Archive of Our Own ^beta

Protect, protect, protect. The only thing going through his mind on repeat as John threw him on his back. He’d made it this far, survived Siberia, America, and every place in-between. There was no way he was going to fail at the very last step. The only thing left to protect John from now was the unnecessary pain, and he was going to do that.

Focusing on these thoughts allowed him control over his reactions, no more than an average punch would warrant. Unfortunately, by the time they got to the sandwich shop his wounds had opened up in a rather nasty way. He just hoped his suit would hide it long enough for John to leave. And leave he did. Mary promised to talk him around and off in a cab they sped.

Standing there, Sherlock tried to figure out where he stood in the world. Contrary to what people thought, Sherlock didn’t throw away his life for John, not really. It was more the Conductor Of Light and whoever held that title. It just so happened that in more than 20 years only one person had been willing to step up to that title.

He was woefully inept at understanding human behavior and although John's little nudges were useful (‘not good’), on its own wouldn’t make him a functioning member of society. He needed a translator. His brother had done well until he’d joined the government, when suddenly all the loving words he used to give Sherlock, well, they were still there, but covered in smarmy, oozing manipulation.

No, that wasn’t right. They had always been there, but now, now Sherlock had to use his incredible intellect against his own brother, who’d once been his own haven- because now Mycroft couldn’t say anything straight.

Sherlock could only figure it was his ill-timed discovery of drugs along with Mycroft’s new found government position that changed his brother so drastically.

Regardless of the reason, he hadn’t had a proper way to interact with people since he was 11, when Mycroft went off to college. Isolation made him more desperate for human contact than he’d like to admit and Lestrade was a perfect cover for acquiring it. Lestrade himself, of course, couldn’t help (due to his police status) beyond keeping his mind occupied, which was always priority number one. If that base need wasn’t fulfilled he knew he wasn’t far off from mental decomposition that would in turn breed mental illnesses and insanity.

When John came along suddenly he had human connection again, one to share life with, and a way to interact with the rest. It was astounding how much one needed social interaction; you never quite seemed to know until it was yanked away from you- or given back.

Lost in his thoughts he almost didn’t notice when a cab pulled up, and only then did he realize that he was still standing outside the café. Out popped John and he seemed angry but somehow it was off. Faster, more purposeful. “Get in.”

For once Sherlock obeyed, though his alibi was, of course, thought out. “Not that I’m not always happy to be ordered around by my favorite ex-militant but what brought this little change about?” Sherlock noticed Mary was absent. When John gave the address to Baker’s Street, Sherlock felt more confused than ever. It was obvious John didn’t live there anymore, so why had he come back and why were they both going to their old home?

“We’re going to Baker’s Street, and I’m going to try and figure out why your back is all bloody.” Ah. “Unless you want to make it easy on us for once in our lives?”

“John, I can assure you that’s really not necessary-”

“Of course, it’s the hard way, I don’t know why I bother.” Sherlock fell silent at that, a chastised child. The rest of the ride past uncomfortably, with John fuming and Sherlock trying to think of a way out. He didn’t find one.

It didn’t help that he desperately wanted John to know.

Of course he did, he didn’t want John to view him as the bad guy, he just wasn’t going to selfishly inflict that on him when the only cost was to himself. It was his responsibility to protect John as long as possible, no matter the cost for himself.

But as they flew down the road at a speed that was suddenly far too fast, Sherlock really had to think about the fact that John might just find out. He could refuse, of course. Though John already knew he was injured and as a doctor he might worry until he had answers.

Suddenly, they were home for the first time in two years. Well, ‘home’. Still, as different as things were, if Sherlock hadn’t had a lifetime of incentive to practice hiding his expressions as well as two years where it was straight up life-or-death, he would’ve cried. As it was, he got out, face carefully cocky.

He always smiled on his way to the gallows.

