you to play detective for once?”

“I mean it, Sherlock.”

“Fine. No offense, John, but I am a better actor than you and will play the part of a fake patient much more convincingly. Plus, this way I will be able to deduce Smith face-to-face. Also, I will be able to come up with a wide array of topics to ramble about to keep him distracted long enough. You, on the other hand, can barely even talk to your own therapist. I do not want to risk the chance of you freezing up, and the appointment ending too early.”

“Okay . . . I don’t even want to know how you know that about me.”

“What do you say?”

“Sherlock, I really don’t know about this. It’s extremely unethical. I have to put myself in his position and imagine if someone breached my patient’s confidentiality, even after death.”

“Don’t think of it as unethical. The records won’t be seen by anyone except you and me, and they will only be used to help solve a girl’s murder. Isn’t that worth more than a dead person’s privacy?”

“I . . . maybe. But I need some time to think about this.”

“Come on. It’s been more than a day since Nicholas came. You’ve had plenty of time to think.”

“So it’s your way or no way, is it?”

“That’s how it’s always been. Do try to keep up. Unless you have a better idea?”

“Nope.”

“Then I don’t see the problem. You already said you were interested in the case.”

“I didn’t know that this case would involve stealing confidential medical records.”

“Smith isn’t a psychiatrist, so technically they aren’t-”

“Enough, Sherlock! I know! Just give me some space to think about it.”

“Well, you better make up your mind quickly. Because I’ve already made the appointment.”

“You . . . what?” John’s voice was suddenly lowered with quiet fury.

“I have an appointment with Culverton Smith tomorrow at 12:00.”

“God, Sherlock, I can’t believe you,” he said, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Look, John. This is the only way we can do this is a relatively timely manner. Because you’re right, it’s likely he’ll store away her records or get rid of them fairly soon.”

“It’s not about the stupid case or the plan anymore! It’s about the fact that you won’t take no for an answer. It’s the fact that you run off ahead without me, making plans behind my back. And you just expect me to follow along without question!”

Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. “How on earth am I supposed to read your mind like that, John. You can’t just switch what the entire argument is about.”

“You read my mind all the time when I don’t want you to. Why can’t you do it anymore when suddenly it means having a bit of emotional intelligence? Or working out why I’m upset?”

“I know why you’re upset!”

“Then you’ll understand when I say ‘no’ to you, right?”

Sherlock pursed his lips at him for a moment. He then slammed his laptop shut, picked it up, and scooted his chair back. “Fine. I’m meeting Culverton tomorrow. You can join me, or you can stay here and drive yourself mad with boredom. Your choice.”

He stormed off to his room and slammed the door shut behind him.

John remained seated firmly at the desk, glaring heatedly at the now empty seat across from him. He too then closed his laptop, although far more gently.

He scrubbed his hands down his face again. God, he loved Sherlock, but he could be an infuriating pain in the arse sometimes. This certainly wasn’t the first time he had left him out of plans or tried to coerce him into doing something he was uncomfortable with.

John realized he may have been harsh, but Sherlock needed to learn a lesson about teamwork and partnership. It involves communication and trust, not running ahead of the other person and catching them up only when it’s convenient.

In all honesty, he probably would have agreed to Sherlock’s plan given a bit more time to digest it. Because Sherlock was right. There was no other way to get Nina’s records quickly enough, and the notes would only be seen by their eyes. It was a breach of confidentiality, but weighed against the fact that a girl was murdered and taking a peek at her therapist’s notes could help them solve why, he had to admit Sherlock’s plan was efficient.

But as he’d said, it wasn’t about the plan. It was the fact that Sherlock had not asked him first before finalizing it. It was one thing when they were just friends. But if they were truly going to be partners, this constant miscommunication and secret-keeping needed to stop. He wasn’t even sure Sherlock saw it as “secret-keeping,” but it certainly wasn’t an accident that John was not let in on the plan until his part in it had to be verified.

John looked over to where Sherlock’s bedroom door remained closed. He could practically hear him stewing over on the other side of it. He sighed and lifted himself out of his chair. He had been harsh, but he stood by most of what he said.

He walked to the kitchen and placed his empty mug in the sink. He contemplated knocking on the bedroom door, but decided against it. He’d let Sherlock be a sulking drama queen at the moment, if that’s what he wished to do.

*****

Sherlock didn’t come out of his room the rest of the afternoon, or for dinner. John prepared a plate of leftovers for the both of them and had ended up eating his alone. Sherlock’s dinner remained out on the table for hours afterwards, ready for him to reheat if he chose to make an appearance. However, late into the evening, John decided to accept that he would not be emerging anytime soon. He covered Sherlock’s plate with a layer of aluminum foil and placed it back in the fridge.   

He went to the bathroom, showered, and brushed his teeth. He stripped out of his jumper and trousers, leaving him only in his white t-shirt and pants. Through the translucent bathroom door leading to their bedroom, he could vaguely make out Sherlock’s shape in the bed.

He eased the door open and slipped inside. Sherlock was facing away from him, wrapped tightly into a blanket cocoon. It was obvious by his breathing pattern and the tight hold of his shoulders that he was still awake. John crawled onto the bed and laid himself down behind him, slipping the sheets over his hips.

The blankets around Sherlock’s back were dipped down and slightly looser than the rest. The bumpy lines peeking out over the top, marring his otherwise smooth, flawless skin, served as a nightly reminder of how much Sherlock had gone through in the past to protect him. But still, no matter how many times he saw them, the same nauseous feeling pooled in the pit of his stomach every time, without fail.

John sighed and placed his fingertips over the jagged lines crossing over the top of his spine. Sherlock stiffened at the touch, but relaxed when he trailed up and over his shoulder, and then down his bicep, which was resting outside blankets.

“Hey,” John whispered. He leaned forward and placed a kiss on one of his shoulder blades. “You okay?”

He heard a deep sigh in return. “I’m sorry for going behind your back,” he heard quietly admitted into the darkness.

John smiled softly, and continued lightly trailing his fingers up and down Sherlock’s arm. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I just needed some time to process, that’s all.”

“I know. I . . . will do better to respect your input and your need for space in the future.”

“Good.”

He nuzzled his forehead into the back of Sherlock’s head, inhaling the familiar scent of the curls on his nape. “Though next time, you let me in from the beginning, alright? No more making plans without me, or leaving me behind. That’s all I want.”

Sherlock turned around in his arms so that they were facing each other, lying nearly nose-to-nose on the pillows.

“Hello,” John whispered, tucking a stray curl behind his ears. In the dark, he could see Sherlock’s wide-blown pupils dart back and forth between his own before he leaned in and placed a slow, soft kiss on his lips. John returned it, knowing that it contained everything Sherlock wanted to say, but couldn’t. He knew he had a hard time expressing himself verbally, and was always happy to accept this form of an apology.

Just as Sherlock started to pull back, John murmured against his lips, “You know, if I’m going to break the law and my code of honor as a doctor, it’d only be for you. Not anyone else in the world.”

Sherlock pulled back and rested his head on the pillow, searching his eyes.

“So . . . you’ll help me with the case then? You’ll come to the appointment?”

John pretended to contemplate for a moment. “Well. I guess I’m up for . . .” He scrunched his nose and lifted his chin, in his best Mycroft impression. “Doing a bit of legwork .”

Sherlock groaned and buried his face into his shoulder. “Don’t. Ever . Do that again,” he growled. A moment later, however, he joined in John’s quiet chuckles and shifted to cuddle up onto his chest. John, now lying flat on his back, curled his arm around his back and pulled him in as their laughter faded out.

Sherlock skimmed a hand over his torso, gently brushing over his covered wound. “You sure you’ll be alright?”

John caught his hand and lifted it for a kiss. “I’m sure. Plus, when you got shot, you were up and running all over London again within hours. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

Neither of them mentioned the fact that Sherlock had, in fact, gone into cardiac arrest soon after he’d broken out of the hospital. Sherlock nuzzled his head into his chest and closed his eyes. John dropped a quick kiss onto the top of his head and together, they drifted off into a tranquil slumber.

Chapter Text

John sat at the kitchen table sipping his tea and absent-mindedly flipping through the paper. The morning sun burned brightly into their kitchen, illuminating the pots and pans scattered about the kitchen and the chemistry set crowded on one side of the table. T he muffled noises of Baker Street added a soft cushion of sound around their flat. It would have been quite a peaceful morning were it not for the banging and crashing sounds coming from the bathroom. God knows what Sherlock was up to in there . . .

A few minutes later, he burst into the hallway and strolled confidently into the kitchen. John did an instant double take. Instead of his usual posh, perfectly-tailored attire, he was wearing a baggy sweatshirt, old jeans, and a pair of fake glasses. His hair was fluffier and more tousled than usual, due to the lack of product that usually helped each curl to sit perfectly in place. Looking down at himself, he smoothed the sweatshirt over his chest and held his hands out, presenting himself to John.

“How do I look?”

John’s tea mug was frozen halfway to his lips, his bulging eyes glued to the nearly unrecognizable man in front of him.

“Well?” Sherlock asked. It was his childish scowl and the bite of his voice that reassured John that his consulting detective had not been kidnapped and poorly impersonated.

“Is that my sweatshirt?” he asked when he found his voice again.

“It’s too big for you anyway.”

“Big on me? That thing could fit three of you inside it!”

“It’s too long for you.” 

“You mean too wide for you?”

“I need it!”

“I didn’t even know I still had that.”

“ John , it’s a disguise! Tell me what you think!”

“I think . . . you look like a uni student who just rolled out of bed, didn’t comb his hair, and threw on his flat mate’s clothes because he couldn’t be arsed to grab his own.”

“So nothing like my usual self then?”

“No. I think it’s safe to say that you look nothing like your usual self.”

“Good. I don’t want to take any chances of Culverton Smith recognizing me from your blog, in case he’s a reader. Do you still have that ridiculous picture of me with the hat posted up?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock scowled again and brushed past him. “Our appointment is at 12 today, remember.”

“Do I need to go in disguise, too?”

Sherlock gave him a once-over. “No. Shouldn’t be necessary. You will just sit and pretend to be waiting for another therapist. He shouldn’t even notice you.”

“Okay. Sherlock, sit down. We need to go over this plan in more detail. Plan for every scenario.”

“We’ve gone over it already. When Smith comes to take me, you’ll sneak into his office. Room 106. You’ll search for Nina’s records, take pictures, and put them back.”

“But what if, for whatever reason, he heads back to his office while I’m still there? How will you warn me?”

Sherlock pondered for a moment. “If I remember the layout of the building correctly, his office is connected to the room he takes his client’s in. You should be able to hear us through the wall if I talk loud enough. Just listen in for any cues.”

“Still seems risky. Should I bring my gun?”

“I’d say it’s not necessary, but you’re going to bring it anyway.”

“Fair enough.”

“Go get dressed. We need to leave in an hour.”

*****

Sherlock was nearly unrecognizable when he sauntered up to the secretary’s desk. His shoulders were slouched, his hands were stuffed into the pockets of the sweatshirt. He truly did look like he could have been in uni, John thought, jealous of how a simple change of attire could de-age him so significantly. He’d seen him in action like this before, under various disguises. Sherlock was correct in saying he was a much better actor than John himself. It never failed to amaze him how much he could utterly transform into whatever guise he was under.  

“Here to see Dr. Smith,” he heard Sherlock mumble. John, meanwhile, found himself a nice seat in the lounge area and picked up a magazine to partially conceal his face.

“And you are?”

“Sheldon Hobbs.”

John suppressed a snicker.

“Alright, sir. He’ll be out shortly.”

Sherlock took a seat a few rows away from John, half-facing him. John kept his face buried in his magazine, but lifted his gaze to catch Sherlock’s eye over the top of the page. Sherlock gave him a brief nod and then busied himself studying the posters around the room.

They had finalized their game plan in the cab on the way over. After Sherlock was called, John was to wait approximately two minutes before getting up to “use the bathroom,” which was conveniently placed along the same hallway that led to Dr. Smith’s office. Once inside, he was to listen in on their conversation on the other side of the wall while he searched for the files. If Sherlock mentioned his “Aunt Bessie” at any point, that meant John needed to hide or get out of the office immediately.

John had insisted on creating a distress signal as well. There had been too many times where one of them was in trouble but couldn’t communicate it to the other. It would be too difficult to slip “Vatican Cameos” into a conversation without drawing attention to it. (Not to mention they were both still a bit shaken from Mary using it against them so cleverly). So instead, they agreed that if Sherlock mentioned that it was suddenly too hot in the room, that meant that, for whatever reason, he wanted John to intervene on the session and get him out. Sherlock had been against creating the distress signal, saying it was entirely unnecessary since he was not the one doing the “risky” job. So he’d made it clear multiple, multiple times that John was not to intervene under any circumstances unless given the signal, which would only be an absolute last resort. John grudgingly accepted these terms, knowing it was the best he could hope for.

“Mr. Hobbs?” came a deep, gravelly voice. John looked up to see a large, silver-haired man man wearing a light blue suit and a polka-dotted tie. Sherlock rose from his seat and approached him.

“Dr. Smith,” he said, extending his hand. But the man ignored it and greeted him by squeezing both of his biceps in his massive hands. John, peering at the scene from over the top of his magazine, furrowed his brows at the sight of the unnecessary touch.

“Sheldon! - Can I call you Sheldon? - What an absolute pleasure to meet you,” Smith’s lips split into a wide, yellow-toothed grin. “I am very much looking forward to getting to know you better.”

His hands slowly roamed up and down Sherlock’s arms a few times before finally releasing him from his grip. For a moment, John thought he saw Sherlock’s eyes dart towards him. Just for a brief, alarming second - too fast for Smith to have noticed, or for John to have been certain of what he saw.

“Right this way, now,” Smith said. He turned Sherlock around and placed his hands on his shoulders from behind. He leaned in close and drawled into his ear, “I’ll show you to my favorite room.”

His hand dropped down to the small of his back as he started to lead him down the hall. An unpleasant feeling had started twisting and curling in the pit of John’s stomach from the moment Smith had laid his hands on Sherlock. The sight of his massive hands roaming his back and arms had caused a low-boiling heat to travel through John’s body, making him want to jump from his seat and shove him away from him. He decided against waiting the full two minutes they had planned on and began following them nearly thirty seconds after they’d departed. He kept a light, casual pace as he made his way down the hallway he’d seen them disappear around. At last he turned a corner, but immediately ducked backwards. He was too soon. Sherlock and Smith had still not entered the room.

He watched with nausea pooling in his stomach as Smith opened the door and guided Sherlock in with the meaty hand still on the small of his back. Perhaps it was just in John’s mind, but his hand seemed to have slipped even lower since they were in the lounge. Smith slipped in after Sherlock with a self-satisfied grin, and the door clicked then shut behind them.

John waited another ten seconds before coming out from his corner. Office 106 was indeed right next to the room they’d entered. He wiggled the door handle and breathed a sigh of relief when he found it unlocked.

He slipped inside and closed the door behind him as softly as he could. Through the wall, he could hear Sherlock and Smith talking. Their voices were muffled, but just clear enough that he could understand.

“It’s my brother, Mickey,” Sherlock was saying. “He is older than me, yes, but his unhealthy reliance on me is getting out of hand.”

John smiled at the authenticity in Sherlock’s voice as he tugged on the top drawer of Smith’s file cabinet. It was locked. Shit. He pulled open his desk drawer instead and began poking around for a small key that looked like it could open the cabinet.

“Do you think perhaps he’s just trying to get closer to you?” Smith asked on the other side of the wall.

“Oh, he definitely is, sir. He absolutely idolizes me. But I keep telling him, ‘Mickey. You’re a grown man. Get off my couch, wipe that cake off your face, and go make something of yourself, you pathetic fool!’ I’m starting to think it’s a lost cause.”

“Does this brother of yours have a job?”

“He’s a 51-year-old uni dropout living on his younger brother’s couch. The only job he’s ever been good at is sticking his big, frosting-covered nose in other people’s business. He’s got no ambition or talent, and the ways he chooses to occupy himself are causing major disturbances to my day to day life. My flatmate once found him in the bathroom trying to see how many pairs of underwear he could fit onto his head.”

John stifled a laugh. Focus , he told himself. He had found nothing in the drawer. Looking around the office, he saw lots of little bins and antiques lining the shelves. He strode over to a little engraved box sitting next to a DVD set and took a peek inside. Nothing there. Next to it was a small dish with an ID card and a pair of car keys. No luck there either. On the shelf above it was a little glass elephant. John removed the lid, which was the top half of its head, and peered inside. He found a small ring with six different keys on it. Bingo. He took the ring out of the elephant and one by one began testing them on the file cabinet.

“Do you have any other siblings, Sheldon?” he heard Smith ask.

“Just the one, unfortunately.”

“And how is his relationship with your other family members?”

“He’s a major disappointment to my parents, of course.”

“Does he know this is how they feel about him?”

“Definitely. I hear him moaning about it in his sleep.”

The third key John tried opened the top cabinet. Relieved, he began sifting through the files. They were alphabetized by last name. Nina wouldn’t be at the top then. He crouched down and opened the bottom drawer.

Wade . . .Walker . . . Walters. Finally.

He pulled out Nina’s file and opened it on the desk. He did his best not to peek at anything and just focus on taking clear, well-centered pictures with his phone. He couldn’t help catching glimpses, however. Such as the fact that her mother was a victim of domestic abuse and that Nina had turned to alcoholism at a very young age to cope. Poor thing.

“Now tell me, Sherlock,” Smith continued. “Did you tell your dear brother you were coming here today? Or anyone else for that matter? Perhaps that flatmate of yours?”

“No, I . . . wait.” Sherlock’s voice had suddenly lost all its confidence and pretense. John’s stomach rose into his throat as he realized why with a pang.

He heard Smith chuckle darkly at Sherlock’s baffled silence. “You think I don’t know why you’re here, Mr. Holmes?”

John placed his hand over the gun inside his jacket and started for the door, but halted when he remembered Sherlock’s orders. He was not to intervene under any circumstances unless he heard his cue. He waited to hear any mention of the temperature, but none came. Frustrated with Sherlock, he remained in the room - on high alert - and allowed the mad detective execute whatever ingenious strategy he had just come up with on the fly, no doubt.

“If you already know, I suppose I don’t need to tell you.”

“It was that boyfriend, wasn’t it?” Smith said. “The Walters girl’s boyfriend. He came to you, didn’t he? I knew he’d be the toughest one to convince with the suicide story.”

“So you know something about her death then? Something you’re keeping from the police in favor of the theory that she took her own life?”

Smith laughed heartily at that. “Oh, Mr. Holmes. I know everything about her death.”

A dark moment of silence passed. John could feel the heavy tension in the air all the way from the office.

“It was you,” Sherlock said calmly. It was a statement of fact, not a question or speculation.

“Indeed,” Smith said, sounding impressed. “Have you figured out how I did it yet? Or has your reputation gotten ahead of you?”

Silence followed. John now had his ear pressed against the shared wall, silently begging Sherlock to just complain once about how hot the room was so he could burst in.

“I’ll give you a hint,” Smith said patronizingly. “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this. But it just may be the first time you’ve heard about one of my victims.  Most of their families have been stupid enough to accept the first story that explains their untimely deaths and don’t bothering asking questions.”

A pause followed.

“Jerry Hopkins. The accountant. Was he one of yours, too?”

“Very good, Holmes. Looks like I underestimated that wife of his.”

With a silent gasp, John remembered a distraught woman by the name of Cynthia Hopkins coming to their flat, begging them to investigate her husband’s death. It appeared he had been mugged down in an alley, but she didn’t buy the story. Sherlock had turned her down, since John had still been healing at the time and the case could have potentially been dangerous.

“It was poison, wasn’t it?” Sherlock said. “Slow-acting poison. That gives plenty of time for the victim to go about their day and drop dead somewhere else. Or for you to arrange a fake scenario even, making it appear they had been tragically killed in another way.”

“Excellent work. Looks like that blogger of yours wasn’t exaggerating about your deductive skills.”

“But how do you poison them during your sessions without them knowing?”

“Easy enough. There’s a reason my victims are always the ones with the darkest secrets, the most twisted histories. Get them crying hard enough during a session, and I can offer them a glass of water.”

John felt hot bile rise in his throat. This man, this repulsive monster, prayed on those who came to him at their weakest points, and attacked when they were at their most vulnerable. Despicable.

“So you make your move after they’ve already been seeing you for awhile.”

“Yes. I don’t make my kill until I’ve had my fun with them first." Something about the way he'd said it in that sinister, taunting drawl made John's skin prickle. "Of course, some clients I’d prefer to scrap earlier on. The elderly, young teenagers. Not much fun, those ones. But that girl Nina, for example . . . And you . . .” He let a dark, sinful chuckle. “Oh, Mr. Holmes. I would’ve had so much fun with you if I didn’t know you’d go blabbing.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Sherlock asked, still sounding remarkably calm.

“Simple,” Smith said.

His voice now came from a different point in the room. He must have gotten up. The sound of a pouring liquid suddenly muffled his voice, but John could still make it out.

“Because nothing I’ve told you will leave this room.” Heavy footsteps crossed back to the center of the room. “So which will it be for you, Holmes. Doesn’t seem like you’ll be crying anytime soon. So will you take it on your own, or do I have to force you? Actually, you know what? Go ahead and put up a struggle. That might add an extra bit of fun for me.”

John’s heart thudded hard against his chest. Why wasn’t Sherlock giving the signal?

Come on, Sherlock. Come on. Just a few little words. You got what you wanted from him. Now say it. Come on, he begged, hearing his own racing pulse pounding in his ear.

More silence followed Smith’s offer. Sherlock wasn’t responding. John pressed his ear harder into the wall. Straining as hard as he could, he picked up on the soft creak of the sofa and the sound of a muffled shout.

Sod this , John thought. He pulled his gun out of his jacket and strode out of the office. Out in the hallway, he yanked open the neighboring door and burst inside.

Sherlock was trapped on the sofa, pinned underneath Smith’s heavy thighs on either side of his hips. Smith had one hand cupping his jaw, trying to pry it open and tilting his head back far against the couch, and the other hand trying to tip a glass of water into his mouth. Sherlock’s arms were pinned between their bodies, and his legs were kicking wildly as he struggled to throw off the heavyset man straddling his lap.

“Enough!” John shouted. He pulled Culverton back by his collar. This gave Sherlock enough space to sock him in the jaw. The glass fell to the floor and shattered, spilling the poisoned water everywhere.

John grabbed him by the front of his shirt and knocked him to the ground with another punch. However, he underestimated the man’s strength, and was pulled onto the floor with him. Culverton, having a weight and size advantage, rolled them over and pressed his massive forearm onto his throat. John clawed at his arm, trying to relieve his airways, but a moment later, Sherlock kicked him off.

They both recovered quickly enough. John fumbled for his gun, which he had dropped somewhere during the tousle. As he searched, Culverton swung his leg up from where he was lying on the ground and kicked him directly onto this bullet wound. The breath was knocked out of him at the same time as a searing fire exploded inside his torso. He faltered backwards and fell onto his backside, clutching his chest in pain.

While he recovered, Sherlock took Culverton on, trying to keep him pinned down on his own. Sherlock may have had agility and martial arts training on his side, but that did not help him keep down a man nearly twice his size. Culverton easily shoved him off and scrambled to get back onto his feet.

John regained his breath and picked up his gun. Ignoring the crackling, throbbing pain shooting through his chest with every movement, he held out his arm and pointed the gun straight into Culvertons’ face. Culverton started to try to maneuver out of the line of fire, but when John pressed the barrel hard into his temple, he immediately stopped struggling and laid still.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he growled, red-faced and panting. “Sherlock, call the police.” He caught his breath and tried his best not to double over and clutch his wound. Sherlock no doubt noticed his concealment of his pain.

“Perhaps it was too early for you to attend cases with me after all?” he asked, unlocking his phone and dialing 999.

“Someone’s got to be around to save your arse,” he replied.

Sherlock stared at him oddly for a moment, and then smiled. The same beautiful, youthful smile he’d given him the first night they’d met when John had called him an idiot. The one that was reserved only for him during moments like this, when they were high on adrenaline and recovering from one of many completely ridiculous scenarios they’d found themselves entangled in.

*****

“I swear to god, Sherlock, next time you give me the signal as soon as the situation turns dangerous, you hear me?” John said as he unlocked the door to 221B.

“I had the situation under control. I would have been able to fight him off given a little more time.”

“Like hell you would have. He had nearly poured the poison directly down your throat by the time I got there. You couldn’t have even signaled me if you’d wanted to.”

Sherlock scoffed as they made their way up the stairs. “It was slow-acting poison, anyway. It’s not like I was going to drop dead right there. And if I had given you the cue too early, we wouldn’t have gotten a confession.”

“No cue also meant you could’ve died if I hadn’t interfered. You really think he was going to let  you out of there alive so you could tell someone about what had happened before the poison kicked in?”

“Well, John. I trusted you to follow your instincts and interfere when you felt necessary - with or without a signal and no matter what my instructions had been - which you did with near perfection. This is why you are indispensable and essential to me as a partner.”

“Oh, cut it out,” John said in response to his flattery, though without any real bite.

“Oh, and John.”

“Hm?”

“Be sure to delete the pictures you took off of your phone. We certainly won’t be needing them now that Smith is arrested, and we have no more business being in possession of her sensitive information anymore.”

John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes. His voice had been full of genuinity. Not a hint of sarcasm or mocking of John’s code of ethics. The skin around his twinkling, aquamarine eyes crinkled just lightly with a faint smile, and in that, John understood everything that had been encrypted into his comment. John graced him with a smile and nod in return, silently thanking him with his eyes.

He pushed their door open and the two of them entered their living room, only to stop dead in their tracks at what they found waiting for them.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock scowled.

“Pleasure to see you too, brother mine.” He lifted an eyebrow at Sherlock’s baggy sweatshirt and faded jeans.

“Couldn’t have called first?” John asked as he hung up his jacket.  “You absolutely had to break into our flat and creepily wait for us here in the dark?”

Mycroft smiled bitterly. “I assure you, Dr. Watson. I would not have made the effort to come here directly if the matter I wish to discuss were not of the utmost importance.”

“Out of my chair,” Sherlock grumbled, striding up to where Mycroft had draped himself dramatically in his seat.

“Surely there must be any other spot in this flat that you could-”

“OUT!”

Mycroft frowned and reluctantly stood. Sherlock flopped into his seat while John settled into his own armchair with an amused smirk. Mycroft pulled up one of the desk chairs and lowered himself into it, looking all too much like such inadequate seating was beneath him.

“Alright. What is it? Make it quick.” Sherlock asked.

“I have unfortunate news to share with you both. News concerning you, Dr. Watson.”

John straightened up in his seat at this unexpected announcement. “Me?”

“Mm, yes. You see, a baby girl has been admitted into a hospital in Cardiff.”

The words slammed into John with the weight of a thousand bricks. Emotions that he’d successfully repressed over the last few weeks suddenly rose to the forefront of his consciousness. It’s not that he had forgotten about the fact that Mary was pregnant; it’s that he had shoved that detail so far into the back of his mind and had, in essence, convinced himself that if he never thought about it, he’d never have to deal with it.

“It’s clear that she was born prematurely and is currently in critical condition.”

It was suddenly as if John was observing the scene as an outsider. He felt empty - devoid of all feelings except a suffocatingly aching numbness.

Sherlock was watching him as though bracing for a potentially explosive reaction, although there were traces of concern and even sympathy hidden underneath. John remained frozen in his position, unsure and unable to react.

“DNA tests have been performed,” Mycroft continued. “They indicate that she is, in fact, Mary’s daughter.”

John braced himself, as he ever so slowly felt the feeling return to his body, bit by bit. He cleared his throat. “And . . . mine?”

Mycroft looked at him for a moment and nodded slowly. John felt the weight of one hundred rocks plummeting into the pit of his stomach. He released a heavy sigh and hung his head. The child was his. He had had his suspicions of Mary, but now realized he must have been projecting onto her based on what he’d been doing with Sherlock. God, he felt like such a piece of shit. For months he had prided himself on being morally better than her. That all the lying and hiding he was doing was for a greater cause, when in reality, he hadn’t been better than her at all.

“Currently, no one is allowed to visit the baby. But given that you are her biological father, you’d certainly be allowed to-”

“I don’t want to,” John said with a conviction he hardly felt. But a moment later he was suddenly filled to the brim with gut-wrenching guilt at heartless words that had just left his mouth on instinct. “I mean, I can . . . I don’t know,” he ended pathetically.

His voice sounded nearly unrecognizable even to himself. He cleared his throat again, desperate to redirect the conversation from his pitiful confusion and inner turmoil. “What are the chances that she’ll make it?”

Mycroft lowered his voice, as though in a mild attempt to soften the blow of his words. “Slim to none.”

John felt his stomach turn and his heart rise into his throat. Several heavy beats of silence passed until Sherlock thankfully spoke up.

“What do you mean the child was admitted into the hospital? She wasn’t born there?”

“Ms. Morstan cannot simply stroll into a hospital to give birth. Even with all confidentiality laws in place, surely she would be more clever than to risk that. And surely you would be more intelligent than to guess that she would have done so,” Mycroft said patronizingly.

Sherlock huffed in contained annoyance, clearly holding back a nasty retort for John’s sake.

“So . . . ?” Sherlock asked impatiently. “Who brought her there?”

“An ambulance was called for the child. They showed up to the address of the caller’s location and found her abandoned.”

“I see,” Sherlock said softly. He glanced over to where John was still sitting with his face cupped in one of his palms, his eyes growing more and more tired with each further blow.  “And what about . . . her ?” Sherlock continued, quieting his voice further.

“The baby was assumedly born in Cardiff, which gives us a relative idea of where she gave birth. We believe we have a possible lead on where she could have fled to after abandoning the child. I assure you, I have my best men on the task around the clock.”

From the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock nod solemnly. Mycroft placed his hands on his knees and rose from the chair.

“That is all I know at the moment,” he said, buttoning his suit jacket. “I will keep you informed. Good day.”

John heard the door click shut behind him. Another minute of silence ticked by agonizingly slowly.  John kept his head buried in his hands, but could feel Sherlock’s piercing stare burning into him from a few feet away.

“John,” he started softly.

“Don’t,” he said, inhaling and releasing a few shaky breaths. “We shouldn’t have done it,” he mumbled from where he remained hidden inside his hands. “Not until everything was over between me and her anyway. We should have just waited.”

“I should have stopped first,” Sherlock said. “I pressured you, and I’m sorry for that.”

“No,” John choked, lifting his head to look at him. “You didn’t. You asked me first and I said yes.”

“But if I hadn’t started it-”

“You gave me the chance to say no, and I didn’t,” John said somewhat forcefully. He swallowed thickly and forced the next words out with difficulty. “I’m a cheater,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if I didn’t love her anymore. It’s about the principle. I should have waited.”

He huffed out a short breath, trying desperately to blink away the wetness pooling in his eyes. “Fuck,” he breathed. “And now there’s all this stuff with my . . . my daught-” His voice cracked and the rest of the word was cut off by his tightening throat. “She’s mine, but I . . . I can’t even stand to think . . . I should want to see her, but I . . .”

His voice trailed off again as the lump in his throat threatened to spill from his eyes. He shook his head to himself, realizing he was blathering nonsensical fragments of his thoughts and that Sherlock probably had no idea what he was feeling or trying to say. He pressed his teeth into his lip to stop the shaking, to redirect his pain to the physical kind, to stop the ever growing weight of tears behind his eyes from bursting forth.

At last, he cracked, pressing his forehead into his palm and releasing a single, wet, nearly silent sob.

A moment later, he heard Sherlock rise from his chair. Soon, a hand was cupping the back of his neck, and he was being pulled forward to rest his head against Sherlock’s stomach. Another hand rubbed soothingly up and down his arm.

“As always, my brother demonstrates a complete lack of finesse. I apologize for his insensitivity,” he heard Sherlock say.

“Huh?”

“Who does he think he is? Dropping in here unannounced, spilling this news in a most tactless manner, and then leaving you in this state. I’ll have a word with him later.”

John choked out a wet laugh as Sherlock’s thumb stroked the back of his neck.

“What happened happened,” came his voice again, this time clearly referring to the private moments they’d shared in the veiled darkness of 221B during those trying times that they’d been forced apart for the sake of safety. His voice rumbled deep in his torso, warm and comforting. “There’s nothing we can do about it. I don’t think any less of you, and you shouldn’t think any less of yourself.”

Sherlock’s hand rubbed up and down his arm once more. “It’s no use beating yourself up over it. Perhaps it was wrong to cheat, but that’s on both of us. And John, you must also remember the position you were in at the time. She wronged you in so many ways, even before she shot you. Or me. This is one supposed mark against you compared to dozens against her. You understand?”

John nodded into his stomach and felt Sherlock's hand lovingly brush the hair off his forehead before returning to cup his nape. For several long moments, they remained exactly like that- John keeping his face concealed in the comforting softness of Sherlock’s stomach, grieving privately and hiding his pain from the rest of the world. And Sherlock holding his nape and arm - just holding him. Just being there. Solid and unmoving.

John took a shaky breath after some time. “I’m supposed to go see her, aren’t I?” he whispered. “She’s going to die alone, and I’m the only one who can be with her.” Another single, hot tear rolled down his face. “She’s my daughter. And I feel like I should go. But I just . . . can’t. I can’t do that. It’s not that I don’t want – I mean, it’s not that I don’t love her, but-”

“It’s okay, John. You don’t have to explain to me. We’ll go to Cardiff and see her if you want to. And if not, then we don’t have to.”

John leaned his head more fully into Sherlock. He knew Sherlock had absolutely no clue what emotions were eating through him right now, but he was here for him, even if he didn’t understand. Not for the first time, John was grateful to have a partner such as Sherlock, who didn’t try to solve his problems or understand what he couldn't. All he did was offer his presence and support, which is exactly what he needed while he worked out his issues himself.

He reached up and clutched the back of Sherlock’s sweatshirt, steadying himself. A moment later, he felt a soft kiss drop onto the top of his head. He smiled into the now wet material.

“I love you, too” he whispered.

Chapter Text

When John woke the next morning, the first thing he noticed was the absence of a warm bodied detective under his arm. He peeked a single eyelid open and found his outstretched arm thrown over the empty space of the other half of the bed. The white sheets remained crinkled and warm underneath his touch. He rolled over onto his back with a wakening sigh, stretching his arms up over his head.