Once inside John hung up his coat before he realized what he was doing. Nothing had been moved and in such a familiar environment habit seemed to rear its ugly head. Nevertheless, to examine Sherlock he did need his coat out of the way, so he finished putting it up. Turning to the man of the hour he used his no-nonsense Doctor Voice. “Alright strip, waist up. Lay down on the couch.”

“Really John if I’d known you were interested-”

“Sherlock, you interrupted me as I was about to propose. Don’t even joke about this. Not now. Last thing I need is you coming in here, scaring them all off again. Strip. Now.”

Wordlessly, Sherlock admitted defeat to himself and started taking off his outer coat. When he got to the button up however, he found it was starting to stick to the open wounds. “Um, John?”

“What happened to you?!” John said hurrying to help him remove the shirt.

A sharp hiss as the offending fabric was carefully removed. No point in hiding the pain now. “I was tortured. As you’ll see momentarily.” He laid on the couch face down, hiding him from this whole ordeal.

He could feel more than see the reaction to the reveal. How the air got heavy, the silence- oppressive. He could just about track where John's eyes were on his body. The long scars, the big one two inches across and 8 inches long that they reopened when they were bored, from whips he could all but hear John's mind supply. Then off to the sides the circular burn marks were, as well as the electrocution markings. Now he’s noticing the beatings and bruises. They littered his back but they were under the cuts so were a bit harder to see. And finally John was noticing the swollen ribs in the back, no doubt bruised quite nicely.

Then he heard John get up and walk away without a word… But he was walking towards the kitchen, where they used to keep medical supplies. When he returned with the supplies, (and a trash can, Sherlock vaguely noted), he knelt down to be at eye level with Sherlock who was on the couch as instructed. “Sherlock, will you look at me.”

Wordlessly, Sherlock obeyed. It was easier than fighting. Or he thought it was until he saw that John had tears in his eyes. The guilt of causing such a reaction was so strong he accidentally found himself nursing a similar state. Luckily, John mistook it for pain.

“Now, I’m sure you can understand why I’m not giving you any morphine but I am going to use some of the local anastatic in here.” It wasn’t a question; Sherlock knew he didn’t get a say.

As John administered the correct dosage he asked the inevitable. “Alright, what happened? The truth this time.”

Sherlock looked at him, confused. “I gave you the truth. I had to go in and dismantle Moriarty’s network. It wasn’t like that meant frolicking around solving cases. I’m wounded you would think I would abandon you to go prance around the world in 5-star hotels like Mycroft. It was dirty underground wet work, and that,” he said jerking his head to his back where John focused. “was the cost of getting caught. I wasn’t about to take you along for that.”

“Sherlock, I was in the army. I invaded Afghanistan. I was shot, do you really not think I could’ve handled-”

“Irrelevant.” Sherlock said loudly, cutting John off. “I wasn’t going to risk you like that. That was the whole point of this endeavor.”

“Does that include making me think I killed you?”

“Of course- wait, no, what? Making you think I was dead absolutely but… what?”

John looked to the sky, trying not to call his friend a machine again, given that’s what he was pseudo-trying to apologize for. “Are you serious? The last thing I said to you was that you were a machine, and then I’m forced to watch my best friend kill himself. Of course I’m going to blame myself!”

“John, that was never the intent-”

“It never is with you!” Silence fell but John stuck to his guns. “You are so- why on Earth didn’t you just tell me? Why fake your death at all? Was it that hard for you to say goodbye?”

That was when Sherlock realized John didn’t know. “John, it may be pertinent for you to know that when I met Moriarty up on that rooftop there were snipers trained on you, Ms. Hudson, and Lestrade. If I didn’t jump, if they didn’t SEE me jump, you would’ve died that day, for real, and you wouldn’t’ve ever met Mary.”

It was not lost on John that Sherlock thought the most important thing to him at this moment was Mary, as opposed to having this conversation. Sherlock was right, of course, but that’s not something most people account for. He filed that away to not-contemplate later.