Across the room, Sherlock was standing in front of the mirror wearing only his pants. He bent over to step inside his trousers. John grinned coyly, shamelessly ogling the plush arse that was now pointed directly towards his face. Unfortunately, Sherlock was back up only a moment later, pulling his slacks up around his hips and tugging his belt through the loops. John’s smile faltered ever so slightly as his gazed panned over the scars marring his bare back, rippling and moving over his muscles with each subtle movement. He tore his eyes away and instead focused on his arms - outstretched and unintentionally flexing a bit as he reached up for a hanger. Far too soon, his biceps were covered up as he shrugged his white shirt on and adjusted the collar.

“Got somewhere to be?” John asked, resting his hands behind his head on the pillow. Sherlock made eye contact with him in the mirror, and then whirled around, his unbuttoned shirt still baring the center of his chest.  

“John. How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough to catch a bit of a show,” he said cheekily. Sherlock rolled his eyes and strode over to the bed, leaning down to peck a good morning kiss onto his waiting lips.

But John was in a particularly affectionate mood this fine morning. He gripped Sherlock’s collar, preventing him from parting from the kiss, and further enveloped his lips into his own. When Sherlock returned his efforts, he released his collar and wove his fingers into the curls on his nape with a soft moan.

“What’s this then?” Sherlock murmured against his mouth when they parted for a brief second.

John touched his forehead to his, closing his eyes for a moment to bask in the moment. When he opened them, Sherlock was still looking at him expectantly. John nuzzled into his forehead just slightly, and in doing so, communicated everything he wanted to say - a thank you for how Sherlock had cared for him last night, an acknowledgement of everything he was doing to make things as easy as possible for him, an expression of the pulsing love between them that flowed within their veins, was reinforced with each simultaneous beat of their hearts, and that they knew would only grow more deeply anchored as time passed.

“What, I can’t just make out with the most brilliant consulting detective in the world because I love him?” he said softly after some silence had passed.

Sherlock positively purred at that. He pulled John’s mouth back to his own and climbed onto the bed. John let out a self-satisfied chuckle at his enthusiasm. He knew the exact effects his compliments had on Sherlock.

Sherlock boxed him in on all fours, never once parting their lips. John hooked his ankles over his shins and reached up to gently entangle his fingers into his wild mass of curls. Sherlock sat up for a moment and allowed him to grab the corners of his opened shirt and slowly peel it down and off his arms.

*****

John emerged from the bathroom an hour later, tying his bathrobe around his body. A feeling of warm affection and a slight smugness filled him up at the sight of Sherlock standing in the kitchen, once again only in his boxers, with two mugs of tea on the counter in front of him.

He settled himself into a seat at the table and accepted the steaming mug that was handed to him a moment later.

“Ta, love.”

Sherlock leaned on the counter and finished off the last remnants in his own mug.

“So, what have you got going on today?”

“Don’t you mean ‘we’?”

John heart warmed at the correction. “So you’re not going to keep me boxed in here after what happened with the Culverton case yesterday?”

“Well, if you could take kick like that without needing to be re-hospitalized, then I suppose you’re ready to jump back into the game,” he said. “Plus, I need someone around to save my arse.”

John snorted into his drink with a private smile as Sherlock got up to deposit his mug into the sink and head to the bathroom. 

*****

They spent the afternoon busying themselves with mindless tasks. No potential clients came to see them, so Sherlock decided to retire to his mind palace for some time, which John knew was code for “take a nap with my hands steepled under my chin.”

He lay comatose on the sofa, stretched out across the length of it. John joined him after some time, lifting Sherlock’s feet off so he could settle himself on the end and lay his feet back over his lap. He spent the next few hours holding his book open with one hand and stroking idly up and down the soles Sherlock’s feet with the other.. A few times, he almost drifted off to sleep himself, lulled to drowsiness by the blurring words on the pages and the dull hum of the fan.

At one point, he’d just about nodded off when suddenly, the light footsteps he’d recognize anywhere pattered up the stairs and to their doorstep.

“Hoo hoo!” piped up a familiar voice.

Mrs. Hudson entered and took in the scene of the two of them on the couch. John paused in his rubbing of Sherlock’s feet to look up and smile at her.

“Oh, sorry to disturb you boys,” she said, looking truly apologetic.

“No worries,” John said. He lightly shook Sherlock’s foot to wake him.

“Hm? Huh?” he said, rising from his dizzied state, his curly hair slightly sticking up in the back from laying on the pillow for so long.

“What is it?” John asked.

“There’s a car waiting for the two of you outside. I was told to come fetch you.”

Sherlock groaned and flopped back down with a forearm thrown over his eyes.

“It’s just stupid Mycroft. You can ignore him. John ,” he said insistently while flexing and pointing his toes to prompt him into resuming his massage.

Almost as if on cue, Sherlock’s phone pinged in his pocket. He rolled his eyes and fished it out. As soon as he opened the text, his eyes widened at what he saw.

“What?” John said. Sherlock passed him the phone. He looked down on the screen, and what he saw somehow made his heart freeze in his chest and pound harder at the same time.

We’ve got her. -M.

John and Sherlock’s eyes met over the phone for a brief moment before they simultaneously leapt off the sofa to retrieve their coats and shoes.

*****

The car that had picked them up at Baker Street halted to a stop and allowed Sherlock and John to climb out. The vehicle’s windows were tinted, preventing them from seeing where they were being taken. All they knew was that their destination was about twenty minutes from their flat. The driver, assumedly under Mycroft’s orders, had also refused to reveal any further information.

At last, Sherlock stepped out of the car and found himself standing next to John in the center of a large, unpaved, dirt clearing. Looking around, he saw that there were no buildings anywhere to be seen except for the one they had pulled up to.

Mycroft was standing nearby in the clearing, waiting for them with two suited agents on either side of him. Sherlock and John approached him as the driver took off.

“Where are we?” John asked him, when they were within ear shot.

“An off-the-charts prison of sorts. A place to temporarily keep detainees while we decide what to do with them. It’s proven useful more than once when special circumstances arise.”

Beside him, John held his hand over his eyes to shield it from the sun and looked the building up and down. From the outside, it appeared to be some kind of remade warehouse that someone had dropped in the middle of nowhere.

But Sherlock knew exactly what this building was. Mycroft had brought him here after he’d shot Magnussen not too long ago. It was the place he’d been forced to stay while his exile was being arranged. He preferred not to think about that short period of time in his life, and he slightly hated his brother for bringing him back here with no prior warning. He repressed a shudder as he himself panned his gaze up the solid, windowless walls. Memories swarmed in his mind’s eye, taking him back to the sleepless nights he’d spent here, curled up on the cold, metal floors scratching manically at his forearms as he tried to suppress the urges he hadn’t felt in such a long time. Or even worse were the nights that he did sleep, when the metal bars surrounding him took him back to Serbia, and he’d wake up in a cold sweat on the ground, shivering and blinking away the afterimages of burly arms holding bloodied whips and filthy boots stomping towards him.

“And this is where you’re keeping her?”

John’s voice snapped him out of his trance. He shook his head clear of the dark memories that had temporarily transported him to another, most unpleasant time in his life.

“For the time being,” Mycroft replied.

“What will happen to her?”

“The extent of her crimes are still being investigated, but it’s looking like either solitary confinement or maximum security prison. The tricky part is convicting her without digging up any crimes you or Sherlock have committed throughout the years of your association with her.”

“Oh, come on. Surely breaking and entering a couple of times and getting into some fights don’t put us in the same category as being a paid assassin and stealing multiple identities.”

“Don’t forget murder,” Mycroft said snidely, looking over at Sherlock.

Sherlock stepped in closer to him. “That was entirely different and you know it,” he snarled.

Mycroft ignored him. “The point is, my team has gone to a lot of trouble over the years covering up for you two. That is why we cannot simply turn Ms. Morstan over to the justice system. It would no doubt land the both of you in jail for some time as well.”

Sherlock and John exchanged an uncomfortable look. Mycroft turned on the spot and led them inside the building. They were taken through a series of twisting and turning hallways, until they they approached a large bolted door. Mycroft punched in a code and let them in.

They stepped into a large, circular room. About a quarter of it was divided by a glass barrier. On the other end of the glass was Mary Morstan, in her temporary place of containment.

“I see you’ve upgraded the place,” Sherlock muttered to Mycroft as he took in her nicely padded cot, cushioned bench, and clean sink and toilet. “Or did you just make sure to give me the most miserable, filthy, barred up cell in the entire facility?”

Mycroft glared at him for a moment and stepped aside, allowing them to enter the room. Mary stood from her bench and walked over to the glass that separated them. Her hair was dyed brown and straightened, vastly different from the blonde curls they had grown accustomed to. She wore a plain white shirt and trousers, and most noticeably, her belly lacked the round bulge she’d been carrying for the past eight months.

The sight of her filled Sherlock with hatred so raw and powerful, he wished for nothing other than to knock down the glass barrier himself so he could make her feel every bit of pain she’d inflicted on John. No punishment would be enough for her. She’d come so close to taking him away permanently, right when they’d found each other again. That could never be forgiven.

He tore his seething gaze away from her and looked to John instead, checking to see if he was okay. John’s eyes narrowed and fixed themselves directly on her, as if he were putting a puzzle together. Sherlock reached out to place his hand comfortingly on his shoulder, but John walked forward out of his reach before he could. Sherlock hovered back by the doorway while John fearlessly approached the glass.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said beside him. “A quick word, please.”

For a moment, Sherlock was hesitant about leaving John alone with her. He felt an instinctual need to stand between the two of them and guard him from her sight. But he put his mind at ease knowing that two armed agents were present as well as the sturdy glass wall that he’d fantasized about smashing only a few moments ago.

He nodded his head and ducked around the corner with Mycroft.

*****

John and Mary stood directly across from each other, separated only by the glass barrier. For a moment, the two of them simply stared into one another’s eyes, curious and stubborn at the same time. Between them passed an entire history of dinner dates, budding love, catty fights, pillow talk, and delayed proposals. A marriage that happened so fast it was like John had found himself trapped in the passenger seat of a car driving full speed at a destination he didn’t want - had never wanted - to arrive to. Yet at any point he could have opened the door and tumbled out, but he just . . . didn’t.

A pregnancy. The revelation of everything they had built together being a lie. The sting of betrayal. The bullet in his best friend’s chest. Rebuilding their relationship on a foundation of lies, fabricated performances, and a mutually agreed upon silencing of their past issues.

The birth of a child.

John’s eyes raked over the face of the woman who had once filled a gaping, aching hole in his heart, who’d made him laugh when he thought he’d never even smile again, who had come to him at his lowest point and filled the dark, endless void in his life with jokes, affection, and companionship. He looked at her - same grayish-green eyes, same rosy cheeks and lips - but the woman standing in front of him whose icy stare pierced deep into his own gaze couldn’t have been further from the one who had once convinced him he could maybe - maybe - be happy again.

“You look . . . different,” John said eventually, his voice deep and gravelly.

“I am different,” she replied, sounding eerily monotone.

They stared at each other for several more moments, both stubbornly refusing to be the one to crack first. Eventually, John gave in.

“So was it worth it?”

Mary cocked her head at him, her eyes remaining cold and distant.

“Trying to kill me so you could run back to your old life with Moriarty? Leaving everything behind so you could have fun killing people again? How many kills did you cram in before you got caught?

Mary watched him, remaining unaffected while he silently seethed at her.

“Are you done venting your anger at me? Are you ready to have a proper conversation like a grown up now?”

“Don’t,” John growled quietly. “Don’t do that. Don’t you talk down to me.”

The corner of Mary’s lip twitched up in sinister pleasure. John kicked himself for letting her know she had gotten to him. He shut his mouth and allowed several moments of tense, battling silence to pass between them. It was something of a competition: Don’t be the first to give in. Don’t speak unless you know your words will give you the upper hand. John strategically kept silent. He didn’t trust himself to not say something that would give her the advantage.

Finally Mary spoke up again. “I suppose congratulations are in order,” she said. “Haven’t you heard the news?”

John’s eyes darkened thunderously at the mention of their daughter.

“It’s a baby girl. Just like you wanted. Does that make you happy?”

John’s chest heaved as he fought to contain the bubble of anger brimming over inside him.

“I only ever wanted to make you happy,” she added, her voice dripping with mock sarcasm.

“Stop it,” he said simply. “You don’t get to talk about her. You didn’t even want her anymore once you couldn’t use her as emotional bait. You gave birth and abandoned her like she was nothing. Didn’t even give her a name.”

“Rosamund.”

“What?”

“Her name is Rosamund. But I suppose you wouldn’t have bothered to know that.”

“You named her after yourself? Real smart, considering there’s hundreds of people out there who’d love to kill you or anyone close to you. Just like how you killed their loved ones. Great mothering.”

“Oh, and you’re being such an upstanding father now, are you?” Her cold facade had cracked. Her voice elevated and she grew more visibly furious by the second. “Sitting by her bedside while the doctors try to save her? Treasuring every moment that you can with her before it’s too late? Yes, I can see that. Well done.”

“Stop it,” he said again.

“Don’t kid yourself, John. You can try to take the moral high ground all you want, but you’re no better than me.”

“That’s not true. I’m nothing like you.”

She cocked her head at him once again and opened her mouth to reply, but her eyes were drawn to something over his shoulder.

At that moment, a hand was placed on the small of his back. He turned to find Sherlock standing beside him, looking resigned and reluctant about something, but determined nonetheless.

“Mary,” he began slowly. “Mycroft and I are . . . willing to make you a deal.”

She raised an eyebrow at the same time that John looked at him incredulously. Sherlock looked unsure of the words leaving his mouth even as he said them.

“If you cooperate with us, Mycroft can essentially erase all records of you as Mary Morstan. We’ll let you go, and you’ll flee the country and rebuild your life again under a new identity that will be provided to you.”

John leaned closer to him, trying to catch his eye. “Sherlock, what-?”

Sherlock cut him off with a look, sharp yet understanding. A look that said, “I know it’s not ideal, but it’s our only option.”

“A clean start,” Mary said.

“Precisely. The one condition is that Mycroft’s intelligence team will still be aware of your location and name. He will keep an eye on you to ensure that you do not continue to kill or spy for money. As long as you stay clean of that lifestyle, you will be left alone entirely.”

“Who says I want a new identity?”

“I assume it’s preferable to a lifetime in prison.”

Mary pondered for a moment, looking back and forth between the two of them. “So, you’ll give me this in return for what exactly?”

“Information. On Moriarty. We know you know where he is and what he’s doing. If you cooperate with us, we’ll let you go as soon as he’s caught. You’ll be out of our hair, and we’ll be out of yours.”

Mary nearly scoffed at the proposal. “And you don’t think he’d know that I betrayed him? You don’t think he’d be able to come after me?”

John intervened, leaning in close to the glass to speak to her. “Mary, listen. He is offering you your one and only chance at freedom. You help us catch him, then you get the hell away from us and live a clean, normal life. That’s the offer. But if you’d rather stay here and rot away in prison, then be my fucking guest.”

Mary’s glared at him for a moment, the facade flickering in and out as she struggled to balance the cold, detached act she was putting on for Sherlock with her twisted and tangled feelings towards John.

“Mary,” Sherlock said. “All we need for right now is his location. Can you give us that much to start with? Do you know where he is right now?”

Mary looked between the two of them again before the corner of her lip raised almost imperceptibly.

“I do.”

Chapter Text

“Sherlock, wait! Hang on.”

John jogged down the hallway trying to catch up with the long-legged madman. The moment Mary had finished speaking, Sherlock had whipped out his phone, whirled around, and vanished from the room to follow her instructions.

“Sherlock, what was that about? Since when did we ever agree to negotiate with her?”

“Never. But now we know where to find Moriarty.”

“No, no. Hang on just a minute. For the past few weeks you’ve been muttering in your sleep about finally tracking her down. And now you’re okay with letting her go? What brought about this change of heart?”

Sherlock stopped abruptly, causing John’s nose to smash right into his back.

“Ow! Jesus, fuck,” he groaned, rubbing it. Sherlock turned to face him.

“John, trust me. I want nothing less than the most brutal vengeance for what she did to you. If it was entirely up to me, that’s what she’d get, by my own hands no less. But Mycroft proposed the idea of using her knowledge to our advantage. I was initially against it, but then decided that it would be selfish to refuse.”

“Selfish?”

“I wanted to go after her myself to satisfy my own need for retribution. To appease my own anger. If you remember, I was previously exiled for shooting a man point blank, for your sake. If I actually carried out any of the actions I’ve been imagining the past few weeks, I would no doubt get a punishment far worse than that. You’d be left alone. Again. All because I felt the need to take justice into my own hands.”

“Sherlock . . .” So this was all about protecting him. Just as everything Sherlock did always was.

“Plus, at least this is for the greater good,” Sherlock continued.  “We’ll find Moriarty, and Mary will be out of our hair,” Sherlock continued.

“Alive and free  and out of our hair. Are you sure you’re alright with that?” Cause I’m sure as hell not,  John thought.

Sherlock pursed his lips for a moment, looking at a spot just past John’s ear.

“No. But it’s the best we can do right now.”

John sighed and lowered his eyes as he considered Sherlock’s reasoning. He supposed it would be counterproductive to have Mary in their custody and not at least attempt to use her intel to their advantage. Their other options were to either lock her away or kill her. Neither of those options helped them in the slightest in their quest to finally bring down Moriarty. As long as Moriarty continued to be as suspiciously quiet as he was being right now, John reluctantly agreed that they had no other choice than to give Mycroft’s idea a shot.

Sherlock saw John come to terms with his decision to negotiate with Mary and nodded.  

When he turned back around and continued towards the exit, John fell into step beside him.

“Sherlock, listen. One more thing. While we were in there, Mary said something that got me thinking.”

“What is it?”

“We were talking, and she brought up, you know, the baby. And . . . well, I think I need to go see her. Once at least.”

Sherlock’s pace slowed down fractionally as he processed John’s words.

“It doesn’t feel right to leave her alone,” John continued. “Rosamund, I mean. I suppose I should start calling her that.”

Sherlock looked down at him skeptically. John could practically feel those nearly colorless, sea-tinted eyes reading him, dissecting him like an intricate puzzle.

“Don’t let her get into your head, John,” he said conclusively. “Don’t let her make you feel bad for the choices you make. This is entirely your decision. Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes, I’m sure. It’s the right thing to do.”

His affirmation felt solid as it came out of his mouth. The decision thawed a bit of the icy tightness that had coated the inside of his chest ever since hearing the news of his daughter. He had thought staying away was the best thing for him in the long-run. That never looking upon the small, suffering face of his newborn baby girl would prevent him from forming an attachment and save him from the heartbreak that would surely ensue afterwards. But the child was an innocent. None of the mess with Mary was her fault, and he could not let her suffer alone simply for the sake of safeguarding his own heart. If it tore him apart to do this, then so be it. He’d do it for her. She deserved that much at least.

Sherlock looked into his eyes as if he could see and understand his exact thought process. “Very well,” he said softly. “We’ll sort out this business with Moriarty today, and make a trip out to Cardiff tomorrow.”

Sherlock turned and continued for the exit. For a moment, John hovered back, watching his long, confident strides and the stiff posture of his back all while warmth bubbled up in the depths of his heart. His lips upturned almost invisibly as his legs began to carry forward to follow him out.

Outside the building, another cab was waiting for them, ready to take them to the location Mary had directed them to.

“You’ve got your gun?” Sherlock asked, climbing into the backseat.

“Of course.”

*****

The cab pulled up to a secluded warehouse and let them out. Much like the prison, it was centered on a dirt clearing with no other roads, buildings, or signs in sight. The only thing that was missing from the scene was a bundle of tumbleweed bouncing across their line of sight.

The warehouse itself appeared withered down and unmaintained from the outside. The small, rectangular windows at the very top were dark, not giving them a single trace of light coming from within it.

For a moment, Sherlock was skeptical that this was actually the place Moriarty was hiding out in, but he shook himself out of it. Mary had no reason to lie to them, as she knew that she would not be released until he was captured or dead. Preferably the latter, since being contained hardly ever seemed to put a halt in his antics before.

Just as he was about to stride towards the side entrance closest to them, John’s arm shot forward to catch his arm and hold him back.

“Sherlock, wait. Reinforcements are coming, remember?”

“Unnecessary. Why must we wait for them to come do a job we can do ourselves. You’re armed, are you not?”

“I don’t think we should go in ourselves.”

Sherlock slipped his arm out of John’s grip and continued forward. “Then you can wait here for the inadequate officers who will most likely force you to remain safely back here while they go in to do the dangerous work.”

Sherlock kept his eyes forward, knowing he’d hit every single one of John’s buttons - danger, his aversion to being coddled, his need to be involved, and the fact that waiting would mean allowing Sherlock to enter the warehouse alone and unarmed. He resisted the smirk playing at his lips when he heard John swear and jog up the dirt clearing to catch up to him.

“You don’t think this could be a trap, do you?” John asked as a last resort.

“Unlikely. She would have needed to contact someone outside her room to arrange it, which she couldn’t possibly have done. And more unlikely considering she didn’t know we were coming in to question her about Moriarty’s whereabouts until we showed up. And even more unlikely considering we didn’t know we’d be questioning her until minutes before it happened.”

John scanned the empty, desolate grounds of the warehouse skeptically. Sherlock knew he had every right and reason to remain mistrustful of Mary, but he also knew with certainty that there was no possible way she could have coordinated a trap for them from within her glass cell.

John brushed forward in front of Sherlock and removed his gun from his jacket, clicking a bullet into the chamber. Sherlock followed closely behind until they had arrived at the side door. John lowered his gun and ever so slowly pushed the heavy door open. The unused, rusted hinges screamed in protest of the unexpected movement. The moment the gap was wide enough to step through, John advanced with his gun in front of him, scanning the dark interior for threats.

Sherlock stepped in behind him. From what he could see, it was just an empty warehouse. Old pipes and metal shelves lined the walls, boards and beams on the ceiling seemed ready to cave in at any moment, and not a single thread of light penetrated the thick, cement walls except for the few narrow beams of daylight coming in from the small windows– which were doing very little to illuminate the place at all.

They waited in the darkness for something to happen. A moment passed. Then ten. The weighted silence seemed to root them to the spot, as though a single movement or exhale would set off a minefield. The longer they waited with no signs of other life making themselves knows, the more Sherlock felt the increasing weight of disappointment. However, John beside him remained alert and stiff-armed holding his gun, as though he expected Moriarty to step out from behind one of the metal poles at any moment.

But Sherlock knew. There were no signs of another living being anywhere in this warehouse. They were completely alone.

“John,” he said, breaking the unpromising silence. John seemed to be slowly accepting that there was, in fact, no one else there. He slowly lowered his gun to his waist, and then his arm dropped loosely to his side.

“She was lying,” he said, shaking his head. Sherlock could practically see the fuming frustration he felt within himself. “She was fucking lying.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Sherlock offered, looking around desperately for any sign that Moriarty had ever stepped foot in his warehouse, even if it wasn’t at all recent. “Maybe he was here at some point.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Sherlock. She’s a liar. This is what she does .”

Sherlock walked in a half-circle around John, turning as he did to double check every corner of the warehouse with his phone’s flashlight, though the light it provided did not reach very far. He didn’t want to admit it, but the possibility that Mary had completely misled them intentionally was looking more and more plausible.

“At least we didn’t release her yet,” John said. “Don’t know why she bothered with all this. She knows she’s not going anywhere until we actually get him.”

Sherlock began walking back to John, feeling defeated and disheartened by this setback. Not only was it a complete waste of their time, but now they would find it difficult to trust any information Mary gave them again, which would only cause further delays.

He turned back to tell John that he was most likely right about Mary lying, but stopped at the look that had just dawned on John’s petrified, ghost-white face.

“Sh-Sherlock,” he choked, not looking directly into his eyes, but instead on a point somewhere on his forehead.

“What?” he asked. But a moment later, his heart froze in his chest and his blood ran icy cold in his veins.  

A small red dot hovered directly over John’s heart, placed perfectly for an instant kill shot.

His eyes shot back up to meet John’s horror-stricken gaze. At the same time, they whirled around, stanced back to back in preparation to defend themselves. Sherlock desperately looked up and all around the warehouse ceiling for the source of the red lights. John had likewise raised his gun back up, trying to find a spot to aim.

It had been a long time since they were caught in a situation like this. Almost seven years, if memory served him right, since he’d laid eyes on John Watson in that Semtex vest – all doubts of his friend’s loyalty flooding away instantly and replaced with a heart-wrenching, blood-curdling fear he’d never felt before, let alone in regards to someone else’s safety. Seven years since those tiny, red laser lights on John’s chest had startled him into realizing that the armor he had built up over the years of solitude and practiced coarseness did, in fact, have a kink in it - a gaping hole that left him vulnerable and subject to all kinds of weakness, blackmail, and manipulation at the hands of anyone who figured out what it was. Seven years since he’d realized that that crack in his façade, that kink in his armor, went by the name of John Watson, and he was deeply in love with him.

Sherlock swallowed thickly as he desperately searched the warehouse high and low for the source of the red lights that now targeted John’s heart, and by extension his own, once again. He felt his throat constricting with each shaky breath he took, letting in less and less air as his heart pounded with increasing insistence in his chest.  

“Sherlock, up there!” John said.

Sherlock whirled around to find John’s gun aimed somewhere up towards a ceiling corner. Sure enough, two small, red lights greeted them through the sliver of a gap between two beams, though it was too dark to make out any human-like figures up there as well. John closed an eye and tilted his head as he perfected his aim. However, a moment later, the lights flickered out and vanished.

Confused, Sherlock looked down to John’s chest, and was relieved to find that it was no longer targeted by a red light. Judging by the look on John’s face, his forehead was also free from the sniper’s aim.

“That was odd,” John said, lowering his gun cautiously.

A moment, later, they jumped back at the sight of a single red dot returning, this time on the floor by their feet, chasing upward and then back to the ground, then vanishing from sight once again. Looking up to where the lights had come from, they saw bright flashes of red appearing and flickering a few more times before the deafening crack of a gunshot rang throughout the warehouse.

Sherlock and John both ducked at the sound and covered their ears, looking to each other to make sure they hadn’t been hit. They waited a moment, and were only met with the resounding, deadly echoes of the gunshot whispering through the warehouse. The red lights remained vanished from sight as did any sign that other humans were present besides themselves. John aimed his gun towards the corner for several long moments, but no other movement came.

“Do you think they’re gone?”

“Most likely.”

“Where could they have possibly run to?”

“I don’t know.”

“Should we check it out?”

Sherlock considered this. If the snipers were indeed gone, there was nothing for them to investigate. If they were still waiting in the dark, then any attempt they made to get closer would for sure get them killed instantly. Sherlock signaled John by touching his arm and together, they began slowly backing up towards the exit, never once taking their eyes from the spot.

Suddenly, nearly ten armed officers burst in the same entrance they’d come through, guns at the ready.

“Where the hell have you all been?”

“Are you two okay? Did someone get shot?” one of them asked.

“No, we’re fine,” John said in slight annoyance of their tardiness, ignoring the I-told-you-so look Sherlock was giving him. “There were two snipers up there a moment ago,” he said, pointing up to where they’d seen the lights.  “That’s where the shot came from. But we don’t think-”

The officer interrupted him to bark orders at five of his colleagues to check around the back of the building. He sent the remaining four to find a way upstairs to the place the snipers had been hiding.

“Alright. You two,” he said, turning to John and Sherlock. “Out.”

“Excuse us?” John asked, exasperated that they were being sent away once they no longer had useful to share. “And what on earth-?”

“Out now! Wait by the cars. You could have been killed.”

Sherlock pulled him by his arm towards the side door. John yanked his arm out of his grip and stormed forward himself, with Sherlock following closely behind.

“What the hell,” John said, once they were outside.

“Do I need to say I told you so?”

“Try it and see what happens,” John growled. Once they had almost reached the police cars, he turned and looked back to the building.

“I knew it,” John breathed, shaking his head as he put his gun away inside his jacket. “I knew it was a setup.”

“It seems you were correct in that assumption.”

“What was that?”

“You were right.”

“Damn. I should mark this day on the calendar.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched at the brief attempt at humor to deescalate the situation.

“How the hell didn’t we get killed in there?” John asked. “Were those snipers just lousy as hell at their job, or what?”

“No, I don’t think so. Something else was going on that we couldn’t see.”

“Do you think one of them was shot? Or that it was a misfire?”

“Possibly. Or perhaps they were attacked by a third party. Either way, we were in no position to try to run after them or shoot back.  They’d have instantly killed us.”

“But they didn’t shoot. Even when they had clear kill shots to both of us.”

Yes , Sherlock thought. That was the part he couldn’t wrap his mind around. It simply didn’t make sense that the snipers would make their intent to kill known and then disappear. The shot they heard could have come from them or from someone else.

After it seemed like they’d been waiting by the cars for awhile, one of the officers came out of the warehouse and approached them.

“Well, we did a full search, gentlemen. Doesn’t seem like anyone was there.”

“Oh I see. So a ghost shot at us.”

John nudged Sherlock to tell him to behave.

“If there were any snipers there before, they are gone now, but we’ll be keeping an eye on the place. It’s best we take you two home,” the officer continued, ignoring Sherlock’s quip.

Sherlock rolled his eyes far too dramatically as he followed John to one of the waiting police cars. As he let John climb into the backseat first, he felt a soft vibration in his pocket and lingered back for a moment to fish his phone out of it. He had one new text message from an unknown number.

A little birdie told me you want to come out and play.

Sherlock’s blood turned to ice once again at the sight of the words burning bright on his screen.

“Sherlock, everything okay?” John asked, poking his head out of the open car door. At the same time, his phone buzzed in his hand with another text.

Come out, come out wherever you are. You know I’m always up for some fun and games! And I know you are too, Sir-Boast-a-lot. xxx JM

Sherlock pinched his eyes shut and suppressed a shiver as he was taken back to the night before one of the worst days of his life. When Moriarty’s face had appeared on a screen inside a cab and relayed to him the story of his reputation being systematically worn down. How Sherlock had stopped the cab and fled out, only to be greeted by his face again in the driver’s seat.

“No charge,” he’d said smugly as he’d driven off, leaving him dumbfounded and disoriented in the streets.  

“Sherlock?” John repeated, louder this time.

Speechless, Sherlock handed his phone over to him with a numb hand. John scanned the words on the screen and looked up at him in combined horror and disbelief.

*****

Back at 221B, Sherlock lay on the sofa with his eyes closed and his hands steepled under his chin. Meanwhile, John paced back and forth on the open floor, venting his frustration.

“I mean, how the hell could she have arranged a trap for us from her prison cell?”

“I don’t know.”

“There’s no way she could have coordinated with Moriarty. Is there?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“But he’s obviously involved in this.”

“It would appear so.”

John scoffed to himself. “This puts quite a damper in our search for him, doesn’t it. How are we supposed to trust any information she gives us now?”

“I don’t know. John, I think we’re overthinking this. Perhaps Mary isn’t the one who set up the trap for us at all.”

“Then who did?”

“I don’t know, but it’s one possibility to consider.” Sherlock sighed restlessly and ran a hand through his curls. He felt like he’d said I don’t know more times today than he ever had in his entire life. He didn’t like not knowing, and he most certainly didn’t like admitting it. In front of him, John had stopped to consider this new line of thinking and then resumed his pacing.

“Unless . . .” He stopped in his tracks once again. “Do you think maybe the trap wasn’t meant for us in the first place?”

“What makes you say that?”

“They aimed at us but didn’t shoot. Maybe once they saw who we were . . . Stop looking at me like that! I’m just throwing out possibilities.”

Sherlock sucked in his cheeks to hide his grin. He loved it when John tried. Not to be mistaken - he respected John’s ideas and input. The man had definitely had his fair share of strokes of genius at the most opportune moments. He was an excellent bouncing board for theories and sometimes asked just the right question to guide Sherlock to an answer that should have been stupidly obvious. But most of the time, when it came to actual deductions, it was simply adorable and endearing to watch him make the effort.

“It was meant for us, John,” he said, biting his smile. “They definitely meant to shoot us, but didn’t for some reason.”

“Someone got shot though.”

“Yes,” he trailed off. As he closed his eyes, he heard John drop into a desk chair with a defeated sigh.

Meanwhile, he blocked out the sounds of John drumming his fingers restlessly on the table and retreated into his mind palace. He quieted the numerous screaming voices in his head, each one proposing a different stupid, disposable theory to explain the day’s events, until he was left with only blessed silence.  

He wove through several darkened hallways before approaching a massive, bolted door. He twisted it open and found himself in a circular padded cell. Crouched in the corner, chained to the wall in a straitjacket, was Jim Moriarty. Jim’s dark, empty eyes slowly turned on him as he approached.  

“Jim Moriarty,” he drawled as he stalked around the cell. That hooded, murderous gaze never once left his eyes. “Where are you?”

Jim’s lip curled up into a sinister smile.

“Sherlock,” came a warm voice, booming overhead. “Sherlock!”

A hand was suddenly shaking him. He opened his eyes to find himself blinking up at John. “What is it? I was just settling in!”

“Lestrade is here.”

“What? Why?” He sat up, and his attention was drawn to the flashing red and blue lights coming from outside his window. Turning his head to the entrance of their flat, he found the detective inspector standing apprehensively in the doorway.

“What happened?” His mind raced with possibilities.

Someone was killed at the warehouse and they are taking us in for questioning . . . They somehow caught Moriarty . . . Moriarty has killed someone . . .

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, wiping his brow. “I need to escort you and John to Bart’s right away.”

“Why?” John asked, as Sherlock rose to stand beside him.

For a moment, Lestrade’s gaze flickered between them, as though he was unsure who to focus on. He finally settled on John and addressed him directly.

“You need to identify the body of Mary Morstan.”

Chapter Text

As soon as they climbed into Lestrade’s police car, Sherlock reached over and took ahold of John’s hand. Without meeting his eye, John gave it a squeeze in return and turned to look out the window. They remained that way throughout the whole ride - Sherlock looking straight ahead, John facing away, and their hands clasped together between them on the soft, leather seat.

The ride passed in silence, and soon they were pulling up at St. Bart’s hospital. Lestrade got out of the driver’s seat, and with a stiff nod, led them to the morgue. Sherlock could feel John’s hand quickly growing clammier and dampening with sweat inside his own palm. He held on tight and walked them through the large double doors.

Inside, Molly was hovering over a body which was covered by a thin, white sheet. Next to her, leaning on his umbrella and gazing towards them, was Mycroft.

“You,” Sherlock scowled. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Never mind that,” John said, tugging Sherlock’s hand as he approached the body.