“So, the fact that I was there-”

“That call about Ms. Hudson was supposed to keep you gone. Just two more minutes. I underestimated how quickly you’d figure everything out. It seems that I’m always underestimating you and you pay the price. They needed to believe your grief, that doesn’t mean you had to see the literally bloody act. I’m sorry, John. You were never supposed to have to see that.”

The sincerity of the words nearly knocked the doctor to the floor. He finished patching up the area and started applying new bandages, trying to figure out where the conversation was before connecting the dots. “You let me hurt you.” It was breathed more than spoken. An awkward attempt at a shrug in response.

“You would’ve left.” Sherlock looked away. “I wouldn’t’ve survived.” He said it so matter of fact, as though that was the most obvious thing out there.

John actually had to stop what he was doing at that stupidity. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wouldn’t’ve been so mad if you explained you were undercover? That you gave up everything to make sure we were safe?”

“It was easier for you to be mad then feel guilty. That, and I was so close to completing my goal.” He turned back and glanced at his friend. “I wasn’t going to let you get hurt by the knowledge of what I went through. Not when it was the last thing that could hurt you.”

“Moriarty was my responsibility. What was it you said, we would’ve made a cute couple?” John's cheeks flushed with shame but Sherlock kept going. “Whether you like it or not we did have something there, nothing so disgusting as sex or as boring as romance but we did have The Game. It was the thrill of the hunt, the experience of our lives, and quite possibly the best thing to ever happen to either of our intellectually under-stimulated brains.”

“But” He continued cutting off John's outraged cry. “It was our game. We both knew we were going all in because that was the only way to play it. We were both willing to risk it all, and I was okay with risking anything and everything I had, but I wasn’t going to make that choice for you. So I jumped, and I hunted, and I was fully aware that even if it was a fake suicide on the roof the odds of my coming home were slim to none.”

At this John went several shades paler. Sherlock wasn’t looking, and between his back and his own mind, didn’t notice. He was about to continue when John spoke. “Hold up, you weren’t supposed to come back?”

Sherlock blinked, stunned. John finished re-patching Sherlock’s back but they weren’t done here by a long shot. “You can sit up now.” He said sitting in Sherlock’s chair, seeing as how it was the only one remaining.

Sherlock did as instructed before carefully choosing his words. “Although Mycroft tried to persuade me otherwise, to force you all to go into a more personal version of witness protection, I knew you were all too stubborn to do so, and I wasn’t just going to let the threat remain. Plus, it rather suited Mycroft to have Moriarty’s entire network out of the picture. Unfortunately, it was enormous and I knew that every day would be walking through bullets.”

Without realizing he was speaking out loud, he muttered to himself, “Turning more and more into something that can’t be here.” Snapping his eyes up John saw the panic that resided there.

“Sherlock?” he asked thoroughly unnerved. His friend looked like he was about to bolt, and almost like he was somewhere else. “Sherlock?” He called again as the tension grew almost palpable.

“Right, then.” Sherlock said, once more completely in control. “In the morning, I shall have to call Lestrade. Tell him it would be… unwise for me to chase any criminals he doesn’t want dead. Staying away from that sort of action should theoretically be enough, though I may have to leave you out of a few cases.”

His eyes snapped up and he carefully continued. “Assuming, of course, you haven’t grown bored of your adrenaline addiction?” He asked, dryly.

“What are you TALKING about? Since when can’t you chase criminals?” Sherlock glanced away and if John didn’t know better, he’d assume it was shame that flit across the man’s face.

Apparently, he took too long to think up a suitable response because John continued with his trademark accusatory finger, “No, Sherlock, I’m not letting this go. What are you talking about?” A pause. “Please.”

John had no clue as to what possessed him to say that. Normally, he’d scoff and storm out but he was worried for his… friend? He was worried for Sherlock, regardless of his status, because he was a powerful person who needed guidance to stay on the right side of both the law, the addiction he had, and his own sanity. That’s what it was, John told himself.