But Sherlock did not miss the way Mycroft’s eyes followed John with the aura of looming thunderclouds. He squinted at his brother in suspicion and then turned his attention towards the corpse in front of them.

“What happened?” he asked Molly. Before she could reply, Mycroft butted in.

“She was found in her cell, only a few hours after we all left,” he said. “Lying on the ground with a bullet in the center of her forehead.”

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade all looked at each other curiously.

“We checked the cameras,” Mycroft continued. “They were all temporarily disabled. There is an exact half hour where no footage can be recovered. No signs of a break-in, either. All the guards on duty to watch her were temporarily sedated and don’t remember a thing. Whoever did this was very thorough.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly. While he was of course glad that Mary was out of their lives and could never again hurt them, a part of him was let down at the fact that he never gotten retribution for what she did to John. Someone else had beaten him to it, had gotten the sweet pleasure of pulling the trigger and watching the life fade from her eyes. While it was true that he had agreed to make a deal that involved letting her go, what he had told John was the truth; he was not satisfied with that turn of events. Never was. It did not bring him closure or happiness, but he had agreed to it for the greater good. They were supposed to find Moriarty and it all would have been worth it. But Mary had lied. They got nothing out of that deal, and now she was dead by someone else’s hand.

Sherlock bit his lip in barely contained frustration and clenched his fist to stop himself from knocking over Molly’s file cabinet in a fit of rage. Beside him, John was staring down at the white sheet, stiff and unmoving as the corpse underneath it.

“Show us the body,” he said firmly.

Molly nodded and pulled the cover down to the corpse’s collarbone. The five of them peered down at the face of Mary Morstan, features relaxed of the scornful smirk that she usually wore, and skin flushed white as the sheet covering it. Her damp, dyed brown hair laid flat on her scalp and pinned underneath her head. Her lips were colorless, chapped, and just slightly parted from the total relaxation of her jaw. Most noticeably though, was a single, dark purple and black circle drilled directly into the center of her forehead.

Beside him, Sherlock heard John exhale deeply through his mouth. Turning to look, he found him peering down at her face, his expression resigned and worn.

“John?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock looked around and found the other three faces looking to John expectantly, waiting for him to confirm that this body was, in fact, Mary Morstan.

John closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again, this time with a hint of determination and acceptance hidden behind the exhaustion that had taken over his features.

He opened his mouth as if preparing to speak, but froze before any words had come out.  His eyebrows furrowed as he squinted down at her once more. He leaned down and scrutinized every miniscule detail and feature of her face, his nose almost touching hers.

“John?” Sherlock asked. Combined suspicion and confusion took over John’s features as his eyes raked over her face once more and then panned down the rest of her covered body.

“Can you turn her over?” John asked.

“Erm, of course,” Molly said, a bit uncertainly. The metal slab the corpse was laid on was very narrow. Lestrade gave her a hand lifting the sheet while she maneuvered the body, gently turning it over without pushing it off the surface.

“Could you lower the sheet a tad more?” John asked.

Molly slipped the it down the body’s back until it was settled around the hips. John gasped at what he saw. Sherlock looked back and forth between him and the expanse of plain, pale skin before his eyes, trying to discern whatever was of significance to him.  

“That’s not her,” he said with finality.

“What?” Lestrade and Sherlock said at the same time.

“That’s not Mary. She had a tattoo right there, on her lower back.”

Sherlock squinted down at the corpse again. Nothing, not even the smallest freckle, marked the smooth, sickly white skin of the corpse. With a shock, Sherlock remembered the first direct conversation he had ever had with Mary while standing outside the Landmark restaurant and holding a bloody tissue to his nose. He envisioned the warm smile she’d given him as his mind had supplied rapid-fire deductions about her, one of them being that she had a secret tattoo. He’d ignored that tiny detail, just as he’d ignored his initial judgment of her being a liar. Stupid, stupid . How could he have never paid that any attention?

“Blimey,” Lestrade said. “Did you know Mary had a tattoo?” he asked Molly. She shook her head. “Do you mind, er . . . if we ask, just out of curiosity-”

“Greg!” Molly scolded quietly.

“It’s alright,” John said. “It’s a daisy. A small daisy, barely larger than a coin.”

“Why a daisy?”

“Well, when we were first, you know, together , she told me her best friend in the orphanage was named Daisy. She was all she had - the first person she ever thought of as family.”

“That’s . . . sweet?” Molly said, looking confused as to how she should react.

“Well, that’s not all. Mary told me the rest of the story later. After we found out everything. When they were twelve, Daisy had gotten adopted into a family called the Jensens, and they never spoke again. Mary was torn about it for a long time. Then years later, when she was working for Moriarty, she was assigned to murder their entire family - including Daisy - as emotional bait for their real target.”

“My god,” Lestrade breathed. “And she did it?”

John nodded once.

“Well,” Mycroft said, sounding mildly surprised. “It appears whoever had arranged this was not as thorough as they’d assumed.”

John stepped back from the corpse, running a hand through his hair.

“My god. Sherlock. She’s faked her death,” he said in disbelief.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock agreed, wondering how he was just now coming to this conclusion.

“Sherlock, that means she’s not in the prison. The body they found this morning in her cell was not her.”

Anxiety slowly trickled through his body and tightened around his chest as he realized what John was saying, the full reality of their situation hitting him with full force.

“Mary has escaped,” he breathed. “She’s run off and we have no idea where she is.”

“Nor Moriarty,” John said.

Chills trickled down his spine. Mary and Moriarty running loose at the same time. They had no idea where either of them were, or what their next moves would be.

Sherlock brought his fingertips to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut. He tried refocusing to come up with any possible strategy of finding either of them, but only one thought thrummed through the blood in his head like a mantra.

John.

John was in danger. Mary and Moriarty had both targeted him in the past, either with intent to kill him or to just to lure Sherlock out to come to his rescue. The risk to him was incalculable at the moment, given that he didn’t know what either of them were planning, whether they were working in unison at the moment, or whether they had reunited yet or not.

“Don’t know how much help my investigative team would be,” Lestrade said. “I could arrange a meeting for you two with them tomorrow if you’d like.”

“No, sorry,” John said. “Sherlock and I are making a trip out to Cardiff tomorrow. We’ll be back the day after though.

At this, Mycroft stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Ah, about that. Dr. Watson, I realize this is not the most opportune time to tell you, but I have, er, grave news regarding your dau-”

“Stop,” John said forcefully, putting a hand up to stop him from stepping closer to him. He blinked rapidly, looking as though he’d been slapped. “Stop right there.”

“Dr. Watson, I’m sorry but it is my unfortunate duty to inform you-”

“I said shut up!” John pressed his palms to his eyes for a moment. He shook his head, breathing shakily, and then stormed out of the room and disappeared around the hall.

The heavy door drifted closed behind him with a resounding slam. Sherlock, Lestrade, Molly, and Mycroft stared after him, the echoes of his departing footsteps ringing in their ears.

“Really now, was that entirely necessary?” Mycroft asked after several beats of incredibly uncomfortable silence had passed.

“Sorry, what’s going on?” Molly whispered, as though trying to make herself invisible while still asking her question.   

Sherlock pinched his eyes closed in contained fury. He whirled around until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Mycroft, scowling directly in his face and speaking through gritted teeth.

“If you must constantly barge into our lives to deliver news that no one wants to hear, then just once, in your pathetic, miserable life, could you do it with the slightest bit of delicacy and class?”

Mycroft gaped at him, affronted. “It’s hardly my fault that they couldn’t save his daughter’s life.”

Off to the side, Sherlock heard Molly gasp.

“No, but it is your fault that John is upset and in pain right now.”

Before Mycroft could reply, he whisked around and pushed himself between Lestrade and Molly to make a beeline directly to the door.

John was not to be found in any of the hallways, nor in the lab where they had met for the first time. With a moment of dawning realization, Sherlock suddenly knew exactly where he’d find him.  

*****

A few minutes later, Sherlock was climbing up the stairs he had ascended all those years ago and stepping onto the rooftop where he had taken the fall that had irreversibly changed the course of his life.

Around the corner, John was sitting with his back against the cement, his eyes looking straight ahead. Sherlock approached and lowered himself beside him, folding his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. For a few minutes, the two of them simply looked out onto the city surrounding them. Sherlock listened to the soft rumble of cars rushing by below them, the low drone of several combined conversations covered up by the wind hissing past their heads. He tapped his foot softly against the rooftop and tried his best not to picture the moment he’d stepped up here for the first time and seen Moriarty perched on the ledge.

A low panic dropped into his stomach as he was suddenly pulled back in time to the moment he’d held Moriarty by his shirt over that very ledge and realized that even then, he had no choice or control over the situation whatsoever. Sherlock could feel his pulse elevating - he had to pull himself back to reality. With great effort, he swallowed the memory, feeling like a he was forcing a ball of metal back down his throat, and blinked away his vision of Moriarty’s blood-covered, wide-eyed body splayed out on the floor.  

“Seems like so long ago, doesn’t it?” John asked suddenly, keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead. “But at the same time, being up here, it feels like only a moment ago,” he added in a hushed voice.

The demons that Sherlock thought he’d abolished years ago crept and crawled in the back of his mind and swarmed in the pit of his gut. Cold sweat pooled at the back of his neck as he eyed the spot where he’d stood as he peered over the edge and dialed John’s number.

Voices belonging to the ghosts of his past echoed hauntingly in his ears. Keep your eyes fixed on me.  

He shook them away and refocused on John.

“This is where I lost you,” John said. “I mean not here, obviously. I was down below. But here is where . . .” he trailed off and took in a shuddering breath. “And now I’ve lost her,” he added. “I didn’t even know her. I never saw her. Never got to see her.”

Sherlock kept his mouth shut and his arms around his knees, listening patiently as John narrated his thoughts.

“I wanted to.” He shook his head to himself. “I should have gone earlier. Don’t know what was wrong with me. Why I wanted to stay away. I guess I didn’t want to acknowledge the proof that that part of my life had happened. The part with her . I guess I saw Rosamund only as an extension of Mary, and failed to recognize that she was also an extension of me. And that I had a responsibility towards her.”

Sherlock lowered his head.

“That’s not who I wanted to be,” John continued. “The man who was afraid of seeing his own daughter on her deathbed because he couldn’t make peace with his past.”

“You’re not,” Sherlock said. “You had every intention to see her.”

“But not soon enough. And now I have to live with that. I wanted to be the man who put his loved one’s before himself. Before everything else. Who would sacrifice everything for them in a heartbeat. That’s who I want to be.”

“You are that man,” Sherlock said. “You’re that man for me.” John turned to look at him, and Sherlock was relieved to see that his eyes were free of the tears that usually welled up when these topics arose between them. “Aren’t you?” he asked.

John gazed up at him as though the entire universe and everything beyond had been concentrated into his eyes - had only ever existed in the hints of green and yellow hues swirling in his irises. “I try to be. I want to be.”

Sherlock leaned to the side and pressed his lips to his forehead, keeping them there for several long moments, and then reaching over to enclose John’s hand between his own.

“I don’t expect you to understand everything I’m going through right now, Sherlock,” he said. “Fuck, I don’t’ even understand it. My wife - a pathological liar - was dead, and then suddenly she wasn’t, and then the daughter I had with her is . . .” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “How the hell am I supposed to know what to feel about any of it? But you, Sherlock. You’ve been perfect throughout all of this. Just listening and being here with me. Thank you.”

He lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s knuckles, and then leaned his head down onto his shoulder. Sherlock didn’t know how long he sat there, letting John grieve quietly and privately, neither of them speaking or moving until the sky had darkened to a soft azure blue in front of them. After what could have been hours, John at last squeezed his hand once and lifted his head from his shoulder to indicate that he wanted to leave.

*****

That night, Sherlock stood in the warm glow of their living room lamp, violin perched under his chin and dressing gown slipping off his shoulder. With his eyes closed, he rocked back and forth to his low, soft melody, not wishing to wake John or Mrs. Hudson, but desperately needing to feel the hum of the comforting notes to help him organize his thoughts.

Mary and Moriarty had them trapped in a tight corner. It seemed they’d always had the upper hand since Moriarty had first entered their lives. He’d hooked Sherlock easily and reeled him in with the complexity and intricacy of the cases he’d designed. Then at the peak of his control over him, he’d forced him to surrender everything near and dear to him. To lie to John for two years as part of a grand scheme that Sherlock ultimately thought, once he returned, would chip away at their relationship until nothing was left. He’d sent Mary in to keep tabs on John. He’d lured them into a false sense of security by disappearing, but then returned to their lives to scramble it into utter chaos once more. They were firmly trapped in his grips and there was nothing he could do about it.

Sherlock thought back to all the other times he’d been utterly at Moriarty’s mercy, desperately trying to discern a pattern of any sort. The first time was at the swimming pool. Once John had pulled his coat aside to reveal the flashing lights of the Semtex vest, it was game over. Moriarty had the upper hand and would keep it until John was safe. Sherlock would have been willing to drown himself in that pool or put a bullet in his own head if it meant John would walk free.

The next time he’d been completely and utterly out of control was at the top of Bart’s hospital. When Moriarty had told him he had snipers placed on his loved ones, including John, he knew he would have done anything he’d asked him to. And he had. He’d made the phone call that had torn his heart from his chest and trampled it into the concrete. He’d stood on the ledge, spread his arms, and let himself fall. He’d hidden and listened to John’s choked pleads and his graveside speech. He’d vanished for two years without a single attempt to contact John and returned only when he had been absolutely certain he was no longer in any danger. Only Moriarty was capable of pulling his puppet strings and making him dance in every way he pleased.

And it was only because of one person.

Sherlock’s violin screeched to a sudden halt, cutting off his tune and leaving an unresolved melody resounding through the walls of their flat. He knew now what he needed to do, first and foremost, if they really were going to escape the taunting clutches of Moriarty alive.

*****

John was pulled rather abruptly out of his slumber by a large hand shaking his shoulder.

“Hm? Sh’lock. What is it?” he asked, mumbling into the darkness of their bedroom.

“John,” came a whisper close to his ear. “Get up. Grab some clothes. You need to come with me now.”

“What?” John fully turned around in the bed to blink up at Sherlock, who was perched on the edge leaning over him. “What’s wrong?”

“We need to leave Baker Street right now. Come on.”

John sat up. “Sherlock, what’s going on?” he asked, suddenly awake and alert.

“John, I just need you to trust me right now. Can do that?”

John’s eyes darted between Sherlock’s for a moment. Although he could only make out the soft outline of his head, he could still feel the urgency and desperation in his gaze.

“Yeah, all right.”  

*****

John had tried not to question why Sherlock was not packing a bag of clothes as well. He thought Sherlock could tell this was bothering him, in the way he avoided his eye and looked down apologetically as they tip-toed downstairs in the dark. John wasn't sure why they were walking so silently; Mrs. Hudson had left to visit an old friend that afternoon. There was no one else here that they needed to be considerate for. Sherlock opened the door for them both  and locked the flat door behind them.

He hailed the next cab that passed by, only a minute or so later. Once inside, John heard him give an address he had never heard before and again felt that any questions would be unwelcome. He reached over to take Sherlock’s hand in a gesture of comfort, but found that the detective’s arms were tightly coiled around his torso. His eyes were fixed out the window and his leg bounced rapidly with pent up restlessness as the cab lurched forward and took off. John returned his hand to his own lap, now starting to feel incredibly worried and uneasy about this whole situation. But what he’d said was true. He trusted Sherlock with his life, every day and every night.

*****

About ten minutes later, the cab pulled up to a quaint but unfamiliar street. Flats and shops lined the road, dimly illuminated by the orange glow of the streetlights. They paid the cabbie and climbed out the back door. John followed Sherlock up to the front door of the flat they’d pulled up to. At this point, he felt he was perfectly within reason to ask at least one question.

“Sherlock, where are we?” he whispered, feeling like he shouldn’t disturb the peaceful silence of the street.

“Shh,” Sherlock said and knocked swiftly on the door three times. John looked around, feeling oddly exposed and self-conscious about disturbing some poor sod at this ungodly hour. His eyes panned up and down the street as though someone would answer the knocks by stepping out from behind the bushes and approaching them.

Finally, a light flicked on under the door and it parted just enough to reveal one brown eye squinting out at them. The eye widened with recognition and the door swung open.

“Molly?”

“Shh!” came Sherlock’s harsh whisper.

Molly stood in the doorway, pulling her silk, pink robe around her yellow pajamas as she looked back and forth between the two of them. Her hair was tousled from her pillow and still slightly damp from a late night shower. Her eyes were darkened with sleep deprivation, still squinting and blinking from the brightness of the light she had turned on inside her own flat.

“Sherlock, John?” she said tiredly, greeting and asking at the same time.

“May we come in?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Come in,” she said. She widened the door to allow them room to step in. John was once again uncomfortably aware of the bag of clothes he was setting down by his feet while Sherlock remained empty handed beside him.

He scanned over her flat curiously. Now that he was here, it seemed slightly odd that they had been friends for seven years, and yet he’d never been here before. It was a decent size for one person. She had a spacious, well-finished kitchen that looked out onto a smaller, snug living room. There were two adjacent doors on the far wall, which he assumed were her bedroom and the loo. Coming from one of the bedrooms was the faint sound of deep snoring. 

Molly tied her robe’s sash around her waist and looked at them expectantly.

“Sorry for waking you,” John said, suddenly feeling horrible as he watched her trying and failing to swallow a yawn.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said. “What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

“Molly,” Sherlock said gently, stepping forward. “I need you to let John stay here for a little while.”

Molly turned to look at John at the same time John looked at Sherlock incredulously.

“Hang on a minute,” John said.

“It won’t be for long, I promise,” Sherlock continued, ignoring him. “But no one – no one – can know that he’s here. Would that be alright?”

She opened and closed her mouth a few times, obviously as stunned by this request as John was. “I – yes. Of course, he can stay for as long as he needs.”

“Good. And John,” he said, turning to him now. “You cannot, under any circumstances, leave this flat until you know it’s okay. Understand?”

“What does that mean? Sherlock, what’s going on?”

“Do you understand?”

“How will I know when it’s okay?”

“You’ll know. John , do I have your word?”

“Where are you going to go?”

“Do I have your word?”

“Yes. Sherlock, talk to me. Am I in danger?”

At this, Sherlock began fiddling with his coat and avoiding his eye.

“Hang on just a second, Sherlock,” John said more forcefully. “If I’m in danger, won’t keeping me here put Molly in danger as well?”

Sherlock pinched his eyes shut and lifted his hand to his temples as though his mind were overloading with information.

“No! I am certain that if you stay here and Molly keeps your location confidential, you will both be completely fine!” Sherlock covered the quiver in his voice at the end, but not quickly enough to hide it from John. 

“Sherlock, love, you’re scaring me,” he said, a bit more softly. “Can you please tell me what’s going on?” He leaned in a bit closer and dropped his voice. “We talked about this, remember? No more shutting me out. No more leaving me behind.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, finally meeting his eye. “I know, John. I’m not. But I just need you to trust me for right now.” He fiddled with his coat buttons again and reached inside to pull out a folded up piece of paper. “Everything that I can’t tell you right now is here. I didn’t want to put anything in text or say it out loud, just in case.”  

He handed the paper to John, who felt himself starting to shake from a sudden spike of nauseating fear. As clear as day, he remembered the circumstances leading up to the moment Sherlock jumped off the rooftop. He had played the preceding days over and over again in his head during those two dark years of his life, trying to dissect if anything he had said or done could have possibly driven his friend to suicide. He remembered Sherlock’s sudden secrecy, the lack of communication, the need to hide from everyone else as his reputation was methodically tarnished. As much as John tried to convince himself he was being totally irrational, he couldn’t swallow the fear that Sherlock was once again going to leave him, although this time, it seemed, with the explanation he wasn’t allowed to give him before.

He scrambled to unfold the paper, but Sherlock’s hands caught his wrists.

“No, not yet. Only when I’m gone,” he said.

John’s widened eyes shot up to meet his as the weight of the words settled into him. His heart hammered against his chest, every cell in his body screamed at him to reach out and stop him from stepping a single foot outside this flat.

“John, listen to me,” he said, buttoning his coat back up. “I know for sure you’ll be safe here. Just stay put for now and don’t leave or try to contact me.”

Before Sherlock could step away, John reached out and grabbed the front of his coat. “No. Absolutely not.”

Sherlock wrapped his hand around the fist holding tight to the thick material. “John,” he pleaded softly.

“If you think that I’m letting you go,” his voice cracked and silenced the rest of his sentence. “If you think for a second –,” he continued in a raspy whisper.

“John, please .” Sherlock was all but begging now. “Please. You have to let me go.”

John’s eyes flickered back and forth between the electric, aquamarine irises he’d fallen in love with time and time again. They begged him to trust blindly. To follow orders and keep himself safe.

“I want to help you,” he stated simply. “With whatever it is you’re doing.”

“You will,” Sherlock said firmly, looking directly into his eyes. “You will, John. You'll help me first by being here, more than you can imagine. The rest comes later.”

His thumb stroked once over his iron tight fist. As if his touch had activated a button, John found his grip gradually loosening over the collar of the Belstaff, until finally, the material was slipping through his fingers.

"When will I see you again?” he asked, trying so very hard to make the question sound casual, and not like he was asking if he wouldn’t see him for another two years.

Sherlock pulled him into a crushing hug.

"Tell me you'll be okay," John whispered into his shoulder.

“Just read the letter very carefully.” He placed a kiss on John’s temple and pulled away. John tugged him back and crashed their lips together. Sherlock cupped his face in his massive hands and kissed him back, hard and thorough, but pulled away all too soon. “I’ve got to go now,” he said, giving him one last look.

He stepped away and headed back towards the door, stopping to place a hand on Molly’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said to her, his voice carrying a sincerity John had never heard him use with her before. "You'll be fine as well. Just stay here. Him too," Sherlock said, nodding towards the snoring coming from the bedroom door. 

She nodded at him, although her eyes also carried the fear John was feeling in his every bone as he watched Sherlock step outside and vanish into the darkness.  

John and Molly stood for several long moments, both staring dumbfounded at the door that had just closed behind him with a thud of finality. For several agonizing moments, the air was heavy with his abrupt and mysterious departure.

Finally, they turned to meet each other’s eyes. John tried his best to return her awkward smile, but didn’t feel his facial muscles budge a bit.

“Erm, so, my bedroom's right over there,” she said, glancing back to one of the doors and tucking a damp lock of hair behind her ear. "But I'm really sorry, I can't offer you the bed tonight." 

“What? No, of course I can just take the couch.”

“Oh, alright. I just thought . . . that’s what Sherlock always does when he comes here. It’s fine, really. I don’t mind.”

“I’ll be fine out here with a pillow and couple of blankets, really,” he said with a tight smile. “And, hang on . . . he what ? God, remind me to have a word with him about not taking advantage of your hospitality. Next time, tell him to park his arse on the sofa.”

She smiled weakly at him. But a moment later, he comprehended the words that had just thoughtlessly tumbled out of his mouth . . . assuming he’d see Sherlock again anytime soon. Assuming there’d be a next time. Molly seemed to notice the change in his demeanor.

“Listen, I’m sure he’ll be fine. He gets up to all sorts of things, doesn’t he? It always turns out okay for you both.”

“Yeah,” he trailed off, looking down at the folded paper in his hand.

“Why don’t you have a seat over there. I’ll bring you some blankets.”

John lowered himself onto her plush sofa, which seemed to be the perfect size for him to stretch out on. He lightly bounced on it once or twice to test the springs and looked around at the rest of her living room. Her TV was perched on a glass stand with framed pictures on either side of it. She had one armchair off to the side of her couch, which seemed to only be there for décor, given that the seat was covered in decorative pillows and it was not centered towards the television. Her walls were painted a soft, pastel green, perfectly complimenting her beige cushions and wooden furniture. It was really quite a nice place.

Something soft brushed against his leg. He looked down and saw a thin, scrawny, grey and white cat hunching its back and then stretching out again as it rubbed against him. John flinched away. He was never all that comfortable around house pets. It sort of weirded him out, to be honest – keeping a non-human creature in your house as a family member. The cat looked up at him and John was greeted with the sharp, bony face of an old, scowling cat with wildly overgrown whiskers. It’s green-grey eyes poured into him as it stretched its mouth and emitted a deep, scratchy sound of agony that was maybe, in some world, supposed to resemble a “meow.”

John’s entire body stiffened as it hopped up onto his lap and began kneading it’s paws into his thighs.

“Ah, okay,” he said, hovering his hands over its body as he tried to figure out how to get rid of it without touching it. The cat made that horrific sound again, this time directly into his face, where he could see every one of its sharply pointed teeth.

“Oh, Toby!” came Molly’s voice as she finally reappeared with pillows and blankets in her arms. She dropped them on the couch and scooped up the cat.

“Let’s leave John alone now, yes? Go on. Go back to your bed.” John winced in repulsion as she smacked a kiss onto his nose. How anyone could willingly put their mouth on that raggedly, old thing was beyond him. She lowered Toby to the floor, who fled directly to her bedroom and slithered inside.

“So sorry about that,” she said, sitting beside him. John quickly tried to neutralize the slightly disgusted look he knew he must have had on his face.

“Oh, don’t worry about it.”

“He’s just protective of me. Always wants to check out new company that comes over.”

“. . . Right.”  

"At least Toby's more useful than him over there," she said, jerking her head towards the deep snoring coming from her room. "That man will sleep through anything," she added in combined annoyance and affection.

John smiled for her again, unsure of how to reply. He was only partially engaged in this conversation. His hands were still clenching and unclenching from Sherlock's departure, his heart still racing in fear for him. 

“John, are you alright?” Molly asked, her tone entirely different. He looked into her large, brown eyes are realized she was talking about what had happened earlier that day at the morgue.

“Oh. Yeah,” he said, hoping the smile he’d forced onto his face was convincing, despite how stiff and unnatural it felt on his cheeks. “Fine.”

“Don't just say that you are. Because, well, I don’t normally talk about this.” She paused, as though reconsidering. “But, my sister lost a child, too. You remind me a lot of her sometimes, actually.”

John felt his chest tighten.

“It was about six years ago," she treaded on. "Her boy was born with a heart condition, and . . . she always said she was okay when people asked. But I knew she wasn't."

John wasn't looking at her before, but he averted his eyes all the same. 

"I don’t know exactly what happened with . . . your situation," Molly continued. "And I won’t pretend that I know what you’re going through, or what's going on with Sherlock, and how that all must be for you. But, I guess what I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything you need-”

“I know,” he said. He appreciated what she was trying to do, really. But the more she talked, the more his throat constricted with all the feelings and words he'd choked off time and time again. If she continued, he feared he'd burst into an emotional purge she was in no way prepared for. He did not want to burden her with that, not when she was already being so gracious. “I know," he repeated. "Thanks. Really.” He reached over and placed his hand over hers, patting gently.

“I’m here, John. If you need anything at all. Okay?” 

He nodded, suddenly desperately needing to change the topic.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Nice chair you’ve got over there,” he said, feeling somewhat stupid as soon as the words left his mouth. Now that he thought about it, her chair slightly resembled his own back at Baker Street, only with different colors.

He could feel Molly looking at him a moment longer. She obviously knew what he was doing, and he was ever so grateful when she went along with it. 

"Yes, it's my favorite," she said. "It used to be right here in the center, directly facing the TV. But I switched its place with the couch, since, you know, Greg is over here a lot more often now. There's more room for the two of us this way."

As if on cue, a particularly loud snore erupted from her bedroom.

John smiled cheekily at her. The feeling of it felt forced and tight on his face, but it still felt nice to smile. It was as though the action itself, no matter how forced, parted some of the storm clouds in his head and made room for just the slimmest thread of sunlight to pass through. “You and Greg, huh? That’s going well?”

She nodded happily. “Very.”

He looked down the couch suspiciously, thinking about all the time the two of them must be spending together on it. “So then, are you sure this is somewhere I want to be sleeping, or . . .”

Molly’s cheeks suddenly flushed pink “Oh, John!” she said through a fit of merry, yet almost uncomfortable laughter. Then she stood up rather abruptly and straightened out her robe, still somewhat trying to hide the flustered blush in her cheeks. “Erm, so you’re all settled here? Can I get you anything?”

“Just a glass of water would be lovely, thanks.”

She nodded and turned to the kitchen. John raised a single eyebrow and tried not to think too hard about the fact that she hadn’t actually answered his question about the couch. She returned a moment later to place a full glass of water on the stand next to his armrest.

“Goodnight, then,” she said. “The lamp is right over there whenever you want to turn it out.”

“Right. Goodnight.”

As soon as she’d disappeared behind her door and the light underneath had flicked out, John unfolded the letter that hand been enclosed safely between his hands and began to read.

Chapter Text

Sherlock snuck back into Baker Street, his body thrumming with adrenaline and barely-contained fear. Entering his now empty bedroom, he swallowed his worries and forced himself to be content with the fact that he’d done everything in his power to keep John safe from what he suspected was about to happen. It took some effort for him to slip out of his clothes climb back into bed, shaking and anxious as he was. Rolling over and facing the nightstand did nothing distract him from the cold, loud absence of John’s body on the opposite side of the bed. All it did was draw his attention to the fact that there would be no sleepy sighs or shifts in the bed tonight, no warm arm curling around his body from behind, as John always did in his half-asleep state when Sherlock climbed into bed at an ungodly hour. Sherlock swallowed the thick lump in his throat, tucked the cool sheets around himself, and closed his eyes.

*****

The next day passed quietly and uneventfully. Sherlock busied himself by screeching away on his violin, trying to focus on the problems in front of him and not the voices in his mind screaming at him for letting John out of his sight. It took everything in him to not drop the violin and begin scratching and tearing at his head to shut them up.

It began to drizzle in the afternoon, after looming clouds in the morning had cast a blanket of dull greyness over the street.  Gently falling droplets slowly covered the windows and cushioned the flat with the sound of pattering rain.

By evening, the darkness outside had intensified. Rain was forcefully shooting down from the sky in long, diagonal streaks. Sherlock could hear the harsh shrieks of wind outside, the thunder booming in the distance.

Suddenly, his phone pinged with a text. He crossed the room and opened it to find a message that contained only a single address and a time – 12:00 that night. Plugging the address into his phone, Sherlock discovered that he was being led to a garage tower on the far outskirts of the city. The message, of course, was signed “xxx JM,” as expected.

Another text followed moments after.

Come alone. Tell no one. Don’t be followed.

Sherlock clutched his phone in his hand and closed his eyes, slowly releasing the breath he had been holding in his lungs. He could feel his past horrors trickling and creeping up his spine as he remembered the similar text he’d received from Moriarty all those years ago, leading him to the top of St. Barts. How he’d sat with John beforehand, watching him sleep on the lab counter, his open jaw endearingly supported by his arm, and his back gently rising and falling with his slow breaths. He remembered how he’d tried to memorize it all, the domesticity of watching him sleep, the peacefulness of the shared silence, the comfort in being together. He’d secured it all in his memory before John woke up - before he’d said the words that would drive John to leave him alone with the echoes of a slammed door and his parting “friends protect people,” ringing in his ears. Once he’d received Moriarty’s text, there’d been nothing to do but sit there tossing that stupid red ball, waiting for the time to come. He felt a similar restlessness now. It was only 10 o’clock, after all.

He flopped onto the sofa, his leg vibrating with pent up tension. As he wondered how he could pass the time, his eyes naturally drifted to where he’d stored his gun. John’s voiced sounded clearly in his head, as though he were in the room with him, typing away on his laptop and knowing what he was up to without looking up from the screen.

“Don’t even think about it, Sherlock. You aim a gun at that wall again, and I’ll take it from you and hide it away somewhere for a year. You know I will.”

“As if you could hide anything from me,” Sherlock whispered back under his breath, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the thunderous storm raging on outside.

*****

The clock read 11:05. The time was approaching for him to leave if he wanted to arrive at the garage tower on time. However, he had no plans to leave when he was expected to. Instead, he turned off all the lights in the flat and settled himself back across the couch, closing his eyes, waiting . . .

Nearly twenty minutes after he should have left, he heard a soft disturbance coming from upstairs. Without opening his eyes, a smile stretched across his lips. Soft footsteps pattered softly around John’s room as he slipped off the sofa, retrieved his gun, and crept up the stairs, carefully avoiding those certain spots he knew would creak just loud enough to give his position away.

At last he was standing in front of John’s bedroom, peering silently into the parted crack of the door. The next bright flicker of lightning flashed through the barely open window, briefly outlining a figure standing in the room. The roar of loud, crackling thunder shook the walls as Sherlock’s eyes adjusted to the dark. The intruder pulled their ski mask up, and Sherlock caught sight of Mary’s face. She kept her head down, facing the side with one hand on her hip as she listened to the voice on the other end of her Bluetooth.   

“I know, Matthew. I called Andy already. He didn’t pick up. Is he with you?” she asked urgently.

“He’s what ? Dead?” She whipped her ski mask all the way off and tossed it onto the floor. Her straightened, brown hair fell around her neck, flattened and frizzled by the cap.

“But how . . . He was your partner! . . . Yeah, I know you two were stationed at the warehouse together. That was the entire point!” She pinched the bridge of her nose and looked down.

“Jim and I agreed that if I was ever caught and questioned, I would lead my captors to that warehouse. He said he’d have someone stationed there at all times to report back in case anyone ever showed up. That way he’d know that I had been captured and needed help. That’s how he helped me fake my death and escape the prison,” she explained slowly, as if talking to a five-year-old.

“All you were supposed to do was report back to him that Sherlock and John had showed up so he’d know to come find me! Why the hell did you try to shoot them? Those weren’t your orders!”

She paused and lifted her head slowly, as if a realization had dawned. For a moment, Sherlock was afraid she’d rotate her body just slightly and be able to catch side of him hovering outside the door. But thankfully, she turned to look out the window instead.

“Oh, I see,” she said, her voice entirely changed. “You wanted my position, didn’t you? You wanted to be Jim’s right-hand man.” She chuckled patronizingly. “You were jealous and thought that if you were the one to finally take out John Watson - which is my job by the way - he’d reward you by giving you my position.”

She paused again, either putting more pieces together or listening to Matthew reply. Sherlock couldn’t tell.

“Andy tried to stop you, didn’t he? That’s why you killed him. He threatened to kill Sherlock if you dared shoot at John. You knew Jim would never forgive that. So you shot Andy in cold blood. All because he wanted to follow his orders. . . No, don’t you talk to me about following orders! ”

Sherlock jumped back at the raw fury and power in her voice.  