Sighing, deeply, Sherlock tried to figure out how to explain it. “I wasn’t… good. While I was gone. I-” he swallowed, trying to remember that John was a solider and if anyone was going to understand it would be him. “I killed people. A lot of people.” His breath caught.

“How many?” John asked quietly. He didn’t particularly care, however, he felt like if he didn’t know Sherlock would always assume that if he ever found out he’d leave. Best to just clear the air.

“429 the first year, 583 the second.” John gasped softly in spite of himself. “Those were only the ones who had actual power in Moriarty’s web. Many more were left simply because without the strings connecting them, they quickly became powerless.”

“It made me into… when I go and I see danger, there’s no more thought, no more talking. Before I went in, every single time, I verified who needed to die, and anyone who tried to kill me got added to the list. Now though, if someone tried to jump me, I’d be able to end their lives in under two seconds. More than that, I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself.”

John mulled this over. How different from a solder was that, really? He wanted to say not much but… Right now it didn’t matter. “Okay.” He said simply.

“What?”

“I said okay. You have better instincts that are less suited to a civilian lifestyle. They will fade in time, if you let them. As for what you did, I trust your judgement.” Sherlock openly gawked at him. John shrugged unrepentantly.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. He’d find out how well John could deal with this later, probably using trial by fire. Going back, he said, “Anyway. When I came back, I made sure that you had an easy target for it all because it wasn’t your fault I was in this mess. So, if you wanted me to step aside for Mary, or punch me, I figured I deserved just about anything you’d be willing to dish out considering it was my ultimately my doing.”

John sat in silence for a moment trying to digest it all. It was a lot. He noticed the man was starved. Literally. “I’m going to make you some food, and you’re going to eat it, understand?” Sherlock just nodded. He seemed… defeated. It unnerved John greatly and he found himself wishing Sherlock would sass him back.

Getting up, he realized there would be no food since he had just gotten back. It was getting late and honestly neither he nor Sherlock felt like dealing with Ms. Hudson’s shock at the whole thing so he just called in to Angelo’s. They didn’t normally deliver but he had assured them anything would be fine, and since they were just about to close, it meant food wouldn’t go unsold.

“Sherlock,” he said, finishing his phone call. “Why don’t you hate me?” Guilt was twisting in his gut and he thought it might legitimately eat him alive if he didn’t deal with it.

Sherlock, in his usual people innocence, looked genuinely baffled. “Why would I?”

“After you go through torture for me, at least in part, I yell at you, don’t really let you explain, and throw you on an already injured back, not to mention punching you in the face.”

“Ah.” He said, hesitating. “I believe the emotions you’re speaking of were… delegated elsewhere, namely frustration at the inability for one of the smartest men on Earth to master the basic art of communication. I thought if I had approached it better you would’ve been more receptive.”

“You thought it was your fault that you couldn’t get it out right, as opposed to me being a right git.” John surmised not wanting to risk more miscommunication.

Sherlock nodded. “You couldn’t’ve known. It was after all, I, who interrupted your proposal and proceeded to gracefully fell back into your life by insulting your caterpillar mustache. Really, please get rid of that, you look 60.”

John looked, really looked, at his friend, trying to figure out if the goading was on purpose. It appeared to just be how Sherlock was dealing with his nerves. Some things apparently never changed. He smiled, only to himself, before clarifying. “So you aren’t mad at me, and I’m not mad at you, and we’re good?” A nod.

“Sherlock, how long were you held captive?” It was a tentative question, as though John was worried his friend would be offended- or, more accurately, shut down.

In his defense, that’s exactly what Sherlock attempted to do. “Not long, really, I don’t suppose it matters.”

“Sherlock.” It was a voice with the stopping power of a brick wall. Full-on Doctor mode.

Sherlock sighed. “Well, I don’t know exactly. What’s today? The 25^th?” a nod. “I was captured on the 18^th and I’ve been under Mycroft’s thumb since the 22^th so… a month roughly.”

The trash bin, which had been used for the wrappers and discarded bandages, was suddenly the receptacle for a violent heaving on John's part. Sherlock, somewhat distressed at his friends reaction, tried to awkwardly pat him on the arm.

Soon enough, John got himself under control and as he looked at his friend, he said with as much sincerity as he could muster, “I am so, so sorry Sherlock. I should’ve listened, I should’ve known you wouldn’t’ve done anything to hurt me without very good cause, I should’ve been there, or-” he cut himself off. “Well, it doesn’t matter, now does it? I didn’t and that’s all there is to it.”

Sherlock, for his part, looked stricken, like a deer in the headlights. John was in pain, why was John in pain? He hadn’t gone through anything, or at least, nothing related to the torture Sherlock had gone through. Could it be he cared about what Sherlock endured?

No, that couldn’t be it. People did not care for Sherlock Holmes. Not his parents- they didn’t know the real him and neither did Ms. Hudson, for that matter. His brother, while an enigma, certainly didn’t seem to care, after all he watched his brother get tortured with nothing more than a smirk after being confronted about it. So, clearly family was out.

Lestrade seemed to be around only around by moral obligation, the good man that he was, though Sherlock was sure his own usefulness on cases was not something to be overlooked. Molly was under the thumb of hormones, and while Sherlock was too awkward to know how to directly reject her, he did know enough to feel bad for her.

 Sherlock Holmes was the world’s one and only Consulting Detective and was considered a high functioning sociopath.

He knew it was a lie, that he lacked neither the morals nor the ability to empathize, but people did not care for him, they used him, (and therefore vice versa), and that was all he was ever going to get, so he might as well explain, in a quick tidy little phrase, that he was not going to waste time with pleasantries.

So,- no, people did not care for Sherlock Holmes. And yet… As he came back to himself he saw John still looking very distraught. Actually, he was looking back at Sherlock curiously, but still very torn up. Grief. His mind supplied. The kind that came from crippling guilt.

“John,” Sherlock started carefully. “What exactly do you think you should’ve done? This clearly wasn’t your fault, we just went over that.”

The sheer bitterness of his laugh was like a punch in the gut. “Wasn’t it, though? Without me you could’ve easily outsmarted Moriarty. You could’ve taken him down at the pool if it hadn’t been for me.”

“You’re right, I could’ve.” Came the simple response. “But I valued you. Now, seeing as how you’re not going to understand it put that way, I’ll rephrase: by now you know that morals aren’t quite my strong suit, so tell me this.” He leaned forward, looking the man in the eye. “If I thought that was a price worth paying, do you think there is or was anything, and I mean anything, that could’ve kept me from paying it?”

There was silence. He was right of course.

“So, what now?” John asked. He figured there was a genius in the room, and, granted, he may be the dumbest person alive when it came to ‘feelings’ but he might at least conduct some light into John’s own thought process for once.

“Well, now I suppose you decide whether or not you leave me like yesterday’s garbage and go back to Mary, do the exact opposite, or something in between.” It was said so matter-of-fact John found himself holding back a wince. “Oh, and while we’re clearing the air, she’s not who she seems. I didn’t get enough of a look to nail down anything for certain but she’s far too intelligent and dangerous to be whoever she presented herself as to you.”

Just like that, John's fury flared up again. “Really, Sherlock?” At this the man in question looked curious. “Are you really so desperate for attention that you’ll sabotage a perfectly fine relationship, not one day after reappearing from the dead?”

“John, I’m not joking, I did just say I’d stand aside if that was what you wanted and if you want me to drop it I will but I felt it prudent to inform you your soon-to-be wife was probably ex-intelligence. This is, of course, judging by things you already subconsciously know, the way she reacts to meeting new people, the way she walks through a door, thinks through things, the practical priorities she has, how she reacts calmly just about anything, even the way she wears her hair, styling it in an acceptable yet low-maintenance way, all of it should be, on some level, familiar to you, and, I think, you know deep down, it is.”