“I thought Jim was dead when I shot Sherlock! . . . Listen. All I have to say is that there’s a reason he made me number two and not you . . . I called you because I have a job to do regarding John Watson and I need your help, alright? Well, Andy’s help. But I can’t have that because he’s dead,” she said accusingly.

“Because if you don’t, I’ll tell Jim what you did. I’ll tell him how Andy really died,” she continued. After a pause, the soft, gleeful smirk returned to her voice. “Good. Now, listen. I’m at their flat. No one is home. The lights are all off. John was supposed to be alone here, but he’s not. I need help locating him . . . No, Jim doesn’t know. He can’t know . . . See, I told you. This was Andy’s forte. That’s why I tried calling him first . . . Can you do it?”  

“No,” she breathed after another pause. Sherlock detected a spike of fear in her voice. “No, Matthew. Don’t tell him. I’ll find him. I will. I can do it. Don’t tell Jim,” she rattled off in a panic. “Stop – if you do this, I’ll tell him – hello? Matthew!”

She pressed the Bluetooth into her ear, but it seemed the line had disconnected. “ Shit!” she hissed. “Fucking snake.”

She whipped her phone out from her pocket - Sherlock assumed to dial Jim before Matthew did. It was amusing almost. Like watching children race to the teacher before the other could tattle first.

He slowly eased the door open and stalked forward into the room, pressing the gun right to the back of her head. She gasped and stiffened in fright but didn’t move otherwise.

“You thought I’d have left to meet Moriarty by now, didn’t you?” he said to the back of her ear.

“You can’t do anything to me,” she said bravely, though Sherlock could still hear the hidden trepidation in her voice.

“Oh, really?” Sherlock said, grabbing her shoulder and whirling her around to face him.

“I’ve already called Jim,” she said. “If you kill his most trusted agent, his number two, he’ll show neither you nor John any mercy when he finally kills you.”

From where he was standing, Sherlock could hear a voice speak up in her Bluetooth. “Ex number two,” said Jim’s voice, sounding bored and detached, before he hung up.

A flash of lightning illuminated Mary’s widened, fearful eyes staring directly up at him. A blast of thunder followed, as he watched her realize she was completely on her own now.

The corner of Sherlock’s lip twitched up in the dark. “Oops,” he said flatly. She glared back up at him, her chest heaving.

“Look, Sherlock, why don’t you make this easy for the both of us,” she began as a gentle roll of thunder resonated through the room, but Sherlock cut her off.

“What, step aside? Or what? You can’t kill me. Moriarty would be furious with you. Well, more than he already, is apparently.”

“I can still hurt you,” she drawled low and dangerously.

Sherlock furrowed his brows at her in confusion. He was the one who had her nearly backed against the wall with a gun to her face. For a moment, they stood there with only the downpouring rain outside breaking the silence between them. Then suddenly, quick as the next flash of lightening, her hand shot out and gripped his wrist, twisting it roughly. Sherlock grunted in pain as she put him in an effective armlock, pulling up on his elbow joint to get him to drop the gun. He kept his grip tight, even as he felt his arm close to breaking. When she jerked his arm up forcefully, he hollered in pain and dropped it. He recovered quickly enough, mustering his strength and slipping his foot around hers before she could retrieve the gun. This threw off her footing just enough for him to yank himself free from her grip. From her position, she tried to elbow him in the face, but he grabbed it and twisted it behind her back, using it to push her back into the wall.

“Give up,” he said, holding her still as she tried to wriggle out. “You’ll never find John. You can’t touch him.”

Suddenly she stopped her struggling. After holding still for a moment, her head dropped forward as she began chuckling deviously.

“What?” he asked.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said. “You’re so transparent.”

“What do you mean?”

“This works out quite nicely. I haven’t seen Molly in a while. It’ll be nice to catch up.”

Sherlock felt like he’d been plunged into icy water at the mention of Molly’s name. He swallowed and opened and closed his mouth a few times. Any attempt to claim that Mary was wrong would be useless; he had paused too long.

“How . . . how did you know?”

“You went to her for help the last time you were backed into a corner too, didn’t you?” she said.

With a cold pang, Sherlock remembered the night he’d sat across from John and Mary at the diner, shortly after he’d revealed himself to be alive.

“Who else knew,” John asked disappointedly, bracing himself for another lethal blow to the mutual trust they’d once shared.

“Molly,” Sherlock had said with difficulty. “Molly Hooper.”

In the window’s hazy reflection, Sherlock could just make out the triumphant twinkle in Mary’s eye as she recalled this exact conversation.

He pushed up at her locked elbow in frustration, causing her to wince in pain while he mentally kicked himself for blocking most of that night out of his memory.

“You’re smart, I’ll give you that,” he said.

“Perhaps then, you’ll stop underestimating me.”  

She suddenly back-kicked him right under his kneecap. He grunted and doubled over in pain, only to receive a hard elbow to the nose right after. He felt warm blood spurt explode on his face as Mary whipped her gun out of her belt. He ducked under her outstretched arm and swept her ankle, effectively knocking her off her feet. The gun he’d dropped earlier lay within her arms reach. He dove to the ground to fetch it before she did, but a moment later, a heavy weight dropped onto his back. Mary straddled his back and pushed his face down into the floor.

“Done yet?” she growled, her voice strained with the effort of keeping him pinned underneath her.

He reached forward with the arm she wasn’t holding down and was just barely able to retrieve his gun. As quickly as he could, and praying he could aim blindly, he twisted his torso and knocked her in the side of the head with the hilt of the gun. Her own gun clattered to the ground as she fell to the side, clutching her bleeding head. They both scrambled to their feet, but Sherlock found his footing quicker. He pushed her back against the wall, keeping her pinned with a firm arm against her throat. Panting in exhaustion, he raised his gun and put it back to her head.  

“We both know this ends one way, Mary.” he said, pressing his forearm just enough to be threatening, but careful to not restrict her airways too much. Asphyxiation was not how he wanted her to die. Oh, no, not at all.

“I could shoot you in the head,” he continued. “But you would die way too fast.”

Her eyes squinted at him in fury. His eyes suddenly dropped down to her legs.

“No, wait-,” she started.

He whirled her around to face the wall and, without hesitation, shot her in back of the knee. Her scream drilled a piercing hole in his eardrum as she collapsed to the ground, shrieking in agony. Her strained, wounded eyes stared up at him as though he had just dealt her the ultimate betrayal. But he didn’t fall for this last attempt at emotional manipulation. Besides, it wasn’t like he could do anything to ease the pain for her at this point.

She clutched at her bleeding knee, releasing another guttural groan of excruciating pain. And as much as it sickened him to admit it, Sherlock loved watching every moment of it. He knew he wasn’t a sociopath. He knew claiming the title was a coping mechanism he had grown comfortable into over the years. But it was moments like this, standing there watching Mary writhing and failing to swallow her screams on the floor, where he actually felt like one.  

“Kneecaps. One of the most painful places in the body to receive a bullet wound. In fact, kneecapping is ranked among the worst pains the human body can feel,” he said, shaking his head in mock sympathy. “If done right, the patella may instantly shatter into multiple fragments. The joint itself is literally a bundle of bone, cartilage, muscle, and nerves. A shot there can cause severe and permanent damage to all of those things, but it’s the bone that really does it, isn’t it?” he said with pleasure.

On the ground, Mary tried curling up her knee to cradle her wound, but stopped and screamed again before it had barely moved a centimeter.

“Oh, no. You don’t want to do that. Without a functioning patella, any slight movement of your thigh or calf will cause you immediate, agonizing pain.”

Mary’s breath heaved in combined pain and fury. At last, she was able to lift her head to look at him with glaring, bloodshot eyes, all while gasping in lungfuls of breaths through gritted teeth.

“I loved him, Sherlock.” she forced out through her shudders of pain. “I did. I need you to know that.” Sherlock stared stoically back down at her. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I believe you think you loved him,” Sherlock said.   

At the mention of John, a twinge of guilt pierced his gut, like a thin blade slowly sinking into his abdomen and twisting inside him. What would John think of him in this moment? Intentionally inflicting pain for the sole purpose of his satisfaction. Enjoying himself watching this woman suffer. John would never do this to anyone, no matter who it was or what they’d done. Sherlock averted his eyes to Mary’s rasping and shuddering, unable to shake the thought of how disappointed John would be in him. John was a good man who expected Sherlock to display the same goodness by extension. Sherlock had always done his best to live up to those expectations, to be the man John expected him to be. Who was he being right now? The sociopath John had never believed existed?

“Tell him - ah! ” Mary’s words were cut off as another wave of pain overtook her, and she curled into herself with choked breaths.

Sherlock clicked another bullet into the chamber before she could collect herself again. If she had any last words to say about John, he did not care to hear them nor to pass them on.

“I’m not doing this for you,” he clarified as he aimed the gun at her forehead. She looked up at him, her eyes going wide as he pulled the trigger.

The gunshot was barely heard over the next round of crackling thunder, nor the electric blue lightning that flashed brightly through the whole room almost simultaneously. At last when the echoes died down, Sherlock was left with only the wide-eyed, bloody corpse of Mary Morstan and the screaming wind and rain outside to keep him company.

*****

Sherlock’s leg shook maddeningly through the whole cab ride to the garage tower.

He wasn’t John. He wasn’t accustomed to killing people. He could practically feel the blood and adrenaline thrumming in his veins, as though rushing through his body in a panicking fit at what he’d just done. He wiped his cold, clammy palms on his trousers and wrapped his coat collar around his face to protect it from the chilling air. Outside, the storm continued to howl and roar. The cab window was coated in a dense, grey fog, cleared only momentarily by the nearly horizontal streaks of rain racing down it.

Sherlock sunk into the backseat as the driver swerved through the streets. After some time, his hammering heart settled down in his chest as his body came to terms with the ruthless act he’d just committed. His leg however, refused to stop bouncing until the cab pulled up to the base of the tower.

Sherlock handed over his cash without making eye contact and stepped out into the bitter cold rain.

“You alright, Mister?” the cabbie yelled out the window over the wind. “Would you like me to drop you off by your vehicle?”

Sherlock looked back and simply lifted his hand to communicate that he was completely fine being dropped off alone at a seemingly empty garage on the outskirts of the city during a thunderstorm in the middle of the night. The cabbie looked at him a bit longer, perhaps waiting for him to say something else or change his mind, but then waved back uncertainty and drove off.

Sherlock waited until the car had vanished into the stormy mass of grey and blue before wrapping his coat back around his face and scurrying into the garage’s open mouth.

Being sheltered from the needle-like streaks of rain and powerful gusts of wind was an incredible relief, but the frosty air inside the cement walls still chilled him to the bone. The garage was only dimly lit by the yellow, dirtied, wall lights, flickering on and off.

His phone buzzed in his pocket with another text.

Top level.

Sherlock tucked his phone back away and headed for the elevator, but was only greeted by an “out of order” sign - of course. He turned a corner to venture up the stairs instead, but found it guarded by who he assumed were three of Moriarty’s goons.

“Arms out,” the middle man said once he’d approached.

“Come on. That’s hardly fair,” Sherlock said. “You’ve already got me out here all alone.”

The other two men puffed out their chests and stepped forward threateningly.

“Oh I see,” Sherlock said. “They’re here to help you in case I don’t cooperate.”

The first man placed his hand on his hip, ever so slightly brushing his jacket back to reveal a gun. Sherlock looked from him to the two large bodyguards before rolling his eyes and sticking his arms out to the side. The man who’d flashed his gun stepped forward and began patting down his arms and legs. When he skimmed around his waist, he reached inside his Belstaff and confiscated Sherlock’s gun. When he was satisfied that he didn’t have any other weapons on him, all three men stepped aside and allowed him access to the stairs. Sherlock resisted telling them their boss was a coward as he brushed past them and began his ascent.  

*****

When he reached the top floor, he mustered his courage, stuffed his cold, numb hands into his pockets, and strode forward with all the false confidence he could summon.

The top level was smaller than ground floor. The cement walls were broken up by large, open gaps. The only things stopping someone from falling through were small ledges, low enough to sit on.

Standing by one of the openings in the walls was Moriarty, his figure strikingly outlined by the purple lightning flickering quietly in the distance behind a blue, cloudy mass.

“You’re late,” he said without looking at him. Sherlock continued to approach with caution.

“I see you’ve hidden your pet away from me,” he continued. “That’s good. At least you’ve learned something of value over these last seven years.”

Finally, his eyes rose from the ground to meet his. An almost imperceptible shudder ran through Sherlock the moment those soulless, reptilian eyes fixed on him once again.

“You seem to have gotten past my old highest ranking agent as well,” he said.

Sherlock squinted at him. He wondered if Moriarty realized that Mary was, in fact, dead, despite his refusal to help her when she’d called him.

“Why do you care? You abandoned her without a thought,” Sherlock said.

Moriarty shrugged one shoulder, dragging a single finger along the cement wall beside him, and then rubbing the dust off with his thumb. Sherlock’s gut twisted in disgust at how nonchalant he was about having betrayed one of his own.

“Her work has been disappointing as of late. Not exactly fitting for a number two,” he said. “That’s twice she’s failed to make a kill shot to someone who was standing right in front of her. And twice she’s failed to complete what might easily be the simplest mission she’s had in a long while. She knew she was in trouble when she showed up at your flat only to find that Johnny-boy had disappeared off somewhere. That was her last chance and she blew it. Not my fault.”

“I killed her,” Sherlock stated simply, wondering if this knowledge would change his dismissive attitude towards her.

“Oh?” Moriarty said, looking at him with raised eyebrows. Sherlock genuinely couldn’t tell if his shock was an act or not. “Well, then. You’ve taken her off my hands. As I said, she was getting sloppy.”

Moriarty lowered his gaze to the ground, his eyes glazed over as he lost himself in his head for a moment. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Sherlock swore he saw a murderous glint pass over his face as he pinched his eyes shut and digested this new information. For a moment, it seemed, the detached, nonchalant persona had crumbled away. In its place was a look of deep sorrow and true, ripe anger. Then, it was gone as soon as it had appeared. After holding his hand in a white-knuckle grip for a moment longer, Moriarty’s face cleared and he was back to his cool, unfeeling self once again.

“Did you come alone?” he asked after a moment, still avoiding his eye.

“Yes.”

“And no one followed you?”

“No one.”

“Good. Very good,” he drawled, trailing his fingers up and down the ledge he stood by. He tilted his head back, raising his hands to brush the dark, rain-streaked strands of hair out of his face. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” he asked, as if they were two old friends meeting up for coffee after many years. “I must give you credit. You faked it very well last time. I was almost convinced. Until you starting trekking across Europe going after my men.

He chuckled to himself, as though reminiscing old times. “Do you remember what you said to dear Johnny-boy right before you jumped last time? You told him you were a fake. A fraud. You thought his poor little heart wouldn’t be broken as badly if he thought you’d lied to him. How sweet.”

Despite the biting cold, Sherlock felt the back of his neck redden and his face flush up with heat, furious at the fact that Jim had been listening in on such an intimate moment.

“And the screaming that came from below when you jumped,” he continued, chuckling in amusement. “I suppose that will be the biggest difference this time. No screaming.”

“Get on with it,” Sherlock said, growing impatient. “What do you want from me?”

Moriarty faked surprise. “What do I want? Oh Sherlock, many things have changed over the years, but not this. We have unfinished business, do we not?”

“You want me to jump? Again?” he asked, trying his best to sound bored despite the feeling of his old trauma breathing heavily down his neck.  “Don’t you ever tire of this?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Moriarty said, circling behind him and leading him towards the ledge with two hands on his shoulders. “You see, this time it will be a bit different, since you didn’t follow my instructions very well last time. This time, there will be no terrified onlookers when you fall. There will be no rush to call the police or an ambulance. No media. No distraught Johnny-boy falling to his knees at your side. No goodbye phone call.”

Sherlock swallowed thickly as he felt his pulse spike. He hadn’t had flashbacks or nightmares about that day in so long. He’d successfully managed to suppress them and leave his suffering in the past. But then again, he’d never had someone – Moriarty, no less – shoving his trauma so forcefully in his face like this. He could feel the building panic swarming in his head, ready to catch him by the throat as soon as he let his guard down.

The two of them stood at the gap in the cement wall, looking over the knee-high ledge at the mass of gray down below, the ground coated in dense fog and falling rain. Moriarty’s hands gripped his shoulders tightly.  

“This time,” he drawled. “You will not have the glory of a public death. Not a single witness. You’ll die all alone, way out here, where no one knows where you are.”

Sherlock shuddered and pinched his eyes shut. Moriarty’s words took him back to those dark days when he’d ventured from country to country, being ever aware of the fact that if he died out there, not a single soul would know where to find him or what had really happened. It was one of his worst living nightmares.

He swallowed thickly and summoned his voice. “You can’t make me,” he stuttered, hoping Moriarty would chalk it up to the cold. “John is hidden away. You can’t force me. Not this time.”

“Oh, can’t I?” he said. Suddenly, he grabbed Sherlock by the front of his coat, whirled him around, and pushed him towards the edge. Sherlock gasped and threw his arms out to catch the two open ends of the gap. He could already feel his fingers slipping off the water-coated cement as he craned his neck to peer down below. All it would take is one small push from Moriarty, and he’d lose his grip on the sides of the wall and plummet to the earth. However, to his surprise, Moriarty stayed back and allowed him to pull himself forward and regain his footing on the solid floor.