John was torn. He wasn’t stupid. He knew his friend was, statistically, almost certainly correct. On the one hand, he needed to address this issue to live his life. On the other, it drove him insane that he didn’t ever seem to get a say in his own life, all of the choices being made for him. Because ignoring this wasn’t an option. “Why does this keep happening to me?” He asked, not sure he wanted Sherlock to answer. Not sure if he could keep himself from hurting the man if the response was delivered with a usual lack of tact.

“What have I ever done? Hmm? My whole life, to deserve this? Why can’t I just have normal?”

“Everything you’ve ever done, is what you did. No, I mean it-” he said, seeing John seethe. “Seriously, everything. You were a doctor who went to war. Your ex-flatmate is a sociopath, who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. That’s me, by the way, hello. Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel. John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You are abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people, so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you fall in love with conforms to that pattern?”

“But she wasn't supposed to be like that! Why is SHE like that?” He buried his head in his hands.

“Because you chose her.” It was simple, quiet, and strangely enough, apologetic. It spoke of an understanding he didn’t expect his friend(?) to have, and somehow, it was just what he needed. “Give her a chance, John. She means well, she just wanted to leave her old life behind.”

“Oh, so now you get to decide whether or not I give other people a chance?”

Sherlock hit him with that ever-so-common exasperated look, and John felt a pang that all this was really happening. He’d missed Sherlock so much, but he never imagined getting him back would be like this. “Honestly, I think even you should be able to understand I would like nothing more than for you to return to our flat and resume our dynamic duo of crime solving, but I’m not quite sure that’s what’s best for you. I think she’ll be good for you John, if only you let her try. She’s new to this whole ‘relationship’ thing, at least, one that doesn’t involve intrigue and secrets as a foundation, and she’ll slip up, but I think she’ll make you happy.”

“As for me,” he said, abruptly switching tones, indicating the topic was over. “I’m going to move back in immediately. You’re welcome to move back in if you decide you don’t want her, or even if you do. There are, after all, two bedrooms and I think she’d make an excellent addition to our team. Now, let’s eat, shall we?”

Like clockwork the bell rang. John just shook his head, got the food, paid, and sat down, giving Sherlock his portion. “Eat it all now, you’re starved.”

“Yes, thank you, John, I was there when it happened.” For some reason that’s what set it off, and suddenly John was giggling, honest to goodness giggling, and then laughing hysterically. Soon, so was Sherlock. It took about 5 minutes to calm down and they looked at each other with a grin.

“This is our life, eh?” John said. And suddenly no more words were needed. They ate with fervor, both having got most of the day without food. Afterwards, he looked at the clock. “I should get home. Apparently, Mary and I need to have a conversation.”

“I think you should bring her here.” John looked like Sherlock had grown a second head. Or at least, taken another one out of the fridge.

“Sherlock, you literally cannot have these conversations. Why on Earth do you think Mary should be here when she and I quite possibly have a row?”

“Because she will innately keep secrets without realizing it, and I will reveal them without realizing it and everyone will have equilibrium seeing as how you’re the normal one.” Snickering, John walked out, calling he’d be back soon.

True to his word, ten minutes later Watson and potentially-Watson-to-be came back through the door. Sherlock had brought the client chair, so they could both see it and gestured accordingly. “What’s going on?” Mary asked somewhat nervously, though she wasn’t upset. She trusted Sherlock already, John marveled. “John, wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Well, I thought I would do you a favor and give you some relationship advice.” She snickered, incredulously. “Yes, I know, the machine Sherlock Holmes giving advice,” He said with scorn, much like he did when reading children’s letters to him, and John took note of how much that was still a sore spot. He’d not-apologize for that later, if he could find a way.

Sherlock was gaining speed, like he did when deducing. “But you’d do well to listen because I actually know John Watson and, beyond that, I somehow seem to know more about normal relationships than you, considering most people would know that lying to one’s significant other about their past generally turns out to be a bad idea. Especially when I’m around.”

She paled greatly and Sherlock smirked. She tried to defend herself but Sherlock held up a hand. “Now, it’s obvious that you’re in love with John, and I think that you’re good for him. Therefore, as an act of goodwill, I’m going to make sure you don’t accidentally keep anything hidden as I think you’re prone to do. So, we’re all going to sit down, like rational adults and clear the air. Hopefully, when this is all done, we can move forward, crisis averted.”

She nodded. “First things first, you were wet-works right?” Another nod. “Is there any chance you’re past may come back to haunt you?” Suddenly, she was on the verge of tears.

Shaking her head, she sniffed. As she explained she was on an elite team that was her family, she reached into her shoe and pulled out a flash-drive. “There were four of us, each with blackmail material on the others. It kept us safe. It was my idea so we could stop waiting for a dagger in the back. It has enough on us that, depending on where we were tried, we’d go to prison for life, or even have a death sentence.”

“A familial cold war.” Sherlock said. He looked almost impressed.

“Yes, but it allowed us to thrive. We came to care for each other, deeply. We would’ve done anything for each other. The others though- there was a mission gone wrong.”

She explained the mission, how she was the only survivor, and how after that she disappeared. She looked between John and the flash drive; her past and her future. “I suppose you deserve this.” She said wiping away a tear. “Since you already know. But…” she took a deep breath, trying desperately to keep her composure. “If you read this, you’ll never love me again. And I can’t, I can’t, watch that happen.”

Her hands shook as she willingly handed it over, trying to convince herself she’d be fine without him. She looked up when she heard the sheer cold fury in John's voice. “Oh, so it’s only because I already know that I’m entitled to know you’ve been lying to me since day one? Really?”

“John.” Sherlock said, warningly.

“This was supposed to be my past.” Mary said, grabbing a tissue and blowing her nose. It seemed to help calm her. “It has things I’m so ashamed of. I kept it so I’d never forget what I’d done, how far I’ve come, and how much I had to make up for. It made me who I am. But that drive was never supposed to be used again.”

“She wasn’t trying to deceive you, she was trying to move on.” She nodded frantically, as Sherlock said the words that seemed to evade her in her low-key panic.

John shook his head, having run out of relevant questions but still overwhelmed. “I need time.” He said, walking out.

She looked at Sherlock and he looked at her. “If you need a place to stay there’s a spare bedroom down the hall.” She briefly looked uncomfortable, but then nodded.

The next morning she came out and John was already there tending to Sherlock’s back. “So, were you really just not going to tell me?” He said without preamble.

“It wasn’t about you. I was trying to be a new person.”

“And you didn’t think for one moment I might accept you and help you with that? All those stories of me and Sherlock, the thing with the cabbie, the bomb, none of that made you think you could trust me to leave the past in the past?”

She shrugged, miserably. “Alright, listen.” He said, getting up and cupping her face in his hands. “I will forgive you for this, and we can move on, because I love you so, so much. But, if you ever lie to me again, it’s over. Okay?” She nodded, overjoyed.

He pulled out the flash drive. “Take it. I don’t need to know what on it. Oh, and, word of advice. If there’s really nothing that can come back and haunt you on there, maybe get rid of the incriminating evidence? I’m here now, you don’t need this.” She threw her arms around him and he embraced her.

In the coming days, Mary would get a feel for Sherlock and after the wedding, they would indeed move back into Baker Street.

She blended in with surprising ease. The three of them worked cases, money less of a problem than ever given Mary’s ill-gotten gains. Sherlock opened an official practice, the legalities and paperwork taken care of by the woman in question. This allowed her to solve the ones she knew would be too boring for the ‘great Sherlock Holmes,’ often at just a glance. John quit his job at the hospital, choosing to spend his time with his wife when they weren’t needed.

And for one moment, all was right in their little world, as the three of them looked forward to new adventures.