“I’ll admit, it was a lot more fun watching you do it of your own free will. But I’m out of patience now.” He whipped his gun out of his jacket and pointed it directly at his face.

“You can jump, or I can shoot you and watch you fall over the edge. Your choice.”

Sherlock saw no other options for himself. When he came to the tower, he had been expecting something like this, but he hadn’t expected to be disarmed before meeting Moriarty, nor had he expected him to use force instead of manipulation. That had been the entire point of this meeting, from his point of view - meeting with Moriarty to end him once and for all without him having the advantage of emotional bait.

But now, standing on the open edge of the highest level of the tower, unarmed, with a gun to his face, he found himself cornered yet again. He swallowed again and turned around to face the storm.

“That’s it,” Moriarty urged.

Sherlock stared out into the dark downpour of rain, the black, thunderous clouds overhead, the gray, hazy ground below. It seemed his heart was trying to jump directly out of his chest. His mind was short-circuiting, failing to come up with a plan of escape.

“Sherlock, I don’t have all night,” came Moriarty’s voice behind him. “It’s just you and me now. Like it always is in the end.”

“You and me plus the thugs you stationed down below to ensure this rendezvous would not commence on equal footing,” Sherlock pointed out. “Bullies never act alone, do they?”

“Alright, then. If you must choose the hard way,” He heard a bullet click into the chamber of the gun, and a cold barrel being pressed into the back of his skull. “I suppose you want Johnny-boy to find your body and spend the rest of his life wondering how long you suffered for. If you’d died instantly from the bullet or if you felt the pain of the shot the whole time you were falling, and then died from impact.”

“Or perhaps he can do the same to you instead and spend his life hoping it was the second option,” came a voice Sherlock had never been happier - and more scared - to hear in his life. A voice that thawed his chilled blood and bumpy flesh. A voice that promised to protect him, as the two of them always did for each other.

Both he and Moriarty spun on their heels to see John Watson, the amazing, brave, strong, brilliant John Watson, dripping wet in his clothes with his gun aimed between Jim’s eyes.  

John boldly stared Moriarty right in his eye, his chest heaving as he fought off the shakes and shivers from being caught in the downpour. “You need to hire better hitmen,” he said, his voice low and feral. “Step away from him now.”

Moriarty’s lip curled up. “And what’s to stop me from shoving him over right this instant?”

“You do that, and I’ll put a bullet in your brain. For real this time.”

Moriarty glared at him, his gun slightly lowering from Sherlock’s head. While he was distracted, Sherlock wrapped his arm around his neck and tackled him forward. Moriarty rolled them over until he was lying on his back atop Sherlock’s chest.

“John!” Sherlock grunted as he struggled to keep his hold on him. John understood and dove forward to wrestle the gun from Jim’s hands. When John had both guns, Jim elbowed Sherlock in the gut and wriggled free. While they stood, John handed one to Sherlock, and together, they backed him towards the ledge.

“That’s hardly fair. There’s two of you,” Jim panted.

“You’re forgetting that there’s always two of us, Moriarty,” John fumed.

“It was hardly fair when you had your thugs confiscate my only weapon upon arriving,” Sherlock pointed out.

Moriarty threw his hands out to grip the walls and stop himself from toppling over the ledge. He craned his neck and peered downwards.

“Go on,” John said. “Jump like how you made him jump.” He nudged Jim in the chest with his gun. “Or . . . I can shoot you and watch you fall over the edge. Your choice.”

Moriarty kept glancing back and forth between the storm outside and John in front of him. Sherlock took his eyes off him momentarily to look at John, thriving in his element. The rain had drenched straight through every layer of clothing he wore, his hands were paper-white from the cold, yet his face was flushed red from exertion. He panted as he kept his arms straight and rigid in front of him, his aim perfectly square and steady. Sherlock’s heart thrummed with devotion towards this man. The man who’d put his own life before his on countless occasions without hesitation. He never failed to amaze him, as he demonstrated yet again right now.

John pressed the barrel of his gun into Moriarty’s cheek, applying just a bit of pressure.

“Alright, then. Together, Sherlock?” John asked.

“On three.”

Suddenly, one of Moriarty’s arms shot out and grabbed Sherlock by the front of his shirt, pulling him forward.

“You touch me,” he said, breathing heavily. “And I’ll pull him over with me.”

Sherlock looked to John and watched as that dangerous smile of his transformed his face into something lethal and vicious – the one that didn’t reach his eyes, and sent shivers down the spine of its recipients. Without further hesitation, John lowered his gun and shot Moriarty in the foot. While he was still in a state of shock and immediate pain, Sherlock pulled himself free of his grip.

John then took his opening to kick him in the stomach, sending him toppling over the ledge, spiraling down with the pouring rain, and vanishing into the stormy greyness below them.  

It was as though Moriarty had pulled the breath directly out of Sherlock’s lungs as he fell, because suddenly, his chest was burning from an absence of oxygen. Sherlock stumbled backwards, his arms shaking, his heart nearly thudding out of his chest. He watched as John spent several long moments staring down after Moriarty in satisfaction, unaware of the panic that was taking over his body.

He knew this had been building inside him from the moment he’d arrived at the top of the tower. This was inevitable. He knew that. He’d done his best to squash it down, but from the moment Jim’s feet had left the solid ground and he’d gone plummeting towards the ground, It was like a flick had switched inside him.

Suddenly, he was back on the rooftop of St. Bart’s, stepping away from Moriarty’s dead body. “Your friends will die if you don’t,” rang in haunting echoes in his ears. He was listening to John beg and plead with him. He was tossing his phone aside as he looked down at the tiny people and cars below him. He was falling, falling – his body gone weightless, his arms flailing as several floors rushed by him in a blur. He was lying on the pavement listening to cries of “He’s my friend!” He was struggling to keep still as John’s hands closed around his wrist . . .

“Sherlock?” John asked. His voice pulled him back to the present. He wasn’t on the rooftop of Bart’s, nor the pavement below. He was standing on the top floor of a garage tower, and John was looking at him with wide, concerned eyes. “You okay?”

He opened his mouth, but his voice was nowhere to be found. He felt his chest tightening. He couldn’t breathe right. He couldn’t see right. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe.

“Sherlock?” John asked again, sounding more fearful.

His knees buckled as the ground was pulled from beneath him. He braced himself to hit the cold concrete but instead was caught in a pair of solid arms easing him gently to the floor. He knew where he was. He knew whose chest he was being held to, who was cradling his head, but all he felt was a powerful force compressing him into a small box. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe . . .

“Easy, easy,” came a warm voice against his ear. Arms wrapped around him, pulling him in tighter. He clutched tightly to the material of the wet jacket, clinging to it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded in reality – like if he let go, he’d spiral off into his head and be lost there forever.

“Easy,” came that lovely voice again, and for a brief moment, he could feel the oxygen entering his lungs again. He gulped in large, lungfulls of it, releasing it in shuddering exhales. “Shh . . .”

His body hurt. Everything hurt so much. With his other hand, Sherlock clutched his own chest, as though trying to physically tear the pain out of him. Another hand closed over his own.

“Shhh . . . I’m here.  I’m right here. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

John kept murmuring into the hair right above his ear, stroking his thumb over his hand, holding him tight. Sherlock grounded himself in his words, the feeling of his body, the sound of his voice.

“It’s over now, Sherlock. It’s over. He’s gone.”

The worst of it passed soon enough. Soon, he was breathing again. He lay limp and exhausted in John’s arms, too weak to hold any of his own weight.

“Okay?” John asked.

He nodded once into his chest. John let him stay there for several more minutes, supporting all his weight, one arm wrapped around his body, the other cradling his head to his heart. Sherlock listened intensely to the steady beats, one after another, while John continued whispering in his hair.

“It’s over now. It’s over. He’s gone,” he said. “We’re okay. It’s all okay.”

Sherlock mustered the energy and nodded again. “John,” he breathed.

“Yes, love. I’m here. What do you need?”

“Let’s go,” he said.

Really, that was all he wanted. He wanted to be anywhere but here. Being stranded outside in the storm would have been preferable to spending another moment in this dreaded concrete prison cell.

“Okay,” John said, and pressed two firm kisses to the damp curls over his temple. “Okay, let’s get you up. Can you stand for me?”

Sherlock lifted himself off his chest but found that his legs were tingly and numb. John tucked himself under his arm to support his weight and lifted him up.

Together, they slowly made their way back to the stairs, baby step after baby step. Sherlock felt like he was walking with legs of solid metal, summoning one hundred perfect of his effort just to drag one foot in front of the other.

The stairs themselves were a nightmare, but John got him through them, one step at a time, one level at a time. It took half of an eternity, but at last they were on the ground floor again. John tried maneuvering him so that he wouldn’t see the dead bodies of the three agents who’d searched him earlier, but he still caught a small glimpse. It didn’t matter.  He was too numb and drained to feel anything at the sight of them.

Sherlock was pleased to see the foggy headlights of a cab already waiting outside for them.

“I paid him extra to wait for us,” John explained, as he turned Sherlock’s collar up for him. The cabbie saw them standing in the entrance of the garage and pulled up so they only had to spend minimal time in the sharp, frigid rain.  

Once inside the cab, Sherlock immediately relaxed his head against the back headrest. John took his hand again and held on tight as the cab lurched forward and began to take them home.

*****

When they arrived home, John began unbuttoning his shirt, eager to get the wet cotton off his body and climb into the soothing softness of their bed sheets. He began making his way to the bedroom, but Sherlock gently caught him about the wrist. When he looked up, he found him staring at the floor, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed uncomfortably. Without words, Sherlock guided him up the stairs to his old bedroom. Nervousness twisted in John’s stomach as he followed him, feeling more and more like something was very wrong. At last, inside his room, Sherlock flicked the light on and John’s eyes were instantly drawn to the massive blood stains seeped into the carpet by the window.  He opened and closed his mouth a few times and twitched his nose at the metallic smell of blood that still lingered in the air; this was very recent.

The blood obviously didn’t belong to Sherlock. If he’d lost that much, he’d be either dead or in the hospital. In fact, the person who the blood belonged to was very likely already dead.  

“Who?” he asked, unable to draw his eyes away from the deep maroon stains.

“Her,” Sherlock said quietly from behind him. Sherlock’s hand came to rest on his back, brushing up to his shoulder blade. John kept his eyes fixed on the spot as he listened to Sherlock quietly relay the story of how Mary had climbed into the window to try to find him and either kill him or target him to manipulate Sherlock. How she was betrayed by both her colleague and Moriarty when they realized she’d failed . . . How Sherlock had immediately taken his opening and shot her in the head, killing her instantly. How he’d contacted Mycroft, giving minimum details and simply asking him to transport the dead body in the upstairs bedroom of 221B to Bart’s morgue before he returned home. Molly could take care of it from there, as the one person Sherlock could trust to handle the situation swiftly, cleanly, and without asking questions.

John listened to it all, stiff-jawed and stoic. When Sherlock was finished, he nodded once and allowed himself to be guided back out of the room. They’d deal with the carpet tomorrow, and then he could close this chapter of his life once and for all. They never needed to talk about it again, and he knew, from the way Sherlock had led him up here and nearly whispered the story with his hand on his back, that they never would again.

*****

Hours later, John lay awake in bed, listening to Sherlock’s soft snores with his arm wrapped around him from behind. He rested his forehead against Sherlock’s warm nape, wide-eyed and unable to stop thinking about how close they’d come to losing it all again. How a number of little things could’ve vastly changed the course of what happened that night. What if Sherlock had slipped over the ledge when Moriarty pulled on him? What if John had showed up just a few minutes later than he did? Or if he’d lost his scuffle on the ground floor with the three armed thugs and ended up dead? Or even before that . . . if Mary had come out victorious in her encounter with Sherlock? If one of their cabs had hydroplaned on the way to the garage?

John had realized just how many ways tonight could have gone horribly wrong from the moment he’d finished reading that letter Sherlock had given him. It had opened by Sherlock telling him that he suspected something terrible was going to happen soon, something resembling what had happened on the roof of St. Bart’s all those years ago. He said he wouldn’t leave John without an explanation this time, and that he intended to fulfill his promise to communicate better with him. Putting it in a letter was the safest way he could think of to do it. He didn’t know how closely they were being watched or tracked, which was why they snuck out in the middle of the night.

Sherlock had gone on the explain that the only way he could hope to defeat Moriarty was if his loved one’s were all protected, and therefore he couldn’t be forced into doing something terrible. So he’d gone to the trouble of hiding John where he knew Moriarty wouldn’t think to look. He’d told Mrs. Hudson to delay her return to London, and asked Molly to keep Greg safe within her flat as well. This way, he’d be free to meet with Moriarty upon his request without completely putting himself under his thumb again.

The rest of the letter contained every possible turnout of his final showdown with Moriarty that he could think of, as well as instructions for what actions John should take in each scenario.

One of the possibilities was that Sherlock might leave the flat sometime within the next few days. If that happened, John was to track his location and follow, keeping himself a safe distance of fifteen minute behind to not draw suspicion. That fifteen minute gap was just another one of the ways something could have gone horribly wrong - anything could have happened.  

At the end of the letter were the final words that Sherlock wanted to say to him . . . in the scenario that Moriarty emerged victorious and Sherlock never returned home to him. They were words that had formed a lump in John’s throat and caused tears to roll down his face and onto the paper, smudging the ink. Words that he’d never repeat to anyone and that would stay safely tucked beside his heart until the end of time.

As beautiful as those words had been, John could not describe the relief he felt at the fact that they would not be the last things Sherlock ever said to him . . . They had pulled through. They made it. Because Moriarty had gotten one major thing wrong:

He had been able to take advantage of them when they had terrible communication skills, but he greatly underestimated what the two of them could do when they worked in unison.

John replaced his forehead on Sherlock’s nape with his mouth and pressed his lips into the skin. Not even kissing, just pressing, just keeping them there. In his sleep, Sherlock nestled in closer and gently pulled John’s arm tighter around his own torso.

*****

The next morning, John emerged from the bathroom in his robe to find Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table reading something on his laptop. Sherlock looked up from the screen, and they shared a slow, soft smile that was rich with history and understanding of everything that had led them to this new point in their lives. John passed behind Sherlock, briefly placing a hand on his shoulder as he brushed by.

Their lives returned to normal quickly enough. Clients came and went with cases varying from 4’s to 8’s, as they tended to do. Lestrade called them up every so often when in need of assistance. Mrs. Hudson returned to town and asked no questions when they asked for her help in replacing the carpet in John’s room, which then led to a full-scale clean out of 221B. Molly never mentioned the body that had been mysteriously delivered to her morgue in the middle of the night, but the next time Sherlock saw her, she gave him a look that told him it had been taken care of.

John had almost forgotten what his life with Sherlock was like before Moriarty had barged unwelcome into their lives, what it was like to not have the threat of either him or Mary looming over them day and night. That life was domestic, as he was now thankful to be reminded of. Full of movie nights and take out food. Arguing over milk and constantly rearranging the fridge contents to make room for both the bags of toes and Mrs. Hudson’s leftover biscuits. Staying up for hours on opposite sides of the desk with their laptops and complementary cups of tea.

Long soaks in the bathtub where they’d spend hours leaning against one another, talking about nothing and everything, giggling, splashing, gossipping. Weekend trips out to Sussex, where John had to pretend he didn’t notice Sherlock sneakily inquiring about buying a summer cottage on a quiet hillside. Double-date nights with Molly and Greg that John sometimes had to drag Sherlock kicking and screaming to, and then act like he was convinced when Sherlock didn’t want to admit that he actually had a nice time. It was amazing what small luxuries they had the time for when no one was actively trying to kill or separate them just for the sake of it.

On one particularly quiet night, John caught Sherlock sprawled across the couch, having fallen asleep while “in his mind palace” again. With a fond smile, he retrieved his Union Jack pillow from his chair and wriggled it under Sherlock’s neck so he wouldn’t wake up with a crick.

He then settled himself into his desk chair and opened his laptop. He hadn’t posted to his blog in quite some time, and felt that his loyal readers deserved some sort of update. He stared at the blank white box for a while, waiting for the right words to come to him, as they always eventually did. Eventually, he lifted his fingers, and began typing the letters one by one:

Hello all. It’s been awhile. But I figured you’ve been wondering where we disappeared to.

As you all know, it turns out Jim Moriarty is alive. Or was. I’m glad to say Sherlock and I can confirm that he will never return again. Through a long, strenuous process, we have rid the world of him once and for all. You may rest easy that he will never pop onto your computer screens or into your lives ever again. He is dead, and that is all you need to know.

Aside from him, Sherlock and I have been on several interesting cases since I last posted, once of which involves a man named Culverton Smith. But I’ll get back to that in a moment. I have some other things I need to say first, regarding my personal life.

To start, I should tell you that I am back at 221B Baker Street with Sherlock. My ex-wife was not who I thought she was. Turns out, she had lied to me about a lot of things. She is no longer in the picture, and once again, that is all you need to know.

These days, it’s just me and Sherlock. And that’s how it’s going to stay. He and I have fought our battles and have spent far too long dancing around what should have happened seven years ago. Probably since the first night we met, as some of you have been gracious enough to point out to us. It was obvious from the start but I think we were both afraid to just take that step. I know I was afraid. I thought I’d lose him or ruin what we had already established between us. I’m happy to say that we’re not afraid anymore. From now on, it will only be Sherlock. Just the two of us, forever. Always. And that is a promise.

Alright. That’s over. Now, the Culverton case . . .